The Choice

The Choice: Arc One

[The camera pans the top of a mall, and finally pans into one of its department stores. As the music and credits continue to roll, the camera focuses in on the men’s department, and one of its workers, MICHAEL. Michael has short brown hair, parted down the middle, is a good-looking, average height, early twenties, white male; he’s wearing grey slacks, a long-sleeve white dress shirt, and a tie. Michael is helping customers and ultimately rings up their items. We see him then check his watch and say good-bye to a fellow worker. We see him punch out and then the camera swings to his leaving the store, leaving through the doors to the parking lot. He gets into his small black Pontiac Sunfire and pulls out. Turning down the radio he picks up his mobile phone and dials.]

MICHAEL: Hello, can I speak with Damon please? [Pause.] Thanks.

DAMON: Hello? [We hear, but do not see Damon for the entirety of this conversation.]

MICHAEL: Damon, what’s up? It’s Mike.

DAMON: Hey. What’s goin’ on?

MICHAEL: Not much. I just got out of work.

DAMON: Yeah? I had today off.

MICHAEL: Yeah, well, good for you.

DAMON: What’s up?

MICHAEL: Not much. What are you doing now?

DAMON: Just finished dinner.

MICHAEL: Wanna meet me at Zaz’s for a drink?

DAMON: Sure. Did you eat?

MICHAEL: I’ll be fine.

DAMON: All right. See you soon.

MICHAEL: Later.

[Michael’s car pulls away from the camera. We next see him coming through the door of a small pub with wood paneling on the walls. Seated before him in jeans and a t-shirt is an average height and build black man, with short cropped black hair: DAMON. Damon nods, sitting at the table with two beers. Michael is still in his work clothes.]

DAMON: What’s up?

MICHAEL: Nothin’. I see you have me a Michael Shea’s waiting?

DAMON: Of course.

MICHAEL: Nice. [Pointing at Damon.] I got next round.

DAMON: Whatever.

[The two pause, looking at each other, sipping on their beers.]

MICHAEL: What the hell is wrong with us?

DAMON: [Shrugs.] I don’t know.

MICHAEL: How is it that we both graduated from fucking college and we can’t find a job that’ll pay us more than ten dollars an hour. This is ridiculous.

DAMON: [Slumping in his seat.] Beats the fuck out of me.

MICHAEL: I mean, I understand me. I’m an English graduate, with a little grad work in the same field. That doesn’t mean dick. But you. You were a business major. Wha tthe fuck's up with that?

DAMON: Maybe ‘cause I’m black?

MICHAEL: Yeah. Let me start calling the fucking NACCP. [Shakes his head.] Bitch.

DAMON: I don’t know, man. I put the resumes out. I’ve applied for managerial jobs, customer service, marketing, whatever. I’ve applied to high-level jobs, entry level, and everywhere in-between. Either they want someone with more experience, or someone with a master's in business, or whatever. I don’t even know what’s up.

MICHAEL: Hold on. [He gets up and walks to a nearby table of young women. Damon looks at him over his shoulder, and Michael returns soon, smoking a cigarette.] I mean, fucking look at this [Michael says, holding out the cigarette.] I can’t even afford these now. Fuck that. I shouldn’t even be out drinking my finances are so bad.

DAMON: No shit. I got car payments, insurance payments, not to mention two-hunny a month in student loans. [Gestures both hands up questioningly]. How am I even supposed to start thinking about paying rent, phone, cable, electric, gas . . . .

MICHAEL: I hear you. I know it’s not even been a year yet, but I’m living at home, man. I’m still living with my fucking parents.

DAMON: You’re tellin’ me? Especially after five years in college, on my own. I can’t even deal with this bullshit.

MICHAEL: [Leaning forward.] I mean, let alone just having your own space, and being loud and raucous any time you want, what am I supposed to do if I meet a girl?

DAMON: Go to her place.

MICHAEL: I know you’re just saying that 'cause there ain’t no girl you’ve actually pulled that off on.

DAMON: [Shrugs.]

MICHAEL: Fuck you. Whatever. We gotta get out of this.

DAMON: How?

MICHAEL: We could start our own business.

DAMON: Like what kinda business?

MICHAEL: A liquor store.

DAMON: What do you know about that?

MICHAEL: Not much.

DAMON: But you wanna start one up?

MICHAEL: [Nodding.] Uh-huh.

DAMON: Whatever.

MICHAEL: I’m serious. Have you ever looked at one? [Smiles and nods to the women that gave him the cigarette, as they leave. Then raises his eyebrows at Damon, only to quickly shake his head, then pointing a forefinger at Damon, eyebrows raised] See? [Shakes his head again.] Anyway. Liquor stores. There’s almost no start-up capital. Bottles of liquor line the store, on fucking cheap ass plastic, wood, metal, whatever shelves. All the stock in the middle of the room is always just stacked on boxes of more of the stuff. Except the wine. There are always wine racks in the middle somewhere. But whatever. It has to be the cheapest start-up business out there. And look, D. When have you ever seen a liquor store go out of business? They’re bust proof. Not only that, but they’re recession proof. Even in a bad economy, people still drink. Shit, look at us now.

