Wing Man

INT.  OFFICE BUILDING WASHROOM – AFTERNOON

A vast and gleaming corporate bathroom is empty, save for one man, Smith, and the sound of muzak. He occupies the last stall, against the back wall, seemingly miles from the washroom door.

His dark socks show beneath the door, as he pushes out of his black wingtips. In his stall, Smith loosens his tie, removes his glasses and rubs his eyes, sighing deeply.

                        SMITH

Sweet solitude.

The washroom door squeals upon its hinges. The footfalls of a man named Jackson echo. Smith hangs his head, no longer alone. The footsteps continue, coming his way. Hoping to ward off the newcomer, Smith coughs obviously, loudly.

Jackson’s footsteps continue still, crossing the tiled expanse toward Smith’s stall. Smith rattles his tissue-paper roll for all it’s worth.

The footsteps finally stop at Smith’s stall. He sees Jackson’s black wingtips beneath the door. Smith’s door – locked – rocks cacophonously back and forth as Jackson unsuccessfully tries to wrestle it open.

SMITH

Oh, for God’s sake! There’s clearly someone in here.

Occupied. You’ve only got, like, 20 stalls to choose

from.

Jackson’s black wingtips remain beneath Smith’s door for a moment. Then they back out of sight. Smith sighs in relief. Then the door to the stall directly next to Smith squeaks open.

SMITH

Seriously? There are truly something like a million

other stalls in this place.

Tissue seat covers are noisily yanked from their dispenser and padded down upon the toilet, one after another after another. This goes on for one full minute. At last, Jackson plops himself down and his black wingtips reappear at Smith’s side.

The fetid stench of death fouls the air.

Smith, shaking his head, re-tightens his tie, puts back on his glasses, and begins working his feet back into his shoes.

SMITH

(Angry, prepares to exit)

OK, I’ll go. I had just gotten here, was all relaxed,

taking my first break of the day -- but I’ll go ahead

and move myself along.

In the next stall, whimpering becomes sobbing, then turns into out-and-out bawling.

JACKSON

(Blowing into tissue paper)

I’m sorry. Look, I’m … just a bit … I was just let

go. Fired.

SMITH

(Contritely)

Aw, well, that’s … that’s tough. Look, I’m the one

who’s sorry.

JACKSON

Name’s Jackson. Sales – formerly of sales.

Jackson’s hand appears next to his black wingtips. After a beat, Smith goes to shake it.

SMITH

Smith. Accounts payable.

As the two grasp hands, a stick of dynamite from Jackson’s side falls to the floor and rolls against Smith’s foot.

JACKSON

Whoops.

The washroom door again squeals upon its hinges. The footfalls of Gallo, a security worker from the reception desk, echo. Through the crack between his stall’s wall and door, Smith notes Gallo’s entrance. Should he alert Gallo? Should he simply bolt to freedom?

Jackson’s quietly pads about the floor with his hand, but Smith picks up the explosive. Gallo dries his hands and, whistling, exits the washroom.

SMITH

I’ve been in your shoes, Jackson. You will survive this.

JACKSON

Thanks for … the guard.

SMITH

The first thing we’re going to do is grab a little lunch.

On me. Then we’ll talk.

(Stands, waves dynamite to clear air)

Because you, my friend, have got to start eating more

healthily.