GETRIDOTHĒ
Written by
Kevin Machate [email protected]
Registered with WGA
FADE IN:
INT. SUBURBAN GARAGE – DAY
The garage is illuminated by a single uncovered lightbulb
hanging down from the ceiling. Boxes stacked on boxes, a
broken treadmill draped with coats, Christmas lights tangled
with Halloween decorations, a kayak mounted on the wall with
a visible layer of dust.
ALEX (50s) stands in the center, holding three identical
phone chargers.
He exhales.
ALEX
Get rid of these...
He tosses the chargers into an open box and pulls the flaps
off another one, revealing a fondue set still in plastic, a
VHS rewinder shaped like a sports car, and a Rolodex.
ALEX (CONT’D)
Get rid of these...
He lifts a third, heavier box and sets it down to pull open
the flaps. Inside: photo albums, a child's drawing, a wedding
invitation with his name on it.
He closes the box.
ALEX (CONT’D)
Get rid of these...
Behind him, GETRIDOTHĒ fades into existence.
Ageless, wearing practical linen clothes, holding a clipboard
and a black trash bag. She has dark circles under her eyes.
There is a soft, almost imperceptible COUGH from Getridothē.
Alex doesn't react.
She clears her throat loudly.
Alex freezes, then slowly turns.
The single bare bulb flickers.
GETRIDOTHĒ
Which ones.
Alex SCREAMS and stumbles backward into a tower of boxes.
They collapse around him and he lands on the floor, old
magazines sliding off his chest.
Getridothē doesn't move. She watches him flail, raises her
eyebrows, and checks something off on her clipboard.
Alex scrambles to his feet, knocking over a lamp, and backs
into a cooler. He sits down hard.
ALEX
What...? Who...? How did you...?
GETRIDOTHĒ
You called me. Three times, in
fact. That's how it works.
ALEX
I didn't call anyone.
GETRIDOTHĒ
"Get rid of these." You said it
like you meant it.
ALEX
That's not... I was just talking to
myself.
GETRIDOTHĒ
Most people are. Until they're not.
She turns in a slow circle, her gaze moving across the walls
of boxes.
GETRIDOTHĒ (CONT’D)
This is... substantial.
ALEX
Is that bad?
GETRIDOTHĒ
It's job security.
She picks up one of the phone chargers and holds it up.
GETRIDOTHĒ (CONT’D)
Do you know what this goes to?
ALEX
It might...
She drops it in the bag and it VANISHES.
ALEX (CONT’D)
Hey! That one...
GETRIDOTHĒ
Was already gone. You just hadn't
admitted it yet.
She moves through the garage, picking up the Rolodex and
dropping it into the bag, the does the same with the VHS
rewinder.
She pauses when she gets to a box labeled "CABLES – PROBABLY
IMPORTANT."
ALEX
Wait, that one...
GETRIDOTHĒ
Name one component these go to.
Alex opens his mouth, then closes it.
She cocks her head slightly.
GETRIDOTHĒ (CONT’D)
That’s what I thought.
The box vanishes.
Genres:
["Comedy","Fantasy"]
Ratings
Scene
2 -
Letting Go of the Past
INT. GARAGE – CONTINUOUS
Alex follows her through the stacks.
ALEX
So people just... summon you?
GETRIDOTHĒ
You say my name when you're tired
enough to mean it. Three times.
That's the rule.
ALEX
And you show up and just... take
things?
GETRIDOTHĒ
I take what's done. There's a
difference.
She stops at a shelf and picks up a trophy engraved with "3rd
Place, Regional Sales Conference, 2011."
GETRIDOTHĒ (CONT’D)
Third place.
ALEX
I worked hard for that.
GETRIDOTHĒ
Did you?
ALEX
Not really.
The trophy vanishes.
ALEX (CONT’D)
Do you ever feel bad? Taking
people's things?
GETRIDOTHĒ
Do you feel bad keeping them?
She gestures at the garage.
GETRIDOTHĒ (CONT’D)
This isn't storage. It's a museum
of obligation. Every object here is
a small promise you made to
yourself that you couldn't keep.
She picks up a guitar case and holds it out toward him.
GETRIDOTHĒ (CONT’D)
Let me guess... You were going to
learn.
ALEX
I still might!
She opens the case. The guitar has three strings. Two are
broken.
GETRIDOTHĒ
When did you buy this?
ALEX
...1997.
She looks at him.
He sighs.
ALEX (CONT’D)
Fine. Take it.
Genres:
["Fantasy","Drama"]
Ratings
Scene
3 -
Letting Go: A Divine Encounter
INT. GARAGE – LATER
The walls are visible now. Floor space has opened up where
towers of boxes used to stand.
Getridothē sits on a workbench, writing on her clipboard.
Alex walks the perimeter, running his hand along a shelf.
ALEX
I can't remember the last time I
could walk in here.
GETRIDOTHĒ
You'd be surprised how many times
I've heard that sentence.
ALEX
Can I ask you something?
GETRIDOTHĒ
You're going to anyway.
ALEX
How long have you been doing this?
She sets the clipboard down.
GETRIDOTHĒ
Since people started keeping things
they didn't need.
ALEX
So... always?
