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INT. THE PRECINCT
Bustling is an understatement. The police station is crawling with people from all walks of life, with all kinds of business being in this specific place at this specific time. All that we, the audience, can see is what can only be described as a jungle of legs. Pairs of feet cross our field of sight one after the other. Pant-clad, business loafers, a long skirt, high heels, sneakers, socked, even barefoot. Above the movement we can hear fervent chattering– miscellaneous statements, pleas, concerns, each one interrupted by a camera shutter. One word can be heard more often than any of the others: “Jigsaw”.
The crowded footing clears away with the distant and muffled response to the hubbub by the officers present. Desperate attempts to calm the crowd fall out of earshot when the view comes to focus on one pair of shoes left. It waits patiently until the elevator opens with a DING. It walks inside. Pan upward– this is DETECTIVE MARK HOFFMAN. The elevator doors begin to close, just partially starting to obstruct his face, before the back of a dark-haired head careens into the shot. The doors seem to change their mind to accommodate his arrival.
Once safely inside the elevator, the man turns to reveal the side profile of his face. SPECIAL AGENT PETER STRAHM. Neither man recognizes the other; a simple, happenstantial meeting. HOFFMAN pulls one hand from his coat pocket to go for the buttons.
HOFFMAN: Going up?
STRAHM: Yeah. Thanks.
It isn’t until HOFFMAN pushes the correct button and the doors begin on their final trek to closure that STRAHM whips his head in the other direction. He’s visibly troubled by this newly acquired information– should he pry the doors back open?
STRAHM: Oh, goddammit. Tell me to get the next one next time.
HOFFMAN: You were quick. I had no time to warn you.
STRAHM sighs audibly, almost exaggeratedly. He has no intention of giving HOFFMAN the idea that he’s happy to be here, not even for what should be no longer than thirty strained seconds. HOFFMAN is remarkably emotionally impartial– in fact, if nothing else, he appears amused.
STRAHM: Just do me a favor and don’t say anything else.
HOFFMAN: (clasping his hands in front of him) Mm-hm.
STRAHM twitches.
STRAHM: Don’t be cute.
HOFFMAN: I don’t hear that one often.
STRAHM: Then what do people tell you when they want you to shut up?
HOFFMAN: (suddenly confused) I don’t remember saying anything.
STRAHM: Didn’t have to. (straightening the folders in his arms to distract from his rising blood pressure) How long does this tin can take?
HOFFMAN: (shrugging) Real toss-up every time. It’s old.
As if on cue, the elevator lurches to a halt. It sputters a greasy, mechanical noise before stopping all together, instantaneously enough that STRAHM nearly doubles over and HOFFMAN loses his footing briefly. The lights flicker. They share a bewildered look.
STRAHM: What the hell was that? (slowly rising again to his full height, coming to a realization) Wait, wait.
He stands eerily still for long enough to confirm his suspicion.
STRAHM: We’re not going anywhere.
HOFFMAN braces one of his broad hands against the wall. He stills his movement in tandem. He won’t say it, but STRAHM is right.
HOFFMAN: Seems like it broke down.
For a frightening moment, STRAHM says nothing. Almost as if he’s waiting it out, like if he wills it hard enough the machinery will start up again and he’ll be freed from this new, made-in-a-factory, delivered-to-him-with-a-big-red-bow, nightmarish hell. He wills it hard. Nothing happens.
STRAHM: Oh, for fuck’s sake!
HOFFMAN: (placating) Don’t panic.
STRAHM: (incredulous) Don’t panic? What the fuck else am I supposed to do?
HOFFMAN: They’ll be on it in no time. Worst case scenario we’re stuck here ten minutes. Can act like it never happened when we’re out. I won’t tell anyone, if it makes you feel better.
STRAHM has begun to breathe heavier, his fingers frantic across the stainless steel of the walls as though he might stumble on some secret GET ME THE FUCK OUT button. No avail. He drops the folders by his feet and presses his back to the wall, bracing himself on the railing. Not only is he agitated, he is afraid.
STRAHM: What makes you so fucking sure, huh? You make some sick habit out of getting stuck in elevators?
HOFFMAN: (unbothered) Not really. I just work here.
STRAHM: Clue me in on your schedule so I have no chance of running into you again. (to himself) This case is a goddamn joke.
HOFFMAN remains undaunted, both by the situation and by STRAHM’S hostility. He watches as STRAHM connects his fist with the walls of the elevator, and when nothing comes of it, the doors. He yells in anguish, pounding on the sealed exit, begging aloud for some sort of help.
HOFFMAN: Nobody can hear you. We’re in between floors.
If looks could kill, HOFFMAN would be six feet under.
STRAHM: You love to have all the answers, huh? Mister-fucking-Congeniality.
