SHE SMOKE'S HER OWN BRAND. Written by. Benjamin Scott Campbell. Based on: She Smoke's Her Own Brand A short story written by Benjamin Scott Campbell

Transcription

1 SHE SMOKE'S OWN BRAND Written by Benjamin Scott Campbell Based on: She Smoke's Her Own Brand A short story written by Benjamin Scott Campbell th Ave S Seattle, WA bscampbell87@gmail.com

2 FADE IN: EXT. BUS STOP - NIGHT A man in his early twenties stands at a bus stop. It s cold and he s wrapped up in a jacket and stocking hat. He s not alone. To his left is a young woman, about his age. She s wearing a vintage brown suede jacket, ripped black tights and pointed black boots with the smallest heel. She s got a cigarette between her fingers. (V.O.) We were just two cigarette smokers waiting for the same bus. This isn t a love story; this isn t much of a story at all. But I knew this would be a good conversation piece. She takes one last drag off her cigarette and tosses it to the sidewalk. She extinguishes the butt with the point of her boot. Would you like another? He pulls a out his pack of Marlboro s. (V.O.) She looked surprised, like she was excited to be noticed, or as if she hadn t noticed me at all. It s alright. I smoke my own brand. What do you smoke? She pulls out a box of Three Kings, shaking the box you can hear it s almost empty. (CONT D) That s an unusual brand. I m an unusual girl. How about a trade? I feel like trying something unusual tonight. She pulls out two cigarettes, placing one between her lips and holding the other out for him.

3 2. He pulls out a cigarette of his and they trade. She slips his Marlboro into her pack of Three Kings and returns the pack to her pocket. (CONT D) Aren t you going to smoke my Marlboro? No. This is my brand. It works for me just fine. Well thanks. He taps the cigarette on his pack. (CONT D) A little nicotine can always keep the night alive. She smirks. Striking a match and lighting her cigarette. Her eyes squint as the smoke rolls up her face, burning her eyes. He pulls out a lighter and lights his own. Another man approaches the bus stop. He keeps his distance from the two as they smoke. The man stretches his neck out looking down the street for the bus. (V.O.) The bus wouldn t be here for another eight minutes. Maybe he was betting it would be early; just this once. The three of us shared a silence for some time. She never flicked her cigarette and barely drew it more than a few inches from her mouth. Her cigarette is nearly half ash. She takes another drag. That s it, the ash breaks and falls to her suede jacket. (V.O.) I could see it wasn t the first time. Her brown suede jacket had at least half a dozen burnt out marks on each sleeve from previous carcinogenic romances.

4 3. He takes another drag off his cigarette, coughing, he tosses the half smoked cigarette to the ground. She looks up, giving him a smile with her eyes. (V.O.) I knew exactly what she was thinking, and she was exactly right. Was that outside your comfort zone, cowboy? If I wanted death, I d rather smoke a field of tumble weeds, than another Three Kings. I ve seen amazing things after smoking a field of tumble weeds. Things you wouldn t believe. Like what? Everything. Birth, life, death... After death. The future, the past, fires, oceans, mountains... I watched the skyline burning when the seven angles came for me. She trails off. Staring right past him. (V.O.) I couldn t tell if this was part of her routine, or if she believed she had seen all of this. Her ash falls again, this time the cherry came with it, bringing her back to life. Shit! Fucking damn it! (V.O.) That must have been lucky number seven.

5 4. She licks her finger and tries to rub the ash out, only making it worse. She let s it go and takes another drag off her Three Kings. She runs her handful of chipped nails through her rat s nest of a hair-do. Pushing her hair behind her ear, showcasing her piercings like trophies. A large black gauge, followed by a smaller gauge, a row of smaller studs and topped off by an industrial running east to west. (V.O.) She never made eye contact. Even when we spoke. Did you see that? See what? The car across the street. What about it? Someone s inside. Like sleeping in there. I don t think so. Maybe some boxes or something in there. No. Boxes don t roll over. (V.O.) She might have been right, but I wasn't interested in the car. This scene was starting to seem familiar. Déjà vous maybe? A relative scene from a movie? Maybe even a song I'd heard. Regardless this moment was mine now. A street light burnt out, a coffee shop sitting empty, a bus stop suspiciously missing its bench. This was a scene and I knew it was mine. The headlights of the bus are spotted coming down the street. He pulls out his wallet, shuffling through receipts to find two dollars.

6 5. The other man pushes past the two towards the curb. (V.O.) I couldn t blame him, I couldn t take this October air much longer either. And besides, this was my scene. It wasn t his. As the bus gets closer, he looks away from the glaring lights. She hasn t even noticed the bus, instead fixated on the car across the street. Here s our bus. Oh, that s not my bus. But it s the last bus of the night. Well, it s not for me. This isn t my bus. She slips another Three Kings between her lips and strikes a match. The bus pulls away. (V.O.) She smoke s her own brand. FADE TO BLACK.