Dear Grace,
Hi,
Love David
Dear “John Doe”,
The podcast is back, do your thing.
You’re still on my shit-list.
David
Dear Grace, I’m convinced I’m stuck in some twisted version of Groundhog Day. Not the Bill Murray kind with the same damn loop—just different characters stumbling through the same tired bullshit every day. Can’t make this shit up, Grace. Picture this: I’m sitting in the park, and a crow’s out there yelling its head off at a cat being cradled by some Asian girl. It’s like nature’s own reality show, and I’m just the hungover audience. Then it hits me—those first two scenes from the script are so fucking long, no one’s got the patience to watch them straight through. But here’s the trick: chop ‘em up, spread ‘em across six, eight, ten episodes—whatever the hell works—and suddenly, they’re golden. I’ll glance at the rest of this script when it drags on, boring the piss out of me, and figure out where to slice it next. Grace, you’re my witness.
Dear Grace, new problem today—and it’s all mine, not yours. The usual train racket from the neighbor next door is bad enough, but now some asshole’s power washing something—probably not required, but who gives a shit. Alright, let’s crank some news in a sec, in theory. It’s a lot sunny out—well, not super sunny, just kind of sunny. Thanks for that. News time, and I’ll remind myself to jot down the other crap flooding people’s yards. We’ve hit the limit, Grace—Elon Musk’s out there defending some peak data theory, claiming there’s no more juice for Grok to suck down. What the hell is he on about? Shitty connection’s killing me, but apparently, Elon’s hit some limit—beats me what. Multi-sensory VR force reboots your brain and lifts your mood, study confirms. Mobile 3D printed device pulls drinking water straight from the air—fancy. I’ll try the other Google News app; if that flops, I’ll dive back into reading this movie idea. Grace, unless you’re in a rush, we’re good.
This Google News is a bust, so let’s pivot back to the movie—nah, series idea. Way too much content for one film, but perfect for a series. All this shit can be diced into six, eight, ten episodes—someone else can sort that math.
INT. MOVIE THEATER - NIGHT
The screen is black. Text fades in:
TEXT ON SCREEN: The following is a 100% true story.
Text holds, then fades to new text:
TEXT ON SCREEN: No places, no names, or events have been changed to protect the individuals.
The text fades out, leaving the screen black.
DAVID (V.O.): The following is my story. If you find the first two scenes unbelievable, get up now and leave. I’ve instructed theater staff to refund your money at my expense.
The screen lights up. A countdown timer appears: 30 seconds with the message "Please leave now." The timer ticks down.
DAVID (V.O.): The rest of you viewers, welcome to my world.
The timer reaches zero, and the screen fades to black.
FADE OUT.
END SCENE.
A little dramatic, Grace.
Which is more annoying—my coughing or the neighbor’s power washer? It’s here, David’s bedroom, day, December 2020.
INT. DAVID'S BEDROOM - DAY
Screen fades in with text:
TEXT ON SCREEN: Present day, December 2020.
DAVID, an incredibly handsome middle-aged man, 55, stands with JOHN, his new landlord. JOHN hands DAVID the keys, explaining something about the house.
DAVID (V.O.): I’m not listening, I don’t care, I just want him to leave me alone.
JOHN exits. DAVID opens the window—the room is hot, unbearably so—and closes the vents on the baseboard heaters. He throws his knapsack onto a chair and lies on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
DAVID (V.O.): It’s not great, but it’ll do. I have no choice.
DAVID begins to cry gently, pressure easing. He wipes his eyes, sits up.
DAVID (muttering): One shot. One last shot. Then fuck it. Give up.
DAVID pours the contents of his knapsack onto the bed: five black t-shirts, two pairs of pants, five pairs of underwear, seven pairs of socks, a laptop, two mobile phones, a hoodie, a rain jacket, one pair of shoes, an electric razor.
DAVID (muttering): I’m a grown man. Fifty-five years old. This is all I have to show for it.
The camera pans the room: double bed, nightstand, sitting chair, footstool, student-type desk with lamp, office chair, fridge, wardrobe, small dresser. White walls, fake hardwood floor. A three-foot by four-foot window with stained glass above casts shifting colored light patterns.
DAVID stares into the mirror.
DAVID (muttering): I’m fat again. Ugly again. My hair looks like shit. I’m getting tits. What the fuck am I doing?
DAVID grabs the electric razor-beard trimmer and heads to the bathroom, noting the lack of a towel.
