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Addict
Join Date: May 2005
Location: Kingston, Ontario
Posts: 103
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Lana's rant
This was a beginning to a story I never continued.
EXT. CITY STREET - DAY
LANA, a young woman walks along the street. She looks up at the buildings around her.
LANA (V.O.)
Of all the reasons the city gives one to be depressed, the colour, or lack thereof, is my least favourite. Everything is grey. The buildings, with the exception of those huge mirrored windows, are grey. The streets are grey. Hell, the goddamned parking meters are grey. This is even less bearable during the winter months when even the sun knows better than to come out of hiding from behind the clouds.
Lana watches passers-by through the corners of her eyes. A young couple hold each other close, sitting on a staircase. Lana continues walking.
LANA (V.O.)
Parasites. Any relationship that requires one half to live solely for the other, is sick. Guaranteed these two believe that they’re soul-mates. They probably spend every moment, not under supervision, copping feels and telling each other how much they love the other. It’s pathetic really. Love doesn’t exist. “I love you” can loosely be translated to “I love the feeling I get when I’m accepted by anyone, and in this particular case it happens to be you.” They'll probably stay together until one goes to community college, at which point the distance will challenge their “love”. Most likely the choice of getting a piece from the adjacent dorm room or commuting by train monthly to spend quality time will take its toll. When it ends, and it will, they’ll each find another host to feed off of, for a time.
Lana stops at a hotdog vendor. She buys a hotdog and walks on.
LANA (V.O.)
Love would be better, healthier, if it was set up the way street-vendors peddle their wares. You walk up, tell them what emotional baggage you’d like and in what dressing, they take what they want, and you both leave. Both parties are satisfied, there was no confusion, no guess-work and no being lead by false hopes. Just give me my dog and I’ll be on my way. But, people will continue to base movies, music and books on the idea of love, while these poor bastards eke a living, out here, in the cold.
Lana comes upon a subway entrance.
INT. SUBWAY
Lana descends the staircase. Using her pass-card in the entrance she walks through the gate. She sits on a bench as she finishes her hotdog.
LANA (V.O.)
I used to come to the subway and wonder what everyone’s story was: Where they came from, where they’re going, stuff like that. After awhile, it’s not so hard to guess.
Lana eyes a man with a comb-over in a business suit with a brief case. The man seems agitated.
LANA (V.O.)
Most are coming home from shitty, go-nowhere jobs that they hate. You’d think that after eight hours in an office, this man would revel in the opportunity to stand.
Lana takes notice of a man in the opposite direction. He is unshaven and holding a bottle-shaped paper bag.
LANA (V.O.)
This poor bastard’s probably been waiting a week and a half for the cheque he got today, and most likely can’t stand should he choose to even try. Either way, this cold slab of concrete that they call a bench is probably less stained than anything he’s got at home.
Beside Lana, a man drinks from a paper cup. He’s got trendy black glasses and a snobbish air about him.
LANA (V.O.)
Others get satisfaction from knowing that they’re doing their part to end pollution by taking mass-transit. Meanwhile they read tree-eating magazines which spout the same message every week. These people can typically be found in their parents basement where they can safely debate their views on-line on how they think things should be run. This continues, until they actually need to leave the nest and work for a living. I belong with the first batch of commuters though. The Morlocks, if you will. The Morlocks, if you don’t know, were a race of people who lived underground in H. G. Wells’ The Time Machine. They lived underground, doing all of the shit-work needed for things to run smoothly for their unworking counterparts, the Eloi. All the while, the Morlocks were invisible until they decided to eat an Eloi. As for me, moving crates of boxes would be the rapist of my spare time. Can you believe that they actually need someone to do this?
INT. INDUSTRIAL PLANT
Lana stands, holding up a box of cereal, narrowing her eyes at the character on the box.
LANA (V.O.)
For forty hours a week I have nothing to look at but the face on this box, all the while the only entertainment I can find is picking apart the logic of anything written on said box. My favourite is when they claim that the cotton-candy flavoured mess is “part of a complete breakfast”. Well hell, anything can be part of a complete breakfast as long as the rest of what you eat is actual food.
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