Rough draft scene:
April 10, 1942
Walker fumbled with the food on his plate, contorting it into various shapes and forms. The beat of the music pounded against his skin. His date, another one of his mother’s attempted matches, sat across from his running her fingers through her ebony hair, which offset the navy polka-dotted dress wrapped tightly around her.
“So, you were in the Navy?” she asked with a canary-like voice. She cocked her shoulder up and flirtatiously flicked her hair away from her face, exposing her terribly pale neck.
“Uh, yeah. I was a corpsman,” Walker said, brushing it off in hopes that she might let it drop.
“Oh! So, you’re a doctor?” she asked, letting her mouth hang lightly open. Her bright red lips made her skin look almost white, as if she had only ever known a life of night and champagne. She rested her head in her hands and chewed on her pinky finger.
“Not really.” He took a bite of his food, “I’m a corpsman. We’re supposed to save people, not fix them. That’s the difference between a doctor and me.”
Walker took a large sip of his brandy, dreaming up a scheme to disappear. His mother would have hell to pay for setting him up on yet another blind date. The girl laughed, flicking her hair back again.
“You soldiers have such a sense of humor,” she said. The band began a new tune, one familiar to everyone besides Walker. The girl’s eyes widened and a sharp, red smile spread across her face. “I love this song! Dance with me!”
She held out her hand with begging eyes and Walker hadn’t the heart to refuse. He reluctantly took her hand and led her to the dance floor.
She danced a sloppy Lindy Hop, as he took all the steps with precision. She looked up at him, a grin spread far across her face. Walker rolled his eyes with how easy it was to please her. He attempted to pull her out from their cuddle, but her wrists were loose and hard to lead. She stepped on his foot, tripped over her own, and fell into his arms, ending their dance.
“Are you okay?” Walker asked. Even as much as this girl annoyed him, he didn’t have it in him to be cruel to her.
She nodded, laughing, though her face had turned a deep shade of purple.
“I have to go home, Walker,” she said, her voice suddenly serious. Relief swept over him as he watched her collect her things and gather her jacket.
“Are you sure?” He asked, muscling all his kindness out from inside him.
“Yes, I’ve got a lot to do tomorrow.”
She sauntered off in front of him, perhaps in hopes of catching his attention at least once before the night was out. Walker, however, looked past her.
A woman sat at the bar, turning away from them. He saw her sadness written in the way she slouched over her drink. He kept walking, but longed to turn her toward himself, so that he may see, just once, the radiance of the young girl.
He strolled past her nonchalantly, though his inside roiled in panic. There was the strong smell of whisky in the air as he passed by her, the aroma too much like a long lost friend.
At the door, his date waited, apparently waiting for a kiss. Walker felt eyes on his back, and he ignored his date’s dark and pleading eyes. He slowly looked back toward the bar to see the young lady at the bar watching him.
It was perhaps the music that sang of love at first sight, or perhaps the drinks he had consumed that night, which sped his heart and nearly stopped his breath. Before him stood a woman waiting with silent hopes, behind him sat a girl, silently waiting for something.
Walker offered his date a quick, apparently disappointing, hug and nearly shoved her through the door.
Then he turned in the direction of the bar. Every fiber in his body told him not to lose this girl, every nerve in his brain told him that she was his life line.
But where she’d sat remained only an empty glass of what looked like scotch. He scanned the tables around him, he watched the dance floor, and she was not there. She had disappeared, an angel without wings.
The music stirred, laughter broke out here and there, and the night ran on as Walker left the Copacabana, heading back to the small apartment he called home. Oddly enough, the New York streets were quiet, almost ghostly as if someone else was sharing the deep misunderstood pain that he felt on this night.
********
Stage 2 Scene: Adding Goals, Stakes, Push-Pull Motivation, Five Senses
April 10, 1942
Fate played cruel games. It shouldn’t have spared a man who had nothing left of himself to live. Walker fumbled with the chicken, the mashed potatoes on his plate, creating a stew that would never survive the roiling of his stomach. The beat of the music pounded against his skin. The redolence of cigarette smoke seeped into his wool sweater. The aroma of whisky from the bar stirred him now and again to glance at the barkeep.
