EXT.  MELROSE AVE  - DAY

SUPER: January 16, 2019 

Acton wanders down Melrose, still wearing his now signature foto-gray lens glasses.  He dodges a dog walker with four charges on leashes which could be 10 feet shorter, a woman carrying her child and pushing her cat in a stroller, and a bright orange Mercedes SUV parked partially on the sidewalk with AAA changing its tire.  

A COP stands by simmering somewhere between boil and spontaneous combustion.  He and Acton lock eyes and exchange a look. 

                                              COP

                                       (shrugs)

                             Protect and serve.

                                            ACTON

                             Could be worse. If this were Beverly

                             Hills, you'd be holding the wrench, right?

                                             COP

                                         (laughs)

                              If this were Beverly Hills, I'd be

                              changing the tire!

Up all night working on a submission piece, Acton had slept until 10am.  Two  hours behind from his normal schedule, and was aimed at Verve Coffee on Melrose for a patio table under the eves, which the locals avoid on orders from their publicists.

Headed for the same table yesterday when he'd had to swim upstream against a Cameron Diaz migration with entourage, gawkers and a murder of paparazzi stalking the reflected glow of stardom.

After pachinko-balling off everyone but Diaz, Acton wondered why there weren't coin-operated Phisohex stations throughout the Hollywood area. This was still on his mind as he noticed,

INSERT BANK TEMPERATURE SIGN SHOWING 72 DEGREES

But that was yesterday when people were hiding from the hypothermic 55 degrees temp and a driving mist-like, airborne moisture imitating rain.  Today, it is like summer on the Volga with pop up contests everywhere for most skin shown without invoking the First Amendment.

The current winner is standing at Melrose and N. Almont.  Acton is standing behind her... next to the very uber-gay pop-up town crier, self-appointed as the corner's master of ceremonies.

Most notable about the winner is not the 3" gauze strip substituting for a top, nor the 5" Louboutin knockoffs nor even the red Lululemon tights easily 2 sizes smaller than what any Nordstrom personal shopper would recommend.  

What pulled the entire ensemble together was the iPhone Plus she carried conveniently held between the tights and where her undergarments might have been, the lack thereof confirmed by the iPhone's flashlight which shown sternward like a lighthouse beacon, warning, "Danger ahead." 

                                              Town Crier

                                          (nearly a shout)

                                   Oh My God!  Every bitch in Hollywood

                                   is trying to get into a spotlight and 

                                   this one brings her own! Does that

                                   have a low beam honey or are you 

                                   backing up?

The winner spins around and glares at Acton who, seeing his life pass before his eyes, quickly points to the 

Town Crier. The Winner and Town Crier move into recreational name calling just as the light changes and all the other innocent bystanders, including Acton, cross the street out of the blast zone.

Parked across the street is the same cop that was supervising the tire change. Acton sees him, thumbs back to the nutroll and the cop starts to laugh.  

                                                     COP

                                     If this was Beverly Hills, I might have

                                     to get involved in that. But this is LA and

                                     unless it's blocking traffic or bleeding, they 

                                     gotta dispatch me.  Some days are just 

                                     better than others, you know?

Acton and the cop go their separate ways, each, Acton is certain, leading to coffee.

--END SEQUENCE-- 

                                     

                 

EXT. DOWNTOWN LA - DAY

Walking down the sidewalk carrying his WWII A-12 messenger case with enclosed laptop, Acton is stopped dead in his tracks by the simple sandwich board sign, "Turkish Coffee" and the arrow pointing to an open door.

He turns and looks to the door.  The LA sun cannot penetrate the dark interior, but the aroma from within is compelling.

INT. TURKISH COFFEE JOINT - CONTINUOUS

As Acton walks in he recalls a prescient family moment...

                                         ERICA (V.O.)

                         I'm just saying if you buy those light

                         transition lens, someday you're going 

                         to walk from the sunlight into some 

                         janky joint you always wander into

                         and run slam into some horror show

                         just walking around waiting for you.

                 

Light begins to pierce Acton's glasses just as he bumps into a 

wall that speaks.

                                          THE TURK

                          I am The Turk. 

Acton removes his glasses, looks at where the Turk's head should be, then finds it up another foot... hiding behind the tattoos and piercings.

                                          ACTON

                                    (thinking quickly)

                            I am the Acton.

                                 

                                          THE TURK

                            Good. You sit at bar. You have Turkish

                            coffee before today?

                                           ACTON

                             Nope. I've had Portuguese coffee, though.

                                           THE TURK

                             How you like Portagee coffee?

                                              ACTON

                              Nearly stopped my heart.

                                              THE TURK

                                         (laughs)

                               My coffee will kill you. But I will show you

                               how to drink strong coffee. And live.

                                          (then)

                               What you drink everyday?

                                             ACTON

                               Vanilla latte.

                                          THE TURK

                               No wonder Portagee almost kill you.

                                     

The Turk laughs like hell as Acton looks around to see if he's only the person in the joint.  He is.  Damn glasses.

The espresso machine has no brand showing but there is little doubt the serial number is 000001.  Hand operated, The Turk's sizable biceps bulge as he forces hot water through what may or may not be ground coffee beans, but the result is the color of crude oil

The Turk delivers his beverage in a six-ounce cup, on a rimmed saucer with a teaspoon... a measuring teaspoon. No cream or sugar in sight.  

