a man walks into his corner pub

a man walks into his local pub, let's say he is a writer. the confines of his apartment haven't been creating the adequate citrus to start his juices flowing.

you see, he had a deadline to make. in one month his short screenplay was going to be shot. the cast and crew were looking for new drafts. he had the film rolling in his head, but now it was time to get it down. to business.

he sat in the back where the pub became a restaurant and ordered a jameson and coke. the bartender noticed his papers and asked what he was working on.

a film. shooting in a month. got to finish the script.

what's it about?

a love story between two songwriters.

where's it going to show?

we've got to finish it first. the writer laughed and ordered a mixed green salad with ranch and a j pats burger with cheddar and mushrooms. J Patricks was the corner pub, one the writer had frequented often since arriving in chicago 8 months ago. he took friends and family when they came into town, would walk up and watch a big game or just sit at the bar and swoon over the blonde waitress he was secretly in love with.

i told the waitresses we have a writer in the house, the waiter said as he dropped off the salad and burger, careful not mess up the writer's paper piles.

they asked what it was about. i told them love.

the writer smiled and snuffed out the american spirit light he was smoking.

thanks.

the pub was working. the visions of the film were flowing out of his mind and onto the paper. he was in the perfect setting to draft up a revision so that he could then walk back home and transfer it to his
computer. print it out. and send.

he finished his meal between spurts of crossing out portions of the script, writing new lines and rearranging structure. he lit a cigarette and ordered a third jameson and coke.

then she sat down...the waitress.