P106-The Car Accident(Rough Draft)

Harold gets into a car accident and is forced to walk down the 405 while trying to remember how the accident happened, trying to deliver an important package to the closed post office, and trying to deliver a gallon of milk for his wife.

This is something I've promised for a very long time, one of the few Presenter episodes that I thought had such potential that it would be worth writing about, but ultimately, like all of my ambitious ideas, it blew apart the minute I realized I wouldn't be up to the task of writing an entire episode, plus, the creative spark that lead to the episode's inception just hasn't returned in a versatile way. Despite those shortcomings, to satisfy the "audience" I have, I will post the incomplete first draft of the episode. Things to note: this draft only has half of the ideas from the original premise. Things that weren't included is a scene of 3-4 minutes of Harold talking to the milk as though it was his companion, similar to how I talk to myself in a state of paranoia when I'm alone for a period of time; another scene is where Harold is picked by a friendly stranger but kicked out when Harold decides to eat only a third of a candy bar; and even the original premise didn't have an ending. Admittedly, this premise borrows heavily from elements of Curb Your Enthusiasm, only exaggerated to levels even Larry David would never consider. The dialogue isn't as "fresh" as I remembered when I first tried to write this and may seem to be more disturbing than hilarious. Maybe I've become a harsh self-critic but recently, everything I've written hasn't been up to my standards, whatever those may be. Also, Season 3 will be posted very soon, but it will be the last season. I do love the premise of the Presenters, but I think it's time to move on. With that said, don't take this script very seriously as everything written is only for the sake of comedy, even if it's unfunny comedy. Thanks for reading and enjoy (if you do). Comments are always welcome. 

Things (in parenthesis) are alternatives to lines written. They also indicate actions the characters make. A (weird) running joke is that Harold's wife doesn't have a name. This issue is addressed with in a later episode.

(Amateur Version) A blank screen. Unlike previous episodes, it opens with the theme from Curb Your Enthusiasm. The song plays for several seconds until cutting to a flashing siren and a loud wail. We cut to tow officers discussing the wreckage. Another cut shows the 405 still active although there's a noticeable curve of red lights and a patch of red, blue, and white. Another cut shows a car that has been flipped upside down. The camera moves towards the front of the car and the vague representation of fingers curled around the wheel. At this point, the song abruptly stops; a close up reveals Harold, still grabbing tightly onto the wheel, eyes blank and staring straight ahead at the road or sky. He looks quickly to the left and the right and unbuckles his seat belt. His body drops onto the floor, and his head bounces off the surface. In a panic, he searches around his car, and sees a gallon of milk, still strapped in the back seat. He carefully unbuckles it and grabs once it drops. An outside shot shows the side door trembling until a foot pushes it out. Harold carefully crawls out of the car. Once out, he turns back and sees the wreckage just as a fire ignites from the underside.

Harold: Hmm...
Harold sees an officer making a call and walks up to him.
Harold: Scuse me.
Officer #1: Hm?
Harold: Are you busy?
Officer 1: A little. Wait just a second.

Harold waits and checks on the damage of the car. A weird feeling creeps in on Harold and he begins coughing and hacking up loudly. Off camera, he spits out his cell phone.

Officer 1: Sir, what seems to be the problem?
Harold: (cleaning up the spit with his sleeve) Uh, well, I was the person who just had an accident. I, uh, climbed out of my car. I might have damaged my internal organs!
Officer 1: Sir, calm down. You look fine. Please return to your vehicle.
Harold: Is that a joke?!
Officer 1: Yes. Terrible, isn’t it?
Harold: Where are the paramedics? I, I need to get checked out. Something might be out of place!
Officer 1: Straight ahead. And don’t scream in front of an officer. You could be seen as a threat. (walks away)
Harold: (raises his hand) Won’t do that again. Sorry. (under his breath) Asshole.

Harold turns again to see the damage on his vehicle. (He pulls his wallet out and whimpers upon realizing the amount it will be to repair his car, or at least to be sold to a foolish buyer). Harold sees the paramedics.

