The Film

I decided to change coffee shops this morning. ‘Cause I wanted to check out one on the North Side I hadn’t in a while, and I needed a breath of fresh air.

Sitting here now.

My character in my film is from here. I wanted to absorb what I could. It was everything I wanted it to be and more. The coffee is good.


I let my mind wander. My brain was in its perfect creative state which includes altering from several outside means including a lack of sleep. I couldn’t stay in bed today even though I went to bed this morning I was too excited about my film.

And then it happened. Cars were passing uneventfully, which is the best kind of event for me; under a dim sky and wet street, which are the best sentimentally for a writer- when I saw a man, my age, baggy jeans and long red hoodie that somehow fit him perfectly around his starved face. He was walking slow, as I imagine is the only way one can walk when wearing pants like that. He was missing teeth which I could see ‘cause he was smiling. I saw a woman, overweight kind of all around, and following her, not holding anyone’s hands-which he was too young to not be doing- was a kid. Kid was wearing a hoodie like dad’s but pajama pants, like they were pickin’ him up from a babysitter somewhere in the neighborhood. That neighborhood. He couldn’t have been more than 2 or 3, 3 malnourished I was thinkin.’ But that was just me thinkin.’ He coulda been younger; his walk was still a little shaky. He hadn’t seen a bathtub in a hot minute.

His father had a clear bag fulla toys- bright primary colors, like they had picked those up when they had picked him up. And my mind went to all the places they coulda been while he was there. All those places.

They were lookin’ at him, smiling, sayin’ stuff I couldn’t hear, to get his attention, which they didn’t have.

The boy stopped by my window to bend down and pick up a stick- not more than a twig; and he held it up fascinated by it, like it was his new toy-of-the-moment, and like he was already used to entertaining himself all by himself.

My eyes were wide open. The glare on the glass probably made it so he didn’t even see me, and in a moment they were gone, though the scene left me shuddering from the chills that ran racecars through my veins for a long time after.

Some smooth classy jazz was playing in the background, as if that wasn’t already enough to do it me. The waitress brought me a refill without me even asking.

That’s the thing about being a writer, and especially a screenwriter, and a filmmaker at that- you watch great movies every goddamn day.