70s Sitcom 3 (Patreon)

Episode Two: Working Girls.

Opening Credit: Grainy shots of a gritty, bygone New York City. Big, steel cars patched with bondo line the streets. Women in skirts and dresses scurry along sidewalks crowded with men in suits. We see drug stores and delis, record stores and fancy restaurants with names on their awnings.  Two young men with sharp, collegiate haircuts and polo shirts are seen pointing, gawking, taking in the town as the theme song plays:

Shot of NYC skyline at night, the city lights twinkling above the Hudson River. Shot of NYC skyline as sun rises, a tugboat honks as it churns along the water.

Close up. Old fashioned alarm clock with actual metal bells starts ringing. Mike sits up and shouts, “Fire! Fire!” He leaps out of bed. The image of the woman is now very clear, almost obscuring his image. “Jason! Jason!” Despite the fact that he is just getting out of bed, her hair is in that perfect upflip. Mike climbs up on the bed and grabs a pillow, looking around frantically for the flames. “Fire!”

Jason walks in and slaps the alarm, turning it off. Jason’s female image is also strong.  We see that huge head of glamorous Farah Fawcett hair, and she is wearing a nightie that lets us see her gorgeous legs. The audience “ooooohhhs.”

“It’s just an old fashioned alarm clock,” Jason says. “Can you dig it?”

“Alarm? Alarm? WHY are old-fashioned alarms so, so-- kangblabla?!”

Jason crosses his arms and shakes his head. “Were you planning to beat the fire out with a pillow?”

Laughter.

“Yes? No? Um, maybe?” Mike tosses the pillow away, embarrassed and gets down off the bed. “That girl image is getting clearer around you. She has great legs!”

Wolf whistles and cat calls.

Jason can’t help but put a hand on a hip and kick one leg up while tossing his hair, turning and smiling brightly toward the camera. “You ain’t just a woofin!”

Cheers and laughter.

Jason, realizing what he’s doing, yelps, and then tries to strike a manly pose.  “I gotta go do some push ups,” he says, exiting. We see him letting his hips sway, and the camera focuses in on the ghost versions perfect, heart shaped ass.

Mike looks at the camera and puts his hands to his cheeks, “Wowzers!”

Laughs.

Jason goes in the bathroom to shower, brush his teeth, shave. He sees the counter and cabinet are now cluttered with mascara, foundation, lipstick and eyeshadow, hand cream and there are old fashioned bras hanging from the shower curtain. Jason looks in the mirror, sees the pretty female face now superimposed over his own, framed by thick blonde hair. He picks up a tube of lipstick and examines it. “Freaky Deaky,” he says, and the audience laughs.

Cut to Mike and Jason on the sidewalk outside their building. They are looking each other over, curious. “The ghosts are following us,” Mike says. “Your dress looks cute.”

The “girls” are wearing tunic dresses. Jason’s is purple with a white, white color, and black tights. Mike’s wears a checkered yellow dress with a wide belt a a big, shiny belt buckle.

“I’m starting to think they may not be ghosts,” Jason says. “And please don’t talk about me wearing a dress.”

“I wouldn’t, but it is way cool!”

Jason is disturbed that part of him likes the compliment, almost seems to need it. It confirms his growing suspicion about what is happening. “Let’s just get to the office.”

They start walking down the street. As they pass a construction sight, the guys all start whistling and shouting. “Foxy ladies!” “What are you two bunnies doing tonight?”

“What the hell?” Mike says.

Jason grabs his arm and the two hurry by the site, cringing.

“They must have seen our ghosts,” Mike says. “I didn’t know anyone else could see them!”

“Me, neither. That was-- not fun.”

“Yeah. Made my skin crawl. Unreal.”

“I would go so far as to call it freaky deaky!”

The audience laughs.

Jason groans. “I can’t stop saying it.”

Mike shrugs. “Why does the audience always laugh?”

“I think it’s my catch phrase. It’s all part of the sitcom world we’re stuck in.”

“Do I have a catchphrase?”

“Probably.”

“Freaky Deaky!” Mike shouts.

Nothing.

“It can’t be the same as mine. We can’t both have the same catchphrase.  You have to find your own.”

“I want a good catchphrase!  Like, “I’ll be back!”

“That’s 80s, and we really have more important things to worry about.”

“Like what?”

“Getting out of this stupid sitcom before it’s too late!” Jason screams.

“Oh, yeah. I forgot about that,” Mike says. “How do we go that again?”

“I’m not sure yet, but I think it could happen at work.  That’s why that landlord character appeared and told us about the rent. It was a complication that would force us to take action.”

“Wow!” Mike says, turning to face the camera with a big smile. “I’m totally buggin!”

No response.

“Nothing? Really? Maybe if i say it different, like I am TOoooo-tally Buuuuuuuuuggin!”

