The Sweet

By Stephen Vance

Philadelphia is both a gritty and beautiful backdrop for a story of redemption and the power of love in many forms. A young man’s perfect start in life is ruined by tragedies not of his own making. He had managed to graduate college in the sciences, but is strongly drawn to expression as a painter and artist. He’s brilliant at it. One of the best. He’s an up and coming rising star in the art world, but at the same time a downward spiraling consumer of all things illicit and wild. He is a troubled man, but also a very lucky guy to have people in his life who believe in him and love him back to some semblance of order, yet it seldom lasts. Even in a city full of people, connections and run-ins with those of his past are inescapable. Anyone with any sense knows that s**t just happens. It’s all about how you deal with it. “THE SWEET” deals with it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stephen Vance
• Release date: Oct 20, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463152980

Stephen Vance

Stephen Vance has written four screenplays, is the real life writer of THE WORST TRADE (under a former nom de plum) and made one well received short film. Keep watching for more work. Thanks. Thanks. There is more contact information on page one of each.

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THE SWEET

by

Stephen Vance

Stephen Vance

Pennsylvania, USA

Phone: email and ask, please.

Email: [e-mail]

Copyrighted material - 2019 - All rights reserved.

WGA-WEST Registered 2019

EXT. PHILADELPHIA, pa (1975) - DAY

A 72' Chevy Nova, fat tires, shiny moon caps, rumbles up South 58th Street in South West Philly. Row houses and vacant lots meld into a stream outside the window.

SNOOK, 19, huge afro, mirror shades, punches the gas pedal to accelerate, listens each time. CHUNKY, a bear of a kid, 18, big afro, a pick stuck in the back, has his ear nearly out the window. He gives a thumbs up on each punch of the pedal.

A SPARKLING WHITE 1969 CUTLASS S 442

Pristine. Top down. Shiny chrome digits, 442 stuck on the side. It's parked away from other cars in a parking lot.

SNOOK

(spies the Cutlass first)

Yo, Chunk. 'Dere you go.

Chunk drops his chin.

CHUNK

Awe man, ‘dat jawn.

INT. THE CUTLASS s 442 - CONTINUOUS

HEAVY, LABORED BREATHING. White leather, super, super clean.

Chunk's fat fingers work a screwdriver on the plastic column casing. It SNAPS open, wire and connectors hang like honey.

Needle nose pliers connect a newly freed red and black wire. POP, a spark.

VROOM, VROOM. The 442 wakes up, rocks the whole damn block.

A LOUD BANG, he breaks the column bolt with an industrial sized screwdriver, slams it into gear.

EXT. south WEST PHILADELPHIA - DAY

A narrow street. At the intersection, the Cutlass SQUEALS out onto a main thoroughfare barely misses oncoming traffic.

Tires still smoking, Chunk takes two blocks in seconds, skid-turns the next corner, heads eastbound. He pops in and out of oncoming traffic, blows past anyone ahead of him.

CHUNK

Get up, bitch. Get up.

A fresh red light. Go faster. HORNS BLARE at the crazy fool. Dust and dirty street detritus inhaled by the Cutlass' wake. 

Chunk pushes 80 MPH and rising, blazes past a sign.

ARTERIAL 25 MPH

CHUNK

Get up, mother fucker. Get up.

He HONKS with an arm thrust out the window, points at two AF-AM BOYS, 16. Barely amazed. Chunk stole another one, so what.

He's gone in a blip.

HORNS BLARE at least a good block away. The Cutlass GROWLS like hell on wheels in the distance.

CUTLASS BLAZES NORTHBOUND 

Opposing traffic seems to be standing still. He weaves.

A STRIP MALL PARKING LOT

A family style sedan pulls up to the exit.

MR. JENKINS, 40, Af-Am, looks left, looks right, looks left. Beside him is MRS. JENKINS, 35, Af-Am, a beauty. In the backseat he checks the kids. PETE, 16, handsome, his little bright-eyed brother, ANDRE, 8, and a little girl, JACKIE, 5.

All good. From nowhere WHAHHHH - OOOOMM... BANG!

SILENCE. Then a LOUD HISS. The Cutlass is firmly planted into the driver’s side of the family car.

INSIDE THE CUTLASS

Chunk is in bad, bad shape, bloody, barely conscious.

INSIDE THE SEDAN

The HISS WANES to dead SILENCE. Groceries splatter the interior, the kids, a crumpled heap in the backseat.

