This script tells the story of a street corner sign guy who seeks a higher calling through his craft. This was a finalist in the 2012 Willamette Writers Script-to-Film writing competition.
Click here to view/download the PDF
This script tells the story of a street corner sign guy who seeks a higher calling through his craft. This was a finalist in the 2012 Willamette Writers Script-to-Film writing competition.
Click here to view/download the PDF
Real-time account of a Zombie Researcher who goes to great lengths to transform himself so he can infiltrate, live with, and study a tribe of zombies.
Written via posts on Twitter here (or click on the image below)
The BEARDs of PDX
By J. Pete Fulford
***
Portland, OR
April 27, 2014
10:34 a.m.
“Let me see your face.”
The doorman reached out and grabbed my cheeks with one hand, then moved my head back and forth.
“A little splotchy,” he said.
I was sporting 5 days of growth. Didn’t have much to show for it though. We stood outside an old warehouse in the abandoned part of downtown. I looked up the street. No cars, no pedestrians, every other street light worked. Behind the doorman was a steel door with a camera above his head. The little red light was on. They were watching.
“I want to be cool, like you,” I said.
I expected him to smile, but the dude was all business. Besides, it was difficult to see his mouth behind all that hair. His beard was glorious, long and golden. It spilled out of his chin like a cascading waterfall. He wasn’t a big guy, but he had the look of Rasputin, of Tolstoy, a scruffy bearded maverick of masculinity, serenity, and wisdom. He wore a tight red t-shirt, skinny black jeans, and a yellow beanie. His name was Matt. I’d done my research.
“Got any evidence?” Matt said. “Photographs? Someone I can call?”
There was no one in my past that could vouch for my ability to grow a beard. Never had one. I was hoping he could see my potential. But Matt wanted proof.
“Come on man,” I said. “You know I got it in me.”
I spoke with a slack face, kind of slurring a bit. I leaned over to one side, let my eyes go half-mast, and thought of a Joy Division song. Matt had a pained look in his eyes. His brows were furrowed, moving up and down like they wanted to reach across the forehead and fist bump each other. I wasn’t fooling anyone. He read me like a McSweeney’s Internet Tendency.
“That’s not how it works,” he said. “You gotta be a member.”
I wasn’t getting anywhere with my weak ass beard, so I threw all my cards on the table.
“I know what you do here,” I said, looking down at the ground, kicking at nothing in particular.
“You do huh?” Matt said, lighting a cigarette.
“Yeah, I know about the Brotherhood.”
Matt laughed, and blew smoke off to the side. He was cool, but I sensed a kink in his armor. He laughed a little…too quickly.
“And you’re Matt Hennington. Originally from Detroit. Went to Art School there but came out to Portland about 3 years ago for a better life for your wife and young son Wolfgang, or, Wolfie as you call him.”
Matt dropped his smoke and took a step forward. His beard seemed to leap out in front of him, saying: “Step back.” I stepped back. Didn’t want that thing to smother me.
“Who the fuck are you?” he said.
“Bumble Bee Black Fish Interstate Madness. Time to save the world.”
That was the ticket, the secret password I’d thrown down $500 for. Matt’s eyes got big.
“I just want to be cool,” I said. “Like you and all the other Beards.”
Matt looked up to the camera, and shrugged his shoulders. The door buzzed, and he ushered me in. And there I was, standing in the halls of the most powerful and well-hid secret society in the world – The Brotherhood of Enlightened Artisans for Revolutionary Development (BEARDs).
***
Portland BEARDs are unlike any other brand of hipster. Brooklyn has some top of the line cool kids, as does Austin, Berkeley, and Seattle. But Portland Beardos are on a different plane altogether. They’re not exactly hipsters anyway. More like saviors of the world. Yeah, laugh all you want. You don’t know what’s going on behind all that facial hair. The Portland BEARDs may appear to be slackers, vain wannabes holding on to the grunge era by a few strands of facial hair. But in truth, they’re the only ones that can save us.
***
At the base of every one of the downtown Portland bridges are small underwater meeting rooms. These several hundred-year-old rooms have been meeting places for the BEARD Society since before the bridges were even built. Seems the Society had the bases configured long before the outside world had even thought of building bridges across the river. In fact, it was an early version of the BEARDs that introduced the concept that Portland would be the City of Bridges – an apt metaphor for their ongoing mission.
