Tom Hanks - Uncommon Type - Some Stories

…one of these things. And I’ve actually had to make real those very orders. Griddle cakes mean I’m getting a work assignment that wouldn’t make sense to hamsters. Griddle cakes have just ruined my already miserable day.

Why do you do this job?

I have no answer to that question other than my big honker of a paycheck.

They are at the door of the only hotel room on the 101st floor.

Set up by the fake waterfall. Straighten your name tag. And smile. He likes employees who look like they love their jobs.

She pauses. Takes a breath and changes her demeanor to a sunny smile. Her ability to transform this way is frightening.

She knocks… and enters.

INT. PENTHOUSE—DAY

A snazzy place, complete with a fake waterfall, state-of-the-art exercise equipment, wall-size video screen in front of a row of vintage movie-theater chairs. The windows look out on most of Las Vegas.

(happy as could be)

I have griddle cakes for the big boss man!

F.X.R. rises from his computer workstation.

That was fast.

You always say that!

Nicholas sets up the room service table.

You Nicholas?

(reading the name tag)

Looks like it. Welcome aboard. What happened to O’Shay?

O’Shay’s wife had that baby, remember? And yes, I already sent over a new crib and a cold-water humidifier, along with two full-time nurses.

F.X.R. sits for his griddle cakes.

Look at these beauties. If they were made in a pan, they’re pancakes. A griddle, and they are griddle cakes. Were these made in a pan or on a griddle, Nico?

I didn’t actually see, sir. I’m new here.

Sir? Around here I’m plain old F.X.

(then)

I say they’re griddle cakes.

(he pours the berry syrup)

Ms. Mercury. I don’t know what was on the docket for today but cancel everything.

Last time you said that you had me tramping through Mississippi so you could buy up every kenaf farm in the Delta.

Think I nailed down the place for the Solar Pipeline Facility.

Wow. No kidding. Super.

She sighs and plops herself down on the couch. She starts swiping around the Internet on her Watch/Computer.

(to herself)

Gonna be a long day…

F.X.R. picks up his plate and walks to the computers, pulls up images, and points with his fork dripping with boysenberry.

Shepperton Dry Creek ain’t nothing much now. Flat, wide. Dusty. But, a miracle of Mother Nature that gets more sunshine than Taylor Swift gets Facebook likes.

(Ms. Mercury is “LIKING” a post on Taylor Swift’s Facebook page)

That’s a lot.

Old Route 88 cuts close to Shepperton Dry Creek.

Does it? I don’t know anything.

Someone enterprising is going to start buying up the land along that stretch of highway for the influx of traffic it’s gonna bring.

(bored, examining nails)

Uh-huh.

So, let’s get goin’.

Goin’ where?

Along old Route 88. It’ll be fun! Just like that trip we took in Costa Rica on the Pan-American Highway to collect spiders.

Yeah. That was a blast. I was bitten.

You healed.

Make Nick go with you today.

I can’t boss Nick around. He’s in the union.

(then)

You are in the union, right?

I am, sir. Er, F.X.

Why can’t you get married and make your wife do this stuff?

I don’t need a wife. I have you, Ms. Mercury. Wives don’t put up with guys like me.

But I have to? I’ve got too many things to do right here to keep your empire afloat.

A road trip will do us both good.

She throws up her hands.

You see, Nicholas! You and your griddle cakes!

What did I do?

What did Nick do?

One of these days I’m gonna quit this job and do something dignified, like professional water skiing…

(typing on her Watch/Computer)

I’ll get the jet ready.

The big jet and the little jet. You take the little one and scrounge up some ground transpo. I’ll come in the big jet after I’ve done my workout.

Whatever you wish, O Titan of Industry. Which fantasy automobile do you want to add to the warehouse? A Monza? Surfer Woodie?

Let’s keep a low profile to blend in with the locals. The economy bypassed that part of the nation.

(pulls out a wad of cash)

Get me whatever car eight hundred dollars can purchase.

Eight hundred dollars? For a car? It’ll be a hunk of junk!

F.X.R. pulls out a few more bills.

Make it eight fifty.

(pulls a twenty)

Nick? For you.

Nicholas takes the money.

Thank you, Mister F.X.

EXT. AIRFIELD, SOMEWHERE IN THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE—DAY

A single landing strip and a weathered Field Business Office. Not many aircraft land at this place. But look here…

A Big Jet is taxiing up beside a parked Little Jet. Both planes have the Olympus logo painted on the sides.

Ms. Mercury—still in her black on black—sits behind the wheel of a 1970s-era Buick convertible with the top down.

The stairs of the Big Jet pop open, and there is F.X.R. in clothes he thinks the common people wear—a fruity-looking western shirt with too much piping tucked into an old pair of Jordache designer jeans, a belt with a huge Marlboro cigarettes belt buckle, and flame-red cowboy boots.

He wears a too-perfectly-broken-in John Deere cap and has a straw cowboy hat in his hand.

Hey, Duke, or Bo, or whoever you are. Is my boss in that plane?

(re: his costume)

Pretty good, huh? Authenticity is the key.

Glad some of the casino showgirls let you raid their dressing room.

(re: the car)

How’s she running?

I’ve burned half a tank of gas and a pint of oil just driving from the lot. Good news is, I bargained down to seven hundred bucks.

Put the change in petty cash. Here.

(the cowboy hat)

Blend in!

He plops the hat on her head.

(laughing)

Don’t we look great?