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turning to page one
Some players have now returned to their seats.
Pink (9/10/2013)
FLETCHER
Switch!
Carl stops playing. Almost falls as he gets off the kit. Ryan takes his place -- just as worn out. As soon as he sits down at the set he has to bend down to catch his breath.
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
It is not Saint fucking Patrick’s Day,
Flannery, there is not a pot of gold
under your fucking seat. Play.
Fletcher CLAPS. Ryan plays, muscles cramping, can’t keep up--
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
Switch!
Ryan stops, gasping. Fletcher’s eyes land...
...ON ANDREW. Face awash in sweat, hair dripping, muscles throbbing, wrists red, hands caked in blood, T-shirt clinging to his chest. This is it...
ANDREW
(muttering to himself as he gets on the kit)
Come on... Come on you fuck...
FLETCHER
Let’s see if we can finally bring this
home.
He CLAPS. Andrew begins.
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
Don’t slow down.
Andrew tries, the tempo slips... So fast, so loud...
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
Speed up! God-fucking-damnit I said SPEED
UP!!!
Andrew’s arms are moving as fast as they possibly can, his feet like triggers -- and his ears start RINGING now, the RINGING cutting and almost drowning out the other sounds...
Fletcher, fire-eyed, turns around and goes into the nearest CLOSET. Emerges with a COWBELL and a STICK. Comes closer and BANGS ON IT in time. The SOUND slices through the RINGING, startles Andrew, this stick whacking down inches from his head--
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
Don’t stop!!
Pink (9/10/2013)
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
Faster!... Faster!!
(Andrew speeds up)
Do it! Do it! Do it! Do it! Do it! Do it!
One! One! One! One! One! One! One! One!
Andrew slips, almost loses the beat. Fletcher GRABS the FLOOR TOM DRUM and HURLS it through the air, against the nearest wall. It RAMS into the concrete, handles buckling. But Andrew stays focused. Doesn’t cry.
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
KEEP PLAYING!!
Andrew does. Fletcher raises the COWBELL now, about to STRIKE Andrew across the head, looks like a fucking madman -- but still Andrew does not cry -- as Fletcher BELLOWS--
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
KEEP PLAYING!!!
Andrew keeps playing.
Fletcher stands still. Stares at him. Circles the drum set like a predatory beast, ready to strike at any instant.
Then -- he steps back. Drops the cowbell and stick. Andrew is still playing, going like an automaton. No tears. Finally, Fletcher silently raises his hand, and, with just a slight wave, gestures for Andrew to stop.
Andrew does. Nearly collapses over the set.
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
Congratulations, Neiman. You earned the part.
He turns to the rest of the band.
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
Ok. Now we can begin.
The clock: 2:00.