Another Pile Of Shit

Story dice: I rolled three and got an arrow, a skyscraper, and a footprint


Hurry, hurry, of course you’re late. Big day, and of course you’re late. Slept in, 1PM is your meeting, you knew that but what do you do? Sleep in, miss your bus and now it’s 12:50 and you still have a ways to go, ways to go, running through the streets, downtown, your big day, your big meeting, to pitch your story.

The skyscraper is ahead and you can see it: your destination, almost there. Top floor, this is big, top executive, how could you sleep in? Your first break in years, working, slaving away and now opportunity knocks, you’re there, you’ve reached it. Two minutes to spare.

“Spare some change?” a homeless man asks, but there’s no time for that. I’m late, should have been here fifteen minutes ago.

I sidestep around him. Shit. Right in it. Shit on the sidewalk, I stepped right into it. The homeless guy is laughing now, asshole, he probably put it there, laughing at me outside this building where the top floor awaits my life’s biggest meeting.

Time is going by. What do I do? Got to clean up, the bathroom, wipe this shit off. Done, but still, it smells. I smell like shit, walking around, people looking at me, what is that smell? What do I do? I can’t go in like this; it’s my shoes: the shit aroma, it’s coming from my shoes. I got to get rid of them, ditch them, get rid of the smell. Go in barefoot, do your pitch barefoot, can you do that, can you incorporate it? Yes, yes you can. Robin Hood, modern day, robbing the rich and giving to all, and he does it all barefoot! At least he does now.

I head up the elevator, wait for my meeting. It’s 1:30 now and why was I even worried, being late? I’m thirty minutes late, my worry and panic making me later than I ever would have been before. But it’s okay, I’m here, 1:30 and I am in. It’s time, do your thing, time to do your pitch.

“It’s the old and the new, the rich and the poor, medieval and modern, with bows and arrows and guns and explosions, skis and masks and fast cars and horses. Good guys on horses, bad guys in fast cars. Good guys with arrows, bad guys with guns and knives and big-ass rocket launchers! Whizzing around and explosions galore but they can’t catch him, can’t stop him, for he’s Robin Hood! Stealing from the rich, giving to the poor, giving to himself and bedding lots of ladies,” I’ve got him, he’s with me, excited; he likes the action, the fast cars and hot ladies. “And here’s the kicker: no shoes! For Robin Hood rejects all things modern, only horses and arrows, bows and no shoes! He doesn’t want them, doesn’t need them, for who needs shoes!”

The exec is confused. “No shoes? Won’t his feet hurt? Can’t they do footprint analyses? Is that a thing?”

“Well, ummm… I don’t know…” Is that a thing? I’ve never heard of it. Footprint analyses always involve shoes, because people always wear them. But that’s what makes Robin Hood unique! It’s a quirk, screenwriting 101, it’s what makes him unique!

“You don’t know? So bold a decision and you don’t know? Where’s your research? Where are your shoes?”

Fuck, shit, I’m sinking, losing. What do I say? They’re in the lobby? In the trash, covered in shit? No way, can’t say that. Can’t say anything.

“Get out of here, foot fetish man!” the executive exclaims. “Meeting without shoes? Characters without shoes? Get out of here!”

I shrink down, dejected, defeated. Fucking shoes, covered in shit, that’s how I feel, not how I smell but it is how a feel: like shit, lost, over, dead, done. Open the door, and out I-

“First draft on my desk, one month, don’t be late. And give him some shoes.”

Really? Does he mean it? Did I succeed? I can’t even see him, sitting behind me, is he serious? Doesn’t matter, don’t look, just go, play it cool, of course he’s serious, your pitch was good. You overcame your feet, your shoes covered in shit, so now go home, write your script, down the elevator and out you go. Get new shoes, write your script, you are victorious, so head on home.

“Spare some change?” the homeless man asks again.

No way man, you’re my problem, you’re why I don’t have shoes in the first place, laughing at me, getting in my way. “Fuck you!” I say as I jet on by, away from him, out of my life. For I have to go, write my script, get new shoes. I’m pumped, victorious, king of the motherfucking world as I walk down the street, bare feet on the ground, straight into another pile of shit.


About Gabriel Bruskoff
I make movies! See for more information.

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