A man, who we shall call RICK BAYAN, is photographing the scene for peanuts, a struggling hobby of the penurious liberal arts "that's probably more trouble than it's worth". . . . . especially if you're an amateur with clumsy, pained self-pity that mostly undercuts the smooth execution of talented grace with the agony of slowness and middling ability as the sky above "has no comment".

The audience's view rises above his shoulder to glimpse the majestic, wide-open 3-D space of his perspective, a magnificence seldom appreciated as he makes precise, delicate impressions upon "the poor man's equipment" as he adjusts the knobs and dials with the arcana of lighting and F-stops.

A soft breeze blows, ruffling his hair as THE CAMERA rests precariously upon A STAND.

AS OPENING CREDITS ROLL, the soft strains of a Cajun soul song begins to play which lilts with the sad gurgling of a river, then moving on to a piano bit evocative of the sad pathos of urban decay, natural process, foxes skipping through a glen. . . . .

AS THE CAMERA CUTS TO SWEEPING HELICOPTER SHOTS OF DOWNTOWN.. . . . .

Song picks up "with Cajun snap", almost a banjo-march with wobbly scales rising up to meet each other-- captures city spice as camera cuts to shots of people in business suits walking the streets, working men drinking in bars, policemen on horseback-- damn, this is a scuzzy excuse for a town! But like a worn shoe, it's home. . . . . a kind of introductory music video to the run-down region.

The shots interplay between RICK BAYAN fiddling with the camera and gazing off into the distance intently and the helicopter shots of St. Louis-- ever approaching with a smooth, aerial sweep the brown, majestic (-- and polluted!) MISSISSIPPI RIVER, focusing closer and closer on HIS DISTRACTED AND FRUSTRATED FACE.

THE HELICOPTER finally buzzes past Rick Bayan, far below, hunched over HIS CAMERA AND TRIPOD. As he looks up at the helicopter, he accidentally knocks over THE CAMERA which falls into the marsh with a "slushing" sound.

Ahh, FUCK!!!

RICK BAYAN bends over to grab THE CAMERA, and falls down into the stinking marsh.

SOUND FX: (Buzzing flies, irritating)

Hi. My name is Rick Bayan and I wanted to send you a postcard from where I live.

VOICE-OVER ROLLS

as. . . . .

EXT./INT. Union Station, Day (Late Afternoon)

RICK BAYAN tromps into this touristy mall in soaked in filthy clothing and approaches the gift shop with St. Louis memorabilia everywhere, ruffling through rack of postcards with a furrowed & expression. All the postcards are picture-perfect and idyllic.

SFX: Cash registers in the background, immediate and pressing

(as he picks through the rack)

Don't touch those, sir!

The shot hangs-- between the BARKING MANAGER and OUR PATHETIC HERO with a shocked and wounded expression.

EXT. Rick Bayan's Porch-lit Front-step (Night)

SFX: Crickets

RICK BAYAN tromps home to a modest, suburban home.

SFX: Spongy steps, jingling pocket change

A cat has shit on the front step, and left it there as OUR HERO grumbles with HIS KEYS, which he drops in THE CAT SHIT. Stricken profanity, as he struggles with the overflowing mail-box stuffed with bills and weekend circulars. He gingerly scoops up THE CAT SHIT and gently tosses it off the porch, like St. Francis of Aggisiz given "a test of faith" and getting a "C-" for his aching protestations.

SCENE CHANGES SUDDENLY

CUT TO:

[Picture of St. Francis of Aggisiz, a classic monk bent over to feed the pigeons-- getting splattered with mud]

INT. Rick Bayan's Breakfast Nook, Day (Morning)

OUR HERO sits around a walnut table in a bathrobe, like something out of a 1980's breakfast cereal commercial. What's left of HIS FILM he pokes at in a despondent, yet whimsical manner-- revealing that THE PHOTOGRAPHS of the St. Louis skyline came out runny, twisted, and distorted.

CLOSE-UP OF PICTURES as he flips through them.

Now THE PICTURES lay on THE ROUND TABLE, which he pokes at with HIS HAND from time to time, like a tortured humanist.

THE TENSION HANGS THERE-- maximizing the absurdity.

RICK BAYAN takes a long slow sigh.

Wouldn't that be the true twisted, jaded "postcard of life". . . . . or at least the way we cynics see things.

