Month: March 2013

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EXTERIOR: Suburban Buffalo — KFC — Afternoon — Winter.

Two cars pull into the KFC parking lot. One pulls right up to the door; the other parks a bit farther away. A short, squat WOMAN in a brilliant sky-blue winter coat and her SON, a young man of about 20, get out of the first car. The young man is dressed in the standard Buffalo attire of jeans that aren’t really any color anymore, a jacket that isn’t any color anymore, and a utilitarian haircut that screams of ‘cut the parts that stick out below the edge of the bowl I’ve placed on your head’. From the other car comes a long-haired GENTLEMAN, decked out in a black flannel-lined shirt under a spiffy pair of Carhartt overalls. We can tell by looking at the GENTLEMAN IN OVERALLS that he is a fellow of elegance, reason, and is generally a fine person to know. They enter the restaurant, whereupon the GENTLEMAN IN OVERALLS hangs back to examine the menu. Meanwhile, the WOMAN and the SON walk right up to the counter, where the ORDER TAKEN is a crisp-looking teenaged boy in a clean uniform.

ORDER TAKER: Welcome to KFC, may I–

The SON’s cell phone rings loudly. His ringtone is a rap tune with the words ‘bitch-ass ho’ a lot.

ORDER TAKER: –take your order?

SON: (into phone) What? Yeah. Yeah, I love you! But I can’t talk about this right–

WOMAN: Yeah gimme a six-piece a’chicken.

ORDER TAKER: Original, crispy, or the other one that nobody orders? [EDITOR’S NOTE: He didn’t really say this! I just don’t recall what the actual third option was.]

WOMAN: (to SON, without turning to actually face him) You want original or crispy?

SON: (into phone, completely oblivious of his mother addressing him) No! No, don’t do that! DAMMIT! I said I love you, why you gotta make this so–

WOMAN: (louder, still doesn’t turn around) You want ORIGINAL or CRISPY?

She turns to look at the SON, who is facing the pop machine.

WOMAN: Give him Original.

ORDER TAKER: All right, what sides?

WOMAN: Sides? Whassat salad stuff with the dressing?

ORDER TAKER: Cole slaw?

WOMAN: Yeah! (loudly, to SON, again without turning, again without the SON realizing he’s being talked to) Cole slaw? You like COLE SLAW?

SON: Oh, you can’t be f***ing SERIOUS! I swear if you–! Yeah, yeah….I said I love you! I said it! What more do you–!

WOMAN: Cole slaw. And fries.

ORDER TAKER: You mean potato wedges?

WOMAN: I got fries last time!

ORDER TAKER: (somehow miraculously keeping his composure, given how young he is) We replaced the fries with the potato wedges.

WOMAN: Oh.

The GENTLEMAN in the overalls, who is diddling with his own cell phone in an effort to look like he’s not actually hanging on every word of the morality play unfolding, raises an eyebrow at the ease with which this kid has sold the lie.

WOMAN: Yeah, gimme the wedges. And a drink. (louder) You wanna drink?

SON: (still into phone) Babe, I gotta go. We’re in line. KFC. I know you don’t like KFC, but what do you care, you’re working!

WOMAN: No drink for him.

Now he turns back to face his mother, rolling his eyes and making that ‘flapping jaw’ gesture with his fingers to indicate that the girlfriend or whomever on the other end won’t shut up.

ORDER TAKER: That’ll be $12.42.

WOMAN: Here. (hands him a twenty)

SON: I gotta go! We’ll talk about this later. Just call me back in half an hour. Just call me back. Call me back! Half an hour! Yeah! Love you, call me back, half hour, bye! (hangs up) What are we eating?

WOMAN: Chicken.

The GENTLEMAN in the overalls bites his lips together to keep from laughing out loud.

SON: Did you order the Chicken Bites? [EDITOR’S NOTE: “Chicken Bites” are apparently the replacement for the old “Popcorn Chicken” menu item.]

