The Building in 6 Scenes
By James Bezerra
In reality, the building is old.
Two stories of damp brick resting on a story of gray stone and masonry.
Pre-war.
Which war?
Who could know these things?
Which wars?
Twenty small units inside. The wood floors still original, largely. Inartful patchwork ribbons of wood around the radiators, which were replaced after one of the wars, but before one of the others. In 205, the second floor at the back corner, facing out at the rainy dog park, an obese cat like a roly-poly panther, weighs enough to make the floors creak as she trumbles over to the window, focuses up at the windowsill, tenses her girthy body. Leaps. Lands there, skitteringly. Plops her body and gazes out at the dogs; dashing, darting, leaping. Dogs. Idiots.
In the French New Wave story of the building, the aluminum sink - clearly not original - leaks. It drips. It drips. It drips.
It drips.
It.
Drips.
Drip.
The woman who lives in this entirely black and white apartment - 306 in the back, also facing the park, but in the center of the side of the building - is a typical femme. She leans against the soft old wood of the window frame. She gazes out, her small mug of black coffee in one hand. A hand-rolled cigarette in the other. Her silk robe drawn only loosely across her body. She is looking out at a man playing with his dog as she might once have with a child. He is simple in is good looks. He looks up and sees her looking at him. They share this gaze together. Because rain is tittering the glass of the window, he can not tell if she is crying, but he thinks that she is. He calls to his dog and he leaves the park.
In the Noir story of this building, the men wait in 301, third floor at the front right corner. From there they can peer down into the street at the parking spots below. The men have the lights off, so that she will not know that people are in her home. One of the men is tied to a chair. His own desk chair. He is bleeding from his face, which is pulpy, but this scene is not violent. All the violence has already happened or is about to.
The other two men - one of them has big bloody knuckles, the other has a gun - are smoking the cigarettes they found in the desk. “When does she normally get home?” One of the men asks.
“She’s not coming home tonight,” the man in the chair tries to weakly lie, which is brave in its useless way, because he knows it means they will hit him again.
In the Horror film version, the camera is low on a dolly and moves frictionlessly around the halls, looking slightly up. It is the glide of a small ghost around the building. The shot moves through a door and into 108, first floor at the front corner of the building. Bars on the windows because these windows are at street-level. The building having been built back when such a thing was not terrifying.
The ghost shot comes slowly to rest on a blacked out corner of of the closet where there are small skittering animal noises. Rats fighting there in the darkness. Shrill little squeaks, aggressive. One rat dashes away. Slowly a larger, grislier rat wanders out of the dark corner. It is dragging something, a wet tendril of some kind. It wanders further from the darkness. The tendril is an optic nerve, a small pretty human eye dragging at the end.
In the American romantic comedy, the building always smells like cookies.
“I love my new building,” she says into her cell phone as she checks her mail, “it always smells like cookies.” She is exactly as young and vibrant and charming and plastic-perfect as she is supposed to be.
She reaches back into the metal shoot of her mail box and a quizzical expression passes across her face, “Did you send me a package?” She says into her phone.
She removes a small box.
“Oh,” she says, “you didn’t. It isn’t for me. It is for my neighbor.”
She knocks on the door of 205. The man who opens the door is exactly as young and vibrant and charming and plastic-perfect as he is supposed to be. The fall in love, experience some initial difficulties, then overcome them and everything is perfect, more or less, forever.
In the documentary, they open with an establishing shot of the building. It is two stories of damp brick resting on a story of gray stone and masonry. Cut to a lingering shot of the front door of the building. The door opens, a French woman steps out and puts on her very dark sunglasses. She moves left out of frame.
The door falls slowly closed behind her.
A young couple, clearly in love, enter from the right side of the frame, carrying grocery sacks brimming with fresh and colorful things. They pull the door open and go inside.
The door falls slowly closed.
It goes on like this for awhile.
Two large, hulking men exit the building, hands in their pockets, and shuffle hurriedly away.
The door falls slowly closed.
A couple of rats skitter through the corner of the shot.
The voice over begins:
In reality, the building is old.
