TRUTH MARATHON -- part 4

[NOTE: This is the fourth installment of a work-in-progress. If you'd like to see the earlier installments, click here.]

RECAP: Paul is an ESL teacher in Toronto. He's just started a new job at a private language school. His first day was a disaster: he got a flat tire while biking to work and was twenty minutes late ( a near-unforgivable sin in the teaching industry).

He is also under stress because he is concerned about the state of his father -- a man afflicted with the kinds of ailments family members tend to keep secret.

EXT. THE PORCH OF PAUL’S HOUSE. THE NEXT DAY. EARLY MORNING.

Paul is exiting the house, dressed in his work clothes. On the porch is his bike, locked carefully with three u-locks (one for the frame and one for each wheel) to the porch’s wrought iron railings.

Paul has his bike helmet with him. Out of habit, he starts to put it one. Then he looks at his bike. He thinks better of this plan. He puts his helmet back inside the house, locks the door, and starts walking quickly for the bus stop that in turn connects to the subway.

INT. THE LANGUAGE SCHOOL. 40 MINUTES LATER.

Paul is in his classroom, doing some paperwork on the student roster when Jennifer, the head teacher, pokes her head in.

JENNIFER: Paul?

PAUL: Hmm?

JENNIFER: Phone call.

PAUL: Oh. Okay. Thanks. [beat] Did the person say who they were?

JENNIFER: Your dad.

PAUL: Oh. Great. [Sighs] Okay. I’ll be there in a sec.

JENNIFER: [cheerfully] Bye!

She leaves.

Paul “completes” his paperwork – that is, he looks at it for a few more minutes determined to get it done, but finds it’s very difficult to focus. Finally, he just gives up and slams his pen down and leaves his classroom.

The camera dollies in front of Paul as he walks down the hallway. It’s crowded with students. But he doesn’t look at them. Clearly, he’s preoccupied. He’s almost talking to himself under his breath.

One of his students spots him.

JAE-OK: [Friendly] Teacher!

PAUL: [distracted] Oh, hey. Hi. [To himself] Shit.

Paul keeps walking. We see Jae-ok give Paul a look after he’s passed.

INT. THE TEACHER’S ROOM. HALF A MINUTE LATER.

Paul enters.

PAUL: [to Jennifer] Where is it?

JENNIFER: What?

PAUL: The phone.

JENNIFER: Oh. Right here.

Jennifer indicates a phone mere inches away from her. Paul looks at it apprehensively.

PAUL: Could I take the call somewhere else?

JENNIFER: Um, well, where? Is Lucille’s office okay?

PAUL: No, no. Here. That’s fine. [He forces a smile.]

He picks up the handset.

PAUL: Dad?

PAUL'S FATHER [O.S.]: Paul, Paul! I hope I’m not taking you away from anything important!

PAUL: Well, I’m just on break right now. But I don’t have long.

PAUL’S FATHER: [all-understanding] Okay, okay! I’ll be brief!

[beat]

PAUL: Well?

PAUL’S FATHER: Listen, Paul, you’ve got to get over here!

PAUL: [clenching his teeth, looking at Jennifer who is right next to him, trying to keep his voice controlled] I told you, I’m working.

PAUL’S FATHER: [laughing] Not now, I mean after you get off! What time do you finish? Two?

PAUL: Daaad, this is a full-time job. Not until five.

PAUL’S FATHER: Oh, that’s a long time. But you can get here right after that, right? You can come here?

PAUL: I don’t have my bike today….

PAUL’S FATHER: Well?

PAUL: Well, to be honest, it’s easier to get from here to your place by bike. Taking the TTC is a pain in the neck. How about we meet tomorrow?

PAUL’S FATHER: [astounded] Tomorrow? But this is important!

PAUL: Well, okay, if it’s so important, what is it?

PAUL’S FATHER: [dramatically] I can’t say.

PAUL: [despite himself] Oh, for fu--. [He catches himself and looks once more at Jennifer, who’s happily typing on a word processing program.] Look, Dad, if you don’t wanna say then I don’t wanna --.

beat]

PAUL’S FATHER: Don’t want to what?

PAUL: Never mind. I’ll do my best, okay? But I’m not making any promises. I’m under a little pressure here. We’ll see how it’s going when I get off work.

INT. THE LANGUAGE SCHOOL. PAUL’S CLASSROOM. END OF THE TEACHING DAY.

