Phone Booth

FADE IN:

NEW YORK CITY - AERIAL VIEW OF DOWNTOWN MANHATTAN - DAY

MULTIPLE STREET SCENES - DAY

The sidewalks crowded as usual. A sea of humanity. People

come and go -- always in a hurry. Oblivious of one another.

A TRAFFIC JAM -- A STREET being torn up by construction

workers; A SANITATION TRUCK loading up refuse; VENDORS

PEDDLING nuts and salted pretzels; PANHANDLERS blocking a

passerby. Intimidating. Demanding. Almost mocking.

We're surrounded by the teeming life of the city as we've

come to expect it -- complete with a cacophony of sound.

MULTIPLE CUTS -- Phone kiosks and phone booths on the East

Side and West Side -- uptown and down.

One frustrated caller has lost his money in the slot and he

takes it out on the equipment -- smashing the receiver

violently against the coin box until the instrument splinters

into a dozen pieces.

NARRATOR:

There are 237,911 pay telephones in

the five burroughs of the city of

New York. Many of them are still

in working order.

DOZENS OF QUICK CUTS --

NEW YORKERS on the phone in extreme close up. We don't hear

the words. Only the facial expressions inform us that these

are human beings under tremendous pressure. Life in the city

is wearing them down.

MULTIPLE SHOTS - JUST MOUTHS

Lips jabbering into receivers. Cross-cut against one

another.

NARRATOR:

Despite increased usage of cellular

devices, an estimated four and a

half million New Yorkers and two

million visitors still utilize pay

telephones on a regular basis. At

thirty-five cents a pop... for the

first three minutes.

ANGLE ON CORNER IN MID-MANHATTAN - DAY

There's a phone booth situated on the southeast side of the

street.

NARRATOR:

You're looking at the telephone

booth at the corner of 45th Street

and 8th Avenue in the heart of the

Manhattan theatrical district. It

has been scheduled to be removed

and replaced by a kiosk. It's one

of the few remaining phone booths

left in the city.

CAMERA MOVES IN on the irate caller in the booth -- a very

well-dressed gray-haired lady -- totally conservative in

appearance.

WOMAN IN BOOTH:

(into receiver)

You have lied to me for the last

time, you lowlife prick bastard! I

don't ever want to hear the sound

of your fucking voice again.

(listens)

Yes, well f*ck you, too!

She slams down the receiver and exits. The booth remains

vacant for a brief interval.

NARRATOR:

At least three hundred calls daily

originate from this booth. The

coins are collected twice a day.

This booth has been burglarized

forty-one times in the last six

months.

Someone is approaching the booth, fishing in his pocket for

coins. This is STUART SHEPARD, snappily dressed, his hair

styled and his nails manicured. Here is a man who clearly

takes excellent care of himself. He sports a Donna Karen

suit and silk Armani tie.

He's about to step into the booth when he's accosted by a

middle-aged man in a soiled apron who's run out of a nearby

restaurant and has finally caught up with him.

MARIO:

Stu, we got to talk.

STU:

Wish I could accommodate you,

Mario, but this is my busy time of

day.

MARIO:

How come you cross the street every

time you go past the restaurant?

STU:

Why don't I stop in later for some

lunch?

MARIO:

There's no more drinks or free

meals until the restaurant starts

showing up in the columns like you

said.

STU:

I'm doing my level best for you

people.

MARIO:

One lousy mention in the Post and

you expect to eat for six months!

STU:

I got the food critic from the

Village Voice all lined up to give

you a review.

MARIO:

That's what you tell me last July.

And he never shows.

STU:

I was allowing you time to expand

the menu. Wallpaper the bathrooms,

for God sakes. You get only one

shot with these fucking critics and

I don't want you to blow a rare

opportunity.

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