No, not tonight. He’d made promises, after all, and tonight he’d keep them.
Perhaps even tomorrow, although that might be too much to ask, even from his mother.
His date, another one of his mother’s attempted matches, sat across from him, running her fingers through her ebony hair. He supposed she looked lovely enough in her navy polka-dotted dress wraparound dress.
“So, your mother said you were in the Navy?” she asked with her canary-like voice. She flicked her hair, flirting. Poor woman wasted her charms on him.
“Uh, yeah. I was a corpsman,” Walker said. Please, don’t ask.
“Oh! So, you’re a doctor?” Against the low lights, her bright red lips made her skin look almost white, as if she had only ever known a life of night and champagne.
“Not really.” He took a bite of his food, “I’m a corpsman. We’re supposed to save people, not fix them. That’s the difference between me and a doctor.”
Walker took a large sip of his water. Tepid and rank. He could use something stiffer.
The band began a new tune, something bold and bright.
“Your mother said you were in Pearl Harbor—”
“Let’s dance.” He stood up, nearly knocked over his chair.
The girl’s eyes widened and a sharp, red smile spread across her face. “Really?”
He found a smile, pasted it on as he led her to the floor. She danced a sloppy Lindy Hop, as he took all the steps with precision, the moves rusty in his bones. She looked up at him, a grin spread far across her face. If fate had been gentler, he might have liked her, might have asked her out again.
Perhaps he could blame himself, but when he attempted to twirl her out, she stepped on his foot, tripped over her own, and fell into his arms.
“Are you okay?” Walker asked. Around them, dancers twisted to the music, too raucous. A Saturday night placebo.
She laughed, though her face had turned a deep shade of purple.
“Thank you for taking me out. I think it’s time for me to go home, Walker,” she said, her voice suddenly serious.
“Are you sure?” He hated the relief that rushed through him. What was wrong with him that he couldn’t enjoy the company of this pretty girl?
“I have an early morning shift. Walk me home?” Anticipation glinted in her eyes, something bright and wasted on him.
“Of course.”
He pushed through the crowd standing at the bar, jostled a sailor who glared at him. Caught sight of the woman next to him.
She met his eyes—a sadness in them, a face that bore the tail edges of a smile, just as he turned away.
Something about her . . . had he seen her before? She touched something inside him even as his date hooked his arm.
Walker felt eyes on his back, and he ignored his date’s dark and pleading eyes. He glanced back at the bar.
She watched him, her finger circling the rim of her glass, her breath rising, falling.
Everything dropped away—the band music, the smoke, the tug of his date’s hand.
His scars.
He could accuse the music—which sang of love at first sight or even his own, which sped his heart and nearly stopped his breath.
“Walker?”
“I-I want to stay . . .”
“Oh.”
Despite her tone, he turned again to the bar.
Where she’d sat remained only an empty glass of what looked like scotch. He scanned the tables around him, watched the dance floor.
She had simply vanished, an angel without wings.
The music stirred, laughter broke out here and there, and the night ran on as Walker left the Copacabana, heading back to his rented room.
A hush lay upon the New York streets, the breath almost ghostly as the blackout curtains snuffed out the light.
*******
FINISHED SCENE: With Dialogue, Inner Dissonance
April 10, 1942
Fate played cruel games. It shouldn’t have spared a man who had nothing left of himself to live. Walker played with the chicken, the mashed potatoes on his plate, creating a stew that would never survive the roiling of his stomach. The beat of the music pounded through him. The cigarette smoke clung like glue in his wool sweater. The aroma of whisky from the bar stirred him now and again to glance at the barkeep.
No, not tonight. He’d made promises, after all, and tonight yes, he’d keep them.
Perhaps even tomorrow, although that might be too much to ask, even from his mother.