It all started with a young bearded engineer named Richard Ekin. Ekin was a sailor who made two trips around the world, formulating his philosophy from a wide range of wise men along the way. He came to Oregon as second mate in a ship commanded by Captain John H. Couch, arriving March 3rd, 1842. For reasons unknown at the time, Ekin jumped ship and settled in Marion County where he married and took up farming and saddle making. Ekin and another immigrant – John Casey – soon started regular secret meetups with an Indian warrior by the name of Buffalo Face. Buffalo Face – the only bearded Indian known in the Great Northwest – was somewhat of a celebrity within the tribes of the region. He also had a penchant for predicting the future. Together they formed the first band of BEARDs, which has since grown to 323 (324 if I play my cards right) members as of today.
***
The floor was buzzing with activity. Bearded men, and even a few women with facial hair, ran around with purpose as if a deadline was looming. No one greeted me or paid me much attention, so I was free to walk around and see once and for all what they were up to. The room was huge, a gigantic warehouse space. Along the east wall were rows of workstations where BEARDs stared at monitors and moved and clicked their keyboards frantically. There were forklifts moving large crates and golf carts carrying supplies here and there. There were BEARDs walking around with laptops attached to their torso. Others sat in the corner on top of boxes, working on tablets and in deep discussion. It was a bustling factory with sounds of hurried footsteps and a cacophony of conversations masking piped in music. Occasionally, announcements were made that made no sense to me – “Pipeline Hootie and the Blowfish in bad decline. Shareholders gather in Onus Dreamworld 569.” What the hell was everyone doing? None of it made sense. On the workstation monitors I saw maps with different colored circles in various regions. But every time I tried to look closer, the BEARDs at the computers turned their monitors away from me. “What are you all doing?” I finally asked.
“We’re saving the world,” said a voice behind me. “But you knew that already.”
I turned around and saw…Him. It was Him. Really Him. The legend was true. Him was radiant, magical, omniscient, but at the same time looked like a normal everyday slacker with a beard. It was very difficult to accurately describe this man – the leader of the BEARDs – the one they called Him. In my research, I’d read somewhere that he spelled his name H-Y-M-N. But I didn’t ask about that. I was too mesmerized. What a glorious man.
“So you want to be a part of what we’re doing here,” Him said.
“I do.”
He nodded and smiled. Two BEARDs stood on either side of him, staring at me with judging eyes. I felt like I was in high school.
“I want to be cool like you,” I said. “Like all of you.”
That was the not-so secret phrase that let the BEARDs know that you were open to their mission. Him smiled and took me in his arms. In his embrace I saw it all, and for a moment it was all so clear.
“The tragedy of our questing is that we know not what we are seeking,” Him said. “Do you now see our mission?”
“Yes. I do.”
I realized in an instant that they weren’t about saving our society. That would be impossible. Instead a whisper was needed when people were sleeping, a nudge or a subtle suggestion. It was the only way it would work. A little guidance was all they needed.
“Our mission is get people to wake up, to show them the truth in everything, in everyone. Soon they will realize that they ARE the truth – a vibrant, living universe.”
Him then pulled out a small mirror and showed me my face. My beard had grown 3 inches. I was one of them. I stared past my new hipster facial hair and into my own eyes, allowing myself to enjoy this moment. Mission One, infiltrate the BEARDs, was accomplished. Mission Two, initiate their downfall, had just begun.
The Boy with Unappreciated Super Powers
Unless you lived in the neighborhood, you would’ve never guessed that young Matty Henderson was capable of magic, let alone a burgeoning super hero. He just didn’t look the part. You’d say he was too plain looking, too frail, nothing at all magical about him. You’d think he was just another average and ordinary kid in the neighborhood. You’d be wrong too.
Matty had short, straight, reddish blonde hair, and always carried a serious look on his face. Occasionally, depending on his mood, he wore a sleeveless white shirt with a huge red star right on his chest. On the rarest of occasions, he added a red mask and a cape to the ensemble. But no matter what he wore though, this boy with super hero powers seemed completely non-heroic.
Everyone, and I mean everyone, in the neighborhood knew about Matty’s super powers. In fact, they came to depend on his heroics. Matty used his super powers to save pets, heal bumps and bruises, even catch criminals. These situations took a lot out of the boy. He was constantly exhausted from all the work. But the neighbors didn’t care. They demanded that their resident super hero cater to their foolishness. In fact, just yesterday, the boy with super hero powers was again called into action.
It was a sunny day, birds chirped and a warm wind blew from the west. Little rays of sun peeked through the trees making little designs on the sidewalk. Matty walked home from school with his head down, navigating around the sunspots, hopping every once in a while, making a little game of it. No mask or red cape this time, just jeans and a red hoodie pulled up over his head. He wanted to get home without having to perform any miracles. But wouldn’t you know it, through some unwanted gift of serendipity, a car accident occurred right at the next corner. Matty witnessed the whole thing. The sound of the crash reverberated throughout the whole neighborhood, tires screeching just before the grotesque explosion of metal crunching together, followed by the sound of steam, leaking fluids, and screams from onlookers. Matty sighed.