A pause. Heaviness.

RICK BAYAN drinks from A MUG OF COFFEE.

It is scalding, causing him to cringe with a rotten expression.

He puts it down with a pompous look of resignation, the little bit of dignity that can be salvaged.

Don't you hate it when that happens?

[Silence for 5 seconds]

Well, if anyone is listening-- and there must be at least one who is-- you may want to know what all this cynicism is about.

SFX: "Rheeing" crickets, as if standing alone on a stage in a neglected, unfilled theater.

RICK BAYAN lowers his forehead while eyeing the camera with a sarcastic expression:

Yes, my pretties. I know YOU want to listen to my soliloquy of sorrow.

[The camera waves back and forth as if to say, "no"]

[CUT TO SHOT OF ST. AGGISIZ PICTURE BEING PELTED WITH ROTTEN TOMATO WITH PATHETIC "SPLORCH!", BEING LEFT TO "RUN DOWN" THERE]

Well, in any case, I define a cynic as 'an idealist whose rose-colored glasses have been taken off, snapped in two, and stomped into the ground, immediately improving his bummed-out vision'

[CAMERA MOVES IN FOR A CLOSE UP}

. . . . . as if an infomercial for the cause of cynicism

It's how life always falls short, you know? Like when you're a kid, you're given a cold hot dog. Or you ask a girl out in high school, to go to the ice cream parlour and she snorts in your face, or. . . . . .

 

[Cut to surreal Claymation sequence of A ROACH sitting on the floor, raising A LEG and in a cruel, Iberian voice calling out "You are a piece of shit, man!"]

Enter Nifty "Product Placement" Surreality. . . . . .

INT. Home Depot, Day.

RICK BAYAN enters a bright, well-swept, efficacious store-- that's not quite something "out of a commercial", but is obviously is a well-kept place. It is a vast, echoing expanse several football fields in area where a guide could be "of assistance".

OUR HERO is the lone man, the sound of a low-slung harmonica "like High Noon".

A BIG OLE' EMPLOYEE who looks like "the dean of motorcycles" from "American Chopper" asks gruffly if he can help him find anything.

RICK BAYAN declines, and moves on through the aisles.

Men hate to ask for directions. It's an act of submission or gay or something.

OUR HERO enters a clearing, sort of a grill/kiddie pool area. . . . . when THE MULTICULTURAL HOME DEPOT EMPLOYEE GLEE CLUB come up and start going into a fevered, bubbly 21st century pitch about "how the store fulfills all of your home project needs".

Bob Villa strums a guitar in the corner and a hound-dog turns its head and gives a red-eyed, mournful expression.

I feel MY GRIT disappearing by the minute!!!!

They effervesce about "the significant other" partner plan and all the other great policies sweeping over corporate America.

RICK BAYAN breaks into a stumbling run, barks his shin on a low-hanging shelf, and limps away as their yakking follows him.

SCENE CHANGES

OUR HERO comes back to the front counter panting, holding the small of his back, and asks where he can find an extension cord.

The marginal, squint-eyed, TEENAGED HELP behind the counter points him to the immediate aisle thirty feet away. Our hero can not help but make an absurdist, pained expression.

SFX: Two "downer notes", as low as they can go, of a blatted tuba like flatulence.

RICK BAYAN returns with AN EXTENSION CORD, but by then some ROUGH BLUE COLLAR GUYS have taken his place in line.

Big ole' dirty white boys talking about their exploits-- working construction, drinking beer until they pass out, ordering 10 sausage egg McMuffins over at McDonald's for breakfast before the day gets going. As proof of their hardiness, they deposit up 75 pound sacks of concrete mix onto the counter without even really thinking about it.

OUR HERO is watching them in awe-- he looks down at his puny EXTENSION CORD-- then looks back up at them.

A CRAZY FAT LADY pulls at RICK BAYAN'S SLEEVE.

Mr., your ankle is bleeding.

I know.

But it's bleeding "real bad".

Probably.

Maybe you should get "some gauze", run it over some hot water.

Everyone has stopped what they're doing and are looking at OUR HERO, including the BLUE COLLAR RUFFIANS looking on bemused, curiously.

Intent, "squarely in the moment" as if "to prove himself" he briskly overreacts as he tells her "to leave him alone".

