A bar in a restaurant, “Pelican Cove.”
A TV is on, playing a baseball game. Music plays in the restaurant.
Wheeler stands at a high-top, drinking a beer, eating a burger and fries.
Minnie, Vietnamese-American, tattooed, rockabilly, stands at another high-top, drinking a beer, putting on makeup.
WHEELER: Big plans?
MINNIE: I was hoping I’d run into some middle-age loser so I could fuck his brains out.
WHEELER (Pause): Then this is your lucky night.
(Her phone rings, jangling rockabilly. She answers.)
MINNIE: I’m still here. Dude is late. (Listens) I have to wait for this guy. (Listens) I’m at this heinous restaurant. Want me to prove it to you? (Listens) Then get your lame-ass brother to drive down to Chula Vista for your stupid tacos. I have to wait for the manager. (Listens) What’d you call me?! Motherfucker, you call me that again, I will scratch your fuckin’ eyes out—hello?! (Hangs up) Piece of shit.
WHEELER (Regarding TV commercial): Look at this prick.
(Minnie seethes, barely takes in the TV.)
This lousy comic book culture we live in, you know? The fanboys who support and demand this shit.
MINNIE: Why’s he a prick?
WHEELER: Look at him.
MINNIE: He just puts on a costume and gets paid.
WHEELER: You make it sound like he doesn’t have a choice.
MINNIE: He makes a lot of money.
WHEELER: Al Capone made a lot of money.
MINNIE: Kids like it, it’s for kids.
WHEELER: So now all we’re supposed to watch is shit made for kids? Fuck your kids. Bunch of allergic autistic mole rats. When I was a kid, movies were made for adults. Kids got The Apple Dumpling Gang and we felt lucky to get it. And here’s a secret, it’s not for kids, it’s for adult men who can’t read. An entire generation of illiterate, infantilized, boy-men.
(Minnie receives a text, reads it.)
I’m kind of a snob. I like old Hollywood movies. North by Northwest. Red River. The Hustler. Foreign movies too, Fellini and Antonioni and Ingmar Bergman. And Stanley Motherfuckin’ Kubrick. Those guys were genuine artists, they were making shit to last. I can’t name any American movies I like that came out after about 1984. What year did Repo Man come out? But this garbage, it’s all made on computers, they aren’t even real people. Even the monsters, used to be your monster was a guy in a rubber suit. He cast a shadow, he bumped into shit, he once actually existed in space and time. I need to see the zipper on his get-up.
(She gives him a withering look.)
I know you don’t care. I recognize nobody cares. But I’d still rather say it to you than just, y’know, screaming in the shower.
(She shrugs, yeah, okay, fine.)
You’ve got a job interview.
MINNIE: Yeah.
WHEELER: You want to work here.
MINNIE: That’s why I’m interviewing.
WHEELER: As a waitress.
MINNIE: Hostess.
WHEELER: Hostess.
MINNIE: Yeah.
WHEELER: Is that what you do?
MINNIE: We’ll see.
WHEELER: You haven’t done it before.
MINNIE: Sh.
WHEELER: Capisce.
MINNIE: Thank you.
WHEELER: What have you been doing?
MINNIE: Shit-work.
WHEELER: What do you want to do?
MINNIE: I want to be a hostess at this restaurant.
WHEELER: What do you want to do with your life?
MINNIE: I want to be a hostess at this restaurant.
WHEELER: It’s good to have goals.
MINNIE: Fuck you.
WHEELER: You getting sensitive?
MINNIE: Go fuck yourself.
WHEELER: You began this conversation by calling me a loser.
MINNIE: I didn’t begin this conversation.
WHEELER: What’s your name?
MINNIE: Minnie.
WHEELER: That’s good.
MINNIE: You approve.
WHEELER: I’m Wheeler.
MINNIE: Is that your last name?
WHEELER: Everybody calls me Wheeler.
MINNIE: What’s your first name?
WHEELER: Dick. Which is why I go by Wheeler.
MINNIE: Oh my God.
WHEELER: What?
MINNIE: We live in the same complex.
WHEELER: Sorry?
MINNIE: I saw you out at the pool. Earlier today.
WHEELER: Ah. Yes. You did.
MINNIE: I knew I’d seen you before. You were hitting on that Mexican girl in the red two-piece.
WHEELER: I was not hitting on her—
MINNIE: I can’t believe we live in the same complex, what are the chances of that—?
WHEELER: Kind of slim but it’s important you know I was not hitting—
MINNIE: You were totally macking on her, you had on your Speedo—
WHEELER: Not a Speedo actually—
MINNIE: And your big Cuban shirt—
WHEELER: Guayabera, with my rosacea I can’t get too much sun—
MINNIE: —and you were drinking a daiquiri—
WHEELER: That was hers, not mine—
MINNIE: She’s a big girl.
WHEELER: She is, but it’s important to me you understand—
MINNIE: She’s too much woman for you, Dick.
WHEELER: I won’t argue with that but—
MINNIE: What unit are you in?
WHEELER: 217, but it’s important to me—
MINNIE: Is that a big one? Two bedroom?
WHEELER: It is a two bedroom.
MINNIE: End unit?
WHEELER: It’s important to me you understand I was not hitting on that girl.
MINNIE: Why is that important to you?
WHEELER: Because I am not the kind of guy who goes to the pool in his guayabera and Speedo and drinks a daiquiri and hits on girls.
MINNIE: Aren’t you hitting on me?
WHEELER: No.
MINNIE: Then what do you care what kind of guy I think you are?
(Touché.)
Don’t sweat it, Dick. You’re not my first Rice King today.
WHEELER: “Rice King”?
MINNIE: You’re a smart guy, you figure it out.
WHEELER: I’m actually not hitting on you, you’re way too young for me.
MINNIE: No shit.
WHEELER: How old are you?
MINNIE: Twenty-six and none of your fucking business.
WHEELER: You’re older than I thought but you’re still too young for me.
MINNIE: Don’t you mean you’re too old for me?
WHEELER: No, I don’t.
MINNIE: How old did you think I was?
WHEELER: I don’t know. Younger. You’ve got that runaway look.
MINNIE: Did you say “runway”?
WHEELER: No, “runaway.” Like you ran away. You live with Peanut?
MINNIE: Derek, yeah, and his brother.
WHEELER: Is he the Rice King?
MINNIE: You see him at the pool, why don’t you ask him?
WHEELER: I might. You from here?
MINNIE: Yeah.
WHEELER: Born and raised.
MINNIE: Don’t say something stupid.
WHEELER: Your parents boat people?
MINNIE: Yeah.
WHEELER: Let me guess, Mom and Dad came over on the boats, married at nineteen, Mom works at a nail salon, Dad’s got a garage, no, wait, a pho shop. And they’re not crazy about your tattoos or your hair and they’re really not crazy about punk-ass Derek.
MINNIE: Let me guess, you’re a deadbeat, work a dead-end job, married, no, wait, divorced, hate your wife and kids, hate everybody, depressed, can’t get laid, your body’s breaking down, the only thing that still runs is your mouth. Not so much fun now, is it?
WHEELER: No, it’s not, but you know, actually that’s pretty accurate.
MINNIE: God, white people are so sad.