Peter twitches first, BREATHES, gets his bearings.

Andre BREATHES again, opens his eyes.

Jackie struggles to right her tiny body in the pile.

Their mother awakens, GASPS, looks left.

Her husband, SILENT, bloody, limp, part of the dashboard.

A PASSERBY’S SHADOW crosses him.

PASSERBY (O.S.)

Damn. Goddamn. Help? Somebody!?

Mr's Jenkins WAILS.

INT. A BEDROOM (1990'S) - NIGHT

Mrs. Jenkins WAILS carry through the ether into the bedroom.

JUANITA, Af-Am, 28, natural hair, preternaturally lovely, sleeps in peace like an angel.

Beisde her lies ANDRE at 28, a beautiful, handsome face, most women would just call him, fine. Tonight he sleeps rough. His brow is wet. The WAILS pierce through time.

Suddenly, a twitch. His chest heaves without intake. 

He pops fire-in-the-hole upright, GASPS.

ANDRE

Aaaah! Aaaah! Daddy!

Juanita snaps awake, collars a lamp, drops it.

JUANITA

Jeez. Andre?

He drips sweat, catatonic. Then, he nearly collars her.

ANDRE

I'm back. I love you, Juanita.

JUANITA

Honey, you OK? God, you are soaked.

ANDRE

What? Yeah. Yeah.

SOAKED SHEETS BENEATH HIM

ANDRE

We gotta' change the sheets.

JUANITA

We might have to change bedrooms. You want to talk about this?

The lamp on the floor.

ANDRE

No.

He tries to get out the bed. She holds him still.

JUANITA

Andre? Listen to me, honey - how many times?

(no response)

Nothing? Hello? Look, say something, Andre. Andre?

ANDRE

Yeah, I know. But not right now.

He gets his feet on the floor, still spacey.

JUANITA

Same dream?

(no response)

Andre, look, this has got to be like post traumatic syndrome or -

Free. He pulls out the bed drawer, yanks any old sheet.

ANDRE

I said no, Juanita.

JUANITA

You know, they got people for that, Andre.

(the lamp begins to flicker on the floor)

Scare me like that. In North Philly - hear something like this at night. We wake up ready to fight.

ANDRE

Let me just change the sheets. Just get up.

JUANITA

Excuse me, brother? But I don't recall that we just shout orders to one another in this relationship.

ANDRE

I'm sorry, I just, Jeez same shit - I really - I can't talk about it - fuck, I'm soaking wet. Are you gonna' pick the light up or what? Come on, please?

JUANITA

Alright. I wish I had a camera.

(she picks up the lamp)

Look at you, that face right there.  Intensity.

(a beat)

Come here.

ANDRE

No, come on. It's late. Get up, please.

JUANITA

You're gonna have to stop scaring me in the middle of the night like this, Andre. If you wanna' wake me up again - wake me up to make love. Remember that?

He wipes himself with a towel. She sits up.

ANDRE

What, you want some?

JUANITA

You want some? Man?

(feet to floor)

Why should I put up with this?

ANDRE

Because you love me.

JUANITA

Because I love you, or you love me? Huh? You certainly scream it well enough -  but do you really?

ANDRE

Yeah. I do. Now let me finish the bed.

He rolls his eyes. She waves her finger like a volume meter - back and forth.

JUANITA

Just like that.

ANDRE

Right.

JUANITA

Don't right-mode me either, Andre.

ANDRE

Right. OK. OK, I mean. C'mon.

She rises, rounds the foot of the bed.

JUANITA

You know, sooner or later you're going to have to process your shit like everybody else out there.

A CLOCK 3:10

JUANITA

(to herself)

You're not the only one around here who needs sleep, OK? I need my beauty rest.

His eyes follow her naked form. Remarkable.

ANDRE

No you don't.

He reaches out, strokes the valley of her back. She pauses in near ecstasy, awaits. He nuzzles on her shoulder, she sighs.

ANDRE

Ummn, Ah, just go to the bathroom.  We need to get some sleep. Just sleep tonight.

She peels away frustrated. A dim hall light halos her passage. The door THUMPS, the TAP RUNS.

He reaches under the bed, grabs a sketch pad, furiously captures her last image.

INT. AN APARTMENT – SAME

A dark room. A small lamp floods a table top strewn with gift boxes full of papers and mementos. Seen from behind, a GRAY-HAIRED WOMAN, Af-Am, finishes a letter. It's Andre's mother.

PHOTO

Andre's family of 5 near time