"YET TO BE WRITTEN"

“YET TO BE WRITTEN”

by

Joe Palumbo

FIRST

A silver facade shimmers in the urban sun. Ink soaks into a pad. The scribe’s hand pauses. “Anything else?” Silence. A middle-aged waiter approaches a window...

“Two bennies, one burger.” His face tired, resigned. The name tag: MARIO. He sloppily fills two mugs with coffee, scalding his hand. He flicks it off, reactionless.

The barely filled diner is small enough to overhear conversations, maybe even thoughts. A young woman sits in a booth with a paperback and a mug of tea. A mid 20s Bohemian eats alone, clicking on a laptop. Another waiter, BRUCE, older, crankier, leans on the counter, eyeing the door. An older couple, with a little girl, await Mario, who delivers the drinks. Mario eyes the counter, and a crossword.

Mario mumbles, “Seven letter word for ‘enhance.’”

“Better,” Bruce offers.

Mario frowns, “Seven letters. Idiot.” That last shot, inaudible.

The young woman with the paperback suggests, “Augment. Improve.”

“Yes! Improve.” Mario smiles and looks up at her.

Head still in her book, “As in you can always improve your situation,” she says. For Mario, a spark of recognition, a pang of melancholy. Her position in the booth, the mug of tea, the paperback. He’s seen this before. To himself… “Write something she’d want to read. I need to…” voice trailing. The Bohemian eyes Mario. The bell chimes, two women enter.

“My turn,” says Bruce. Mario’s eyes plead. Bruce shakes his head ‘no.” Bruce greets and seats the women. Mario counts his tips. $8.

“Order up,” barks the window. Mario ushers the dishes to the older couple. They dive in, but the little girl seems uninterested. Mario notices.

The Bohemian calls Mario over, “I couldn’t help overhearing, you’re a writer?”

“Struggling. Screenwriter.”

He hands Mario his card…

ERIC MODO

www.writeoutloud.org

Mario pockets it. They chat, then shake hands.

“Thanks, Eric. I’ll see you in there at nine.”

Mario checks on his table with the little girl. “She’s not in the mood for a burger now,” says the woman. “Can she have a grilled cheese?”

“Right away.” Mario takes the burger away, looks around, and grabs a cloth napkin.

SECOND

Under the watchful eyes of the principal, children await dismissal. It’s 2:30. A bell chimes. Youngsters target their loved ones. Mario’s knees buckle, hugged from behind.

“Daddy!” a pig-tailed cutie exclaims.

“Sugarplum!” Mario beams.

A crappy apartment. The only bedroom is for Bernie, his seven year old daughter. A pull out couch for him. Furniture is sparse, save for an ornate desk Mario acquired from his grandfather. The desk is littered with bills labeled “past due” or “final notice”. One letter, different from the rest, from a Hollywood studio, reads “Thank you for your screenplay submission. We regret to inform you…”

Mario checks his voicemail. Bill collectors, his accountant’s warnings about back taxes. To make matters worse…

“Daddy, I’m hungry.”

“Sure thing, Bernie.”

He retrieves a folded up cloth napkin and unwraps the little girl’s burger from the diner. He cuts the bite marks off and puts on his best waiter airs.

"Voilà, mademoiselle. Bon appétit."

“Merci,” she says. “Yours?”

“I ate at work. You enjoy.”

Bernie dives in. Mario’s stomach growls. He clears his throat to mask it.

“Did Mommy like burgers?”

“Loved them. And you are her daughter. Know how I know? Cause you like them almost as much as your mamma did.”

“Maybe I like them more.” Bernie takes a huge bite.

“Maybe, indeed!” He stares into the distance. “Okay, banana. Finish up. Homework, then bed.”

Bernie, all tucked in. Mario reads “And they lived happily ever after.” Bernie claps.

“Now zip it, pilgrim. It’s shut-eye o’clock.” Bernie closes her eyes, presses her finger against her lips. Through tight lips…

“I love you, Daddy.”