Harold: Uh, scuse me?
Paramedic 1: What’s the problem, sir?
Harold: well, I just got into an accident and I was wondering if I might have any broken bones, or anything in that criteria.
Paramedic 2: What criteria?
Harold: Well, you know, the physical damage to the body. Look, can you just check me?
Paramedic 1: (shrugging at Paramedic 2) You look fine. Most people probably couldn’t walk up to us if their bones were broken. You did, so…
Harold: Walking is nothing! I might’ve gotten a temporary dose of adrenaline. My stomach might’ve been pierced. My small intestine twisted up! Please, just a quick checkup!
Paramedic 2: Sir!! You’re fine! Now, please, we have to see if everyone else is okay.
Harold: And who could that be?! I have the only upside down car right now!
Paramedic 1: Sir!
Harold: All right. God! (walks away)

Harold feels a rumble in his pants. He checks his phone. A close-up shows 6 missed calls from the Editor.

Harold: Oh, shit. (pushes send) ...helloooo?
The Editor: Harold, what the fuck happened to you? When I call a person, I expect him to fucking answer!
Harold: I know, I know. I’m sorry. I…I just got into an accident and-
The Editor: Harold, (don’t start flinging this shit in my direction). You’re supposed to be the reliable one.
Harold: I know.
The Editor: For God’s sake, I have to constantly hear this hullabaloo from those idiots you call friends and suddenly I get the same fucking routine from you?
Harold: Sir, it’s not a routine. I was driving down the 405 in a hurry, I black out for a second, and suddenly I’m upside down-
The Editor: Harold, you’re full of shit. Listen, I need you to do something for me.
Harold: What is it?
The Editor: There’s a really important package that you need to pick up from the post office.
Harold: Uh, I think it’s-
The Editor: I’ll text you the address. Now hurry. And next time, I will call you only once. If you don’t respond, you’ll be kicked out of my responsible list. Understood?
Harold: Yes, but-
The Editor: See you tomorrow. (hangs up)
Harold: How am I going to get there? (closes his phone) Damn it.

Harold holds his phone tightly and remembers the gallon of milk. He goes back to the car and picks it up. He begins walking away from the wreckage and towards the edge of the freeway when a huge explosion stops him. He turns back and sees his car smoldering and burning.

Harold: Course.

Harold walks away from the worse wreckage and walks into the darkness.

Harold shakes the gallon of milk to make sure it doesn't have any punctures or holes. Harold feels his phone vibrating and answers it.

Harold: Hello?
Wife: Hi, honey!
Harold: Oh, hi, (), how are you?
Wife: Fine, fine. Just been working on my (stuff). It's taking me a goddamn hour to complete it. How are you?
Harold: Uhhh...don't get worried. I'm fine...I kinda got into an accident-
Wife: WHAT?! Oh my god, are you okay?!
Harold: Yeah, I'm fine, I'm fine, I only have a few scratches. 'Cording to the paramedics, I'm perfectly fine if I can take a few steps forward.
Wife: Oh, that's a relief! Did you get the milk?
Harold:  What?
Wife: The milk?
Harold:  Oh, the milk. Yes, it was...my second passenger. In fact, it was the first thing I thought about after I got flipped upside down that the milk was still intact.
Wife: I'm sorry, but you know how important the milk is for the cake. It's a specific brand that's very popular-
Harold:  I know, I know. I'm sorry, honey. Didn't mean to overreact on you.
Wife: It's okay. You have the milk, right?
Harold:  Honey, I'm cradling it in my arms as we speak.
(Wife: Good. Do you want me to pick you up?
Harold: You could...uh, it's gonna be a little tricky, though.
Wife: You can just stay at the edge of the highway and wait for me to pick you up.
Harold: I know, but...there's a lot of rapists in dark places. (You might not want to pick me up when you arrive.)
Wife: Harold, don't be silly. No one's sane enough(going) to rape you.
Harold:  How do you know?!
Wife: Harold.
Harold:  Sorry, sorry.
Wife: Where exactly are you?
Harold: You know that giant hotel that's right at the crossroads of the 405?
Wife: You know...I'm just gonna use the GPS. I'll be over there pretty soon.
Harold:  All right, see you later, then.
Wife: Bye. Don't get raped.)

She hangs up.

Harold: I'll try not to. Harold: Hmm...
.......................
If you want to see a visual interpretation of this scene, go here.

