
Illuminated by Andrew Skola
(Fade In):
EXT: PARK BENCH — MORNING
It is grey. Lightly misting. YOU, an attractive young woman, are wearing maroon leggings. Jacket that crops tight above your waist. Hair up. Sunglasses on your head. Putting on day cream. You act like you are waiting for a FRIEND (me). Impatient. You film yourself with your iPhone.
VO (You):
I moved out here at 28. Far too late they said. All the good parts are gone. I’ll never get an agent. The directors who want to talk to me are only out to fuck me. Be careful they said. What had they ever done?
My friend is a vampire. She doesn’t do any socials. She’s terrified of facials. She calls me in the middle of the night. When it rains and she can’t sleep. We’re inseparable. We lived together for a while. The first year. When it was raining all the time. When I dated eight different guys in four months and didn’t tell anyone back home. She hated every one of them. Said I was fucking my way through Daddy issues. She should talk.
EXT: PARK TRAILHEAD AND THE FOG IS SETTLED IN THE HILLS BEFORE THE SUN IS FULLY UP — SATURDAY MORNING
YOU park in front of the church. The trail starts across the street. I bring cigarettes. You bring the energy drink. I talk the whole way up.
VO (You):
The houses hang off the hillsides like cats stuck in a tree. The sign says there are snakes in the meadows. My friend runs through without shoes. How are we so inseparable?
Last fall she had a girlfriend. Sent pictures back home. Mailed them to the family in an envelope with a card. She wanted them to know. Who does that? Nobody mails anything anymore.
How do I know if she’ll ever finish anything she says she will before dying? She always has a half-finished screenplay. She never shares it with anyone.
Me (Friend):
Don’t work this weekend. Don’t worry about your outfits. Let’s go to the market at the marina near Belmont. The women there don’t shave and it’s not a protest. No one cares. It’s wonderful.
You:
I’m always working. You know that.
EXT: WINDING NEIGHBORHOOD STREETS OUTSIDE THE PARK — MORNING
YOU walk with ME past the burnt-out shell of a house on a lot that’s for sale. Charcoal-stained plywood on the windows. Tarp over the pool.
Me:
Wildfires?
You:
Jewish lightning.
Me:
Jewish lighting? Like lasers?
You:
Light-NING. Arson. Insurance fraud. The place couldn’t sell. All the erosion.
Me:
That’s not right. Who says that?
You:
How have you never heard of this? You tell everyone you’re Jewish.
Me:
Rationalizing doesn’t make it right.
You:
Did the therapist teach you that?
Me:
Doing the work is good for you.
You:
Don’t be so weak-minded.
Me:
That’s what Dad would have said.
You:
He wasn’t wrong.
EXT: SITTING IN THE SHADE NEAR THE CHURCH — LATE MORNING AND THE FOG HAS BURNED OFF
Me:
I should have gotten here earlier.
You:
Not really. So much traffic.
Me:
They told me it was cliché to write about LA traffic.
You:
Everybody drives by the beach.
Me:
They told me it was cliché to write about LA beaches.
You:
You never show me the script. You never show anyone the script.
Me:
Everyone’s just looking for a chance to shit all over what you write.
You:
You’re probably writing about me. ‘Write what you know.’ Whatever.
Me:
What do you know about Los Angeles?
You:
You never know who you might see waiting at the light.
EXT — AT THE INTERSECTION OF PACIFIC COAST HIGHWAY AND TEMESCAL CANYON ROAD — LATE MORNING
The sun slices across the highway and makes it slow to see the light. It goes through two cycles before YOU get through. Sometimes three. Someone in a mascot costume pulls up on a scooter on their way to a shoot. Women put on makeup in the rear-view mirror. They must be model beautiful. They can’t be older than 23. Rich men in their Teslas headed to lunch talk on their phones. Fumbling with sunglasses and thinking about divorce.
EXT — YOU STOP FOR A LATTE — LATE MORNING
Made with cold pressed milk and Collagen Protect®. Everyone in line with YOU wants to know if the vanilla beans are ethical. If cows are worse than pickup trucks.
VO (You):
There’s a guy that I dated who works at the café across the street. Where the waiters tell you a mantra of the day when they come to take your order. The protein bowls are all over $30.
He’s so hot. He is a model and waxes which matched me. We have the same skin color. I told him to buy a striped canvas bag to go with my new bikini. For when we were at the beach. Everyone tells me he’s gay. That he dated me for the followers. What have they ever done?
At work they tell me my voice is too high. Especially when I talk about the specials. I break up with the hot model. He agrees about the voice. He’s hurt. Even though we’ve never fucked.
