BLACK.
KNOCKING at a door and distant dog BARKING.
The rapping, at first tentative and polite, grows insistent. The sound of someone struggling to get out of bed is heard.
MILES (O.S.)
The fuck...
A DOOR is opened, and the black gives way to BLINDING WHITE LIGHT, the way one experiences the first glimpse of day amid, say, a hangover. A WORKER is there.
MILES (O.S.)
Yeah?
WORKER
Hi, Miles. Can you move your car, please?
MILES (O.S.)
Why?
WORKER
The painters got to put the truck in, and you didn't park too good.
MILES (O.S.)
(sighing)
Yeah, hold on.
He closes the door with a SLAM.
BLACK
TITLES: SATURDAY
EXT. MILES'S APARTMENT COMPLEX - DAY
TITLES: SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA
Wearing only underwear, a bathrobe and clogs, MILES RAYMOND (late thirties) comes out of his unit and heads toward the street. He passes some MEXICANS waiting to work.
He climbs into his twelve-year-old CONVERTIBLE SAAB, parked far from the curb and blocking part of the driveway. The car starts fitfully. As he pulls away, the guys begin backing up the truck.
EXT. STREET - DAY
Miles rounds the corner and finds a new parking spot.
INT. CAR - CONTINUOUS
He cuts the engine, exhales a long breath and brings his hands to his head in a gesture of headache pain or perhaps just anguish. He leans back in his seat, closes his eyes, and soon NODS OFF.
INT. MILES'S APARTMENT - DAY
The door bursts open and Miles darts into the kitchen.
MILES
Fuck!
FOCUS ON THE MICROWAVE CLOCK that reads 10:50.
ON THE PHONE --
Miles hurriedly throws clothes into a suitcase.
MILES
Yeah, no, I know I said I'd be there by noon, but there's been all this work going on at my building, and it's like a total nightmare, and I had a bunch of stuff to deal with this morning. But I'm on my way. I'm out the door right this second. It's going to be great. Yeah. Bye.
INT. MILES'S BATHROOM - DAY
ON THE TOILET --
Miles has a BOOK propped open on his knees. He turns a page, lost in his reading.
LATER --
Miles SHOWERS.
IN THE MIRROR --
Miles FLOSSES.
INT. COFFEE HOUSE - DAY
Miles finally makes it to the front of the line.
BARISTA
Hey, Miles.
MILES
Hey, Simon. Triple espresso, please.
BARISTA
Rough night, huh? (ringing it up)For here?
MILES
No, I'm running late. Make it to go. And give me a New York Times and...(scanning the display case...a spinach croissant.
