by Tom Hanks
“Wow!” Virginia loved it.
“Beautiful,” Carmen said.
The first fireworks broke into the sky, bursting into cascading comets, fading to smoke.
That’s when Bert felt a ball-peen hammer strike his forehead. His eyes went painfully dry and scratched terribly. His nose and ears started to run with blood. His legs went numb, and his lower back seemed to separate from his hips. A hot, searing pain shot through his chest as the molecules that made up his lungs began to separate. He had the sensation that he was falling.
The last words he heard were Virginia yelling, “Mr. Allenberry!” The last thing he saw was the fear in Carmen’s hazel eyes.
Stay with Us
MUSIC: “Mama Said Knock You Out” by LL Cool J
FADE IN
EXT: LAS VEGAS. MORNING
We know this place—the Strip. The casinos. The fountains. But wait…there is a new, huge, luxurious hotel on the skyline.
OLYMPUS.
Bigger than all the others. If you are a Big Roller, you frolic and gamble with the gods at OLYMPUS.
CLOSE ON: EYES OF FRANCIS XAVIER RUSTAN
A.K.A.: F.X.R. Green eyes, flecked with gold, that dance with delight at all they see.
CLOSE ON: COMPUTER SCREENS
Left screen: DETAILED ARCHITECTURAL PLANS, of a vast SOLAR ENERGY COLLECTION FIELD
Middle screen: Google Earth IMAGES of unsettled, bare parcels of land, USGS MAPS, topography CHARTS, and environmental GRAPHS
Right screen: FLOATING IMAGES. A guy catching a marlin, a guy hang gliding, a guy rock climbing, a guy white-water rafting. Steve McQueen in BULLITT. The guy is always F.X.R.
Except for Steve McQueen.
A NEWS TICKER scrolls along the bottom of this screen. Windows pop up with ALERTS and MESSAGES and NOW PLAYING, which switches from LL Cool J to…
MUSIC: “Mambo Italiano” by Dean Martin
A TEXT BOX pops up:
MERCURY: Boss? Breakfast as usual?
CALLER ID shows us MS. MERCURY—Jet-black hair cut short. Slashes of red lipstick.
F.X.R. replies with clicks of his keyboard. F.X.R.: Called it in. Nicholas is bringing it up. MERCURY: Who? F.X.R.: New guy.
CUT TO:
INT. SERVICE ELEVATOR—SAME
MS. MERCURY is a stunning specimen, as intimidating as a supermodel. Six feet tall, rail thin, Pilates-shaped physique. Dressed in black on black. She is a woman not to be messed with in any shape or form.
She has read the text, and screams!
MS. MERCURY
What new guy!?
She has been the aide-de-camp for F.X.R. over the last 12 years—a job she lives and breathes every minute of every day.
That a “new guy” is bringing her boss his breakfast is a fact that should never have escaped her!
She is tapping away on a gizmo on her wrist, a large WATCH/COMPUTER— getting MEMOS, TEXTS, SCHEDULES—and finally a series of EMPLOYEE PHOTOS. She swipes the screen until she finds…
NICHOLAS PAPAMAPALOS—19 years old. A look of confusion in his eyes, like a kid starting his very first job ever, which he is.
The elevator doors open and there he is—NICHOLAS PAPAMAPALOS, in the uniform of a room service waiter at Olympus, pushing a table of covered dishes.
MS. MERCURY (CONT’D)
(smiling way too much)
Nicky my boy!
Nicky is confused. Why does this tall lady know his name? He enters the elevator.
NICHOLAS
I’m new here.
MS. MERCURY
You sure are! Look at you in your too-big uniform, with your breakfast order for F.X.R. all ready!
NICHOLAS
Am I in trouble?
MS. MERCURY
Not yet, kiddo.
NICHOLAS
How do you know I’m taking this to Mr. Rustan?
Ms. Mercury presses the button for the 101st floor. The doors close and the elevator slowly rises.
MS. MERCURY
Because I know everything that happens at Olympus, Nick-chick. Do you know why?
NICHOLAS
No. I’m new here.