You (annoyed):
I wanted this for here.
Barista (surprised):
I’m sorry, you said, “to go.”
Me (ashamed):
The ex isn’t even working today. Forget him.
You (more annoyed):
When did you get here?
Barista (confused):
We opened at 8:00.
Me (ashamed):
I am so sorry. Not talking to you.
You (angry):
Stop apologizing. You said you didn’t want to ride with the top down.
Me (sad):
This is all so stressful.
Barista (helpful):
Our Brain Dust® is an adaptogenic blend of Lion’s Mane, Ginkgo, Rhodiola and Ashwagandha that targets stress to support mental stamina, alertness, and concentration.
You (interested):
I’ll take a bottle of the Sex Dust®. Can I promote this as a trade? So many followers.
Barista (relieved):
Take both. You’ll need it.
EXT: YOU MEET A NEW GUY AT RALPHS SUPERMARKET — NIGHT
YOU see the new GUY checking you out as you lean over to grab the mangos.
VO (You):
He’s not gay. He doesn’t have a car. His last girlfriend just broke up with him. Started fucking her production assistant on location in the Marquesas. Told the boyfriend over salad when he made her a welcome home dinner her first night back. They never finished eating. They never even got to the main. She had no script. All improv. Who does that?
He likes avocadoes. He’s not a real vegetarian. He’s stuck choosing between oat milks. The piped in music is awful. The fluorescent lighting is terrible. It all works perfectly.
Guy Without A Car:
Do you press to test the firmness?
You (looking down):
That’s a terrible pick-up line.
Guy Without A Car:
What should I choose?
You (turning toward him):
Hot girls do real milk now. Oat-Ly is way unethical.
VO (You):
He’s sweet. Does what I tell him. I get tired of picking him up on Friday and dropping him off at the end of the weekend. He never watches award shows. He always wants to talk about his ex.
INT: YOU DRIVE THE NEW GUY WITHOUT A CAR HOME AND TELL HIM YOU NEED A BREAK — NIGHT
The GUY WITHOUT A CAR acts totally surprised. It goes as YOU expect it to.
You (staring ahead):
You need to meet my friend. She likes to listen.
Guy Without A Car (pleading):
I’m sorry that I need time to heal.
You (hands on steering wheel):
She loves therapy. Goes all the time.
Guy Without A Car (still pleading):
I’m taking time to invest in myself.
You (fixing hair in rear view mirror):
She’d save you time. She lives in the neighborhood.
Guy Without A Car (reaching for your hand):
Why don’t we walk and talk this over?
You (shaking head slightly, pulling hand away):
Nobody out here walks. No one sees you.
Guy Without A Car (running hand through hair):
I should have never moved out here. All my ex talked about was personal brand alignment.
You (rolling your eyes)
All you ever want to do is talk about your ex.
Guy Without A Car (shaking head, biting bottom lip)
I’m sorry.
You (looking down):
Stop apologizing.
Guy Without A Car (staring out window):
Everyone is always trying out for a part. I want to just be.
You (looking down):
She’d be good for you. She’s a vampire. She hates screens.
Guy Without A Car (back to pleading):
Can’t we just be? We don’t need a treatment.
You (turning slowly toward him):
Read it a little less sensitive. Too much emoting.
INT: THERAPIST’S OFFICE — AFTERNOON
The THERAPIST sits in a comfortable chair facing YOU. He doesn’t have a notebook. He wears a sports jacket over a black t-shirt. He adjusts the shade so the sunlight isn’t in his eyes.
Therapist:
What are your best hopes for our talk today?
You:
Ask my friend. She begged me to come.
Therapist:
Could I speak to your friend?
You:
She never uses her phone.
Therapist:
Does she know that you are here?
You:
She knows everything. Even things I don’t remember. It’s like she’s writing my diary. She tells all of the busboys we’re Jewish. She’s dating the guy without a car who I used to sleep with.
Therapist:
How does that make you feel?
You:
Whatever. I broke it off with him.
Therapist:
What happened?
You:
All he ever wanted to talk about was his ex.
Therapist:
What did you want to talk about?
You:
Look forward, not back. Drive a convertible. Top down along the beach. Sun in our faces. My new highlights blow with the wind. He’d turn up the radio. We’d be free. Everyone would see us. So many views.
Therapist:
What happened?
You:
Dropping him off took forever.
INT: THERAPY SESSION — AFTERNOON
I am seeing the same THERAPIST. He keeps the shades drawn. Takes off his jacket. He has a forearm tattoo that matches the one on his back. He wasn’t expecting to see YOU.