No Left Turn

Originally typed on June 16, 2011.  

The following was written as a reaction to one of my friends' paintings, one from her concentration, a series of paintings with one related theme, in high school. Like a fascinated but also somewhat annoying person, I kept reminding her that I wanted to "canonize" her masterful work in some shape or form, and after trying to criticize her work thoughtfully, I instead opted for a short story, one that became an obsession of mine to complete during the summer. Unfortunately, I have no way of showing her image to you, the reader, so that you have some idea of how the brainstorming process worked for properly interpreting her piece. Something that struck my attention was how her theme is "Home", and most of her concentration were little sections of her home in the Palisades and although she is a wonderful painter, I felt her theme hampered on the execution of most of her paintings, and with her goal of completing 12 paintings by the end of the school year, she began rushing towards completion of her series. One day, she brought along her next painting, one with no title. It surprised me how empty and yet lively this painting was compared to the others. I don't want to describe it since I know my description will be inaccurate. The painting features as a sign saying "No Left Turn" which I have named the story. I admit that I'm posting this story also with haste as I no longer want to worry about it and move on to other projects, and that it is a story that resolves itself very quickly and that the descriptions lack the underlying bitterness of my previous stories, but overall, it's still a pretty good story that could be improved. Let me know what you think about it in the comments, and thanks for reading if you do.  

 

A lone pebble in the middle of the street balances the neighborhood. At the earliest hour, it makes a shadow that reaches the far end of the block up to the stop sign. Some pranksters cut out a side of it to fool exhausted drivers. The paperboy knows about the cars that could potentially crush and mangle his bike, so he always watches the road after passing the stop sign. His newspaper sack feels heavier than usual. So did his arms. People make fun of him for wearing sunglasses everywhere, but his eyes are that deplorable and could only function properly for 15 seconds until becoming defunct. It was the paperboy’s last day on the route. He pulls out each paper and flings it at every direction. A quiet summer morning is spoiled by the paperboy’s terrible aim. Mrs. Flutterman’s precious daises are flattened by the LA Times. He breaks his fifty-first flower pot. The lone pebble catches onto the wheel and shreds the tire. The paperboy tumbles to the floor, a stunt he had rehearsed a few times before. A few scrapes don’t stop the paperboy. Only the sight of his rented bicycle rolling by itself and then crashing into a moving car do. Words from the newspaper editor swearing at him makes the paperboy shake in turmoil. For the next few minutes, the only things the paperboy sees are the sidewalk and his own shadow.

The paperboy shakes his head and looks up. He panics and searches for his sunglasses which are just near his shoes. Taking a moment, he begins putting them on when something catches his eyes. The neighborhood has the most vibrant palette of colors he’d ever seen. Every house has its own personality, its own traits and behaviorisms. The house filled with whimsical colors designs, seemingly being lifted off the ground: Animator. The house covered by another house’s shadow, revealing only parts of its exterior but daring others to see what the interior has to offer: Prostitute. He pulls out his schedule and checks the number. Yep, he was in the right place. Carrying his bag, the paperboy steps carefully onto the sidewalk. Wind chimes, garden gnomes, doghouses, basketball hoops, at once he tries to imagine the people who purchased these things. He imagines the wind chimes at some sterile department store in the midst of many customers passing the wind chimes to. The paperboy looks at his own shirt and reconsiders the thought. People in the neighborhood had confidence in the world, enough that none of them had any kind of security system to defend their homes with. The paperboy walks up to the house and looks at the wind chimes. A small breeze begins the chimes’ lovely tune. He hums the tune and sways his head in rhythm with the chimes. Though he wants the chimes on the porch of his parents’ house, it killed him to realize he would only be getting a similar, yet flawed replica. He looks out and realizes this was the last house to deliver. He pulls out the paper and places it gently on the doormat. He sits on the steps and looks at the neighborhood one last time. Though he never saw it in a truthful light, it had been his home and it took care of him as well as any mother could have. His parents call him later in the day, wondering if his shift is over. The paperboy tells them that there’s still a few more papers to deliver. He puts his bag aside and watches the neighborhood. He’ll return home by lunchtime.