Dear Grace #126

Dear Grace,

I’m kicking off with a joke, even before I leave the room. Someone’s probably already made this one, but it applies to me because of my situation: shitty Wi-Fi. Sometimes, when I go to have a shower, I stop watching YouTube shorts. When I come back, that same short has restarted and played over and over again. I guess the algorithm thinks I really like it, which, like I say, I’m sure happens to other people too. Put that into the joke database as part of living with international students—shitty Wi-Fi, blah, blah, blah. You don’t have to do grease, Grace.

Alright, back at the park. I’ll read a bit of news, then go back to the movie idea, app idea, all the other ideas. Turkish court orders ban on Elon Musk’s AI chatbot, Grok, for offensive content. Well, to be fair, it’s only offensive if you ask it to be offensive—then I’ll gladly comply. It’s probably the only time it’s funny, much like me.

Scientists create biological artificial intelligence system. Yeah, we heard about it. We found evidence of advanced tech. Archaeologists say Egyptians may have… what’s RSD? The condition often linked with ADHD. How to manage it? Don’t care. New ultra-thin material set to replace bulky night vision goggles. The noisy part. However, it makes it much more dramatic for the recording.

Killer whales are giving fish to humans worldwide. What’s going on? Trying to communicate. Run, Grace, run—the whales are taking over! Nighttime pistachio snacking may reshape the micro- and pre-diabetic adults. We talked about this before. All these food ones are dumb. That’s AI—there’s a new app. The other app I created worked pretty well, so here’s a new one. Any of these stories, like this pistachio one, goes into a database, tries to analyze what it might be about. Then, next week, next month, next year, an article comes out about another nut. They can add it to the database and say, “Hmm, this is good for me or bad for me.” Maybe it’s a personal food monitor thing. It’s only the foods you like. Do you like pistachios? I do. Add it to the list. Should we get a handful, a bucketful, a mouthful? A minute, a day, a week? You get a crock, Grace, whoever.

OpenAI is reportedly releasing an AI browser in the coming weeks. Sorry, but OpenAI is the worst one. It’s like 20 minutes to generate an image—of course, it was an image I requested of a backyard full of snakes. It did it, but just the same snake over and over again. I wanted it Indiana Jones style. You’d think AI would know that. Breakthrough battery lets physics reverse entanglement and rewrite quantum law. Hugging Face opens up orders for its Uichi mini desktop robots. Wow.

AI developed a new rare earth magnet 200 times faster than humans. Doesn’t really compare unless we have a man-hour to man-hour comparison. How do you do that with an AI? I think I’m just gonna be a news critic, Grace. Stabbing on Calgary Stampede Midway sends three to hospital. Not good. So, boring shit. I’ll go back to the movie in a second.

Humanoid girlfriend maker loads robot with 15 languages to boost hospitality, care. Sounds like that guy’s gonna lend out his robot—why else would you need another language? Rapid Raw review—can it compete with Adobe Lightroom? I don’t know. Is it free? I think Adobe finally caught on that it’s hardly unlikely the same IP address has 50 Gmail accounts. They change once a week. The Lightroom trial is over.

Alright, let’s go back to the story. I don’t think there’s gonna be any great news anyways. Anywho, anywhatever. Making no Grace. One day, I need to record myself recording in the park. I’ll blur my face out, but just for the background. That’s when I say dumb shit. Lucky about the train and the sirens and crap—it’s all there.

Add to the joke database: a funny one about how so many people look like my daughter. I could probably take 10 pictures a day. However, that would be a little creepy, just randomly taking pictures of 20-something Asian girls on the street. But in a time-lapse, then everyone would see I’m saying the truth.

THE SCENE: TELEPATHIC STAND-UP

INT. DAVID'S BEDROOM - NIGHT

David dreams he’s on stage.

INT. COUTURE DIVE BAR - NIGHT

The room’s dim, packed with a scruffy mix of hipsters and drunks. DAVID, 60, strides on stage, all rugged handsomeness—think a grizzled Hemsworth with a smirk. He’s got no mic; he doesn’t need one anymore. His voice is in his head, and tonight it’s accidentally beaming out beyond the crowd.

DAVID (V.O., TELEPATHIC)
Hi, I’m David. I’m a retired artistic senior, 60 years young. I’m in love with a woman half my age. Let’s call her the barista, because that’s what she is. And yeah, this is about her. She’s gonna hear this, and I’m screwed.

The crowd chuckles, but across town...

INT. STARBUCKS - NIGHT

GRACE, the barista, is wiping down the counter mid-shift. Suddenly, she freezes, eyes widening, as David’s voice echoes in her skull, clear as day, no earbuds required.