Me: (hunched over, speaking softly)
I hear a baby crying all the time. She can’t talk.
You: (sits up straight, sighs loudly, roll eyes)
Whatever.
Therapist:
It sounds like you think she should handle things differently?
You (leans back, crosses legs):
She should have more guts.
Therapist
Is there anything I can do to help her?
You (shakes head):
She can get along without you.
Therapist:
I am not going to leave her. I will be here.
You (looks up at ceiling, sighs):
Why did you bring me here if you want me to go away?
Me (sits up straight):
(A beat before speaking)
Why did you come?
INT: WANTING TO TALK ABOUT MOVING IN WITH THE GUY WITHOUT A CAR AND SUBLEASING HER APARTMENT — NOT SATURDAY
I write out conditions. YOU read the draft out loud and laugh — fuck my boundaries and self-help books. So fucking weak-minded.
- Meet somewhere in public. Neutral. Familiar. Touristy.
- Don’t be mad about the matching Golden Gopher sweatshirts.
- Talk about the new job. That’s easy.
- Bring a big umbrella to hide under.
- Don’t worry about the things your mother remembers.
VO (You):
She knows I have to work at 4:00.
INT: THE THERAPIST ASKS ABOUT THE THINGS YOUR MOTHER REMEMBERS — AFTERNOON
THERAPIST wears a golf shirt. Tight sleeves. No jacket. Light tan. YOU sit across from him.
You:
Little things. All of them.
Therapist:
Tell me about the little things.
You:
I lost my purse when we first came out here. I was dating a guy down in Hermosa. I left the purse in a diner. The chef sorted through all my business cards. He called my mother’s number at work. I wasn’t at my apartment. She was worried sick. I had to tell her about the guy. She thought I was still with my boyfriend from Minneapolis. She didn’t understand. Still doesn’t.
Therapist:
Why does your mother worry about you?
You:
The chef took the $40 I had in my wallet. I had no money.
Therapist:
What did your mother say?
You:
She asked if I still kept handbags in the back of my closet with the $20 bills in each of them.
Therapist:
Did you?
You:
Just in case.
Therapist:
Just in case what?
You:
I needed to see a movie.
Therapist:
Why did you need to see a movie?
You:
Practice.
Therapist:
How does your friend know all this about your mother?
You:
Do you not listen? She told you. She knows everything about me. She knew to call the guy without a car. She leaves notes in the glovebox to find before my shift. She memorizes the specials. Mother remarried. She went with me to the wedding.
Therapist:
That was supportive of her.
You:
I didn’t invite her.
Therapist:
Have you talked about boundaries?
You:
Can we talk about boundaries over coffee?
VO (You):
It’s a thing to sleep with your therapist. I have four friends who do their work that way. They make so much progress. Therapists make great lovers.
Therapist:
I don’t think that’s appropriate.
You:
I waitress at the cafe on Rose that’s ethical. Everyone would be watching. Neutral.
Therapist:
No.
You:
What happened? Did you turn gay too?
Therapist:
Who else is gay?
Me (hunched over in chair across from therapist, crying):
The hot waiter.
VO (You):
They were right all along.
EXT: STANDING BEHIND THE COUPLE FROM MINNESOTA IN THE MATCHING GOLDEN GOPHER SWEATSHIRTS WITH THEIR SLICKERS HELD IN PLACE BY FANNY PACKS — DAY
It’s raining and the tour is nearly finished. I didn’t buy YOU a ticket. My umbrella is big enough to hide from the overweight tour guide who doesn’t care about his complexion.
Me:
Please come back with me. Live without Insta. Stop with the TikTok. Quit the restaurant. Skip a shift at least. Let me worry about the rent.
You:
It’s not that simple.
Me:
It is that simple.
You:
I thought you wanted to talk about boundaries.
Me:
I didn’t think you listened to the therapist.
You:
He doesn’t like me.
Me:
Not “liking you” and not “fucking you” are two totally different things entirely.
You:
He wants me to go away.
VO (Me):
She’s not wrong.
INT: YOUR MOTHER CALLS FROM HER HOTEL IN SANTA MONICA — NIGHT
YOU remind your MOTHER to watch for eye wrinkles. And buy extra night cream.
Mother:
Remember your boyfriend from Minneapolis?
You:
What about him?
Mother:
He would have stuck with you. Through all of this.
You:
You keep telling me this.
Mother:
I can’t keep pretending it didn’t happen.
You:
You talked to her, didn’t you?