WOMAN: You didn’t say nothin’ about Chicken Bites!

SON: I want Chicken Bites. Got more money? I’ll order ’em.

WOMAN: Yeah, here’s five bucks. It’s all I got. But wait for that guy. You shoulda been ordering with me.

SON: I tried! Bitch wouldn’t hang up!

WOMAN: Don’t call her ‘bitch’, she’s datin’ your ass.

Now the GENTLEMAN IN OVERALLS is scratching his neck so he doesn’t have to face these folks.

WOMAN: Get outta the way. Let that guy order.

They look at the GENTLEMAN IN OVERALLS, who realizes what’s happening.

GENTLEMAN IN OVERALLS: Oh, go ahead. I’m in no hurry here.

SON: Thanks! See, Mom?

The Son turns to the ORDER TAKER.

ORDER TAKER: Welcome to KFC, may I take your order?

SON: Yeah, I want some Chicken Bites.

The Food Guy from the back of house comes up to the counter with a tray.

FOOD GUY: Order #273? Six-piece?

WOMAN: Yeah.

She grabs the tray and goes to a table in the dining room.

WOMAN: (calling to SON) I’m sittin’ down now!

SON: (without turning around) Yeah! Chicken Bites. Uh…large.

The GENTLEMAN IN OVERALLS glances up at the menu board and notices that the Large Chicken Bites is more than five bucks. In fact, even the Small, with sales tax added on, will be more than five bucks.

WOMAN: (now talking loudly to no one in particular) Awww, shit! They only gave me one plate. How am I supposed to eat!

The GENTLEMAN IN OVERALLS brushes a fuzzy or something from the bib of his overalls, trying not to focus on the ‘How many plates does one woman need to eat a meal at KFC?’ question.

ORDER TAKER: A large Chicken Bites is $7-something.

SON: Ummmm…

He starts fishing in his pockets, but it’s clear that the five in his hand is the only money he’s got.

SON: Make it the small, then.

ORDER TAKER: OK…that’ll be $5.sixty something.

SON: Ummmm….

He is realizing that he doesn’t have enough money to pay even that.

SON: Hey Ma–

WOMAN: Tell them to gimme another plate!

SON: You got anymore money?

WOMAN: Nah I gave it all to you! Tell them gimme another plate!

Nevertheless she gets up, returns to the counter, and hands him a twenty. Then she returns to the table.

WOMAN: I still need another plate!

Now she’s yelling loudly enough that the FOOD GUY in back can hear her, and he is scrambling to bring up a plate.

ORDER TAKER: All right, here’s the change. And here are your Chicken Bites. And here’s the–

WOMAN: I need another plate!

ORDER TAKER: –other plate for her.

SON: Ma! Stop!

He holds up the plate for her to see. She calms down. The GENTLEMAN IN OVERALLS, still wondering why she could possibly need TWO plates, waits until the ORDER TAKER acknowledges him.

ORDER TAKER: Hello, welcome to KFC. May I take your order?

The GENTLEMAN IN OVERALLS notices the look in the ORDER TAKER’s eye, the look of prayerfulness in hopes that no one quite that crazy comes through the line for a while. He also notes that this fellow has to start every single interaction with a customer the exact same way, no doubt because ‘market research’ has shown that what customers want to hear in a restaurant is a personality-free, standardized greeting.

GENTLEMAN IN OVERALLS: Sure. I’d like a–

FADE OUT as life returns to normal at KFC.

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Film Quote Friday: The Hunt for Red October

When this movie came out in spring 1990, I was on the tail end of a fascination with the spy genre that had lasted two or three years. I’d devoured a whole bunch of Robert Ludlum and Nelson DeMille novels; I’d found Tom Clancy somewhat less readable but OK, and I bounced right off John Le Carre. Shortly thereafter I returned to reading fantasy and science fiction, having had my fill of spy stuff. Nowadays I haven’t read a spy novel in quite a few years, and I generally rely on movies and teevee for my espionage desires. (Plus, a lot of the F&SF I read employs tropes of spy stories, so it’s not like I’m completely missing out.)