                                                  THE TURK

                                             (off the drink)

                                     You drink now? You drop dead soon.

                                                   ACTON

                                      I'm fine... I can let it cool. 

                                                 THE TURK

                                       Hot... cold... no matter. Unless

                                       you put in two spoons of butter.

With a flourish, The Turk produces a small container of butter. He quickly puts two teaspoons of butter into the latte, stirs until none is visible and pushes the cup and saucer toward Acton.

                                                 ACTON

                                        Butter.

                                                THE TURK

                                        Butter.  You drink now.

                                                 ACTON

                                         Am I supposed to dip toast 

                                         or something into it or--

                                                THE TURK

                                         --You drink now.

                                                 ACTON

                                          I'm going to put my cell on the 

                                          counter in case you need it.

Acton takes a tentative sip. Waits for 4 Horsemen to ride through the darkened door. They don't.  He takes a longer sip and notices something. There's no bite, the texture is smooth, there's no acid in his mouth, no milky taste and most importantly, no buttery taste. If anything, there's a herbal finish to it.

                                                    THE TURK

                                             What you think?

                                                     ACTON

                                              You have WiFi?

--END SEQUENCE--

INT.  STUDIO APARTMENT - WEST HOLLYWOOD (WEHO) - DAY

Guest apartment in large, traditional Hollywood 30's house. Apt. opens onto a private patio with built-in BBQ. The interior walls are original stucco, painted an amorphous color which could be something like "Meditation Banana." 

A white bamboo armoire with three drawers suitable for swimsuits and hanging space for two nudists corners the room. New shelving units crowd the rest of the wall, each struggling with an asymmetric organizing system which over the years has lost everything from snowshoes to passports, some more than once.

At the built-in desk is JOE ACTON, writer-in-residence and dressed in the fashion of Hollywood writers -- Costco, Zappos, and off-season Tommy Bahama -- grapples through a conversation on his cell.

SUPER: January 9, 2019

                         ACTON
               What's not to get? I was in Oregon,
               then 5 days ago I got into my POS 
               2006 Pathfinder, drove to West Hollywood
               and moved into this place. 
                   (listens)
               No. Why does everyone automatically 
               assume we broke up? I've just deployed
               to WEHO. I'm like the military but
               without air support and lace-up boots.
                   (listens)
               Three months.
                   (listens)
               Because three strikes are a turkey, 
               three goals a hat trick, the father, 
               son, and Executive Producer are the  
               Holy Trinity. And like a series, I'm 
               either renewed or canceled. How do I
               know why I picked three?
                   (listens)
               No, I haven't met anyone famous. I've
               been here three days... though I did 
               meet a New York actress yesterday
               at a writer's cafe.
                   (listens)
               Not surprisingly, it's a cafe/coffee 
               joint where writers work from. Yesterday
               I counted 27 of them beating the hell out
               of their laptops.

FLASHBACK

INT. WRITERS COFFEE/CAFE JOINT - DAY

Two-story cafe with individual tables on the second floor, picnic tables, and pub tables on the first... kitchen and coffee machines next to the front door. Library quiet except for the staccato sounds of laptop abuse. 

                         ACTON (V.O.)
               I was there working on my new series 
               pilot, "Fork In The Road" when a 
               girl/woman -- I can't tell anymore 
               -- walks up and says,

                         GIRL/WOMAN
               Excuse me, is this table taken?

                         ACTON
               Don't think so. The last guy
               abandoned ship 15 minutes ago.  

                         GIRL/WOMAN
               You don't mind if I sit here?

                         ACTON
               I dare ya.

She laughs, sits down, and Acton goes back to work. Thirty minutes later he heads for a refill and cookie. As he returns he can't help but notice GIRL/WOMAN is reading the pilot on his open laptop. 

                         ACTON
                If you find any typos feel free 
                to fix them.

                        GIRL/WOMAN
                     (startled)
                Oh, I'm sorry. I saw you reading
                and typing and realized it was
                screenplay.

                         ACTON
                Technically, a teleplay. 

                        GIRL/WOMAN
                      (interested)
                Oh, television is why I'm here. I
                just got in from New York. I'm
                an actress.  
                      (nods to laptop)
                Are you an actor and
                those are your sides?

                        ACTON
                An actor? No... I'm just a lowly
                writer. 

                        GIRL/WOMAN
                You're NOT an actor? You look like
                an actor. 

                        ACTON
                I'm trying to look like a writer.

                       GIRL/WOMAN
                A writer? Oh, I don't date writers. I
                definitely do NOT date writers!

For the briefest of moments, Acton experiences a minor stroke-like condition causing him to nearly blurt out, 

                        ACTON
                     (righteous indignation)
                "WTF is wrong with you? I'm wearing
                a belt older than you are."
                     (but instead manages)
                Actors everywhere rejoice.

Her writer's rule freshly vindicated, GIRL/WOMAN gathers her belongings and heads for the second floor.

BACK TO PRESENT 

                         ACTON
                  I have no idea who she was. I
                  didn't recognize her.
                      (listens)
                  You are not the first to suggest
                  I am on the pop culture spectrum.
                      (listens)
                  Yeah... I can live with that.

END SEQUENCE