I was just trying to be helpful!!!

SFX: Two "downer notes", as low as they can go, of a blatted tuba like flatulence that emphasizes the off-keyness of this flat, bloated moment.

THE CLERK looks on in amusement, his eyes like smirking gimlets.

RICK BAYAN down at the floor, almost sadly. Then he looks up:

One of THE ROUGH BLUE-COLLAR GUYS turns around and asks in a meaty, husky voice with his fist raised--

 "What are you looking at, faggot?"

RICK BAYAN. snaps his head back in surprise, and big guys laugh.

They pay with cash and lumber out of the store.

SCENE CHANGES:

CUT TO--

Grainy 1960's footage of white lab mice in a maze, an overhead view.

We cynics have never been Alpha males. Neither leaders nor followers, we tend to get booted aside.

For instance, meet my friend "Zuff".

[CUT TO SHOT of bearded, scruffy, Turkish math teacher in his late 20's freeze-framed in front of a white board with a red marker, behind him a mess of equations and mathematical proofs]

Rick Bayan emotes now with poetic irony--

Let me tell you-- he's scruffy, he looks to be about three cuts above a street urchin in a Turkish port city overlooking the Bosphorous, though in the case of my bearded buddy, he would sit around a cafè table and perform mathematics like a street musician. In an ideal world, wise men and philosophers would marvel and throw gold coins in his cup.

As narration above lays over, cut to picture of boat sailing the Bosphorous river in Turkey, and ZUFF sitting around a cafe table performing mathematics thoughtfully, like Shakespeare composing plays with a quill held up to his chin around a scene of stray kids playing "kick the can". Wise men in fezzes coming up and putting gold coins in his cup for his noble, truth-seeking endeavors, supplicating themselves very obviously before "this great pastime".

RICK BAYAN'S VOICE now takes on a tone of weariness--

But you know, of course, there were no gold coins nor attention paid to Zuff. Alas, "a little death unnoticed". Not unless he got on "the wrong side of the authorities"-- which he usually did, for having the earnest entreaty to question "why"-- with something so simple as a Socratic dialogue. Nothing is "more dangerous" than making a man with a badge "look ignorant", by asking question after question like deep down inside "what he represents has no validity".

So "a boot to the bottom" was his constant wages. . . . .

[AS THIS V.O. ROLLS-- CUT TO SHOT of ZUFF & POLICEMAN miming an argument with the Turkish's beat-cop's cruel mustache, getting more & more stony and flustered even as ZUFF gets more dog-eyed and pleading until finally THE COP RAISES HIS BILLY-CLUB, and ZUFF packs up his papers, maps, books, and rollable chess set IN A RUCKSACK and his sent sadly on his way. . . . .]

Did I tell you that he's an underpaid, taken-for-granted math teacher?"

[CUT TO SHOT of heavy books-- like something out of an auto insurance claim commercial that indicates "the books are stacked against you"-- falling down on a stark, miserable table with a puff of dusty as butterflies dance away]

SCENE CHANGES

EXT. Central West End Cafè, Night.

Now, "The Central West End" is a blue dot of a gentrified liberal area in a conservative town, in a conservative state. In other words-- where the thoughtful, weak, and indecisive commune "LIKE MAGGOTS". RICK BAYAN is tired and sarcastic while ZUFF is a bit more punctilious and exacting-- crossing his i's and crossing his t's as an open-minded logician trying hard not to get discouraged at the numerous boulders thrown across the alternative paths of life. It is nighttime, and candles are lit to be atmospheric as the two friends chat.

So here we are Zuff, the monthly 'Cynic's Round-Table'. Everyone else has their head in the trough of oblivion and are blowing bubbles through shit, if not a Coca-Cola bong.

(A notice skirts along the bottom of the screen-- "Coca-Cola does not condone illegal activity. For great refreshment, always think "Coca-Cola" ® as the grandfather ex-CEO, Keough looks on.

That's an interesting way to put it.

God. . . . . I've been getting impaled at work.

 

Overworked and underappreciated, right?

(This, as Zuff fingers his wine glass and looks down at the table cloth. "Commiseration 101", but he's heard it all before)

Well, of course. . . . .