“You better, mister!” he replies.

Her eyes go wide on ‘mister’. Trying not to laugh. She’s successful.

“I almost gotcha.” He kisses her forehead. “Sleep, monkey.”

THIRD

Grilled cheese crust dangles from Mario’s lips, courtesy of the little diner girl. At his desk, he eyes the bills. He looks at the corkboard above the desk, an old picture in the corner. He admires its worn edges. A woman in a diner booth, with a paperback, and a cup of tea. A copy of what he saw earlier.

“I miss you, sweetheart.” Mario finds the business card. “Eric Modo, writeoutloud.org.”

He opens the laptop to JOBS.COM, types “WAITER JOBS, NYC” then “WRITING JOBS, NYC.” Discouraged by both searches, his body tenses.

“How will I find the time? I need extra shifts.” He flips open his phone and calls BOSS. Leaves a voicemail...

“Boss, it’s Mario. Can you help me out with some extra shifts? I really...things are tight. Please.” He hangs up.

He grabs the business card, types, clicks a link. It’s a Zoom meeting, full of young, fresh faces. A writer’s group. A 30 day challenge--complete a draft of a screenplay, winner pitches Hollywood. Mario scans his bills, his rejection letter, then his screenplay, “Aliens with Spurs.” He frowns, knowing that won’t win.

Eyeing the photograph...“Write something she’d want to read. Make the time to write. We’re down to just one income, baby. What am I gonna do? Help me figure this out!”

He bangs his fist on the desk, hears a plop. He opens the drawers, nothing. He feels under a drawer, his eyes widen as there’s a notch in the wood, big enough for his finger. He pulls and a secret compartment slides out. A cloth-wrapped rectangle within. The package, a black leather notebook with his grandfather’s initials: MND. Inside the cover, an inscription…

Mario, these are your initials, not mine. I know how difficult it can be, so if you’re looking for a sign to keep writing, here it is. Granddad.

FOURTH

Mario caresses the initials, then gets to work. We’re transported into the picture of his wife in the diner. Mario, now a much younger waiter, approaches. She peers up from her paperback. “I’ll just have some tea for now, please,” she says.

“It’s been oolong time since someone as stunning as you…” He grimaces. She does as well. The scene rewinds. He approaches again.

“I’ll just have some tea for now, please,” she says.

“You’re just a TEA-se, aren’t you?” An audible groan.

The scene rewinds again. With each rewind, a ballpoint on the Moleskine notebook nullifies the horrible dialogue. Mario rewrites, until finally, on the page…She peers up from her paperback…

Now, back in the scene…

“I’ll just have some tea for now, please.”

“A hot tea?” asks Young Mario.

“Did you just call me a hottie?” she teases.

“That and so beauTEAful.” She smiles; he beams, both in the scene and at his desk.

We follow their whirlwind romance from their “meet cute”;

To she, fully interested, and he, asleep, at a live book reading;

To them browsing at a farmer’s market;

To him meeting her parents;

Back on Mario’s hand, writing;

To her devouring a burger, as he smiles;

To him on one knee, ring in hand;

To church doors bursting open, a rice shower;

To them marveling at a sonogram;

To a pregnant belly balancing a burger and a gallon of ice cream;

Back to present, to bills piling on his desk;

To a voicemail, Mario’s boss denying him extra hours;

To Mario, writing in his Moleskine notebook;

To another voicemail, his accountant warning of back taxes;

To his garnished paycheck;

To Mario, at a pawn shop, selling his grandfather’s desk;

To Young Mario, speeding to the hospital, his wife in labor;

To the delivery room;

To her hand tightly grasping his;

The sound of a crying baby;

The baby’s tears, his tears, her tears;

To her hand releasing, falling limp, followed by alarms;

To doctors working frantically;

To Young Mario at home, cradling his newborn daughter, alone.

FIFTH

Exhausted from writing, Mario sleeps on the couch. At his feet, the photo of his wife. Bernie enters, picks it up and places it on her father’s moving chest. He startles awake.

