Leave Page #4

Yeah, yeah. I understand.

I'm sorry to upset you.

Just I've been waiting

out here for a while now.

Was it a long time?

Sh*t, I'm sorry.

I was playing solitaire.

I fell asleep.

It sucks getting old.

I'm here now.

You wanna order something,

or what?

Yeah, yeah. You got soup?

Chicken noodle.

Just like your mother made.

I'll get a soup and a coffee.

Another coffee.

Order of Sue's soup...

and coffee.

I'll get it.

- By yourself today, Gus?

- Yep.

You wanna get the soups,

I'll get the coffee?

You're a f***ing peach,

you know it?

Don't touch me.

Most people smoke out of habit,

with you it seems like

some kind of ritual.

What does your wife

think of your smoking?

You drive a pickup truck?

I don't own a vehicle.

So where you coming from?

I mean,

we're in the middle

of the desert.

You gotta be walking distance.

I don't really have a place.

Where do you stay?

Here and there.

Here and there?

What's that mean?

Not having a place

isn't such a big deal.

Call me square,

but I think being homeless

is a pretty f***ing big deal.

I didn't say I was homeless.

I just said

I don't have a place.

All right. Whatever.

See, I made a vow with

myself a long time ago

to try to have as few

possessions as possible.

That some sort of

religious practice?

Sort of.

I found that the more

possessions you have,

the more you've

attached to things,

and the more you're attached,

the more you suffer, so.

Who'd want to suffer?

That what the whole shaved

head thing is about?

You some sort

of wandering monk?

No. Just my own thing.

Well, you can keep that

religious sh*t for yourself.

Catholic school beat it out

of me a long time ago.

It must be lonely.

What is?

Not having faith

in some mysterious unseen

hand behind things.

I find that comforting.

See, I don't need faith.

I have experience.

That's Joseph Campbell.

Go figure.

Wandering monk in the

middle of the desert

reads Joseph Campbell.

What're the odds of that?

Plagiarism's a dangerous

habit for a writer.

What makes you think

I'm a writer?

You talk about writing.

No, I never talked

about writing.

You have the computer.

So I got a f***ing computer?

I could be an accountant.

How would you know that?

I'm asking you,

how would you know that?

Who the f*** are you, man?

I know you from somewhere.

You're acting all cagey and

all this is just too weird.

- What is?

- All this.

Everything. Me getting a flyer

on my car, me coming here,

you sweeping up

and you don't work here?

- I come here a lot.

- Yeah, I know.

You told me. Now... now what?

You know I'm a writer?

I'm asking you.

How do you know this sh*t?

Are you f***ing stalking me?

Rate this script:0.0 / 0 votes