INT. CAFE – DAY
This guy is sitting at a table with his laptop open. He’s acting like he’s surfing the web for some super-interesting shit, but really he’s just looking at Miley Cyrus bikini pics and cashmere cardigans. What an asshole.
Anyway, this guy is named FUNKADELIC. Not really. His name is GERSHWIN. But it’s his first name so he’s not even related to the famous Gershwin, who I think did music or something. It’s a pretty big problem because he has to like clarify that shit all the time.
Whatever. Who cares. The point is that this guy, Gershwin, is on his cell phone. And he’s talking a little too loud in the cafe, like for everyone’s benefit. Like their day is gonna be brightened by hearing this guy’s side of some random conversation.
(into phone, too loud, for everyone’s benefit)
…So should my editor give you a call and set up a meeting?
(on the other side of the phone)
No. You’re cold. Your career’s in the shitter. Don’t ever call me again.
The line goes dead.
Gershwin doesn’t know what to say. But he thinks quickly. Real quickly.
(still into phone)
Awesome. Yeah. I know you’re into the proposal. And I agree, ghosts are the next big thing to hit teen literature. Also, yes, I am slightly prophetic. Cool. Talk to you later. No, I’d rather you talk numbers with my editor or agent, but appreciate you trying to buy this thing from me over the phone without even really knowing the full deal.
(waits for a long beat for effect)
Again, awesome. Look forward to hearing from my editor or agent about when this meeting is set up. Talk to you later or, rather, see you soon.
Gershwin “hangs up.” Holy shit. Did he get away with it? Did everyone in the fucking cafe believe that he was really on the phone the whole time?
Then this woman, CATHY or some shit, who is sitting next to Gershwin decides to chat him up.
I couldn’t help but overhear.
Oh, I’m so sorry. How gauche of me.
Fuck that guy for using “gauche.”
No, not at all. Just because you’re in a cafe doesn’t mean you shouldn’t talk on your cell.
Anyway, I gather that you’re an author.
A successful one at that.
Oh go on.
I will go on. I’m looking to make a baby with an author. Preferably a successful one obviously.
One last thing: do you have any history of polydactylism in your family?
Only my cats.
Whoa! That last line was so smooth!
No more words are exchanged and they go on to get married and have 50,0000 babies together. (I’ll let you decide what the deal is with that comma in 50,0000. Is it 50,000 with an extra 0? Or 500,000 with the comma in the wrong spot? Really it’s neither because I was exaggerating. They had 3 babies. Then they all died in a helicopter fishing accident. 2 boys, 1 girl.)