[Raising his hand up in the air, like a king lifting a pile of rubies before him, the nuggets of selfish, hateful abundance]

Who is really 'beating down my door' to get at those loose-leaf organizers, or at least pay the guy who wrote the advertising copy "any attention"? You know what happened? They've moved me out of my little office of five years and stuffed me into a wooly, paste-board cubicle like push-pin purgatory. You know that aquarium I kept in there? That kept me from going insane? All the tropical fish went 'belly-up" in two weeks. No natural light. Oh, except for the catfish. THE SCUM-SUCKING CATFISH.

[Cut to shot of catfish laying low at the bottom of humming aquarium]

How's that for one of those 'metaphors of life'?

[CUT TO SHOT of head-down view of bubbles rising from the muddy Mississippi river with the sound of a barge whistle n' bells in the background.

[CUT TO SHOT of William Blake painting, "Nebuchadnezzar" with a caption added on at the bottom: "The unwanted cynic out in the cold, cruel world!"]

 

[CUT TO SHOT of STONE HENGE, or other such mighty Paleolithic monument-- falling down and collapsing LIKE DOMINOES]

SCENE CHANGES

. . . . .

INT. Rick Bayan's Home Office, Night.

This is his study, like a captain's quarters-- dimly lit with lamplight. He is sitting askew at a desk, then turns around to face the camera:

RICK BAYAN gets on the bike, and notices a gym rat next to him straining with all the exertion they can muster, in their own private hell. Rick Bayan shrugs, and begins to pedal.

THE CAMERA FADES IN & OUT. . . . . and shows him gritting his teeth, gasping and wheezing, in his own private little purgatory of sweat and pain, then it shows him finally getting off the bike once the time reads seven minutes. Our hero staggers out of the gym and gets into the car.

SIDE SHOT OF HIM AT THE STEERING WHEEL:

"Sorry", he says through clenched teeth. Susie takes in stride, slightly embarrassed. This is "the temple of the body".

Lastly, SUZIE has him in the empty aerobics studio-- doing stretches on the floor.

RICK BAYAN mock-moans like Homer Simpson, or even a French humanist on "Star Trek:

This is a shallow attempt at flirtation that isn't working as SUZIE perhaps "misses the point" and gives him a straight-forward answer about getting into the rhythm and how it isn't as hard after a while. Then she gets up and leaves, because she has to see another client.

RICK BAYAN alone in the aerobics studio, looking alone and dejected. After 40 seconds, a loud-mouthed aerobics instructor tells him to clear out because a class begins in five minutes, then exists with literal-minded "Amazon bearing" that has no place in its heart for the likes of OUR HERO.

EXT. Rick Bayan's House, DAY (Late Afternoon)

OUR HERO struggles out of the car, aches his way back home, and staggers toward the house. What do you know, but THE CAT SHIT ON HIS DOORSTEP AGAIN. He sweeps it up with laughing, half-weeping sounds and throws it off into the bushes.

[Picture of St. Francis of Aggisiz, a classic monk bent over to feed the pigeons-- getting splattered with mud]

THE ORANGE TABBY once more licks and cleans itself insufferably. . . . .

INT. Rick Bayan's Breakfast Nook, DAY (Late Afternoon)

OUR HERO sits down at the customary BREAKFAST NOOK, "all sweated-up" and weary, THE PHONE RINGS. It's the sleepy voice of A YOUNG BLACK TELEMARKETER reading from a pathetic script-- offering to sell subscriptions to popular magazines at 78% off the cover price.

A VIEW FLIPS BACK & FORTH. . . . . between RICK BAYAN and the view over THE KID'S SHOULDER as this brief, pathetic exchange happens. The gist is, OUR HERO feels "so beat up" and nonassertive "and sorry" for this poor-off voice on the other line which is raising money for "MADD"-- "Mothers Against Drunk Driving", that he puts down a single subscription for "Esquire" so not to hurt the black kid's feelings. The camera shows the kid fumbling with the touch keypad that indicates "the sale", thanks him word-by-word from the pathetic script, then hangs up.

RED LED LIGHT reads "2 WEEKS LATER"

EXT. Rick Bayan's House, DAY (Late Afternoon)

Rick Bayan comes home from the gym up to the mailbox to find it stuffed with five issues of "Ebony" Magazine. A letter in shrink-wrap says, "Thank you for contributing to our charity, 'MADD-- Mad Mothers Against Drunk Driving!'"