GETRIDOTHĒ
Before written language, they kept
bones. Stones. Things that reminded
them of other things. It's not new.
You just have more closet space
now.
ALEX
That's... kind of beautiful.
GETRIDOTHĒ
It's kind of exhausting.
Alex stops. In the corner sits a small wooden box, the wood
dark with age, carved with unfamiliar symbols. A label in
faded handwriting reads: "DIVINE – DO NOT TOUCH."
ALEX
What's that?
Getridothē keeps her eyes on her clipboard.
GETRIDOTHĒ
Nothing.
ALEX
It's in my garage.
GETRIDOTHĒ
It's in every garage. Every attic.
Every storage unit. Wherever I go.
ALEX
You've moved it a few times,
haven't you.
She doesn't answer.
ALEX (CONT’D)
The ancient Greek goddess of
Unnecessary Things has something
she can't get rid of.
She raises an eyebrow at him.
GETRIDOTHĒ
Who are you calling ancient? And
don’t say goddess. It sets
expectations I don’t have the
budget for.
ALEX
But what's in it?
GETRIDOTHĒ
None of your business.
ALEX
It's literally in my garage.
GETRIDOTHĒ
Fine. It's a novel.
ALEX
A novel?
GETRIDOTHĒ
Socrates. Handwritten. He gave it
to me right before the hemlock.
Asked me to get rid of it. He said
it was "juvenile."
ALEX
Socrates wrote a novel?
GETRIDOTHĒ
It's a romance.
She shudders slightly
GETRIDOTHĒ (CONT’D)
It's not good.
ALEX
So why do you still have it?
GETRIDOTHĒ
Because it might be important
someday.
ALEX
You just said it's not good.
GETRIDOTHĒ
It's not. But it's Socrates.
ALEX
So you're holding onto something
you don't need because of who gave
it to you, even though you know
it's not useful and never will be.
She stares at him.
GETRIDOTHĒ
I liked you better when you were
screaming.
She picks up her bag and moves toward the heavy box Alex
closed earlier.
GETRIDOTHĒ (CONT’D)
That one's yours.
ALEX
I know.
GETRIDOTHĒ
I can't take it unless you open it.
ALEX
Why can't you just open it
yourself?
GETRIDOTHĒ
It doesn't work that way. I can
only take what someone else is
ready to release, even if they
don’t consciously realize it.
ALEX
So you've never thrown away
anything of your own?
She shrugs.
ALEX (CONT’D)
That's why you still have the box.
GETRIDOTHĒ
Look, I have an attic in Tucson. A
woman with forty years of National
Geographic. They're sorted by
decade.
ALEX
I know. I mean... I don't know
about Tucson. I know I have to open
it.
She drums her fingers.
Alex kneels and opens the box: wedding photos, child's
drawings, a tiny faded hospital bracelet, and underneath it
all, a small stuffed elephant, the fur worn thin.
He picks up the elephant and holds it.
ALEX (CONT’D)
My son's. He left it here when he
was seven.
GETRIDOTHĒ
Does he want it back?
ALEX
I don't know. We don't really... I
should probably call him.
GETRIDOTHĒ
Probably.
She picks up a broken picture frame from nearby and drops it
in the bag. It vanishes.
ALEX
That had a photo in it.
GETRIDOTHĒ
Of what?
ALEX
I don't remember.
She shoots him a look.
GETRIDOTHĒ
Mmmm-hmmm.
Alex looks at the elephant, then puts it in his jacket
pocket.
ALEX
This one stays.
GETRIDOTHĒ
Fine.
ALEX
You're not going to argue?
GETRIDOTHĒ
You know what it is. You know why
you have it. That's not my
department.
She shoulders her bag and looks around the garage, clean now,
almost unrecognizable.
GETRIDOTHĒ (CONT’D)
You'll fill it again.
ALEX
Probably.
GETRIDOTHĒ
When you do...
ALEX
Say your name like I mean it. Three
times.
GETRIDOTHĒ
Twice is just complaining. Three
means you're ready.
She moves toward the door.
ALEX
Hey.
She stops and turns.
ALEX (CONT’D)
The Socrates thing. Is it really
that bad?
GETRIDOTHĒ
There's a love triangle. One of
them is a horse.
ALEX
Oh.
GETRIDOTHĒ
It's not a metaphor.
He grimaces.
She turns toward the door, then stops. She looks at her box
on the workbench as she fades.
Alex stands alone in his clean garage. He looks at the wooden
box that sits on the corner of the workbench.
He walks over and opens it.
Inside: a single rolled manuscript, the parchment brown and
brittle.
GETRIDOTHĒ (V.O.)
That’ll do it.
He looks around, looking mildly confused.
ALEX
Getridofthese?
GETRIDOTHĒ (V.O.)
That’s my name, don’t wear it out.
He laughs as he closes the box. He stands, then turns off the
light.
INT. GARAGE – THE NEXT MORNING
Alex steps into the garage and looks toward the workbench.
The wooden box is gone.
In its place sits a pink carbon-copy receipt.
Alex picks it up and reads.
GETRIDOTHĒ SERVICE PROVIDED:
Partial Removal – Nonessential Accumulations
ITEMS REMAINING: 1 (Declared Necessary)
FOLLOW-UP: As Needed