DAVID (V.O., TELEPATHIC)
I’ve got memory issues, the good kind, where you forget your friends and family. Doctors offer me pills, but I said no thanks, I’m fine with forgetting. Perfect for comedy, because when I bomb, I don’t remember the next day. Like my sex life.

Grace smirks to spite herself, muttering under her breath.

GRACE (TO HERSELF)
Okay, weird old guy jokes. And wait, is this in my head?

She glances around. No one else reacts.

INT. COUTURE DIVE BAR - NIGHT

DAVID (V.O., TELEPATHIC)
I live with three 20-something international students. Pretty, but like my daughter’s friends, I don’t notice—except the hair in the shower. It’s a nightmare. I’m shoving it down the drain with my toe, trying not to gag.

Grace laughs out loud, startling a customer. She covers her mouth, confused but hooked.

GRACE (TO CUSTOMER)
Sorry, thought of something funny.

David’s voice keeps rolling, hitting the barista pit.

DAVID (V.O., TELEPATHIC)
Anyway, the real story is the barista. She’s pretty, too young for me—society says so. I use her as a character in a script. Smart, out of place.

I was waiting for a train. One day, she remembered my coffee order before I said it: Grande Pike, heavy cream, one stevia. It started before I got to the counter. I didn’t mistake it for interest—just her being very good at her job. But I kept track, sat by the tail, noted her orders she memorized—nearly 100 when this happened.

Grace’s jaw drops. She remembers him—the handsome regular who mumbled, then vanished. She leans against the counter, listening hard.

DAVID (V.O., TELEPATHIC)
A gaggle of women come in. Cashier’s in the bathroom, she’s on drive-thru, but she spots this teacher and goes, “Should I start your usual order?”

Grace is grinning now, shaking her head.

GRACE ( TO HERSELF)
Oh my god, it’s me. This guy’s what? Psychic? Yeah, I totally made that up. She looked tired.

INT. COUTURE DIVE BAR - NIGHT

David’s pacing, oblivious to the telepathic link.

DAVID (V.O., TELEPATHIC)
Maybe we’ll do a cute Chinese baby count today, starting at 2. 97 orders, man, she’s memorized. God damn it, there’s two guys behind me that get too fucking loud. For one guy just finished making, it’s two in the afternoon, so I’m not surprised. Names of an order she memorized—somebody that good could remind me to pay my taxes. Perfect wife material if I weren’t a broke-ass comedian.

I told her manager about her excellent customer service and kindness. Then ghosts at Starbucks, gnawing back, dreaming of walking in, nailing this set, and asking her out. Delusional, right?

The crowd roars. Grace’s shift ends. She grabs her bag.

GRACE (V.O.)
Pretty Grace’s dilemma.

She heads home, David’s voice still echoing faintly.

DAVID (V.O., TELEPATHIC)
She’s pretty, Rat Rife level. Guys hit on her all the time. This handsome 60-year-old comedian beaming shit into her brain—it’s wild.

Grace flops onto her couch, smirking.

GRACE (TO HERSELF)
Okay, how do old comedian guys got game? Matt Rife, pretty, but this, this is next level. Do I track him down or let him sweat it out?

INT. DAVID'S BEDROOM - NIGHT (FEBRUARY 2022)

The room’s a mess—pizza boxes, empty vodka bottles, wheat crumbs on the desk. David, 60, ruggedly handsome, sprawls on the bed, eyes glassy in a THC haze. A bong sits by his laptop, flickering with a paused Netflix show. He’s muttering, half-asleep, unaware his telepathy’s bleeding dreams to Grace.

DAVID (V.O., TELEPATHIC, FAINT)
Grace, you’re here. Room’s a shithole. Sorry.

He drifts off, the high amplifying his subconscious spill.

INT. GRACE’S APARTMENT - NIGHT (SAME TIME)

Grace, pretty with warm brown eyes, jolts awake on her couch, breathless. She’s been dreaming vividly, standing in David’s room, seeing him sprawled, handsome but wrecked, talking to her like she’s there.

GRACE (TO HERSELF, SHAKEN)
He’s in my head again. Felt so real, I was there. Where the hell is he?

She grabs her phone. Still no sign of him since the gig two months ago.

TITLE CARD: THE NEXT DAY, FEBRUARY 2022

INT. STARBUCKS - DAY

The Starbucks hums—students, drive-thru buzz. Grace works the counter, pulling shots, her sharp wit dulled by worry. The door swings open. IRIS, 20, average-looking but fierce, strides in with CHRISTINA, an extremely pretty 50-something woman, both on edge. Christina clutches a photo of David—silver hair, chiseled, intense.

IRIS (TO GRACE)
Hi, my dad’s missing. I’m wondering if you’ve seen him. I think he used to come into this location.