“Why don’t you want to dance?” His date, another one of his mother’s attempted matches, sat across from him, running her fingers through her ebony hair. He supposed she looked lovely enough in her navy polka-dotted dress.
“I haven’t been dancing since . . . ” Since the war. Since Pearl. Since he’d been shipped home with another man’s life in his veins.
“Your mother said you were in the Navy.” She flicked her hair. Poor woman wasted her charms on him.
“Uh, yeah. I was a corpsman,” Walker said. Please, don’t ask. .
“Oh! So, you’re a doctor?” Against the low lights, her bright red lips made her skin look almost white, as if she had only ever known a life of night and champagne.
“Not really.” He took a bite of his food, “Corpsmen are supposed to save people, not fix them. That’s the difference between me and a doctor.”
“Did you ever save anybody?”
Walker took a large sip of his water. Tepid and dull. He could use something stiffer to add some ambition to the evening. “Nope.”
The band began a new tune, something bold and festive. It roused other diners to the dance floor, the beat of Tommy Dorsey. She’d already asked, her eyes begging, to dance. He’d let her words skim off him as he stared at the door, watching a soldier without an arm arrive with buddies.
Walker recognized his expression and turned away.
“Your mother said you were in Pearl Harbor—”
“Let’s dance.” Walker stood, nearly knocking over his chair.
The girl’s eyes widened and a sharp, red smile spread across her face. “Really?”
He found a smile, pasted it on as he led her to the floor. She danced a sloppy Lindy, his steps rusty in his bones. Looking up at him, a grin spread far across her face. If fate had been gentler, he might have liked her, might have asked her out again.
Perhaps he could blame himself, but when he attempted to twirl her out, she stepped on his injured foot, tripped over her own, and fell into his arms.
“Are you okay?” Walker asked. Around them, dancers lost themselves in the music. A Saturday night placebo.
“What’s wrong with your leg?”
“Nothing. I tripped. Let’s go.”
“I don’t want to go, I want to dance.”
“I want to go.” He moved off the dance floor, not caring that she stood there amidst the music, the sway.
“Well, fine. See if I ever do your mother a favor again. She said you were depressed. She didn’t say anything about you being a sourpuss.”
He picked up her jacket, held it up.
“Fine, take me home. I have an early shift anyway.”
She jerked away from him, and he hated himself just a little that he felt no shame. What was wrong with him that he couldn’t enjoy the company of this pretty girl?
She exhaled, turned. Met his eyes. “I know you’ve been through a lot, Walker.” She held anticipation in her eyes, something that bespoke a nightingale hope.
He could almost read her thoughts—Could she heal the boy broken by war?
“I’m fine.” He pushed her through the crowd standing at the bar, jostled a sailor, who glared at him. Behind him, a woman at the bar cleared her glass from trouble.
She met his eyes and for a snapshot, the sadness in them, the expression that bore the tail edges of a smile, stopped him.
Something about her . . . had he seen her before? She touched something inside him even as his date looked back, hooked his arm.
Walker felt her eyes on his back as he followed his date toward the door.
“Wait.” He glanced back at the bar.
The woman watched him, her finger circling the rim of her glass, her breath rising and falling under a crimson dress, her blonde hair in victory curls around her head. She didn’t smile.
Everything dropped away—the band music, the smoke, the tug of his date’s hand.
His scars.
He could accuse the music—which sang of love at first sight or even his own pitiful hope—which sped his heart and nearly stopped his breath.
“Walker, are you coming?”
She had pretty eyes, his date.
But, “I-I want to stay—”
“You’re a real gentleman.”
She left him there, under the dark gazes of others who probably agreed.
He couldn’t move after her. Not with the woman at the bar. He turned again to find her.
Where the woman had sat remained only an empty glass of what looked like scotch. He scanned the tables, the dance floor.
She had simply vanished, an angel without wings.
The music stirred, laughter broke out here and there, and the night ran on as Walker left the Copacabana, heading back to his quiet, rented room.
A hush lay upon the New York streets, the breath almost ghostly as the blackout curtains snuffed out the light.