DAMON: [Rubbing his chin.] You’re still gonna need like ten-grand. Those bottles of liquor aren’t all cheap, you know. It’s not like the shit you drink.

MICHAEL: I know. I know.

DAMON: And where the fuck are we gonna get ten grand?

MICHAEL: [Shrugs.] Loan?

DAMON: Off what collateral?

MICHAEL: Retail value of the stock?

DAMON: Not likely. We’re two poor fucks that live with their parents. We both are up to our asses in student loans and other fiscal payments. Who in their right mind would give us a loan?

MICHAEL: Like you have any better ideas?

DAMON: I don’t, but this one just isn’t possible, Mike.

[There is silence again for a moment.]

MICHAEL: [Standing.] Let me get some beers. [Walks over to the bar.]

MICHAEL: Hey, what’s up?

BARTENDER: What can I get you?

MICHAEL: Two Michael Shea’s.

BARTENDER: Okay. [He returns swiftly with two brown bottles.] That’ll be five dollars.

MICHAEL: [Leaves him six.] Here you go, thanks.

BARTENDER: Thank you.

MICHAEL: [Returning to the table and sitting, handing Damon a beer.] Here you go.

DAMON: Thanks.

MICHAEL: [Both pause to drink for a moment.] What did we do last Thursday, down at the park?

DAMON: Get high.

MICHAEL: What do you think my sister and her friends were doing last weekend?

DAMON: Smokin’ up.

MICHAEL: What were B and Davie doing last night?

DAMON: Same thing.

MICHAEL: What about Janie, and all her friends at that car dealership?

DAMON: [Laughing.] Probably getting stoked in the back room everyday there, man. You ever see those guys at work?

MICHAEL: [Laughing.] Yeah. If they’re not all stoned, I don’t know what the fuck's up with them.

DAMON: So what’s your point, Mike?

MICHAEL: Aren’t you starting to see a trend here?

DAMON: Sure. They all like getting high. So what?

MICHAEL: Exactly. They were all getting high on marijuana.

DAMON: Your point is?

MICHAEL: Do you have any idea how much those fucking dealers make?

DAMON: Ones I knew at school pulled down close to a grand a week. And that’s just from smoke.

MICHAEL: How quickly does that mean someone or someones could make ten grand?

DAMON: [Sitting up, eyes wide.] Uh-uh. No way.

MICHAEL: Why not?

DAMON: Are you crazy?

MICHAEL: Depends on what you call crazy.

DAMON: Fuck that.

MICHAEL: Fuck fucking that. It’s the American way, bitch. Supply and demand. People want the damn thing and we’re going to give it to them. In return, we get paid.

DAMON: Yeah, only one problem. It’s illegal.

MICHAEL: So was bootlegging and that didn’t stop anyone.

DAMON: Totally different.

MICHAEL: Barely. Listen. It takes awhile for the cops to get onto a dealer, right? It has to. I mean, they start busting people with weed, they know there has to be a source, so they start looking. They hear that there's a new player in town, so they investigate, question people, test leads, shake down the neighborhood, or whatever. It takes awhile to catch onto who's doing it and when. By then we’ll be out of the game. Besides, we’re only going to get into smoke. They’re looking for the coke and heroin pushers. We’re small fish.

DAMON: Unless they want to bag us to turn in those big fish.

MICHAEL: Unlikely. Come on, Damon.

DAMON: I know what you’re saying, I’m just not sure if I want to get into that, Mike.

MICHAEL: We could make that ten grand easy this summer, man. Come on.

DAMON: [Looking down at his beer, shaking his head.] I don’t know.

MICHAEL: I need your backing man, I can’t front enough cash to make it worthwhile to deal. But if we go in together, we’ll have the upfront capital. I can get in through some of my sister’s friends who deal. Meanwhile, you can go to some fucking science store and get a weight set to measure the shit out, or get one of those digital scales, whatever. And little fucking baggies.

DAMON: You’re crazy.

MICHAEL: You keep saying that like it’s a bad thing.

DAMON: I don’t know, Mike. Smoking is one thing, but dealing is another, man.

MICHAEL: Personally, I think the world’s nuts, and that the only difference between the mad and the sane is that at least the mad admit they have problems.

DAMON: Where does that leave us?

MICHAEL: Squarely in the middle.

DAMON: What, because you’re crazy and I’m not, and we’re taking our mean sanity level?

MICHAEL: But we make such a great team, don’t we? [Holds his bottle up in the middle of the table.] Are you in or what?

DAMON: [Hesitantly.] Yeah. I’m in.