HOFFMAN’S finger falters in its position, extended outright to point at the panel indicating they had not yet reached the fifth floor. He sticks it back into his coat pocket wordlessly, repressing his smirk at the backhanded compliment.
STRAHM is still preoccupied with trying to find some way to force the doors open, even if it means opening them up to reveal a brick wall or chancing the risk of falling down an elevator shaft. With no other option, he hurls his foot into the steel, denting nothing but his toes. He curses a litany of profanity.
HOFFMAN: I told you, knock it off. Ten minutes tops.
STRAHM: (chest heaving, sinking to the floor with his back to the wall) Too fucking long.
HOFFMAN does the impolite thing and stares. He cocks his head to the side curiously. Get a load of this guy.
HOFFMAN: (as fact, not question) You’re claustrophobic.
STRAHM: So you’re not completely incapable of intelligent thought? Good work, Detective. I was curious as to how you ended up with that badge.
HOFFMAN: (gazing absentmindedly to the ceiling, whistling) Don’t look now, but I think the walls are closing in.
STRAHM gasps like a fish out of water, his hands non-surreptitiously seeking purchase in the cold steel around him like it’s all he has. It isn’t until HOFFMAN fails to smother his snickering that STRAHM realizes he’s the butt of a terrible joke. He scowls, instinctively wrapping his arms around himself instead. He makes a mental note to see his doctor about upping his dose of blood pressure medication.
STRAHM: Oh, you’re a bastard. A grade-A fucking dickhead.
HOFFMAN: Mommy always said so too.
STRAHM: Did “Mommy” drop you on the head a couple dozen times?
HOFFMAN: Did you leave your manners in your other pants?
STRAHM: Fuck you.
They sit (and stand) in silence for the moments that follow. HOFFMAN eyes STRAHM every now and again for the status of his hissy fit. He’s calmer now, at least, not having to listen to HOFFMAN say anything. He decides to test the theory.
HOFFMAN: You’ll be home in time for dinner with the missus.
STRAHM: (venomously) What?
HOFFMAN nods in STRAHM’s general direction; STRAHM catches on almost immediately. He covers the golden wedding band on his finger with a reflex like he’s been burned by some hot pan rather than scalded by a near stranger’s words.
STRAHM: I’m divorced.
HOFFMAN looks caught between wanting to know and wondering if he shouldn’t ask. He doesn’t ask.
HOFFMAN: Oh.
More silence ensues. An indeterminate amount of time passes before HOFFMAN breaks it again. He’s sure he knows who was pulling the weight in STRAHM’s failed marriage.
HOFFMAN: What do you think about the Ship of Theseus?
STRAHM: (flippantly) I’m not religious, if that’s what you’re asking.
HOFFMAN: It’s a thought experiment. The Greek hero Theseus rescued the children of Athens from King Minos and then escaped and sailed on a ship to Delos. The Athenians took this same ship on a pilgrimage to Delos every year to celebrate Theseus. After so many years in use the ship started to need replacing, piece by piece. If every single piece of wood is replaced with a new one, is it still the Ship of Theseus?
STRAHM sits slumped, stunned– not only because of this Ancient Grecian headlock HOFFMAN has suddenly pulled out of his ass, but because he genuinely can’t come up with a concise answer. He opens his mouth, then closes it. His eyes are heavy.
STRAHM: I honestly don’t give a shit.
HOFFMAN: Does something with its original components replaced remain the same object?
STRAHM seems to give this thought. It lasts all of a few seconds before his face screws up with something that looks to be offense. HOFFMAN is running out of eggshells to walk on; they’re all already crushed.
STRAHM: Who are you, the fucking Riddler? If I flash a little bat symbol will some chucklefuck in a bodysuit and a cape show up and kick your ass for me?
HOFFMAN: (still unbothered) Answer the question. I’m curious.
STRAHM: (exasperated) Fine. No, I guess it’s a different boat.
HOFFMAN: Does that apply to all things?
STRAHM: Jesus, what?
HOFFMAN: Does anything without the original parts remain the same?
STRAHM: Why would some old-ass ship be an exception? (dragging his hands down his face) Since you need everything spelled out: N-O.
HOFFMAN: (nodding, expression unreadable) Interesting.
STRAHM: (under his breath, to the ceiling) Now would be a great time to start working again.
HOFFMAN: Would have sucked to get stuck in here by myself. Looks like you’re collateral damage.
STRAHM whips his head over.
STRAHM: Don’t patronize me. Someone upstairs is playing some shitty joke on me.
HOFFMAN: I thought you weren’t religious.
STRAHM: I can be if praying will get me out of here.
HOFFMAN: I tried to pray out of worse.
That all-enveloping silence swallows them whole again. STRAHM seems viscerally uncomfortable with the turn the conversation has taken, racking his brain for some dig at HOFFMAN that might redirect the territory. He eyes him suspiciously and then looks back at the ground, still curled into himself.
STRAHM: Your hair looks like shit.