MS. MERCURY
Let me tell you a little about myself.
(then)
You know what I was doing until three a.m. this morning? Seeing to it that Francis X. Rustan’s collection of one hundred and thirty-two antique motorcycles were moved into a new climate-controlled warehouse, where they will be kept in perfect running order on the off chance that he chooses to someday take one out for a spin. The last time he did that was May of 2013. That he has yet to inspect the new storage facilities for his collection of antique player pianos or the vintage Burma-Shave signs he’s purchased over the years did not deter me from having two dozen men put motorcycles in protective wrapping and gingerly place them in a high-tech garage the size and approximate cost of Bruce Wayne’s Batcave.
(then)
F.X.R. is a very rich man who pretends to be all-knowing and all-seeing when it comes to his vast empire. Accent on, line under, italicize pretends. Here’s something none of his millions of admirers, acolytes, influence peddlers, and brownnosers understand about El Jefe—he couldn’t make his own lunch given a kaiser roll, cold cuts, and a jar of mayonnaise. His head is in the clouds because that brain of his is so damn full of the knuckleheaded schemes that pay off so well. So, we are here—you and I—to make the life he leads possible. I to work twenty-two-hour days at his beck and call. You to prep his meals and taste-test them for poison. I’m kidding. About the poison. Or am I?
Ding! They are on the 101st floor.
INT. SERVICE HALL, 101ST FLOOR—SAME It’s a long hall!
MS. MERCURY
(still smiling)
Tell me you have his breakfast order perfect or I’ll cripple you.
NICHOLAS
I had it all set. The seven-grain organic granola, sliced mango and pineapple, tomato juice and cinnamon cafe au lait. But then…
MS. MERCURY
(smile? Vanished!)
But then?
NICHOLAS
Half hour ago he messaged the kitchen.
MS. MERCURY
Show me the message!
Nicholas shows her his Watch/Computer:
FXR: Stove Team —Flag on play—Me want griddle cakes!
MS. MERCURY (CONT’D)
Griddle cakes! GRIDDLE CAKES? No no no no!
She lifts a cover! There, on a plate: griddle cakes. Also known as pancakes.
MS. MERCURY (CONT’D)
Jiminy Expletive! Those are griddle cakes!
NICHOLAS
With boysenberry syrup.
Ms. Mercury is now beside herself with worry.
MS. MERCURY
Oh, Nicky—Nicky. This is not a good sign. My day may have just been ruined, and I tell you this—if I’m going down today I am taking you with me.
NICHOLAS
Because of griddle cakes? I didn’t do anything! I’m new here!
MS. MERCURY
The Boss only orders cakes from the griddle when he’s antsy with ideas. I’ll have to arrange an expedition to the fjords of Iceland for thirty of F.X.R.’s closest friends so he can paddle a kayak in open water. Or have a zip line assembled over the gorges of the rain forest in Uganda so anyone can look down and see chimpanzees in the wild go by. Or make sure every employee of Olympus is shackled to…
(the Watch/Computer)
…one of these things. And I’ve actually had to make real those very orders. Griddle cakes mean I’m getting a work assignment that wouldn’t make sense to hamsters. Griddle cakes have just ruined my already miserable day.
NICHOLAS
Why do you do this job?
MS. MERCURY
I have no answer to that question other than my big honker of a paycheck.
They are at the door of the only hotel room on the 101st floor.
MS. MERCURY (CONT’D)
Set up by the fake waterfall. Straighten your name
tag. And smile. He likes employees who look like they love their jobs.
She pauses. Takes a breath and changes her demeanor to a sunny smile. Her ability to transform this way is frightening.
She knocks…and enters.
INT. PENTHOUSE—DAY
A snazzy place, complete with a fake waterfall, state-of-the-art exercise equipment, wall-size video screen in front of a row of vintage movie-theater chairs. The windows look out on most of Las Vegas.
MS. MERCURY
(happy as could be)
I have griddle cakes for the big boss man!
F.X.R. rises from his computer workstation.
F.X.R.
That was fast.
MS. MERCURY
You always say that!
Nicholas sets up the room service table.