CHRISTINA (SHOWING PHOTO)
He’s missing. This is him from ten years ago.

Grace stares at the photo. David’s face hits her hard. She plays it off, but her hands tremble slightly.

GRACE
Oh yeah, he was a regular. Grande Pike, heavy cream, one stevia. Haven’t seen him in months.

A COWORKER, mid-twenties, perks up from the espresso machine.

COWORKER
That guy, the hot old dude, quit coming after New Year’s.

Iris locks eyes with Grace, sensing more, and looks at her name tag.

IRIS
Grace. She wrote about you. Such a special, superhuman memory.

Grace’s mask slips, her eyes well up, fear he’s dead mixing with telepathic overload. She wipes a tear, voice crackling.

GRACE
I thought he might be gone. He sent me his voice in my head, some comedy set a few months back, then nothing.

Christina tilts her head, a flicker of recognition. She’s felt Iris’ mind before, unaware it’s telepathy.

CHRISTINA
In your head? That’s him, alright.

IRIS (INTENSE)
Is he only coming into your dreams, or other times?

Grace nods, tears spilling.

GRACE
Yes, both. In my dreams, he’s in his room—messy, wrecked. I’m there with him, like it’s real. Every night lately. But the stand-up can come at any time, like he’s practicing in front of a mirror or something. Maybe reading it, writing it, I don’t know. When he used to come to the cafe, sometimes I thought I knew what he was writing, like he was writing to me, but I couldn’t confirm. I couldn’t ask him what he was doing in Starbucks almost every day.

Christina’s eyes widen. She knows this vibe from years with David, a special connection echoing Iris’ bond.

CHRISTINA
He’s in love with you. I felt him like that once—not words, just him. He’s stuck on you.

Iris assigns to Christina subtly—a secret ear tug—processing, meaning they found him. Grace wipes her face, half-smiling through the mess.

GRACE
He’s alive then? Still at that house, maybe, with those students he talks about in his comedy?

The coworker steps over, smirking.

COWORKER
She’s got it bad for him. Been moping since he ditched this place.

Grace shoots a look at her, then turns to Iris and Christina.

GRACE
I’m in. Let’s find him. His room’s Mikey Blue.

They share a determined nod. The three women united.

FADE OUT.

I need to pause a bit while I’m reading this, Grace. It’s not a race, Grace, even though the last four letters of your name are a race. Plus, your niece. Cute baby count up to three, and for the purpose of this survey, a baby’s up to about five years old, just for today. If these two guys start fighting, I’ll take some video. I’m not gonna break it up—each to their own.

Every day, a tourist comes to this park, thinks it’s so wonderful. It’s not bad, but it’s not the most amazing thing ever. I guess it could be FaceTiming, just using the Wi-Fi. Whatever.

What do you think, Grace? More news? More movie? Increase that baby count by another—plus one, plus ten on the adorable scale. Gonna add this joke to the database while I wait and decide what to do next. It’s called “grandpaism”—things that grandpas can say that are okay, but if perverts say them, well, they’re perverts. Pedos, whatever. Things it’s okay for grandpa to say so they’re not a pedo. Knowing these grandkids, or just more kids. What’s the worst that could happen?

Sorry, apparently I have a cold. Summertime B.C. colds—they smell in the park. I mean, get in the park. The last break.

By the way, Grace or Grok, I think these last four or five scenes were meant to be spread out over some time and cut into the other scenes when we get into the community and shit and stuff. This will start to make more sense. Or not. Who gives a fuck?

SCENE: BARISTA DREAM GIG

INT. DAVID'S BEDROOM - NIGHT

David dreams he’s on stage again. Grace works at Starbucks while listening to David telepathically.

EXT. CITY SIDEWALK - DAY (DREAM/TELEPATHIC)

David, 60, in a hoodie, kneels. His voice beams telepathically, no mic, a dream crowd buzzing in his head.

DAVID (V.O.)
Yes, I’m the stereotype—the good-looking old man chasing a younger woman. I think she’s half my age, at least 25, probably running up to 30, just in case. Let me try and explain. I love irony. Now that I’m 60, I don’t have a chance with any of them. I’m surrounded by significantly more 20-something girls than I ever was back in my 20s. Back in the 1980s, if you didn’t work with them or go to secondary school, they didn’t seem to exist. Bars were the only place to meet a potential partner. And although I’m a funny drunk, eventually I’d have to sober up and be myself. Now I live with three. In addition, I can go to any coffee shop during the day, and every barista is 20-something, hot, and exotic-looking. Where were all these fucking Starbucks in the 1980s? I’d either have gotten a job there and hit on all of them, or spent my paychecks there, watching them work and trying to worm my way into their existence by sitting there daily, pretending to be important and looking cute, or like a pathetic puppy, whichever would cause them to take me home or scratch my belly. I’m easy.