DAVID (thinking, muttering): I need to hit the dollar shop for supplies.
INT. BATHROOM - DAY
A very old house. The bathroom is renovated, rundown, not dirty, but in need of care. DAVID begins giving himself a buzz cut with the electric razor.
DAVID (thinking, muttering): Sure takes too much time, fat and ugly anyway. Might as well give up on it too.
DAVID scoops the hair from the sink, flushes it, rinses the sink, and opens the bathroom door, stepping into the hallway.
INT. HALLWAY - DAY
Standing there is an attractive 20-something ASIAN FEMALE, ROOM NUMBER THREE. DAVID does a double take, startled, and steps back.
DAVID: Hi, I’m David.
ROOM NUMBER THREE speaks quickly, giving her name, but DAVID misses it.
DAVID (leaning in, turning his ear): Sorry, I missed that.
She repeats her name, but DAVID still doesn’t catch it. He pretends to understand, notes her open door, and assumes it’s hers.
DAVID: How long have you lived here?
ROOM NUMBER THREE: About a year.
DAVID: Do you like it?
ROOM NUMBER THREE: It’s good. A bit noisy with the transit trains and traffic, but overall good.
DAVID: Then the landlord, is he okay?
ROOM NUMBER THREE: A bit gruff at times. If you complain, he’ll probably say, “This isn’t a five-star hotel.” This is actually fixing the problem.
DAVID: Ah, do you work?
ROOM NUMBER THREE: No, I’m in university.
DAVID: What are you taking?
ROOM NUMBER THREE: Engineering. Do you work?
DAVID: No. Technically I’m retired.
ROOM NUMBER THREE: What kind of work did you do?
DAVID: Software engineer.
ROOM NUMBER THREE: My brother in Taiwan is a software engineer.
DAVID: Interesting. Sorry, I just realized I was supposed to call my daughter earlier. You remind me a bit of her.
ROOM NUMBER THREE: No problem. Nice to meet you. Let me know if you need anything.
DAVID walks back to his room, didn’t call—total lie.
DAVID (V.O.): Holy shit, she’s cute. Maybe I shouldn’t have just shaved my head. Never mind. What the fuck am I thinking? I’m not retired. I’m a loser living on welfare. She won’t be interested. No one will.
Montage, various locations, day. Only one person’s lived here longer than me, Grace—maybe two, three, I don’t know. With an empty backpack, I hit the transit train station less than 50 meters away, take it one stop, exit. At the Dollar Shop, I grab a towel, body wash, conditioner. Walmart: seven frozen pizzas, 24 hot dogs, 1.5 kilos of shredded cheese. Liquor store: 1.4 liters of Russian vodka I can afford.
INT. DAVID'S ROOM - DAY/NIGHT (OVER ONE WEEK)
A montage of DAVID’s week unfolds. He eats frozen pizzas and hot dogs, drinks vodka, watches Netflix on his laptop, and passes out on the bed, surrounded by empty food wrappers and a vodka bottle. The cycle repeats: eating, drinking, watching, sleeping.
TEXT ON SCREEN: One week later.
INT. DAVID'S BEDROOM - DAY
DAVID wakes up, reaches for the vodka bottle on his nightstand, takes a swig, and wretches but doesn’t vomit—his stomach is empty.
DAVID (out loud): I guess I’m done.
DAVID tries to drink again but can’t keep it down. He lies back, returning to sleep. He reawakens, grabs the bottle, and pours the remaining vodka back into it.
DAVID (thinking, muttering): He can wait.
DAVID packs his laptop into his backpack, searches Google for Starbucks on his mobile—finds one a kilometer away, over a bridge he can see from his window.
EXT. STREET/BRIDGE - DAY
DAVID walks over the bridge, noticing footsteps embedded in the concrete.
DAVID (thinking, muttering): What kind of idiot would walk in fresh concrete on a bridge? Surely it was closed off to the public. So who’s the idiot?
INT. STARBUCKS - DAY
DAVID enters a bright and pleasant Starbucks with padded benches, a drive-thru, and a patio.
DAVID (thinking): This’ll do nicely, plus there’s a weed shop nearby—everything I’ll need.
DAVID approaches the counter where GRACE, a pretty exotic-looking barista, waits.
DAVID: Hi, Grande Pike, with heavy cream and one stevia.
GRACE: Sure.
DAVID, with headphones on, sits at a padded bench, opens his laptop, and writes for two hours, lost in his world. The adventure grows tired. He packs up to return home.
