Isabella Rosalita Hector Gonzalez sits hunched over on the futon, crying silent tears. Rose sits with her leg folded over next to her.
ROSE: Izzy listen, you gotta walk me through exactly what happened, okay? I know it’s raw, but the details matter. We ain’t letting him get away with this.
IZZY: [halts her whimpers. Pauses a beat] You know that audition I had, the studio film about Nashville and all that?
ROSE: [nods]
IZZY: I got the call back, was so exited Rosie. Was like maybe my big break, I … [sobs]
ROSE: Take your time.
IZZY: Well, they set up the meeting at the studio lot. I got up that morning so early, was on the bus by like 7…
——
We see a blue metro bus with a golden winged chariot on the side but that’s not important right now. We cut to interior, Izzy is sitting with her arms folded over her purse, a cadre of riders. One is wearing a long black wool cloak, what appears to be a ghost face killa mask, and is carrying a large curved bladed weapon. But it’s LA, what are you gonna do?
A wrinkled old man hunched over with a cane and old man smell climbs aboard and smiles mournfully at Izzy.
ED: Is… this.. seat… taken…?
Izzy smiles accomodatingly, says
IZZY: No, of course mister, please have a seat.
ED: Oh.. thank you… kindly… miss. I’m… sorry… I’m … abit… hoarse…
IZZY: [smiles] Oh you’re fine 🙂
ED: Do… you… know… the… library…?
IZZY: Oh, well I’m not from this area. On my way to Classique 55 Studios.
ED: Oh?… You… in… the … pictures? [Ed smiles]
IZZY: Ha well, that’s the hope, yes sir!
ED: Well… good.. luck… to.. you. You got… the…. Moxie… you.. play… well.. I… er…
IZZY: Well, thank you, I’ll take it, haha. It is La La Land, everyone wants to be in pictures, mister [winks].
ED: Oh… I… could… tell… a story…
——-
Cut to an impressively long crane shot. Manhattan, 1932. We pass an ominous sign for a tattoo parlor, a black hand superimposed over a pyramid. The sign reads BLACK HAND INK.
A young couple, eager and newlywed, rushes to the storefront.
MARNIE: Oh, dear, I’m noivoise! What if it’s—
DOYLE: C’mon, toots. Live a little. Marks were meant to be made, and anyway it’s my payday and hay you said—
MARNIE: FRIDAY. Friday you get paid, ya galoot. What’re you gonna do, get a hamboyga on your forearm?
DOYLE: Why I oughta.
The shop door opens and they enter, a bell chiming their arrival. Through the unholy portal.
RICKENBACKER: Evenin’ to ya. Welcome to my imperium of delirium! What can I do you for this Fat Tuesday?
DOYLE: I want to get a tattoo.
RICKENBACKER: You don’t say! Well, my friend, you’ve come to the right place. What you have in mind? As you can see, we got all kinds of delights…
DOYLE: I want an owl, with the head of a falcon, and maybe like the red, white, and blue, something patriotic like the 4th of July!
MARNIE: Oh, pops, give the guy a break! He’s gonna be marking your flesh!!
RICKENBACKER: A patriot, eh? Well sir, I can tell you, I believe in our country. Why, my father served in the Great War, gave his blood and his life defending our freedom. I can show you …[ walks over to rummage through some binders] A yes, here. You want patriotic, have a gander at these.
He hands the book to DOYLE and MARNIE, whose eyes widen as they take in:
——
Adam and Eve stand naked astride a tree wrapped in a snake and holding up a great green copper torch, a spangled banner billowing in the air.
An impossibly tall woman draped in ancient Roman cloths holds aloft a torch, standing over a mountain with the sun casting God’s rays across purple plains.
An aging but distinguished man in a finely tailored suit with the faintest pinstripes rises from behind his desk to come around and sit opposite Isabella.
SHIVAGOO: Hon, trust me. Yes, the business is rough. Everyone has to pay their dues. But they showed me your reel, and I see you write, sing, dance as well. You got that something. An X factor? It’s hard to predict, but there’s a reason you made the 4th cut and are speaking to me. [beat] Have they shown you the script?
IZZY: Yes, I was given the outline and a few pages. I know a little about the role under… consideration… Sir..
SHIVAGOO: [chuckles, pulls a cigar from the silver box on his mahogany desk in his velvet soaked boudoir of an office, if you can call it that.] Call me Larry.
Surely this must be a joke. Sadly, it is the oldest story in the book.
CUT TO BLACK
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