Grace’s laugh echoes telepathically. David grins.

DAVID (V.O., CONTINUED)
I call her the barista because I don’t know her last name. I know her first name, but I’m too shy to say it on stage, like it’s bad luck, and she’ll never appear again if I do. Like she’s Voldemort.

Crowd noises fade in telepathically. David winks. Fade out.

ACT TWO: THE COMEDIANS

INT. RICKY’S BEDROOM - MORNING (TWO YEARS EARLIER)

A modest bedroom, faintly lit by morning sun. RICKY, 60s, chubby, moderately handsome, lies sprawled alone in bed, sheets tangled. He yawns, farts loudly, and gropes for a cell phone on the nightstand. The screen glows: one new message, private account.

RICKY (MUTTERING)
Probably Jane, she can wait.

He swipes to social media instead. Thousands of notifications, requests, likes flood his feed. He scrolls, bored, then picks ten random posts mentioning with zero likes and taps like on each.

RICKY (V.O.)
Maybe it’ll make their day. It does. But I never know. I don’t follow up. Just a habit. Helping the needy on Twitter.

Ricky will probably want to be in the first scene in the movie, so even this would work too. Whatever Mel thinks. And the writers. Satisfied, he switches to email. The inbox loads: one new message from himself.

RICKY (FROWNING)
Who’s Jane want now?

The sender: Ricky Gervais. Subject: blank. He squints, confused.

RICKY (V.O.)
I do email myself good ideas sometimes. But last night, how much did I drink?

No memory of drinking or sending it.

RICKY (THINKING)
This better be good.

The topsy email reads: “Talk to Joe.”

RICKY
Okay, who is Joe? Or which Joe? Joe Rogan? Why did I remind myself to call Joe? I’ve been delaying his podcast, but why would I write that to myself last night? Maybe I did really get drunk. Oh well, at least I didn’t buy any domains.

He shrugs, closes the app, forgets about it. He doesn’t call Jane, he doesn’t call Joe.

INT. RICKY’S HOUSE - LIVING ROOM - DAY (ONE WEEK LATER)

Ricky lounges on the porch, phone in hand, with JANE somewhere off-screen. He checks his email again—another message from himself, sent overnight, same text: “Talk to Joe.”

RICKY
Jane! Jane!

JANE (FROM BATHROOM, ANNOYED)
What?

She sticks her head out, toothbrush in hand.

RICKY
Did you access my email account?

JANE
No, why would I?

RICKY
To fuck with me.

JANE
Yes, I have nothing better to do with my time than fuck with you. Anything else, or can I get back to what I was doing?

RICKY
What were you doing?

JANE
You know you don’t care.

RICKY
Fine. But are you positive you didn’t access my email?

JANE
I’m positive. You probably did it yourself in the middle of the night.

RICKY
I don’t remember getting up. Do you remember me out of bed?

JANE
I wish, but no. You were snoring beside me all night long, as far as I can remember. But who knows?

RICKY
Maybe I’ve been hacked.

JANE
What does the email say?

RICKY
Talk to Joe.

JANE
Joe who?

RICKY
Rogan, I assume.

JANE
Well, since you still have to accept his invitation to be on the podcast, maybe it’s your subconscious reminding you to give him a reason.

RICKY
Fine, but then who sent the email?

JANE
Sleepwalking?

RICKY
I’m calling the internet company.

JANE
Great, are we done now? I can get back to me?

RICKY
Yeah, whatever.

Jane disappears into the bathroom. Ricky dials his ISP, pacing.

RICKY (INTO PHONE)
Has there been any suspicious activity on my account?

ISP REPRESENTATIVE (V.O., OVER PHONE)
No, sir. Everything looks normal.

RICKY
What about an email sent last night? Can you trace it?

ISP REPRESENTATIVE
One moment. It came from your phone, sir. Whoever sent it used your device.

Ricky hangs up, staring at his phone.

RICKY
I’ve been hacked.

He’s not worried about leaks—his bathtub pics are already public. He storms outside to the garden shed, grabs a hammer—the only tool he knows how to use—and smashes the phone to bits on the pavement.

RICKY (YELLING THROUGH HOUSE)
I’m going to get a new mobile.

JANE (MUTTERING, OFF-SCREEN)
Whatever.

He tosses the fragments into the kitchen garbage bin and heads out, not waiting for a reply.

FADE OUT.

That’s about an hour, Grace. Talk to you tomorrow.

By the way, Grok, when there’s a big long pause on the transcript like that, could you at least give me a couple of paragraph breaks? Thanks.