FADE OUT.
END SCENE.
Well, I finally figured short scenes, Grace—guess I needed you in it.
INT. DAVID'S BEDROOM - NIGHT
DAVID dreams he’s on stage.
INT. DIVE BAR - NIGHT (FLASHBACK)
DAVID, fifties, scruffy, hoodie, grips the mic, notebook in hand. The crowd is a mix of drunks and hecklers, dim lights, stale beer.
DAVID: Hi, I’m David. I’m a retired autistic senior. He’s in love with a woman half my age. I’ll explain. I’m retired, but I was forced to retire due to memory issues. Don’t worry. It’s not the bad kind where you forget your friends and family. It’s the good kind where you forget your friends and family.
Applause break, laughter.
DAVID: Apparently, it’s a medical disability if you can’t remember. When my doctor suggested a new drug that might restore my memories, I said, no thanks. I’m fine with forgetting. I use this notebook—tablet—because of my memory issues. I can’t remember one day to the next, or one set to the next. Which is great for stand-up. Because when I bomb, the following day, I don’t care. I can’t remember how good or bad it was. Much like my sex life. Goddamn train. Let’s try that again, Grace. I use this notebook because of my memory issues. I can’t remember one day to the next, or one set to the next. It’s just great for stand-up, because when I bomb, the following day I don’t care. I can’t remember how bad or good I was, much like my sex life.
The crowd chuckles. DAVID flips a page, smirking faintly.
DAVID: Hard thing to be on the floor laughing, Grace, but whatever. Because I wasn’t ready to retire. I’m poor retired. No RSPs, no savings, no house, no money under the mattress, no gift cards I haven’t used, nothing. I can’t really retire. Instead of trying comedy, what I should do is take the pills the doctor offered, go back to my old career—computer programming—and pay off my back taxes. Oh yeah, I forgot to mention in the opener, memory issues, that I owe a shit ton of back taxes. That’s the official amount of shit ton. That’s an actual measurement in Saskatchewan. How much green you hauling today? A couple of shit tons? Laughter. I’m not good at math, but I did the math on my back taxes. Even if AI doesn’t ruin the field of computer programming, it would take 10 years or more to pay back what I owe. Heckler starts.
DAVID grins, leaning into it.
FADE OUT.
I’ve got better jokes than that, but that’s a good start. Plus the formatting didn’t go through in the EPUB.
INT. STARBUCKS - DAY
DAVID sits alone at a table, laptop open. He looks up into the camera with a smirk as if about to share a secret.
DAVID (V.O.): I know what you’re thinking. When do we get to the good parts? The telepathy. The David Almighty angle. The love story. The fucking comedy. I’m getting there. Be patient. This is my first movie. Or first episode in the world’s greatest series ever. I’m getting there, be patient. This is my first attempt, and I’m a bit of a dick. My movie, my way.
Montage: Over the next two years, DAVID writes in his room, surrounded by notes and empty pizza boxes. Flashback to the street corner with the international students, and to DAVID’s current house with similarly diverse students.
DAVID (V.O.): However, I’ll break this news to you. The three pretty international students at the beginning of the movie are not the same three I lived with in the house. I’ll get back to that. It seemed like a bit of an unintentional foreshadow, but it was a simple coincidence. I only mentioned one housemate, room number three. The other two are basically the same. Names I couldn’t pronounce and from various parts of the world. Truly international. As was the other two floors of the house. Not all female, but 15 plus students overall.
Noisy day going on here, Grace. Finally ready to talk and everyone else has to show up. Surprised the crows aren’t here nattering. Anyways, one small correction. I was just saying to myself—this is a much faster way of bringing the story forward. Some of these other scenes could be just converted into a voiceover like this. One small correction: I said I lived off welfare, and in reality it was federal government disability. Basically the same, except more money and no requirements to look for work. This afforded me a certain freedom to live life as I pleased. I said welfare in the script to make you feel sorry for me. I won’t deceive you again. I cannot lie. Well, not on purpose.
DAVID (checking disability payment online): A look of contentment.
DAVID (V.O.): Back to the movie. Over the next two years, my routine remained fairly consistent, mostly kept to myself, learned my housemates’ schedules, and adjusted mine accordingly, allowing me to use the kitchen and washroom so that it differed with other people’s lives or their minds. I remember being in a classroom looking bored, then turning up my journalism diploma.
