Background.

In 2003, a privileged slacker graduates with an MBA and takes a management position at one of his uncle’s motel chains.

Scene.

Late mid-morning, maybe 11am. A windowed lobby in the front of the hotel. A paved driveway and parking lot are immediately outside. A large wooden front desk, absurdly ornate for a Holiday Inn, with a young man behind. He is the front desk clerk. He is all alone. Early 20s, longer hair, hints of a hippie, but not so matter-of-fact. His gold-colored name tag says “Jack.” He is on the office phone, a long off-white coil cord stretches from the handset to the desk.

Jack [on the phone, in a Northern California rural twang]: No, I’m telling you, I was whacked, completely fucked. It was awesome. [Listens.] No, fuck no, I told you I don’t care. [Listens.] I don’t give a shit, what the fuck is wrong with you? [Listens.] Nah, fuck you. You’re whacked, you know that?

The main character enters the lobby, the lobby door’s movement alerts the motion detector, and the digital bell rings. Jack turns his shoulder ever so slightly. He is leaning back in his chair, his phone tucked between his head and shoulder. He needs to end the conversation, and isn’t upset about it. This is his job, and he enjoys it.

Jack [listening on the phone]: Alright… yea, well… yea, alright mom, well I’ve got to go. Yea, I’ll talk to you soon. [He hangs up the phone.]

Jack stands up and greets the stranger.

Jack: How may I help you today?

Unfinished scene.

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