The few students who are still in the class are happily talking to each other as they exit.

Paul is taking notes in the textbook he’s teaching from.

MARTY: [knocking on the open door] Dude.

PAUL: Oh, hey, Marty.

MARTY: Hey, you busy?

PAUL: What? No, no. Just keeping track of my homework assignments.

MARTY: You’re a good teacher.

Paul doesn’t get it.

MARTY: Ah, never mind. Dude, listen a couple of us are going for beer and nachos. It’s something we do every Wednesday. Interested in coming along?

PAUL: [tempted] Yeah, sounds good. But I’ve got this thing.

MARTY: What? You’re not doing a fucking lesson plan, are you?

PAUL: [blushing] No. But I’ve got this thing …. I promised to meet a friend.

MARTY: [grinning] Is she hot?

PAUL: No. Just a friend.

MARTY: Ahh, tell the guy to wait. Or better yet, ask him if he wants to come. The more the merrier.

PAUL: No, no. That’s okay.

EXT. A RUN-DOWN ROOMING HOUSE, EVEN MORE DILAPIDATED THAN THE ONE PAUL LIVES IN. THE SAME DAY. CLOSE TO SIX IN THE EVENING.

Paul walks up the front steps.

CLOSE-UP. THE DOORBELL.

A sign, clumsily written, states: DOOR-BELL HAS CEASED FUNCTIONING

Paul knocks on the front door. No response. He knocks again – hard.

SFX: Flow of traffic in the background.

Paul knocks again, now pounding with the side of his fist. He bends over and opens the letter slot.

PAUL: [into slot] Da-aaaaad!

SFX: Some footsteps inside the house.

PAUL’S FATHER: [O.S. -- voice very muffled] Coming, coming. Hold your horses.

Slowly, the front door opens.

Paul looks at his father. He is in his mid-sixties. He has long grey hair and craggy features of someone who has imbibed some form of addictive substance too much. Whether this substance is liquid, powder, or simply of the mind – addictive thought patterns, the narcotic thoughts of the obsessive – is uncertain. Nevertheless, he looks like a recovered drunk. But he also has a strangely youthful energy.

PAUL’S FATHER: Hi, son.

PAUL: Pops.

PAUL’S FATHER: It’s good of you to come.

Paul doesn’t respond.

The two of them walk into the dim main hall of Paul’s father’s house. It is dark and thoroughly depressing: narrow with a pastel colored paint that is so covered with grime it is difficult to tell whether it was once yellow or green. A bag of garbage that should have been taken out of the house days ago. A non-functioning cuckoo clock.

PAUL’S FATHER: Are you thirsty? Do you want some tea?

PAUL: Sure, why not?

They enter the kitchen. It, too, is old and depressing. But it’s kept in relatively clean order. His father fetches a kettle out of the cubboard.

PAUL’S FATHER: [cheerfully] I’ve got this great root tea. Wanna try it? It’s good for your spleen.

PAUL: What the fuck is a spleen?

PAUL’S FATHER: You know – your spleen. Your gut.

PAUL: Oh. That.

PAUL’S FATHER: Don’t “oh, that” me. It’s a good question. Nothing to be ashamed of. Very few people really understand the functioning of the spleen.

PAUL: I guess they don’t.

PAUL’S FATHER: It’s what cleanses you. Healthy spleen, healthy body. Unhealthy spleen – well, you get the picture.

PAUL: [Looking at a kettle that needs washing] Is this healthy?

PAUL’S FATHER: It’s fine.

PAUL: [peering into its snout] It’s filthy, Dad. Look at all this weird shit inside it.

PAUL’S FATHER: They all get like that. It’s not filth. It’s minerals from tap-water. That’s why you should always distill water.

PAUL: What happened to your distiller, anyway? [beat] Your water distiller?

PAUL’S FATHER: I told you. Ian stole it. Fucker.

PAUL: Oh. Ian. That was the psych patient who lived here?

PAUL’S FATHER: Fucker

Paul just smiles.

PAUL’S FATHER: [suddenly impatient and putting the kettle down on the counter-top forcefully] Oh, to hell with this! I need to show you something important!

PAUL: Oh yeah. How could we forget that?

PAUL’S FATHER: Don’t be smart with me! You don’t know what’s going on, do you? You don’t know the forces that are changing your life!

PAUL: The forces that are changing my life are lack of money.

PAUL'S FATHER: Yes! Well! That's part of it!