“What’s wrong, baby?”

“I miss her. I never met her, but I miss her.”

“I know. I long to see her smile again, to hold her, kiss her…”

“Eww, gross, Dad.”

He doesn’t react. “You okay, Daddy?”

“I’m a little sad, but we’re allowed to be. Writing helped.”

“Did you finish?”

“Stuck,” he says.

“Writing something she’d wanna read?”

“I wrote about us. The three of us.”

“She’d like that. Mention how much she liked burgers?”

Mario smiles, grabs Bernie, tickling her.

“Nobody could beat you, the Burger Queen!”

“I’m too young to be Queen. I’m the Princess!”

“All hail the Burger Princess!” announces Mario.

She curtsies. Then, from the mouth of babes…”Finish the story, Daddy. You can make us proud. Our ‘once upon a time’ is now.”

Mario looks at the picture, then his daughter, his eyes full of hope.

SIXTH

Now logged into Zoom for 20 minutes, Mario perks up when Eric Modo gets to business…”I’ve read all your submissions. Impressive, but there’s only one winner…”

Bernie, on her tippy toes, straightens Mario’s tie, then pulls it down to kiss his cheek.

“Good luck, Daddy.”

“I’ll try my best.”

Mario, into the camera, “I feel this story can reach the widest possible audience and be a good fit for your studio.”

Bernie watches her father exhale.

The executive smiles. “I agree. I’d like to fly you to L.A. You’re a good fit for our team.”

Bernie screams in delight, off camera.

“Is that your daughter? Invite her in,” says the executive.

Bernie enters, dressed for the occasion…”Hello, ma’am.”

“Don’t you look like a princess. And don’t call me ma’am, we’ll be seeing a lot of each other. Call me Barbara.”

Bernie’s eyes widen, “Barbara? That was my mommy’s name!”

“Really? Well, how do you feel about visiting Hollywood? We have beaches, and Disneyland, and, ohhh, ever try an In-n-Out burger?”

A piercing, ecstatic scream. Mario winces, as does Barbara, who asks...

“Is that a yes?”

SEVENTH

Taking his familiar route to work, Mario approaches the diner and looks in the window. Bruce the waiter, and his boss, at the counter. Mario smiles as he passes. He flips them a final farewell wave. Headed towards Bernie’s school, his luggage wobbles, but he lowers his pitch and rights the ship.

A silver fuselage shimmers in the urban sun. Bernie marvels at the jetliner. Ink soaks into paper. The scribe’s hand pauses. Mario lays his pen next to his signature, on a screenplay option contract in the amount of $20,000. Handshakes abound.

On an L.A. street, Mario watches Bernie inhale an In-n-Out burger.

“I like it here, Daddy.”

“Me too, sugarplum.”

“Thanks for the burger. What’s next?” she asks.

“Right up here. A little stationery shop.”

Exiting the shop, he dons a new messenger bag. He pulls out two new Moleskine notebooks.

“The one from my grandad is full. You’ll need one too. Use it to write down your dreams, or your favorite burgers, or whatever you wish, Bernie. That’s the best part, you’ll grow in so many ways, and your story has yet to be written.”

Later, lights come up inside the theater. Mario and Bernie, eyes glistening, stare at the screen, the story told.

“That was amazing, Daddy.”

“Thanks. And your favorite part?”

“Everything.”

Mario chuckles.

“No, I mean it. You gave me something wonderful. You gave me my mother back. Thank you for giving me my mother back. And for teaching me that family is everything. That’s my favorite part. I love you.”

He hugs his daughter with all the love in the universe.

“C’mon.”

“Where we goin’?”

A silver fuselage shimmers in the L.A. sun. Bernie marvels at the jetliner, then the NYC skyline. Mario’s wingtip shoes at a threshold; Bernie right behind. The pawn shop’s door opens. A bell chimes, a voice…

“Morning?”

“I’m here for my grandfather’s desk.”

THE END