INT. AIRPORT BAR LOUNGE – MID DAY
His heart skips a beat as the intercom sounds – FLIGHT #4717. It wasn’t his number. He takes out a prescription for Valium. Throws his head back, gulps.
STEVEN (42) exhales slowly letting his fingers dance along the edge of the COUNTER TOP. CASEY (45) advances, clipboard in hand, and sits next to him.
Are you going to read that?
He gestures to the half wrinkled newspaper sitting between them.
He tosses the paper in the trash. Perturbed, Steven pretends not to notice.
I thought you didn’t want to read it.
You look bothered.
Casey flashes a smirk and heads to a nearby newspaper stand. He returns moments later with another paper in hand, drops it in Steven’s lap.
That’s today’s paper, in case you needed something to read.
Steven tosses the paper aside.
Guess you’ve already seen the headline then?
The Canadiens lost
(reaches into pocket)
here’s a ten,
(throws it at him)
now fuck off and go piss on someone else who’s more interested.
I just need a few minutes of your time.
For what? There’s seven hundred other people in the airport that you can harass for free. Why the hell am I so special?
(glances at briefcase)
employed, frequent flyer; I just need a few minutes of your time ,then I’ll go, and you can get back to your solace Mr…
(Glances at open passport)
(Slams passport closed)
I said I wasn’t interested. Leave now, or I’ll get security to tase your ass.
They sit, Steven disinterested, Casey amused, a tooth pick at the corner of his mouth.
A bartender appears.
A bit early for that isn’t it? The sun’s barely even out. Our bartender here
(leans in, squints to read the name tag)
Reginald, hasn’t even opened the blinds on the chin shade he’s shamefully sporting.
The scotch arrives. In his peripheral, Steven spots an armed security guard canvassing the lounge. He waves him over. The guard glances at Casey, nods, smiles, waves. Casey waves back.
This is fucking unbelievable.
(Takes a swig of his scotch)
…an inside job,
Mr. Dunlop, I don’t know what you think I’m attempting to do here –
You fucking stalker… you’re a sick pervert who’s got nothing better to do than stalk people in airports; grab their credit card numbers, their SIN numbers, claim double indemnity when they wind up dead.
My name is Casey Anderson. I work with the Airport Board on commission. I’m part of a non for profit marketing firm hired solely on the basis of customer satisfaction. My only purpose here is to collect data to improve the efficiency of service. That is all. You were chosen because you were the luck of the draw. Out of pure coincidence, your name was drawn out of the seven hundred and fifty people that fly with us, daily. As a courtesy, we ask that you participate in our customer service survey for the betterment of our airline.
(takes another swig of scotch)
just go ahead.
So, where are you headed?
Steven remains silent.
Hmph, sounds expensive.
Silicon Beach? Yeah, I’ve been there a few times….sweet smelling sea salt for miles. Is this your first time going?
Casey gestures to Steven’s suitcase.
– That’s none of yours.
Steven stands, shuffles with his briefcase. Casey stands, gives him a once over.
And how would you rate our, overall service; out of five, if you will.
out of five.
The intercom sounds – FLIGHT #4827 to San Diego.
That’s you, isn’t it?
Yeah, um –
(Picks up briefcase, stumbles)
(helps him up)
Thank you for your time Mr. Dunlop.
Hey, it was my pleasure.
His eyes follow Steven as he hurriedly makes his way to the gate.
(takes a swig of the remaining scotch)
Casey breathes in deep, glances at a nearby ATM.
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