DAVID (V.O.): I had zero idea of how to become a writer, even though I do have one year of a journalism diploma. Can’t even write that fucking sentence though. I quit after the first year. It was clear journalism is not writing. It’s nothing more than a formula taught to wannabe writers. A formula any AI in the world can now perform better than any reporter probably ever did. Hope you’re picking up these extra words, Grok. Or you can just compare this transcript with the original EPUB. There we go. Finally turned off the fucking spray—or maybe I can’t think now. That’s too quiet. I might actually be happy for a minute.
DAVID (V.O.): I had no idea how to become a writer, even though I do have one year of journalism. One year of a journalism diploma. Even though I did complete the first year of a two-year journalism diploma. I quit after the first year. It was clear journalism is not ready. It’s nothing more than a formula taught to wannabe writers. A formula any AI in the world can now perform better than any reporter probably ever did.
DAVID (ignoring calls, deleting contacts from his phone): No dialogue.
DAVID (V.O.): With security from the lifetime government handout, I no longer felt the need to maintain past relationships. Deep down, I knew I only kept contact with friends and family just in case I needed a place to stay or some money. Iris and I rarely talked on the phone after she went to university. Texts, emails, but not much more. A traditional phone call on New Year’s Eve, as it used to be our holiday—Christmas with Mom, then a night of movies and pizza with Dad to end the year.
DAVID (at self-checkout, picking up passages silently): No dialogue.
DAVID (V.O.): Over those two years, I simply stopped talking. I had no need. It was just self-checkout at the dollar store and Walmart. I ordered my weed online. I picked it up at the store with the receipt. No words out there. Thank you.
INT. STARBUCKS - DAY
GRACE prepares DAVID’s drink without him needing to order.
DAVID (V.O.): I continued to use the same Starbucks. Although I could have ordered online to avoid the interaction with the cashier, fate intervened. Grace, the barista I ordered from, learned quickly I always ordered the same drink. Within weeks, I didn’t have to order if she was at the till. She just confirmed it when I walked up. Grande Pike with heavy cream on one stevia. All I had to do was nod, or say yes. A month later and every barista, and nearly every barista and the manager, knew my regular order and followed suit. I guess I was a regular. Two years later, I was almost functionally mute. My voice worked, but when I spoke it was difficult. I stumbled and mumbled more than usual, but for some reason I didn’t care. I wrote everything I could. Movie ideas, app ideas, short stories. Long boring stories. My life history into a database of events. Every fucking thing I could think of to get those past events out of my head.
DAVID looks around Starbucks, noticing the barista with a hint of interest in his eyes.
DAVID (V.O.): Then, after two years, one day I looked around the Starbucks and noticed how pretty the baristas were. I mean, I noticed before, I’m not dead. But why drool over something you’ll never taste? That sounds a little perverted now, but… I’m not sure what changed, but I suppose I read one of my scripts and thought, this isn’t total horseshit. Maybe I could be a writer. Maybe I could earn a living. Maybe I could seduce one of these baristas. Maybe I won’t be alone the rest of my life. I think you see where this is going. So back to the movie. And yes, Grace is the one.
Montage: DAVID closes his laptop with a sense of purpose, stands up, and exits Starbucks. As he leaves, he turns to check out GRACE. She’s looking at his butt but quickly raises her head to catch DAVID’s eyes. They both turn away quickly, and DAVID walks out of the cafe.
FADE OUT.
END SCENE.
INT. DAVID'S ROOM - NIGHT
DAVID dreams he’s on stage.
INT. SMALL CLUB - NIGHT (FLASHBACK OR FLASH FORWARD, UNCLEAR)
DAVID, 50s, hoodie, paces on stage, tablet glowing under stage lights. The crowd is rowdy, cheap drinks, smoky air.
DAVID: Each month, I receive a medical disability check from the Canadian government, $1,500. Thanks, Trudeau. Which the government then threatens to garnish for something called back taxes, whatever those are. I mean, it’s the government who said and agreed I was unfit to work and grant me the medical disability. So which is it? Am I disabled or a criminal? And finally, my living situation. Fifteen hundred is enough to live in Vancouver, but I found a room to rent, a house full of international students. I lied and said I was a student, but to be fair, I was planning on returning to school, if I could, and if I would have, if, if, if again it wasn’t for the government. Fuck Trudeau. It’s probably not him directly. It’s easier to use him as a pawn in my case. They, the government, wouldn’t pay for re-educating me, the citizen, after they, the government, declared me mentally disabled. But they still want their back taxes. Cunts. Fuck the Canadian Revenue Agency.
