Halt and Catch Fire Page #4

10.

MACMILLAN:

What about PC’s? That’s the real

way to get at IBM. Somebody could

pull the rug right out from under

them-

BOSWORTH:

Did you not hear me? Cardiff Giant

doesn’t tussle around with any PC

crap. As a cardinal damn rule we

are strictly disinterested in

throwing rocks at the IBM hornet’s

nest. That’s how we get our name

added to that list of companies KIA

against Big Blue.

MACMILLAN:

PC’s are anybody’s game to grab if

you do it right.

BOSWORTH:

Why do you even want this job, you

were pullin’ 300 back east.

MacMillan is without an immediate answer for the first time.

MACMILLAN:

Don’t worry, I’ll break numbers. I

always do.

BOSWORTH:

Yeah, yeah, and I’ve got an in-

ground swimming pool. Why are you

really here?

A beat. Some honesty seeps through MacMillan’s veneer.

MACMILLAN:

I need... something different.

Bosworth takes that in. Then stands up, as does MacMillan.

BOSWORTH:

You answer to Al and Al answers to

me. And I’m the SVP of Sales so

you’re dogshit until you close a

deal. Understand?

MACMILLAN:

I do.

BOSWORTH:

Good. We’re married. You may now go

make your numbers.

11.

They shake hands, purely professional. A battle of direct and

challenging eye contact. MacMillan begins to leave.

BOSWORTH (CONT’D)

MacMillan.

MacMillan stops at the door, turns.

BOSWORTH (CONT’D)

Are you better?

Long beat.

MACMILLAN:

I am.

CUT TO:

INT. CLARK’S HOUSE - KITCHEN -- NIGHT

Familiar dark wood cabinets and earth-tone countertops of a

1980s American middle-class home.

ANGLE ON Clark as he closes the fridge, six-pack in hand.

Wrinkled dress shirt untucked, tie loose, barefoot in brown

polyester pants. Bridge of his nose badly black & blue.

DONNA ENTERS--the DIN of the living room suggests that she

and the kids are watching prime time.

DONNA:

How was work?

CLARK:

(heading for garage)

Hmph...

DONNA:

Hey.

He stops. Turns.

DONNA (CONT’D)

You gonna be all right?

CLARK:

I’m sorry, I’m just... look, I’m

gonna duck into the garage for

awhile.

His face is a tired ‘please let me go.’ She nods, and he

disappears through the darkness of the back door.

CUT TO:

12.

INT. CLARK’S GARAGE -- MOMENTS LATER

ANGLE ON a record player, sitting atop a 1970s receiver with

a blue lit-up dash. Nothing digital here as the needle hits

the groove on Supertramp’s “Crime of the Century.”

“BLOODY WELL RIGHT” LOUDLY PLAYS THROUGH THE SPEAKERS

ANGLE ON Clark as he cracks a beer and lets loud stoner rock

wash over him. He closes his eyes...

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