by

Mark Barkawitz

Adapted from a short story previously published in
Me Three Literary Journal, Fall Issue #2, New York, '05,
Electronically published on farmhousemagazine.com, Anniversary Issue, Prose Section, 7/'06.

FADE IN:

INT. MARTY & ANNA’S KITCHEN—AFTERNOON

A man’s hand opens the freezer and removes a chilled bottle of Gatorade.

EXT. FRONT PORCH OF MARTY & ANNA’S HOUSE—AFTERNOON

The screen door opens from inside. MARTY—mid-twenties to mid-thirties, physically fit, wearing running garb—walks ONTO porch and sits in the canvas chair. He puts his feet up on the porch railing, sits back, and opens the Gatorade. He takes a long drink, then places the bottle against his temple to help the cool-down process from his run. On the sidewalk, a GIRL IN WORK-OUT ATTIRE power walks a DOG on a leash. From the other direction, a RUNNER runs PAST. Out in the street, a large, roundish GUY ON A BICYCLE, hunched-over the handlebars, wearing skin-tight, neon cycling shorts and matching top and helmet, pedals feverishly INTO FRAME.

MARTY
(VO)

The street in front of our house was flat and wide with only the occasional passing car, so runners and walkers and bicyclists used it regularly.
(watching brightly-attired, overweight bicyclist) You had to wonder if this guy owned a mirror?
(half laughs to himself) Yet, there was something oddly familiar about the guy.
(out loud)
Huh?

An SUV drives INTO FRAME and parks in the driveway. Marty’s wife ANNA—a svelte, young woman—gets out the driver’s side. He watches her approach.

MARTY
(VO)

Anna, my new wife, still wasn’t showing the three-month-old fetus—our first child— inside of her.

ANNA
How was your run?

MARTY
Good.

As she passes, she tousles his hair like a little kid’s and DISAPPEARS into the house. He sits smiling. As he takes another drink, from the other direction in the street, the same guy on the bike pedals methodically back INTO FRAME. But this time as Marty stares after him, he is suddenly struck by a realization:

MARTY
(to himself)

Holy shit—Maple Mouth. (yelling out loud towards street) Hey, Dick!

Out in the street, the guy on the bike stops pedaling and looks over. On the porch, Marty waves and yells again, explaining:

MARTY

It’s Marty.

Out in the street, the guy on the bike turns around. Marty hops off porch to greet him.

MARTY
(VO)

A few years ago, Dick and I played on the same baseball team, which was sponsored by a local bar. He was the back-up first baseman and lived in the back house next door to where I had lived before getting married.

The guy on the bike leans on one leg, recognizes Marty, smiles. They shake hands. Dick unbuckles his helmet.

MARTY
(VO)

Dick had put on a few pounds, but was heavy even back then. We reminisced about our good ‘ol days as ballplayers, then caught up.

Dick’s mouth moves continuously, while Marty keeps nodding, listening.

MARTY
(VO)

He had gotten divorced. And re-married. And re-divorced. Told me all the sordid details of each. That was why we called him Maple Mouth— once tapped, his mouth never stopped running. When I finally got a word in, he was surprised to hear that I was still married.
(outloud) Why?

DICK

Come on, dude. You were a hound in those days.

MARTY
(VO)

His beefy face smiled, as if it had swallowed secrets from my bachelorhood past. (explaining aloud) I was single then. Now I’m married. Different breeds.

DICK
(scoffing while removing water bottle from frame)

Yeah, I guess. (drinks; changing subjects and moods) Did you hear about Foxie?

MARTY

Foxie?

DICK
(explaining)

My first wife’s sister. Remember? She stayed with us in the back house that summer.

MARTY

Oh, yeah. Helen. What about her?

DICK

She died of AIDS, man.

MARTY

AIDS?

DICK

Yeah. You didn’t hear?

MARTY

No. No. How would I?

DICK

Bummer. Huh? I hear that shit can hide in your system for years, then one day—Wham!—you got AIDS. (takes another drink; mouth starts moving non-stop again)

MARTY
(VO)

Dick kept talking, as was his habit, but I stopped listening, as was mine. AIDS. She died of AIDS, man. It hit me like a fastball on the helmet. Not that I knew her that well.

As Dick’s mouth continues to jabber, we FLASHBACK TO:

EXT. BACKYARDS OF OLD HOUSES—DAY

A slightly-younger Marty stands on one side of a peeling, white picket fence. On the other side, FOXIE stands. She is pretty and petite in a crop-top, short-shorts, and sandals. They talk and smile back at one another.

MARTY
(VO)

She was this sexy, twenty-something, bi-sexual hooker, who had to get out of L.A. that summer—something about some john with a knife. So she stayed with her older sister—Maple Mouth’s first wife—in their little back house until things chilled-out. She already had one scar from a knife—

CU of Foxie’s cheek.

MARTY
(VO continuing)

a small, diagonal slash on her cheek from a jealous woman—and was trying to avert another. She was the first— and only—hooker I’d ever met. We talked over the fence mostly. Just for those few weeks that summer. Temporary neighbors mostly. Mostly . . .

CONTINUED