Mother:
You told me if I forgave your father you could too.
You:
I told you not to talk to her. She’s a wimp. She’ll tell you anything.
Mother:
I told you I was sorry. No more pretending. You, my daughter. Yesterday at the Tar Pits.
You:
You told your daughter you’d bring extra night cream. Did you forget?
Mother:
You said it wasn’t my fault. I didn’t know.
You:
Don’t be so weak-minded.
Mother:
That’s what your father would have said.
EXT: VENICE BEACH SKATE DANCE PLAZA — DAY
YOU run into the HOT WAITER MODEL with the waxed chest. He has the afternoon off from mantras. He offers you a Xanax that a boyfriend shared with him.
VO (Me):
It’s totally a sign when a guy says “boyfriend” to talk about his male friends.
Hot Waiter Model:
It helps take the edge off before a shoot.
You:
I don’t need a Xanax.
Hot Waiter Model:
It lasts longer than jerking off in the bathroom.
You:
I’ve already lost eight pounds from the stress.
Hot Waiter Model:
Bitch.
(Laughter)
You:
Did you bring your new shoulder bag? I have mine. Let’s get a shot skating on the boardwalk.
Hot Waiter Model:
So fire. We’ll dub it over.
(Music plays)
Lyrics (Placeholder — Copyright Permission Requested):
When my mind is running wild
Could you help me slow it down?
Put my mind at ease
Pretty please.
EXT: THE CORNER TABLE ON PATIO AFTER YOU DROP OFF A CUSTOMER’S BOMBOLINI BUT BEFORE IT GETS TOO BUSY — EARLY EVENING
CUSTOMER has flecks of grey hair. He leaves his Tesla keys out on the table. He’s thinking about divorce. They always are. YOU come back with the check before he asks for it.
Customer:
It tasted wonderful. I’ll have to come back for another.
(Customer has a smile on his face like his hands are already in your pants).
Customer:
I’m working right up the street on a new show.
VO (Me):
They always are.
Customer:
I’ll come back later this week. When are you working?
You:
(Writes my phone number on the check).
I always am.
INT: THE COLUMBIAN BUSBOYS PRETEND NOT TO SPEAK ENGLISH WHEN IT STARTS TO GET BUSY — EVENING
They are always sharing stories about Jesus. Then stare at your ass when you walk away. They won’t help clear the table while your customer waits for the bill. They never come out of the back. Even when the manager leaves early. Don’t they know that Jesus hung out with lots of women that he didn’t sleep with. And had great skin. What do they think that means?
YOU hear them call you pollo. Which means chicken. The customer leaves a $40 tip. In four crisp ten-dollar bills. Of course.
EXT: THE RAIN RATTLES ON THE UMBRELLA — DAY
I can barely hear myself think over the rattle.
You:
He must know about the diner in Hermosa.
Me:
Café Du Poulet?
You:
Poulet du Jour.
Me:
Don’t the busboys call hot waitresses Poulet?
You:
Pollo.
Me:
That place was sketch.
You:
Getting the whole chicken is still a thing. Save ½ for lunches.
Me:
That chef stole our $40. We didn’t have any money back then.
You:
You wouldn’t go back. He tracked me down. He knows.
Me:
This tip isn’t the same $40. That was a long time ago.
You:
Everything is a circle.
Me:
That’s just another bullshit protein bowl mantra.
You:
It’s a second chance. You don’t get second chances.
Me:
He’s just trying to get in your pants.
You:
He said he’d show me his script.
Me:
We don’t need his script. We don’t need Xanax. Stop this. Come back with me.
You:
What about the guy without a car? You making him come to therapy too?
Me:
He’s working all the time on some internet bank start-up. He’s never home. He doesn’t care that I dated girls. He knows about you. It’s perfect.
You:
I might be a good fit for the part.
Me:
Four ten-dollar bills are not a circle.
You:
It’s his way of apologizing. For taking something from me.
Me:
Stop chasing the approval of older men.
You:
I knew he’d remember.
Me:
It’s just forty dollars. It’s nothing.
You:
I’ve never forgotten.
INT: CUSTOMER SHOWS YOU HIS SCRIPT AS YOU TAKE HIS ORDER — DAY
Customer (pretending to look at menu):
I’ll have a Bombolini.
You (flirting, raised eyebrow):
Anything else?
Customer (smiling):
What do you suggest?
You (puffing out lower lip, considering):
A Wellness Latte? An Ethos Tea?