HOFFMAN: I was almost positive we used the same product.
Shit! Backtrack!
STRAHM: Impossible. They were using your picture for the stuff you use on the bottle. Saw it at the store and said fuck no. Guy looks like an ogre.
HOFFMAN: (backtracking by his own means) Weird. I don’t use any product.
STRAHM is content to sit and seethe. He steals glances at HOFFMAN every now and then, though, standing in the corner like a bad omen. STRAHM is taller, but HOFFMAN looks intimidating as the only one upright. He staggers to his feet as best he can to eliminate the looming feeling of threat.
STRAHM: I think it’s been ten minutes.
HOFFMAN: Really? I wasn’t counting.
To keep from dignifying the remark with a snide response, STRAHM fishes into his pocket for his cellphone. He flips it open and is met with a familiar NO SERVICE message, much to his chagrin.
STRAHM: Why the fuck are there dead zones in a police station?
HOFFMAN: Dunno. I’m not the service guy.
STRAHM: Right, forgot. You’re the kindergarten dropout.
HOFFMAN: (affronted) I had the best finger paint in my class.
STRAHM: Did your teacher say that so you’d let her diddle you? (falling back against the wall) You’re completely fucking useless, by the way.
HOFFMAN continues to take the abuse. He endures it with little but a slight shift in his stance, something distinctly amuseable twinkling in his eyes. He seldom takes his eyes off STRAHM. STRAHM looks like he’s about to rupture something important every time he catches it.
STRAHM: Take a picture, will you?
HOFFMAN: Can’t. Phone is at my desk.
STRAHM: Genius. What if someone needs to get a hold of you? They think you’re important for some reason.
HOFFMAN: Didn’t think I needed it. I was just stepping away for a second.
STRAHM: (laughing drily) One thing after another with you.
HOFFMAN: I do wish I had it.
STRAHM: (narrowing his eyes) What happened to not telling anyone about this?
HOFFMAN: That wasn’t my idea. I don’t kiss and tell.
STRAHM coughs, clearly taken aback by the comment. He flounders without an answer but conjures one out of thin air if only to wipe the smug look off the detective’s face.
STRAHM: Okay. I don’t kiss.
HOFFMAN: No? You had a wife.
Emphasis on “had”. It turns STRAHM’S eyes fiery with fury. Despite the still-trembling nerves in just about every part of his body, he lunges at HOFFMAN, who either sees it coming and deliberately chooses not to act or welcomes his rancor with open arms. The elevator shakes and the light gives another flicker, any concern for it long discarded. STRAHM succeeds in pinning him between his body and the wall of the elevator, his right forearm across his broad sternum. HOFFMAN grins, shifting comfortably under their new arrangement.
HOFFMAN: Does my hair look any better up close?
STRAHM acts quickly with the saliva pooling in his mouth. He spits in HOFFMAN’S face.
HOFFMAN is entirely unfazed.
HOFFMAN: Was it something I said?
Just as STRAHM begins to pull away, disgusted with looking at him now, HOFFMAN decides it’s his turn. He takes STRAHM by the wrists and flips their position with all the ease of a graceful ballerina twirling the same twirl she’s performed dozens of times. STRAHM makes a strangled noise when his back collides with the wall, hands pinned level with his head. HOFFMAN is stronger, bigger, more intent on keeping him glued to this spot. STRAHM struggles; fruitless.
STRAHM: Get the fuck off me.
HOFFMAN: Does this mean you do kiss?
STRAHM: Police brutality and sexual harassment? You’re a real catch, Hoffman.
Maybe he’s handsome, now that he’s getting a clearer look at his face. Maybe.
HOFFMAN: You spit on me.
STRAHM strains his wrists in urgency.
STRAHM: Self defense.
HOFFMAN looks halfway torn between asking him to do it again and snapping his neck. Neither outcome prevails– the elevator lurches again the same way it had when it initially stopped. It takes HOFFMAN by enough surprise that he loosens his grasp on STRAHM, who takes the opportunity to physically push HOFFMAN away and free himself from the confines of his suffocation. Once they’re separated, HOFFMAN looking dejected, the elevator begins to ascend.
STRAHM: Maybe I’m God’s favorite after all.
HOFFMAN: (finally wiping the spit from his face with his coat sleeve) What’s that make me?
STRAHM: The bucket God takes a shit in.
Tangible relief washes over STRAHM at the promise of freedom. He gathers his previously forgotten and spilled folders back up into his arms and watches the floors light up as they pass them, one by one. DIVINE INTERVENTION: 0, PETER STRAHM: 1.
HOFFMAN: I’ll bet nobody missed you.
STRAHM: Eat shit.
Before reaching their final destination, the elevator totters before it sputters to a halt again. The lights, once more, flicker.
DIVINE INTERVENTION: 1, PETER STRAHM: 1.