INT. [ARTIST’S] ROOM – EARLY MORNING
The room is an organized mess. There’s almost no room for anything, but everything has its place. Off in the corner, there’s a microphone on a stand with an isolation shield. The only trash to be found in the room lines it like a moat; most of the occupant’s time is clearly spent there.
Shit lines the place like a dormant infection. Albums lining a classic bookshelf – and the furniture seems like something the occupant wouldn’t have personally spent money on. Maybe a Flatbush Zombies poster too. A red cup of water.
It almost seems like there should be a brown tint to this room with a bunch of those little dust particles visible in the sun just perpetually floating. It’s quiet, but the kind of quiet that feels like someone’s pushing their hands into your ears. You smell it, it reeks of sunbaked leaves. He’s literally surrounded by growth, like he exists inside a tree.
He lays motionless on the bed, looking like an unfurled blowup doll waiting to be inflated. No shirt, same shorts he had on yesterday. But why? It doesn’t matter. You decide. He gets up. Water cup shakes like he’s a goddamn T-Rex. Walks over to the microphone. Stares at it. Sits down against the adjacent wall. Indian style. Hands folded in front of him. He gets up.
********************[PLAY SONG AT THIS POINT]*******************
EXT. GOLF COURSE – DAY
There’s a single water hazard that worms its way around the horizon. It looks well fed. Surrounded by a dope Double Tree. Very big. Not too fancy. Classically successful. There’s something equally big and successful inside the hotel that looks like a judge. A statue? It can see everything from its place from the lobby, and you could see it from the course.
He’s in his casual clothes: a bright yellow cap emblazoned with “BIG CHEESE” in red block lettering. He’s dressed so the hat stands out with its “Temporarily Unavailable” and “HOT” stickers.
For a crowd of no one (no one that at least seems to know he’s there), he’s performing the song at the edge of the water hazard, practically dancing, loose and flowing like the water is most likely not.
Someone’s stopped him. Yelling at him and pointing behind him, but there’s nothing interesting behind him and we’re too far away to hear what’s being said, but maybe only because the song’s still playing. Maybe the antagonist is telling him he’s not dressed appropriately. Golf balls pelt the ground around them. Too many Titleist balls. Golfers just going for top for no other reason than it’s top. He’s been kicked off the course.
INT. [ARTIST’S] ROOM – MIDDAY
He still looks the same. He’s seamlessly back in the song, freestyling at the microphone, recording program blazing. The window open on the computer cycles through different hip hop news websites, and an image of Bagheera from The Jungle Book open on Google. The freestyle pauses to let the beat play, maybe echoes his last line a little. He drinks some water. Maybe there’s a joint or an e-cig (or whatever you do these days, Stone Man) smoldering on a tray, smoke wisp waving about in admiration. There’s no one else there but him. Time for a break.
EXT. CAR – LATE AFTERNOON
Then he’s back out in his just kicked out of a golf course finery, watching a music video. It’s a part of something from ‘This Is It’ by Flatbush Zombies. Something from the hook. “Something unique like a slang.”
EXT. SHIPYARD – DUSK
Time to bring this shit home among the red ships that flank him and sway on the water and loom aggressively on him in the water and creak and pop like gunshots and the docklights that keep pace and distance with the water, water, water, the blueblack water. He stands outlined by all the light like a shout and kicks back into the freestyle, but there’s something different about the way he’s preforming it here. Something more meditative. But not the meditative that comes when someone recognizes that they’re going to die. Not like the Wednesday that feels like a Friday. The meditative that comes from recognizing that he’s a part of something as powerful as water. He holds up a picture of the thing from the hotel lobby. He’s so close to it, to water, and he’s already had a taste of it. So why stop? Why stay quiet? Especially because, if he knew he was going to die, that that would be the last time he’d be at that shipyard, would he really be there right now? If he had a warning, wouldn’t he maybe just be face down in the water instead? Wouldn’t the world as he knows it and lives in it not be the same if he knew exactly when he was going to die?
It would be anarchy. Or a utopia. Depending on who you ask. As would water.
If I wasn’t trying to help you make a music video right now, if I was making some kind of arthouse short film, pitching this world where dudes can just teleport at will and it’s no surprise to anyone, I think I’d have this song start playing as Sire Sayonara looks out at the ocean.
“All I need is bread, side of cambozola cheese…”
Or Kendrick Lamar’s “DUCKWORTH.” Maybe.
Then someone’s stopped him. Yelling at him and pointing behind him, but there’s nothing interesting behind him and we’re too far away to hear what’s being said as the same DUDE FROM THE GOLF COURSE advances on him and shoots him.
INT. [ARTIST’S] ROOM – EARLY MORNING
The room is an organized mess……