F.X.R.
You Nicholas?
(reading the name tag)
Looks like it. Welcome aboard. What happened to O’Shay?
MS. MERCURY
O’Shay’s wife had that baby, remember? And yes, I already sent over a new crib and a cold-water humidifier, along with two full-time nurses.
F.X.R. sits for his griddle cakes.
F.X.R.
Look at these beauties. If they were made in a pan, they’re pancakes. A griddle, and they are griddle cakes. Were these made in a pan or on a griddle, Nico?
NICHOLAS
I didn’t actually see, sir. I’m new here.
F.X.R.
Sir? Around here I’m plain old F.X.
(then)
I say they’re griddle cakes.
(he pours the berry syrup)
Ms. Mercury. I don’t know what was on the docket for today but cancel everything.
MS. MERCURY
Last time you said that you had me tramping through Mississippi so you could buy up every kenaf farm in the Delta.
F.X.R.
Think I nailed down the place for the Solar Pipeline Facility.
MS. MERCURY
Wow. No kidding. Super.
She sighs and plops herself down on the couch. She starts swiping around the Internet on her Watch/Computer.
(to herself)
Gonna be a long day…
F.X.R. picks up his plate and walks to the computers, pulls up images, and points with his fork dripping with boysenberry.
F.X.R.
Shepperton Dry Creek ain’t nothing much now. Flat, wide. Dusty. But, a miracle of Mother Nature that gets more sunshine than Taylor Swift gets Facebook likes.
MS. MERCURY
(Ms. Mercury is “LIKING” a post on Taylor Swift’s Facebook page)
That’s a lot.
F.X.R.
Old Route 88 cuts close to Shepperton Dry Creek.
MS. MERCURY
Does it? I don’t know anything.
F.X.R.
Someone enterprising is going to start buying up the land along that stretch of highway for the influx of traffic it’s gonna bring.
MS. MERCURY
(bored, examining nails)
Uh-huh.
F.X.R.
So, let’s get goin’.
MS. MERCURY
Goin’ where?
F.X.R.
Along old Route 88. It’ll be fun! Just like that trip we took in Costa Rica on the Pan-American Highway to collect spiders.
MS. MERCURY
Yeah. That was a blast. I was bitten.
F.X.R.
You healed.
MS. MERCURY
Make Nick go with you today.
F.X.R.
I can’t boss Nick around. He’s in the union.
(then)
You are in the union, right?
NICHOLAS
I am, sir. Er, F.X.
MS. MERCURY
Why can’t you get married and make your wife do this stuff?
F.X.R.
I don’t need a wife. I have you, Ms. Mercury. Wives don’t put up with guys like me.
MS. MERCURY
But I have to? I’ve got too many things to do right here to keep your empire afloat.
F.X.R.
A road trip will do us both good.
She throws up her hands.
MS. MERCURY
You see, Nicholas! You and your griddle cakes!
NICHOLAS
What did I do?
F.X.R.
What did Nick do?
MS. MERCURY
One of these days I’m gonna quit this job and do something dignified, like professional water skiing…
(typing on her Watch/Computer)
I’ll get the jet ready.
F.X.R.
The big jet and the little jet. You take the little one and scrounge up some ground transpo. I’ll come in the big jet after I’ve done my workout.
MS. MERCURY
Whatever you wish, O Titan of Industry. Which fantasy automobile do you want to add to the warehouse? A Monza? Surfer Woodie?
F.X.R.
Let’s keep a low profile to blend in with the locals. The economy bypassed that part of the nation.
(pulls out a wad of cash)
Get me whatever car eight hundred dollars can purchase.
MS. MERCURY
Eight hundred dollars? For a car? It’ll be a hunk of junk!
F.X.R. pulls out a few more bills.
F.X.R.
Make it eight fifty.
(pulls a twenty)
Nick? For you.
Nicholas takes the money.
NICHOLAS
Thank you, Mister F.X.
CUT TO:
EXT. AIRFIELD, SOMEWHERE IN THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE—DAY
A single landing strip and a weathered Field Business Office. Not many aircraft land at this place. But look here…
A Big Jet is taxiing up beside a parked Little Jet. Both planes have the Olympus logo painted on the sides.
