PEACE, LOVE AND BOMBS 8


EXT. STREETS OF NEW ROCHELLE – DAY

A black 1967 GT 500 Shelby Mustang with silver-grey
hood and trunk stripes tears around a corner from a
side street near the Pelham border and heads east on
Main.

INT. MUSTANG – DRIVER’S POV

Franco winds out second gear and shifts smoothly into
third, cutting past slower cars and easing the Hurst
shifter into fourth. Cruising around 50, he checks his
rear-view mirror for a tail and smiles, opening up to
65. Ahead, he spots the silver MGC along the curb,
downshifts twice, pulls up behind it and stops. He sits
a minute, head resting on the steering wheel, engine
idling, drops the stick into reverse, pulls the parking
brake and shuts the car off.

FRANCO
(to himself)
I gotta be outta my mind.

He gets out and walks toward the corner shop. Dressed
in a black leather jacket over a tight fitting light
blue cotton crew neck shirt, neatly pressed black
woolen dress pants and black shoes, he enters the head
shop, his thick brown hair combed back and styled
impeccably.

INT. RECORD STORE/ART GALLERY/HEAD SHOP – DAY

Inside, he stops and takes a breath, spotting plumes of
jasmine wafting from an ornate thurible. The sound of
Dylan’s, “Subterranean Homesick Blues” cranks from
speakers posted perfectly around incongruously clashing
hues.

No patrons in the shop, the register unattended, he
ventures deeper in, stopping at a rack overstocked with
books, magazines and newspapers. Captivated by the
tangle of prison bars, train tracks, dollar signs,
cages and fantastical images emblazoned on the cover,
he picks up a copy of the “East Village Other,” dated
October 6, 1970, and begins flipping through the pages.

A young woman dressed in a red-violet poncho, strings
of multi-colored beads, blue jeans and black work
boots, her reddish brown hair so plentiful you could
see but a glimmer of chalk white skin between adeptly
parted waves, emerges from a back room and sits down at
the register, not seeing he had wandered in.

Franco puts the paper down and reaches for a water
pipe. Hearing him, she leans over the counter to take a
look, pulls back and ducks her head behind the
register. Crouching out of sight, she gathers herself
and breathes deep. When she pops up to take another
look, he’s holding the pipe above his head, not knowing
what to make of it.

BIANCA STRASSER
Something I can help you with?

FRANCO
(turning)
Oh, hi. No. I mean yes. Maybe.

His answer makes her smile, though he barely sees her
face.

BIANCA
I have more, if you’d care to see
others.

FRANCO
(placing the pipe
carefully back)
No. I’m just looking. Maybe a
record album. Yeah, a record album.

BIANCA
You’re sure about that?

FRANCO
(smiling)
Yes.

She throws back her hair, so he could briefly see her
face.

BIANCA
What do you like?

FRANCO
(staring intently
at her)
Different things.

BIANCA
That doesn’t exactly narrow it down.

FRANCO
Oldies?

BIANCA
You tell me.

FRANCO
Doo wop? You have doo wop? Or R and
B? Motown? You don’t have that kind
of stuff.

BIANCA
You might be surprised.

FRANCO
Very.

BIANCA
(stepping from
behind the
counter)
Come.

She leads him down an aisle stocked with albums.

BIANCA
R and B. Soul. Motown. They start
with A over here.
(pointing)
And end up with the Zs on the other
side. All the 50s stuff, doo wop,
acappella, starts over there.

As he turns to look, his eye catches one of several
paintings mounted on the wall. It shows the back of a
woman, nude from the waist up, seated on a stool,
staring into a mirror at a black miniature poodle
sitting behind her, watching her brush her long brown
hair.

FRANCO
Pardon my asking, but are these
originals?

BIANCA
You know art?

FRANCO
(shaking his head)
Not at all.

She moves close to him, gently pressing her leg against
his. A petite five foot four, she loops her hair around
her ear and stares up at him, allowing him to look deep
into her green eyes.

BIANCA
You must see something you like.

FRANCO
(tenderly)
I suppose I do.

He turns and stares at the painting again.

FRANCO
For one thing, she’s beautiful. Her
hair. Her back. Her skin.
Everything. Perfect.
(back to Bianca)
I wonder what the artist had in
mind?

BIANCA
Something of herself, perhaps.

FRANCO
But why the dog?

BIANCA
I don’t know exactly. Sometimes the
artist doesn’t know.

FRANCO
Maybe the dog is like the frog that
turns into a prince.

BIANCA
(puzzled)
I don’t know.

A customer comes in the store.

BIANCA
Excuse me.

FRANCO
That’s ok. I can’t stay.

BIANCA
Come back. I’m sure you’ll find
what you want.

FRANCO
I never seem to.

BIANCA
Could be your luck’s changed.
(holding up two
fingers)
Peace.

FRANCO
Why not?

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About ldlagarino

I'm a somewhat retired tractor-trailer driver who loves the movies and always loved to write. I have time now. No excuses. I suppose it's only natural for me to lean toward screenwriting.
This entry was posted in 1970-1971, Love, New York, Peace, The Mob and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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