OUR FRUSTRATED HERO sits down at the breakfast table and calls the 1-800 number, and tells the sleepy-voiced black woman on the other end of the line with fat-mashed sinuses that there's been a mistake and he'd like it corrected. She tells him to take the unused magazines and to drop them off at the office down at "Dr. Martin Luther King Boulevard" between the hours of 9 AM and 5 PM.

RICK BAYAN rubs his temples.

Our hero showers. Our hero naps with a grueling, curled lip. Our hero wakes up in a dark room. The digital clock with red numbers reads 7:55 PM.

INT. Rick Bayan's Living Room, NIGHT.

OUR HERO sits in the easy chair "and channel surfs". 50 channels, but nothing on. The television glare reflects off his disgusted face. He turns to the camera in a mock professor tone and asks--

RICK BAYAN goes driving down to "The Loop", a grungy, yet-gentrified "blue state dot" of a shopping district that's like a hip slice of New York City. This is a montage of the sights and sounds of the area, set to an early 80's Rick James song-- the king of funk. Restaurants, street musicians, Vintage Vinyl, a record store with zany posters on the wall and a lit-up marquee outside like a movie theater. (-- Call it a shameless plug for the region)

As RICK BAYAN walks past the dimly-lit tattoo parlor store-front, smirking rockabilly hipsters standing out in front, A HYPER-GREGARIOUS PAN-HANDLER bursts out-- hopping around like a friendly dog. Our hero, ever the dupe, is in a good mood and completely charmed (-- Rick James song is playing in the background, suggesting "feel-good caginess)

RICK BAYAN walks on. . . . .

INT. Subterranean Books, Night.

This is a small, alternative bookstore that deals in "New, Used, and Out-of-Print" selections. A pretty girl works behind the counter, very quirky and bookish and kind (You can tell!)

The camera lingers.

The camera rushes into RICK BAYAN'S FACE with a rushing sound and collides with the sound of a ringing bell as he's knocked back.

CAMERA TRACKING SHOT that follows him as "he wanders off" down the aisles "to collect himself" in some obscure corner.

He scans the shelf, and grabs an absurdly-scuzzy book of leftist agitation, "Who Killed Robert Kennedy?", a piteous read that talks about how the 1960's promise was destroyed by cynical manipulators. RICK BAYAN fritters that the choice is vaguely ridiculous-- but it's only $5.

He walks up to the cash register-- and THE GIRL RINGS UP THE BOOK, having no comment on this like an affable "free spirit".

RICK BAYAN feigns "strong conviction", to make up for insecurity-- as if "to start up a conversation".

RICK BAYAN exits the store.

SFX: Ringing bell on the doorway.

RED LED LIGHT reads "1 Week Later"

EXT. Rick Bayan's House, DAY (Late Afternoon)

OUR HERO returns home from the gym and walks up to the mailbox to find it stuffed with seven issues of "JET" Magazine. A letter in shrink-wrap says, "Thank you for contributing to our charity, MADD-- Mad Mothers Against Drunk Driving!"

OUR HERO looks down and realizes that HE'S STANDING IN CAT SHIT. With a bellow of fury, he kicks it off the porch and rips off HIS SHOES.

THE ORANGE TABBY once more licks and cleans itself insufferably. . . . .

RICK BAYAN sits down at the breakfast table and calls the 1-800 number, and tells the same sleepy-voiced black woman on the other end of the line with the mashed-fat sinuses that there's been a mistake and he'd like it corrected. In the same routine, she tells him to take the unused magazines and drop them off at the office down at "Dr. Martin Luther King Boulevard" between the hours of 9 AM and 5 PM.

INT./EXT. Rick Bayan's Car, driving through the ghetto, DAY (Morning)

The camera cuts to the next morning, and Rick Bayan driving through the trashy ghetto. It is a St. Louis story, when the high-flowing rhetoric doesn't meet the results. . . . . and everyone is in denial of the obvious about "the urban malaise".

INT. Magazine Distribution Office, Day

Everything is lazy and inefficient in this wide, depot-like "box shop" as our hero waits and waits and waits through the rigamarole. For returning the magazines and getting the error corrected, he might as well be trying to get his passport renewed in Botswanna. Finally, Rick Bayan explodes:

OUR HERO slaps down the piece of paper and leaves. The black employees pick it up and look at it.