Ms. Mercury—still in her black on black—sits behind the wheel of a 1970s-era Buick convertible with the top down.
The stairs of the Big Jet pop open, and there is F.X.R. in clothes he thinks the common people wear—a fruity-looking western shirt with too much piping tucked into an old pair of Jordache designer jeans, a belt with a huge Marlboro cigarettes belt buckle, and flame-red cowboy boots.
He wears a too-perfectly-broken-in John Deere cap and has a straw cowboy hat in his hand.
MS. MERCURY
Hey, Duke, or Bo, or whoever you are. Is my boss in that plane?
F.X.R.
(re: his costume)
Pretty good, huh? Authenticity is the key.
MS. MERCURY
Glad some of the casino showgirls let you raid their dressing room.
F.X.R.
(re: the car)
How’s she running?
MS. MERCURY
I’ve burned half a tank of gas and a pint of oil just driving from the lot. Good news is, I bargained down to seven hundred bucks.
F.X.R.
Put the change in petty cash. Here.
(the cowboy hat)
Blend in!
He plops the hat on her head.
F.X.R. (CONT’D)
(laughing)
Don’t we look great?
MS. MERCURY
All that fortune and your idea of fun is dressing up like a poor mortal with no fashion sense. I can arrange this to be permanent. Just give me all your money and you’ll live happily ever after.
F.X.R. runs around to the passenger seat, trying to hop in over the door. He lands in a heap on the front seat, one foot hooked on the door.
MS. MERCURY (CONT’D)
Gangway for adventure!
She hits the gas and the car spins out and away, spewing dust and gravel.
MUSIC: “I’ve Been Everywhere” by Hank Snow
EXT. HIGHWAY 88—LATER
The Buick chugs along down the highway. F.X.R. smiles into the wind.
F.X.R.
I should get out of that penthouse more often!
MS. M
ERCURY
Two weeks ago you were boogie boarding on the Great Barrier Reef!
F.X.R.
To see America. Don’t see enough of my native land. Open road. Big sky. Asphalt ribbon with nothing but a dotted line and the horizon. I love this country! God help me, but I do love it so!
(then)
It’s good for the soul to come down from the mountaintop sometimes, Ms. Mercury. Otherwise, all you see are the tops of mountains. I should put that in a memo to all the employees.
MS. MERCURY
Do that. It would inspire us all.
(then)
So, where are we going, cochise?
Sending a message from his Watch to hers…
F.X.R.
Here. A little town called Phrygia.
(he tries three different pronunciations)
Population 102.
WATCH: Photos, facts, information about Phrygia…
F.X.R. (CONT’D)
Formerly a major stop on Route 88 that once billed itself as America’s Hospitality Capital. Let’s see how hospitable they are to the likes of us.
MS. MERCURY
Before you buy up every square inch and acre.
(studying her Watch)
Oh, hell. This drive will take us hours! I’m gonna fry!
EXT. A HUGE SIGN—Faded, ancient, with broken neon tubes and peeling paint that says motel olympus…
Still barely visible are the large figures of a man and woman, both waving to nonexistent traffic, calling out in sun-bleached letters “Stay with us!”
MUSIC: “Que Te Vaya Bonito” on an accordion
SUBTITLES IN ENGLISH OF THE SPANISH LYRICS
“I don’t know if your absence will kill me
even if my chest is made of steel…”
CUT TO:
EXT. MOTEL OLYMPUS, PHRYGIA—DAY—SAME
Nothing at all like its namesake in Las Vegas…Nothing at all.
Like the sign, the Motel Olympus has seen better days. The best that can be said of it? It’s clean.
The MUSIC is coming from JESUS HILDALGO, who plays the final bars of a song so beautiful it even sounds great on an accordion.
SUBTITLES: “But no one will call me a coward
Without knowing how much I love her…”
An old couple—PHIL and BEA (yes, that’s them on the sign)—applaud as Jesus packs away his instrument and loads it into his old pickup truck.