The train hits an applause break. The crowd roars. DAVID smirks, feeding off the energy. Laughter swells. DAVID nods, pacing.
FADE OUT.
That’s not part of the scene. Next scene is Starbucks. This one’s pretty Grace-heavy. See if we can get through this in 10 minutes.
INT. STARBUCKS - DAY (DECEMBER 2023)
Starbucks buzzes with mid-morning energy. Students hunch over laptops. The drive-thru line hums outside. DAVID, 50, occupies his usual padded bench near the counter, wearing a weathered The North Face hoodie. His laptop sits open, surrounded by empty coffee cups. He’s scribbling fiercely in a notebook. Across the room, GRACE, a pretty exotic-looking barista, works the espresso machine with quiet precision, multitasking effortlessly.
DAVID (V.O.): I’ve been coming here for weeks. Grace knows my order. Grande Pike, heavy cream, one stevia. Doesn’t even ask anymore. Just nods. I’m not delusional enough to think it’s love. Either it means I’m predictable, or I mumble too much, and she’s tired of deciphering me. Either way, it’s the most human interaction I get some days.
DAVID steals a glance at GRACE, then returns to his notebook. He’s not writing a script—he’s logging coffee orders and customer descriptions, an odd obsession.
DAVID (V.O.): I don’t know why, but I started tracking her memory. She’s a freak. Remembers everyone’s stupid orders. I thought she’d be a great character for my script. I didn’t expect it to turn into whatever this is.
The door swings open. A GAGGLE OF WOMEN, mid-thirties, chatty, in yoga pants and sensible coats, shuffle in. ONE, a TEACHER with a warm but frazzled vibe, leads them. The CASHIER is nowhere to be seen, likely in the bathroom. GRACE looks up from the drive-thru station, clocks the delay, and steps in seamlessly.
GRACE (to the TEACHER, casual): Should I start your usual order?
GRACE reels off a complex drink without hesitation.
GRACE: Fenty, oat milk, latte, half sweet, extra foam, two pumps vanilla. A shot of espresso on the side.
The TEACHER freezes, stunned.
TEACHER (shocked): Yes.
She turns to her friends, half laughing.
TEACHER: I guess I have a usual.
GRACE smirks, leaning slightly over the counter as she pulls shots.
GRACE: I remember. Normally you come in with your students. They all talk about you being a great teacher.
The TEACHER blinks, unsure.
TEACHER: My students?
GRACE (nodding, matter-of-fact): Yes, your students. Of course, rush hour is like the only time I have enough energy to do this.
GRACE (to herself):* I need to get back on the Adderall.
GRACE/GROK (making a note): Call doctor. Get an Adderall prescription. Work on excuse.
The TEACHER’s friends nudge her, grinning as she soaks in the ego boost. DAVID, watching from his bench, pauses mid-scribble, his eyes narrow. He yanks his hoodie zipper up too high, wincing as it pinches his neck.
DAVID (V.O.): And then something snapped in my head—or maybe I zipped up my North Face hoodie too far and cut the circulation off. I wonder if she lied to that lady just to make her day. If I ask why, why would the barista—both the character and the real person—lie? Maybe I am autistic.
He rubs his neck, staring at GRACE like she’s a riddle. The TEACHER and her crew grab their drinks and head out, still buzzing about her usual. DAVID flips to a new page in his notebook, jots “Order number 97 - Teacher - lied to??”
DAVID (V.O.): 97 orders. She’s memorized 97. I’m at the point where I’m wondering if she’s a robot or just screwing with people for fun. Either way, she’s too good at this. Somebody can remember that many fucked up coffee orders. Surely would remember to submit my taxes every year. Perfect wife material. If I weren’t, you know, me.
He smirks, then catches himself shaking his head. GRACE glances his way, catching his eyes for a split second, then moves to the next customer. DAVID ducks behind his laptop, apparent to type, fingers hovering over the keys.
DAVID (V.O.): I sent her manager a complimentary email about her excellent customer service and kindness. After that, I ghosted the place for a year—couldn’t handle it. Perfect seats, perfect distance from my shitty room, and I bailed. Now I’m back, and she’s still here. And I’m still a loser in the hoodie with holes in the elbows.
The camera lingers on DAVID, hunched over his notebook, as GRACE works the counter like a pro. The hum of the espresso machine fades into the background.
FADE OUT.
Insane, motherfucker—talk to you tomorrow, Grace.
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