Barry Gifford

This story originally appeared in Film Comment, May-June, 2003.

     Not long ago I was on an airplane flying from Los Angeles to London. Seated next to me in first class was a honey-complexioned man who looked to be in his early thirties. We introduced ourselves to one another and he asked me what I did for a living. I told him I wrote screenplays for films. That was why I was sitting in the first class section, I explained; the studio for which I was working had paid the fare.

     "I don't know much about movies," he said. "I like to watch them, of course."

     I asked him what business he was in.

     "Art, mostly. Buying and selling. Tell me, where do you get your stories?"

     "From everywhere," I said. "The news, books-sometimes I just make them up."

     "I've got a story," he said.

     "Most people do."

     "Do you mind if I tell it to you? I think it would make a great movie."

     "Go ahead," I told him. "It's a long flight."

     "A young man, early 20's, is shopping in a supermarket in LA. He is dressed slovenly, and takes items off the shelves then replaces them in the wrong categories. He loses his wallet from a back pocket. The wallet falls to the floor. He is oblivious to this and turns a corner into another aisle. A young Latina comes along and picks up the wallet. She has seen it drop out of the boy's pocket. She's very pretty, no more than 18 years old. She hesitates for a moment, holding the wallet, then pursues the young man and gives it to him. He's a bit out of it-lack of sleep, drugs, something-but thanks her, and as she turns away he tells her to wait. He sees how pretty she is. They talk. She's from Mexico, near the border. She seems a little lost, no real destination. The boy invites her to come with him to his house. She agrees, with some prodding. Her English is fairly good. He has a slick car, a drop top. He speeds to a mansion in Beverly Hills.