INT. APARTMENT - ALBUQUERQUE, NEW MEXICO - MORNING
ANTHONY DELLAFLORA (64, white, male) sits at the kitchen table, typing on his laptop as a cup of Panamanian fair trade coffee cools next to him. His imaginary girlfriend, BEVERLEY, (55, white) sits to his right, eating a bowl of yogurt, and posting something on Instagram in between bites.
Why would anyone on this site give a shit about my bio?
I'm just a ghostly presence, why are you asking me?
I suppose I should get back to networking, huh?
Couldn't hurt. Been a while since you've had a script optioned.
Thanks for reminding me. Damn, I was so close with "Dead By Thursday."
The one about the two ex-drug dealers whose friendship is tested when
they come out of hiding to rescue a Mennonite boy kidnapped by a
Mexican drug cartel?
Uh, yeah. I mean, Samuel L. Jackson was interested in one of the leads.
He read the damn thing -- twice. This close to getting it produced.
Long time ago. You gotta let it go. What else you got?
Still got "Duke City," the feature film and TV series versions about the
undercover narc who infiltrates a local drug gang, only to find he must
betray his best friend from childhood.
Yeah, yeah. It was good, but enough with the drugs already.
Okay, I got your historical dramas. I got an anti-romcom about a middle-aged man's
affair with a married woman, "Last Night in T or C." There's "Milagros," the TV series
about a scrappy Albuquerque dry-cleaning mogul who inherits an arena football team
in a poker game and must fight his gambling addition to keep it going.
Oh yeah, that one's funny as shit. I like that one.
I got the King Lear knock-off, about a Black ex-con who learns he's the illegitimate
son of a dying, wealthy white industrialist, and must compete with two offspring for
control of the family fortune.
I hope that is not as pretentious as it sounds.
No. Not at all. It's a heartwarming story of deceit and betrayal and corporate espionage
and a man re-connecting with his estranged son.
Alright. What else?
"Santuario." A pretention-free action thriller set on the Mexican border. Or as I like to
pitch it: A father's desperate attempt to save his daughter from the wrath of Mexican
cartels erupts into a sun-bleached nightmare of violence and betrayal, exposing the
corruption and death on the U.S. border.
But it's not finished yet.
No, but close. I'm on the third re-write.
Sounds like you've been busy during the pandemic.
Absolutely, otherwise, my mind would turn to mush. Almost forgot.
The new one, "The Writer's' Room." It's kind of a meta thing, set in a
the writers' room of a successful TV show. All about the craft and creativity
and horror and joy of writing. I think it could be the wackiest thing I've ever written.
Hmm. Got to hand it to you. All this time I thought you were sitting around watching
Anthony quickly closes some tabs on his laptop.
No, I've got better things to do with my hands.
Not to be a downer, hon. But you're 64. Why are still doing this?
Why does anyone write?
The fame? The fortune?
Anthony laughs uproariously, a laugh tinged with bitterness, for a good minute.
Stories. I've got a million of them. Ego. Somebody will recognize my genius.
Compulsion. My head will explode if I keep everything bottled up inside. Hope. Woody
Allen won an Oscar for best original screenplay at age 76. There's still time, if the hip
replacement goes well.
Beverly nods and resumes eating her yogurt. Anthony looks at his screen one last time and hits "send."