This was written for a film comprised of three short films.
INT. WORKSTATION. LATE AFTERNOON
ANN (late 20’s, burnt out) is working on a database. The
workstation is decorated with feminist/health information,
phone lists, a few geek desk toys, and a framed cat photo.
PHONE RINGS.
Ann grimaces, looks at the computer clock – 6:23 PM, and
reluctantly answers.
ANN
(rote)
Health Collective, Admin Office.
MAN
(tearfully)
I need the number for the National
Pelvic Inflammatory Disease
Association.
ANN
Can I get your number? Someone can
call you back, the office is
closed.
MAN
Uh, 250-555-5679
Ann writes the number on a sticky note.
MAN (cont’d)
But I need it now, my girlfriend
died five minutes ago from it, and–
Completely blank, Ann abruptly hangs up the phone and
crumples the sticky note.
Without saving or logging out, Ann turns off the computer
power switch, picks up her backpack and fanny pack and walks
out of the workstation, the balled paper in her hand.
EXT. BUS STOP – CITY STREET
Ann approaches the empty bus stop, the paper drops from her
hand and rolls away.
Ann sits on the bench, staring blankly ahead.
A bus pulls up and pulls away.
Ann and VELMA (30’s, crying) sit on the bench.
Ann looks uncomfortably at Velma, and turns away slightly.
VELMA
Do you have a kleenex?
Ann recoils.
ANN
No, I never get colds.
Velma turns away from Ann.
VELMA
Must be nice, not getting sick.
Ann examines her fingernails.
Velma dries her tears on her sleeve, pulling herself
together.
VELMA (cont’d)
I’m not going to ask you for money.
ANN
What’s that supposed to mean?
VELMA
Is it too much to be civil?
ANN
Look…
VELMA
Velma.
ANN
Velma, I’m sure you’re a nice person, but I’ve had it to here
with people needing and I just can’t. I’m sorry, I just can’t.
Ann gathers her possessions and starts to walk away.
VELMA
I guess it just proves it.
ANN
(vicious and defensive)
Proves what?
VELMA
No matter how bad you think you
are, there’s someone worse.
Ann looks up the street – there is no bus in sight.
Ann, defeated, tired, sits.
ANN
Sorry, I shouldn’t take my bad day
out on you. I’m Ann.
Ann fumbles in her backpack and pulls out a kleenex.
Velma wells with fresh tears and accepts the tissue.
VELMA
Thank you, Ann.
ANN
What made your day so bad?
VELMA
My doctor.
Reflexively, Ann pulls out her business card from her fanny
pack. Ann offers the card to Velma.
ANN
I work at the Women’s Health
Collective. Second opinions always
help.
VELMA
You’re a doctor?
ANN
Um, no, the Database administrator.
Ann flounders slightly.
VELMA
You got head doctors there?
ANN
What are you looking for? Group,
art, rage reduction?
VELMA
(crying harder)
Medical, I have a tumour…
ANN
Call this number tomorrow, someone
will help you find a good doctor.
VELMA
I’ve got three months, maybe less.
ANN
Your doctor told you that?
Velma nods, the tears pour harder. Ann tears up.
ANN (cont’d)
Doctors aren’t god.
Velma is resistant to the hope that Ann offers.
VELMA
And database administrators are?
Velma looks smug, powerful in her fear.
Ann hesitates and does not retreat into her profession, instead, she gets softer, more personal
ANN
I know people. People who were told
they had a little time and lived
beyond the doctor’s death sentence.
VELMA
A week, a month, big deal.
ANN
Refuse to lay down and die. That’s
how my aunt’s done it.
VELMA
What did she have?
ANN
An inoperable brain tumour, she was
given six months. They offered
chemo and radiation…
(lost in thought)
VELMA
And that helped?
ANN
In those days, that was the nice
way to offer euthanasia.
VELMA
(crestfallen)
How long ago?
ANN
Twenty years now.
VELMA
How long she’d last?
ANN
She’s still alive.
Excited, Velma grabs Ann’s arm.
VELMA
How?
ANN
Listening to herself but mostly
choosing to live.
Velma weeps tears of joy. Ann dabs at her own eyes.
VELMA
Hope.
Velma mouths the word a few times, letting it sink in,
wearing it like a comforter.
Ann is light hearted, nearly bursting with compassion.
Transformed Velma smiles angelically at Ann.
Ann grins back at her, just happy for Velma.
The Bus pulls into the stop.
Ann presses her card into Velma’s hand. Velma accepts it.
Anne steps towards the bus.
ANN
Why don’t we sit…
Ann turns to Velma. The bus stop and street are empty.
Ann looks up and down the street.
Ann steps in front of the bus to look to the other side of
the street. No Velma.
BUS DRIVER
Hey, c’mon, on or off?
Ann comes back to the door and glances up and down the street
again.
She spies a glint of golden light near the leg of the bench
where Velma sat.
Anne bends down to look, discovering a silvery gum wrapper
reflecting a yellow crumpled sticky note paper.
She picks up the paper and unfolds it. It’s the phone number
she wrote earlier.
BUS DRIVER (cont’d)
I got a schedule.
ANN
Go ahead, I have a call to make.
The DOORS CLOSE, and the bus pulls away. Ann hurries up the
street to her office.