Customer (holding up script):
Here’s the part I’m thinking works for you:
INT: GERALD’S KITCHEN – NIGHT
She wears a striped men’s bathrobe and drinks a color-matching glass of scotch. She is naked underneath the soft terry cloth. She stands staring out of the sliding door at the pool in the backyard. A cigarette held in between her fingers, burning its smoke toward the kitchen.
(Phone rings)
Dorothy.
Again.
You (reading):
Do I say anything?
Customer:
No.
You:
I have a striped bathrobe. And matching bikini.
Customer:
Maybe I can get you a speaking. Dorothy calls again after the murder.
You:
Is Dorothy ethical?
Customer:
We can work it out.
You:
Is Dorothy hot?
Customer:
You are Dorothy.
(Looks up at you. Smiles.)
INT: THE COUPLE FROM MINNESOTA STANDS AT THE BAKERY CASE — DAY
MOTHER and MOTHER’S SECOND HUSBAND are the only customers wearing sweatshirts. They’re 9th on the waiting list. YOU are working a double. You don’t see them until it’s too late.
Mother:
Honey, can we get a table in your section?
You:
The hostess only seats hot people in the front.
Mother:
But it’s cooler inside.
You:
Exactly.
Mother’s Second Husband:
Is that Fran Tarkenton?
You:
Who?
Mother’s Second Husband:
The man at your table. He looks just like Fran Tarkenton. Wow. A real Hall of Famer. Of course he’s here in Hollywood. I should have known. He did all those shows. He still looks great.
You:
That’s my customer.
Mother’s Second Husband:
Great. I’m going to thank him.
You:
Leave him alone.
Mother’s Second Husband:
That’s just your fear speaking.
You:
I’m talking to him about a script. Leave him alone.
Mother’s Second Husband:
Sweetie, life’s only hurdles are the ones you imagine. Fran taught me that. He’ll love your script.
(Mother’s Second Husband walks over to table)
Imagination is the key to success, isn’t it Fran?
Customer:
Excuse me?
Mother’s Second Husband:
Put her in the biggest part. She’s got the most important skill — desire. Just like you had.
Customer (frowning):
Can I get this to go?
(Customer picks up plate with Bombolini)
Actually, forget it.
(Customer puts down plate and walks away)
You:
I told you to leave him alone.
Mother’s Second Husband:
Fran is taller than I expected.
Mother:
He doesn’t sound anything like the man who called about your wallet.
EXT: THE HAZE IN THE HILL CANYON IS THICK AND EVEN COVERS THE CHURCH STEEPLE — MORNING
There’s a bench to sit on ½ way up the trail. Joggers run up without shirts on, ready for the sun. Complexion is everything. I don’t bring sunblock. YOU don’t know how we’re friends. I explain that YOU are just a different version of ME. I’ve been trying to explain that YOU are just a different version of ME. This whole time.
You:
He was so mad.
Me:
Fran?
You:
Her second husband. I still can’t believe she married him.
Me:
I was at the wedding.
You:
You crashed without telling me.
Me:
He said that girls were just a phase. That I just needed to make better choices.
You:
You should have never sent them photos.
Me:
I wasn’t going to hide.
You:
You’re trying to hide me.
Me:
I’ll always be here for you. You for me.
You:
Did you fuck the therapist like the guy without a car? No wonder he won’t meet me for coffee.
Me:
He has hours at his home office on the weekends. You don’t show up there.
You:
He just wants me to go away. You can have him all to yourself. You won’t feel guilty if I leave.
Me:
I told you what I want. Quit the restaurant. Stop with the phone all the time. Why can’t we go back to the way it was when we moved out here? When we were together.
You:
You always say that.
Me:
I’m trying to be gentle. He said to be gentle.
You:
The guy without the car?
Me:
The therapist.
You:
Why should we be together? What’s my motivation?
Me:
It’s not our fault that Dad died before apologizing. None of what he did is our fault. He was a very sick man.
You:
Our mother let it happen.
Me:
You have to forgive them. It’s part of the process.
You:
That’s just the therapist talking. Fuck him. Oh wait, you already are.
Me:
This has to stop.
You:
You’re right.
Me:
About forgiveness?
You:
We have to stop. We need to do this where we can see the ocean. Better light.
CAMERA PANS UP
Sunlight reaches the top of the hill. The blooms on the flowers are out. The fog and clouds have burnt off. Hikers stop to stare at out at the Pacific. Where the container ships are waiting to come into harbor. In the distance, Catalina.
Andrew Skola’s work explores the intersection of place, memory and language. Originally from Massachusetts, he is a brand and communications strategist based in Dallas, TX.
26 July 2024
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