Beth Emery Extract from The Conch Republic

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Beth Emery

Extract from The Conch Republic

ext. small island, the florida keys – day Sparkling blue sea, stretches of pale sand beaches, palm trees.

Everything is quiet, peaceful. It’s a tropical paradise.

There are the odd few sunbathers, a couple of swimmers bobbing around in the gentle waves, and a fisherman with skin hardened by decades in the sun waiting patiently for a bite.

super: the florida keys, april 1982 Quietly at first, but growing more and more insistent, early 80s pop music disturbs the moment.

The sunbathers stir, swimmers tread water and the fisherman, pissed, loses his chance of a catch. All look around for the source of the noise.

ext. us route 1, northbound – day The music is obnoxiously loud. It contrasts sharply with the aggressive red car that’s playing it. So shiny, its reflection is as blinding as the sun, but there’s rusting around the wheel arches and the engine sounds knackered as it strains to accelerate.

It whizzes along, momentarily disturbing people going about their business as it passes.

The drive is stunning. The highway cuts between the Gulf of Mexico and the Atlantic, linking the islands that make up the Florida Keys. Each island is its own little world, idyllic beaches, ramshackle bars and much-used boats tied up in marinas.

int. max’s car – day

max (late 20s) looks more like his car than his music choice. All muscles, shaved head and tattoos. He’s worked hard to look this intimidating.

Under the music, unnoticed by Max, car horns honk. Unaware of the commotion he’s approaching around the next bend in the road, he taps his hand on the steering wheel in time to the beat.

A screech of brakes. Cigarette papers, cans and dollar bills fly from the dashboard.

Max saves himself from smashing into the steering wheel, but is unable to stop the debris and trash from landing in his lap.

He’s stopped just in time, bumper to bumper with the battered campervan in front of him. What a stupid place to park.

honk. honk. hooooonk. The campervan is not moving.

Max leans out of the window gesticulating furiously at the campervan, his furious words lost under the cacophony of horns.

The campervan driver gets out, he’s tall, beardy, hasn’t washed for a couple of weeks.

Max leaps out to meet him. Realizing his music is still bouncing away, he leans back into the car and turns it down so forcefully that the dial comes off in his hand.

max What do you think you’re doing?

campervan driver Sorry man, nothing I could do. Haven’t you heard on the news?

He approaches Max, hands up slightly. He doesn’t want trouble. Max bristles, doesn’t back up, but sweeps a quick glance over the trunk of his car.

max Screw the news. Dumb place to park.

campervan driver No choice. (He gestures behind him.)

Max storms onto the other side of the road. In front of the campervan a line of cars stretches to the horizon.

Another honk, a blast of a siren. Max leaps out of the way of an oncoming police car. It zooms by on the wrong side of the road, sailing past the queue of traffic on its way to the source of the hold up.

max Fuck.

He’s back in the car fast. More cars are coming to a standstill behind him. It’s tight but he manages a three-point turn and speeds off back the way he came.

The music dial sails through his open window towards the lapping Atlantic waves.