Script

I head over to the Laundromat on the way to work today. At the corner of 187^th, Josh C. sees me from across Broadway and waves. I make the drop and the woman behind the counter reluctantly agrees to have it done by the time I get home, which should be earlier than usual since it’s Friday.

Lazily, and armed with an unlimited metrocard, I take the bus three blocks to 184^th. I get inside the station and onto the platform and see Josh T. who for some reason looks a bit nervous. I take a seat on one of the benches and spot a Latin woman with a short checkered skirt and a black tank top. Her boots are made up almost entirely of two thin leather straps that start at the sole and twist back and forth around her feet and ankles and halfway up to her knees. They are funky but she is not cut out for this kind of outfit. When I board the train, the girl she sits next to me.

Sitting on my other side is a tall guy accessorized with a golf hat and dark sunglasses. His sneakers are missing the laces. He has a Mac laptop and is writing the outline of a screenplay call “Snowmobile Thriller.” In its current state the plot does not seem like blockbuster material to me, but Hollywood has churned out its share of terrible films so it could theoretically happen. I start to wonder if he is also reading the things I type out on my Blackberry.

Ironically, the woman sitting across from me is reciting the lines of another script out loud. She is tall, thin, and pretty. There is fat girl in a pink sweater standing between us who keeps smiling at me. I smile back but avoid further eye contact, and continuing to read one script while listening to another.