Open Mic S2.3

FLASHBACK

INT. KITCHEN - DAY (12 Years Ago)

A cracked glass table is piled high with unfolded laundry, a pile of mail, and three different empty cereal boxes.

PEGGY (late 30s) stands at the sink in a faded diner apron, aggressively scrubbing a skillet. She looks like she hasn’t slept since Y2K.

A fourteen-year-old LISA sits at the table in platform sneakers, staring intensely out the window with wide, idolizing eyes.

LISA He’s here! Mom, he’s here!

Outside, a violent CLUNK-THUMP-RATTLE echoes through the driveway, followed by a backfire that sounds like a shotgun firing into a garbage can.

PEGGY (without stopping her scrubbing) Great. Mr. Child Support finally arrives.

LISA Is that a Camaro?! Mom, he said he drives a Camaro!

Through the blinds, a rusted 1994 Chevy Camaro coasting on three hubcaps and prayer rolls to a halt. A cloud of thick grey smoke engulfs the front yard.

The driver's side door screeches open. Out steps RICKY (40s)—wearing a faded velvet vest over a bare chest, oversized sunglasses, and corduroy pants.

He bursts through the screen door without knocking, holding a half-eaten gas station hot dog.

RICKY The Eagle has landed! Leslie! Look at you, kid! Growing like a weed!

LISA (beaming, jumping up) Dad! You came!

Ricky gives her a quick, one-armed hug while staring past her at Peggy.

RICKY (to Peggy, chewing) Place looks the same as when I lived here Peg baby. Still living the suburban dream, I see. Me? I just got back from the coast. Exhausting.

PEGGY (turning slowly, wiping her hands on a dish towel) You’re an hour late, Rick. And you owe me ten years of child support for Lisa, Timmy, and Sarah.

RICKY (scoffs, waving a hand dismissively) Details, Pegs! Always with the money. You don't understand show biz. Cash is fluid when you’re pre-producing an arena tour.

LISA (awe-struck) An arena tour, Dad?! Really?

RICKY (leaning down to Lisa, lowering his voice conspiratorially) Off the record, honey? Yeah. The label wanted me to open for The Killers in Tokyo next month. Huge money. Millions. But I turned it down.

LISA (gasping) Why?!

RICKY (adjusting his sunglasses) Too commercial. Too much press. Once you hit that level of ultra-fame, you lose your privacy. I prefer to stay under the radar, you know? Keep it real. Keep it really real.

PEGGY Underground? Rick, your muffler is literally scraping under my driveway. It left a black mark. I can see it. Are you gonna pay for that?

RICKY That’s a custom exhaust system, babes! It’s tuned for high-velocity engine breathing! You wouldn't get it.

LISA (defending him instantly) Mom, stop! Dad likes cars. He told me the paparazzi can’t track him down with this one! Right, Dad?

RICKY (pointing at Lisa) Bingo. Laura gets it. You take a sleek, Italian sports vehicle into a residential neighborhood and boom—tabloids everywhere. You drop into a classic '94 Camaro with a missing passenger door? Pure smarts.

PEGGY (sighs deeply, rubbing the bridge of her nose) It’s missing a door because you traded it for a secondhand amp in 2012.

RICKY It was an authentic Trayner amp, Peg! Pure tone! Did you pawn it?

PEGGY I don't have time for this. I have fifteen minutes before my shift at the pancake house, then I’m on line-cook duty at the bistro, and then I’m closing at the steakhouse until 2 AM. Because somebody has to feed three kids.

RICKY (scoffs, leaning against the counter) Working three jobs? That’s a fun mindset, Pegs, I respect it. But honestly, if you just understood the power of thought income—you'd be a millionaire already.

PEGGY (picking up her keys) Rick, if you aren't here to give me a check, you have the evening with Lisa and I’m serious that you have to go back to wherever you came from once I get home.

Peggy marches out the front door, slamming it behind her.

Ricky waits two seconds, then turns to Lisa with a huge, dramatic grin.

RICKY Your mom... bless her heart. Just doesn't have the soul for the rock 'n' roll lifestyle.

LISA She just doesn't understand your vision, Dad.

RICKY Exactly! Now, listen... I was gonna take you out for steak, but my business manager said I have to lay low with the appearances. High-level fame stuff. You wouldn't happen to have twenty bucks?

LISA (beaming with pride) I have twenty-two dollars from babysitting! I'll go get it!

Ricky smiles smoothly, taking a huge bite of his gas station hot dog as Lisa dashes upstairs, completely thrilled with himself.

INT. BUDGET BURGER

A cracked vinyl booth. Yellowing fluorescent lights hum overhead. RICKY sits across from LISA, aggressively dipping a french fry into ketchup on a paper tray.