Two stories of damp brick resting on a story of gray stone and masonry.
Pre-war.
Which war?
Who could know these things?
Which wars?
Twenty small units inside. The wood floors still original, largely. Inartful patchwork ribbons of wood around the radiators, which were replaced after one of the wars, but before one of the others. In 205, the second floor at the back corner, facing out at the rainy dog park, an obese cat like a roly-poly panther, weighs enough to make the floors creak as she trumbles over to the window, focuses up at the windowsill, tenses her girthy body. Leaps. Lands there, skitteringly. Plops her body and gazes out at the dogs; dashing, darting, leaping. Dogs. Idiots.
CUT
In the French New Wave story of the building, the aluminum sink - clearly not original - leaks. It drips. It drips. It drips.
It drips.
It.
Drips.
Drip.
The woman who lives in this entirely black and white apartment - 306 in the back, also facing the park, but in the center of the side of the building - is a typical femme. She leans against the soft old wood of the window frame. She gazes out, her small mug of black coffee in one hand. A hand-rolled cigarette in the other. Her silk robe drawn only loosely across her body. She is looking out at a man playing with his dog as she might once have with a child. He is simple in is good looks. He looks up and sees her looking at him. They share this gaze together. Because rain is tittering the glass of the window, he can not tell if she is crying, but he thinks that she is. He calls to his dog and he leaves the park.
CUT
In the Noir story of this building, the men wait in 301, third floor at the front right corner. From there they can peer down into the street at the parking spots below. The men have the lights off, so that she will not know that people are in her home. One of the men is tied to a chair. His own desk chair. He is bleeding from his face, which is pulpy, but this scene is not violent. All the violence has already happened or is about to.
The other two men - one of them has big bloody knuckles, the other has a gun - are smoking the cigarettes they found in the desk. “When does she normally get home?” One of the men asks.
“She’s not coming home tonight,” the man in the chair tries to weakly lie, which is brave in its useless way, because he knows it means they will hit him again.
CUT
In the Horror film version, the camera is low on a dolly and moves frictionlessly around the halls, looking slightly up. It is the glide of a small ghost around the building. The shot moves through a door and into 108, first floor at the front corner of the building. Bars on the windows because these windows are at street-level. The building having been built back when such a thing was not terrifying.
The ghost shot comes slowly to rest on a blacked out corner of of the closet where there are small skittering animal noises. Rats fighting there in the darkness. Shrill little squeaks, aggressive. One rat dashes away. Slowly a larger, grislier rat wanders out of the dark corner. It is dragging something, a wet tendril of some kind. It wanders further from the darkness. The tendril is an optic nerve, a small pretty human eye dragging at the end.
CUT
In the American romantic comedy, the building always smells like cookies.
“I love my new building,” she says into her cell phone as she checks her mail, “it always smells like cookies.” She is exactly as young and vibrant and charming and plastic-perfect as she is supposed to be.
She reaches back into the metal shoot of her mail box and a quizzical expression passes across her face, “Did you send me a package?” She says into her phone.
She removes a small box.
“Oh,” she says, “you didn’t. It isn’t for me. It is for my neighbor.”
She knocks on the door of 205. The man who opens the door is exactly as young and vibrant and charming and plastic-perfect as he is supposed to be. The fall in love, experience some initial difficulties, then overcome them and everything is perfect, more or less, forever.
CUT
In the documentary, they open with an establishing shot of the building. It is two stories of damp brick resting on a story of gray stone and masonry. Cut to a lingering shot of the front door of the building. The door opens, a French woman steps out and puts on her very dark sunglasses. She moves left out of frame.
The door falls slowly closed behind her.
A young couple, clearly in love, enter from the right side of the frame, carrying grocery sacks brimming with fresh and colorful things. They pull the door open and go inside.
The door falls slowly closed.
It goes on like this for awhile.
Two large, hulking men exit the building, hands in their pockets, and shuffle hurriedly away.
The door falls slowly closed.
A couple of rats skitter through the corner of the shot.
The voice over begins:
V.O.
It is a pre-war building ...
.
.
.
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