EXT: Rick Bayan's House, DAY (Late Afternoon)

BLACK PROTESTORS are rallying outside of his residence, WAVING SIGNS. It is a minor media "Al Sharpton"-type event, with news cameras. OUR HERO comes home from work, and sees them rallying with "Civil Rights" rhetoric.

They tell him that he's "the evil white racist" who keeps all black people down, the protesters with pained and wounded and angry expressions. RICK BAYAN does his best to apologize and grovel, but the mob won't be placated. . . . . they want reparations.

OUR HERO goes into the house, as they holler "What do we want? JUSTICE! When do we want it? NOW!". Placards dance outside his window.

RICK BAYAN sits down with his head in his hands rubbing his temples. . . . . but then firms up.

RICK BAYAN sets his jaw, paces back and forth in his living room, steps out onto the doorstep, and tells the mob to:

They look at him, surprised that "he's standing up to them".

They look to each other uncomfortably and don't answer.

TRANSITION TO A SURREAL SEQUENCE--

The Ray Charles/Home Depot/Multicultural Brigade dance revue.

The Home Depot "Multicultural Brigade" from early on, back at Home Depot march onto the scene and cheerfully announce with corporate insincerity, "WE'LL GIVE YOU JOBS!!!!!" With old shots from "The Blues Brothers", the black protestors are dancing around to "Shake-a-Lil'-Tail-Featha" with Ray Charles bobbing at the piano "like a happy-go-lucky parrot".

Next, intersperse scenes from "The Reverend Cleofis's Black Church" when they're dancing around on their hands, kicking like mules and flying up toward the ceiling with back-flips.

THE GRUFF OLD EMPLOYEE whom RICK BAYAN wouldn't ask directions from "just shakes his head" like "a good ole' boy".

He goes back up toward the doorstep and SLAMS THE DOOR, but not before KICKING THE FRESH CAT SHIT off the porch.

INT. Bally's Gym, Day (Late Afternoon)

Everyone is avoiding him around his usually haunt, the gym with a mixture of curiosity, fear, and mingled admiration. THE BLACK GUYS are scowling at him with murderous looks. OUR HERO goes about his routine, "a stiff British bulldog".

INT. Bally's Locker-Room

RICK BAYAN is sitting down and resting, when TWO BIG BLACK GUYS confront him with a mixture of provocation, curiosity, and indignation.

You sayin' "black people stupid"?

Fuck you man, you honkies "were always stupid".

What about all you Nazi/militia types? You blamed everything on Clinton.

This is fucked up, man.

[GETTING OVERWHELMED]

This is FUCKED UP.

SCENE CHANGES

EXT. Central West End Cafè, Night.

The next scene is of RICK BAYAN and ZUFF sitting at the same outdoor cafe in "The Central West End" like before. OUR HERO is defending his choice to fight while ZUFF is the "we are all children of the universe" pacifist

(Rick Bayan holds up his hand and interrupts)

INT: Boxing Arena, Night.

The hooting gym, full of raucous black people raising their arms up and down like in a rap video. A song is on: "It's a Fight" by Three 6 Mafia from the "Rocky Balboa" soundtrack. The song implies a big macho showdown of rappers n' thugs and attitude and mope-mouthed gold chains.

The fighters are in their corner with the supporters, as the cameras revolve in slow motion and strobe lights go off. Real fancy, real dramatic. OUR HERO comes out and is knocked out within a matter of three or four punches. The crowd goes wild as pandemonium breaks out in the ring between managers, referees, and supporters.

RICK BAYAN is carried off in a stretcher, THE MYSTERY "BOOK GIRL". following him as he blinks with a swollen face. She rides with him in the ambulance.

EXT. The St. Louis Arch, DAY (Morning).

RICK BAYAN jogs down by the Arch at dawn to "Gonna Fly Now", the main theme from "Rocky", prancing up the steps with bandages wrapped around his jaw. Jumping up and down with his arms in the air, and THE MYSTERY "BOOK GIRL" joining him in a warm embrace.

A nice tribute to Rocky, and a great way to end the film on an upbeat note. The point is, he had the courage to live.

THE END

Thank you, Rick Bayan for your ideas.
Truly you have suffered for your art!

Visit him at: http://www.i-cynic.com