Symphony In Blue

Quite a while back, I had begun a feature-length screenplay called "All That Extra Joy", about a rock star who, after hitting life's bottom, transfigured himself into a philanthropic modern St. Francis. I'd ultimately abandoned the project as too ambitious for my early efforts at character development.

But the first scene was extremely poignant, I thought. So, after a tweak here and there, I've reengineered it into a stand-alone short story about the profundities and vagaries of happiness. Enjoy.

SYMPHONY IN BLUE by Kyle Patrick Johnson Represented by: Canton Literary Management (CLM) Contact: Eric Canton (866) 429-3118 ECanton@Prodigy.net www.CantonLiteraryManagement.com FADE IN: INT. CHICAGO - UNITED CENTER - NIGHT Just before a rock concert. A large standing CROWD talks amongst themselves. Roadies on stage hurriedly dismantle the equipment used by the warm-up band. Lights dim ever-so-slightly. A hush of anticipation... Lights come back up. Just a test. Crowd starts talking again. EXT. UNITED CENTER - WINTER - NIGHT (MOS) A couple STRAGGLERS pay for their tickets at the gate. COPS shiver in the cold. The streets are quiet. A scrolling light banner reads: “Tonight: Phil Glassman Live”. INT. UNITED CENTER - STAGE - WINGS PHIL GLASSMAN (40s), too-deep aging lines on his face, jumps up and down, flaps his arms at his sides, hugs himself. Does jaw-stretching exercises, opens his mouth, works it. EXT. UNITED CENTER (MOS) The Cops jump up and down, blow on their gloved hands. They flap their arms, keep warm. Two HOBOS, wrapped in overcoats and rags, shuffle up to a dumpster around the side of the building. HOBO #1 opens the dumpster lid, clasps his hands at his knees. HOBO #2 puts a foot in Hobo #1’s hands, tumbles into the dark dumpster. Reaches out a hand, pulls Hobo #1 in after him. INT. UNITED CENTER - STAGE The lights dim fully. Crowd hushed completely in the dark, the long-awaited moment. Phil walks quietly, on the balls of his feet, to center stage. No one sees him in the dark. He stands, arms raised in a hero pose. EXT. DUMPSTER (MOS) The hobos search through the dumpster, tossing aside bizarre arena garbage. 2. Hobo #1 freezes in delight, dives after a buttered popcorn carton. He lifts it in front of him, arms raised and outstretched, adoring. It’s full! INT. UNITED CENTER A sharp, blinding blue spotlight hits Phil dead-on at center stage. The crowd goes nuts. He looks down at his admiring fans as they reach desperately for him, yelling too loud to be heard. Crowd jumps up and down. Pandemonium. EXT. DUMPSTER (MOS) Hobo #2 jumps up and down in glee, grabs at the popcorn. INT. UNITED CENTER Phil reaches out his hand. The rest of the band runs onstage: DRUMMER, BASS, KEYBOARD, and ELECTRIC VIOLIN. Drummer (20s) tosses, tosses!, a garish electric guitar into Phil’s outstretched grasp. In an easy motion, easy from a thousand shows before, Phil slings the guitar strap over his shoulder. The crowd goes wild. EXT. DUMPSTER (MOS) Both hoboes bring their hands to their mouths, gobble up the unnaturally bright yellow tiny balls of popcorn. INT. UNITED CENTER - STAGE Phil steps forward to a microphone stand in front of him. Takes it in both hands. Brings it to his mouth, touches his lips, his tongue, kisses it, caresses it. Breathes out loudly, as in pleasurable ecstasy. His breath is louder than the entire madding mob. And they love it. 3. PHIL Are you ready? The crowd screams fervently. Drummer yells in ecstasy without a microphone, barely heard. DRUMMER Are you ready? PHIL One, two, a-one, two, three... Drummer, now seated at his set, kicks into a frenetic rhythm. All band members force their instruments to make noise. They exaggerate their gyrations, make sure everyone can see how “into” the music they are. A dizzying light show sprays around the arena. Phil overstrums his guitar. And screams. PHIL Ba-ye-ah-ah-by! Baby! Ba-ye-ah-ah-by! Baby! In these oscillating days I see a scintillating haze And I don’t think even your gaze Can cut it. I think this world is full of crap Crap crap to fill the ten-mile gap Between us: How’d that ever hapPen? But it Ain’t the sign of the times. It’s just that you’re not worth it! CROWD Not worth it! Not worth it! PHIL Ba-ye-ah-ah-by! Baby! Ba-ye-ah-ah-by! Baby! In our fluoroscopic friends We think our microscopic ends Actually matter and transcend This theme park. I know this world is full of poop Poop poop to overflow the scoop Of the great cosmic pooper-scoop In the dark. Ain’t the sign of the times. It’s just that it’s not worth it! 4. CROWD Not worth it! Not worth it! EXT. DUMPSTER (MOS) The hobos sit, contented, happy. Freezing in their dumpster. With an empty popcorn carton resting between them. INT. UNITED CENTER - SOUND BOARD Far away from the stage down the middle aisle, a SOUND MAN works the controls of his sound board, turning channels up and down. He wears bright green earplugs. Looking over his shoulder is SIMON (60s), slick sleazeball. Simon is enraptured by the music. Shouts to Sound Man over the din. SIMON Pure poetry! Sound Man impatiently rips out one of his ear plugs. What? SOUND MAN SIMON Pure poetry! Love this stuff! Sound Man grumbles at the inane interruption, jams the ear plug back in his ear. Gives Simon one last baleful glance. EXT. DUMPSTER (MOS) The hobos conduct silent music in their heads, arms wave, huge grins on their faces, lying back among the garbage. INT. UNITED CENTER - STAGE The drummer builds a beat into the chorus. PHIL Your love... means nothing Your face... needs something Your cash... means nothing Your bod... needs something I’m drowning in the dry I’m starving in the rye CROWD Not worth it! Not worth it! Not worth it! Not worth it! NOT WORTH IT! YEAHHH! 5. The song concludes in a flurry of talentless strumming. The crowd’s roar reaches new heights. They begin to chant. CROWD We love Phil! We love Phil! We love Phil! We love Phil! Phil, dripping with sweat, puts the microphone in his mouth. PHIL You know you do. Yeah! The crowd, acknowledged, outscreams even itself. SERIES OF SHOTS Phil sings a new fast-paced song, a wild look in his eyes. Drummer, tongue lolling, finishes off a raucous solo. A girl in the crowd, eyes back in her head, manic with lust. Beers spill in the crowd, slosh over uncaring heads. Phil sings a calmer ballad, his eyes desperate, tearing up. Below him, the crowd sways, heads a-tilt. Phil, in the middle of an upbeat song, glances at his wristwatch. He sighs, impatient. EXT. DUMPSTER (MOS) The hobos are asleep in each other’s arms. Lying in garbage. In peace. INT. UNITED CENTER - TWO HOURS LATER Phil finishes the last encore, raises his hands in farewell, waves arrogantly to the crowd. The front row fans are practically crying as he departs. Phil lets his guitar slide off his body. It slams onto the stage, breaks in two. He struts off-stage. Behind him, the front row storm up on stage, fight viciously over pieces of the guitar. 6. BACKSTAGE As soon as he is out of sight of the fans, Phil drops his superstar demeanor. His eyes become blank, he looks weary. He walks slowly down a hallway to his dressing room. His face is encrusted with stage makeup: his lips too red, brows too heavy, cheeks too shiny. Simon appears from a side corridor. SIMON On to Phoenix. Oh, man, you get better every night, champ! PHIL Glad you think so. SIMON What, don’t you? No answer. FADE OUT.