Lisa's now twelve dollars sits scattered on the table in crumpled ones and quarters.

RICKY (chewing, pointing a fry at her) Listen to me, Lana. Fame? It’s everything. It’s the ultimate validation. When you’re famous, the world bows down. But the trick—the secret that guys like me master—is keeping it real. You gotta stay connected to the pavement. That’s why we’re eating at BB instead of some five-star place in Monaco. It keeps the vibe alive.

LISA (nodding devoutly, taking notes in a tiny notebook) Keep the vibe alive. Got it.

RICKY Exactly. You can't let the money ruin your artistry. You stay humble. You ride low.

Suddenly, red and blue strobe lights flash violently against the greasy front window of the restaurant. A dual-tone siren gives a brief, loud WOOP-WOOP.

Ricky freezes, a french fry hovering an inch from his mouth.

Through the glass, TWO UNIFORMED POLICE OFFICERS stand next to the rusted Camaro, one of them typing on a notepad.

RICKY (muttering) Unbelievable. They love my car. See?

An OFFICER pushes through the Budget Burger glass doors, eyes scanning the room until they land on Ricky's velvet vest.

OFFICER Ricky Vance?

RICKY (sitting up straight, throwing on his sunglasses) Look, Officer, if this is about the fans outside, I was just trying to have a low-key lunch with my daughter—

OFFICER It’s about your vehicle out front, sir. Your tags expired 14 years ago. And when we ran the VIN, it flagged thirty-six outstanding warrants for unpaid toll violations and a failure to appear. Stand up, please.

LISA (gasping, jumping up) Wait! He’s famous!

RICKY (as the officer turns him around and cuffs him)... It’s alright, Laura! Don't let the man silence the muse! Call my manager, Steve! Tell him the system is rigged and he owes me sixty bucks still! And I blame this all on your mother. Tell her I said "thanks a lot, Peglet".

OFFICER (guiding Ricky out) Watch your head on the way out, Rick.

Lisa sits alone in the booth, clutching her tiny notebook, watching her dad get shoved into the back of a squad car. 

Two booths over, YOUNG MIKE (same age, wearing an oversized flannel shirt) sits with his STEP-MOTHER, BRENDA (40s), who is glaring at him with pure disdain as she aggressively wipes her hands with a wet-nap.

BRENDA (loudly, to Mike) Look at that trash. That’s what happens when you don't have discipline or the lord, Michael. You end up in handcuffs outside a Budget Burger. Put your jacket on, we’re leaving.

Mike ignores her, looking over at Lisa with genuine sympathy. He slides out of his booth and walks over to her.

YOUNG MIKE Hey... are you okay?

YOUNG LISA (wiping a tear, defensive) He’s famous. The cops are just jealous of his music.

MIKE Right. Absolutely. You need a ride home?

Brenda marches over, purse tucked tightly under her arm, looking disgusted until she recognizes Lisa’s face.

BRENDA Wait... are you Peggy’s girl? From Saint Jude’s?

LISA (sniffling) Yeah.

BRENDA (sighs heavily, rolling her eyes) God give me strength. Get in the car, kid. I’m not leaving Peggy’s child to walk home because her deadbeat guardian got hauled off to the county prison. Michael, carry her notebook.

INT. BRENDA’S SEDAN

Brenda drives in dead silence, gripping the steering wheel at ten-and-two with a grimace.

Lisa sits in the back seat, staring longingly out the window at the passing suburban strip malls, her chin resting on her hand. Young Mike sits in the front seat in front of her, awkwardly trying not to look back.

MIKE (quietly) I’m Mike, by the way.

LISA (without looking at him) Lisa.

MIKE I just started playing guitar. My dad got me one for my birthday.

Lisa turns her head slowly, looking at Mike’s bad haircut and modest flannel shirt, then turns right back to the window, watching the sun dip behind the power lines.

LISA Do you know anyone famous?

MIKE (blinks)... What? Like, in town? This guy Alan says he is moving to LA to get famous. My dad once jammed with Rebecca Black. But no, not really.

LISA (sighs, a soft, dreamlike smile playing on her lips) No. I mean real people. People who ride in limousines. People who have houses in the hills with swimming pools and private security.

MIKE Oh. No. Just... local folks, I guess.

LISA (staring out at the red taillights ahead) I’m gonna know all of them one day. I’m gonna live in a house where nobody ever cooks breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Everything is gonna be made for me and my family.

Mike looks back, fascinated and completely captivated, even as Lisa continues to stare past out the window, completely enchanted by a world that doesn't exist.