I went with a bunch of friends to see Hunt for Red October the day after the winter semester ended (our school had an odd calendar), and before we went, I remember reading an article in TIME or Newsweek about the troubles that the entire spy genre was facing, what with the Cold War having ended just eight or nine months previously. I found the idea that the movie might suffer because of the lack of timeliness of its subject matter kind of goofy; after all, lots of historical dramas work just fine as stories with tension and suspense, despite the fact that their historical eras are long over. But still, there was some serious thought given to the fact that the spy genre was now going to have to look for new threats. I remember a Wayne’s World sketch on Saturday Night Live in which Wayne and Garth lamented the end of Communism with a top-ten style list, one of which was, “Spy stuff sucks.” Garth whined, “Yeah! Who’s James Bond gonna spy on now, the Guatemalans?!”

I also remember some years back when I got into a heated discussion on a Usenet newsgroup because someone wanted to say that some movie had done something in a very clicheed manner, “just like the James Bond movies of the 1960s used to treat Russians”. That ran up all manner of red flags, because only one of the six Bond movies released in the 1960s uses Russians, and in that one, they are hardly depicted stereptyically. In fact, Garth and my Usenet interlocutor might be surprised to learn that there was surprisingly little Cold War subtext to the Bond films until the 1980s!

What does all this have to do with Hunt for Red October? Well, if anything, the years that have passed since the Cold War’s conclusion have only helped the film. By pushing those historical circumstances back into history, the film now plays as it always should have: it’s a tense, engrossing thriller that pits one man against entire bureaucracies in the face of a dangerous diplomatic and military situation. The film’s story is extremely well constructed, with every element serving some purpose. But the movie’s dialog crackles! Here are just a couple of instances.

This brief exchange happens when the Russian Ambassador to the United States is meeting with the National Security Advisor, and is still maintaining the fiction that nothing terribly serious is to be read into the fact that the Northern Atlantic is now crawling with Russian ships:

Jeffrey Pelt: Mr. Ambassador, you have nearly a hundred naval vessels operating in the North Atlantic right now. Your aircraft have dropped enough sonar buoys so that a man could walk from Greenland to Iceland to Scotland without getting his feet wet! Now, shall we dispense with the bull?

Ambassador Lysenko: You make your point as delicately as ever, Mr. Pelt.

This brief exchange comes later on, when Jack Ryan is on the aircraft carrier USS Enterprise, and the Russian Navy is plowing across the ocean, the sonar systems blasting away into the water:

Captain Davenport: They’re pinging away with their active sonar like they’re looking for something, but nobody’s listening.

Jack Ryan: What do you mean?

Captain Davenport: Well, they’re moving at almost forty knots. At that speed, they could run right over my daughter’s stereo and not hear it.

And here’s a Navy pilot trying to give Jack Ryan some encouragement as they fly through violent turbulence to get to the Enterprise:

Navigator C-2A: What’s the matter Commander? You don’t like flying, huh? Aw, this is nothing! You should’ve been with us five, six months ago! Whoa! You talk about puke! We ran into a hailstorm over the Sea of Japan. Everybody’s retching their guts out! The pilot shot his lunch all over the windshield, and I barfed on the radio! Shorted it out completely! And it wasn’t that lightweight stuff either, it was that chunky industrial weight puke! [offers him the candy bar he’s been eating] Hey, you want a bite?

Jack Ryan: Jack, next time you get a bright idea just put it in a memo!

Frivolous stuff, to be sure, but all this dialog rings true because in my experience, people tend to resort to comfortable metaphors and idioms even in the face of stressful situations. Everybody speaks distinctively in The Hunt for Red October, and director John McTiernan gives the actors the breathing room necessary to let the script take flight. The result? An espionage thriller that feels like it’s populated with real people. That’s the key to any storytelling!

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