“Not again,” he said to himself.
Matty calmly walked up to the burning wreckage. Steam billowed up and a small fire fumed from one of the cars. Both vehicles were completely mangled together, a twisted mix of burning steel. In one car, two teenagers were unconscious and slumped over the dash. In the other car, an elderly man stared right at the boy, pleading for help with only his eyes. Almost immediately, the boy super hero went to work.
Matty took a deep breath and lifted his hands high up in the sky, as far as they could reach, and started waving his hands frantically like a conductor directing an orchestra. His eyes were wide and his lips terse. Faint bits of light shot out of his outstretched fingers, bending the twisted metal of the cars. This was a heavy job for the boy, and he grew weaker as he struggled to move the metal. Matty created an opening just large enough for the elderly man to escape from. Then he literally pulled the elderly man to safety using only his mind powers. The man actually floated out of the car and high into the air. But before he could place him down safely in the grass, an exhausted Matty passed out.
“Wake up, wake up.”
When Matty woke up he realized he was being shaken by some of the neighbors. He rubbed his eyes, stood up, and looked around the for the elderly man. The wreckage was still there, but the man wasn’t. Where was he? Matty heard shouting from above, and looked up to see the elderly man sitting twenty feet up in a large oak tree.
“Get me down from here you nincompoop,” he yelled.
“Why did you put him up there?” said an onlooker. “Don’t you know what you’re doing?”
Apparently Matty accidently put the man high up in a tree, rather than placing him safely on the sidewalk. Matty wanted to help the old man, but time was of the essence for the trapped teenagers. So he closed his eyes and focused on them by reaching deep within to harness more magic. Soon the steering wheel moved off the young man and the dash pulled away from the young woman’s chest. With his eyes closed, arms stretched out and his body shaking, Matty unfolded the twisted wreckage and, using all his power, lifted the windshield off the car. Two brave onlookers then rushed in and helped pull the lifeless bodies from the wreckage. Matty carefully balanced the partially shattered windshield high in the air, moved it away from the burning car, and placed it softly in the grass, right on top of a small kitten.
“Shit,” he muttered under his breath.
“You killed the kitty,” a woman yelled.
“Sorry,” Matty said.
“Get me down,” yelled the old man in the tree.
“Sorry, sorry.”
Matty was then alerted that the young teenagers weren’t breathing, so he got down next to them and breathed life straight into the young girl’s mouth, then did the same to the young man. Instantly, the young man and woman coughed a few times and looked up at the boy. They were not happy.
“Are we alive?” the young man said.
“Yes, you’re alive,” an onlooker said. “You’re ok now.”
“Dammit, you were supposed to let us die,” the young man said as he shoved the boy away. “We had just gotten into heaven you idiot.”
“And you just pulled us right back down to reality,” the young woman said. “Thanks a lot.”
They got up, dusted themselves off, and stood over Matty with their hands on their hips.
“Now we gotta deal with my dad,” the young man said. “What a fine mess you left us to deal with.”
“Sorry,” said Matty.
The man in the tree still teetered on a branch high above the crowd.
“Hey you moron,” he yelled. “Get me down. Get me down this instant. Can’t you save people without screwing things up?”
The family of the flattened kitten weren’t happy either.
“You smushed Mr. Whiskers,” the mother said. “Bring him back to life. You bring Mr. Whiskers back to life this instant.”
Matty carefully lifted the windshield off the cat and gently set it aside. He then knelt down and breathed life into the limp animal. Instantly, Mr. Whiskers jumped up, coughed up a bloody hairball, and scampered away. The boy was on his hands and knees in the grass, breathing in and out, completely exhausted. Right about then, the fire truck arrived to put out the burning cars. They also propped a ladder in the tree and helped the old man in the tree down to safety.
The neighborhood folks, including the old man, the teenage couple, assorted onlookers, and even the Fire Chief, stood over the boy wagging their fingers, giving him the business.
“Before you go saving any more lives,” the Fire Chief said, “You should really think about being more careful. Maybe some practice would do you good. Son, what you do isn’t safe. Do you hear me? Are you listening to me?”
The boy stared straight down at the little puddle of blood that had leaked from Mr. Whiskers. He wasn’t listening.
It was like this every time he saved lives. The people he saved didn’t care that he was young and still learning to use his powers. They wanted perfection—a boy who not only saved lives, but that did it perfectly, and in a way that suited their needs. But Matty wasn’t a mind reader. He didn’t know what thoughts people harbored deep in their soul. He just saved lives. And while he was learning, the world wanted more.