Nothing.

“That’s 90s,” Jason says, grabbing Mike’s wrist and dragging him down the sidewalk. “We gotta book!”

Cut to shot of Empire State Building from the street. Then, a pair of glass doors on which the words “Chalker and Sons” have been written. There are plastic plants on either side of the door, and an ashtray. Two young secretaries stand smoking. They give Mike a once over and raise their eyebrows.

Mike nervously approaches the receptionist, a severe looking young woman with her hair pulled back, cateye glasses. “May I help you?” The woman asks in a cold, pinched voice.

“I’m new here. This is my first day. I’m so excited to be starting my first job here in New York City! I just moved here.”

The Receptionist looks over the tops of her glasses. “You certainly have moxie.”

“I do?”

“You are oozing moxie.”

“Thanks.”

“I HATE moxie.”

Mike yelps and jumps back.

Laughter.

“Let me see here,” the receptionist says, beginning to work through some file cards. “I need to find your assignment.”

“Why don’t you just use your computer?” Mike asks.

Once more, the Receptionist looks over the tops of her glasses. “Yes. Of course. How could I have been so ridiculous. I’ll just call NASA and have them look up your assignment. This isn’t Star Trek, young lady.”

“Oh, I’m--”

“Here we are,” The Receptionist says. “You will be reporting to Max Kincaid. Down the hall. Second office to the left.”

“Ok. Okay. Thank you.”

“Oh, and Miss Hope?”

“I’m not-” Mike starts, then stops, waving away his objection. “Um, yes?”

“Do be careful. Mr. Kincaid is very handsy.”

Mike shrugs. “Okay. I will be careful. Wooooo! Scary!” He chuckles and walks down the hall.

The Receptionist watches him, shaking her head. “Moxie!” She hisses.

Laughter.

Jason, whose job was on the 14th Floor, one above where Mike was now working, hurried down the hall, eager to avoid being late on his first day.  The 14th floor featured a series of identical wooden doors with frosted glass windows. Stenciled on each one the name of the business had been stenciled in black, block letters.

The muted rat tat tat of typewriters hacking away drifted from behind the office doors.  Finally, Jason came to Allen, Allen and Allen, Accountants. Opening the door, Jason looked into a small, tidy reception area, an old, steel desk sitting to the side, a bulky, old-fashioned phone with lights blinking, a typewriter. There were plastic plants on either side of the desk, and a sign on the wall that read, Have a Nice Day!

“Hello?” Jason called, stepping into the room. “Hello?”  The room was empty. There was another door, which Jason assumed led back to the partner’s offices, and he was just about to walk back and see if he could find someone when the door burst open and a thin, short balding man with red hair a thick, black framed glasses rushed out. “Oh, good. You must be Josie.”

“Jason,” Jason corrected.

“No. I’m Woodrow. Common mistake.”

Laughter.

Jason, having bought into the whole sitcom idea, started to have a very bad feeling. “I’m the new guy. Start today.”

“Right. Okay. You wanna be called a guy, that’s your business, but you might want to get a haircut.”

Laughter.

“So, the job.” Woodrow puts his hands on Jason’s shoulders, steers him to the receptionist chair and pushed him down. “You sit here, answer the phone, make nice with the clients. And, if you’re like the last one, spend a lot of time filing your nails.”

“I’m the receptionist?” Jason groaned, looking at his nails.  The ghost girl had long, perfectly ovals.

“No, I just sat you there and explained the receptionist job to you because I’m high.”

Laughter.

“I was supposed to be a junior accountant.”

“And I was supposed to be a spaceman. You grow out it.”

More laughter.

“Okay. Stay right there. You need to be there in case anyone comes in, to answer the phone. You think you can handle that?”

“I did go to college,” Jason says, perturbed.

“Well, unless you majored in typing you should try and get your money back.”

Laughter.

Jason feels himself seething, and even though he knows it’s all a sitcom and in a sense not even real, he can’t help himself. “I can do more than type.”

Woodrow looks at the camera and smiles. “I bet you can, and in a lot of different positions!”

The audience roars. Woodrow exits.

“The nerve!” Jason says, appalled. “I have a mind to just walk right out of here! Getting fresh with me on the first day.” But, then he remembered the rent, and besides he thought that maybe the answer to getting out of this crazy sitcom was here at the office.

Jason sits. Nothing happens. He starts to drum on his desk. Shifts his chair around. Opens and closes the drawers to his desk. Finally, he just rolls his eyes.  “No smartphones, no smartpads, no Internet. I gotta do something.” He picks up a ghostly nail file and starts to file his ghostly nails.

The audience laughs and applauds.

Cut to Mike sitting at his desk, filing his nails.

Laughter.

Mr. Kincaid opens the door to his office, looks at Mike, then the camera, waggles his eyebrows.  “Mia, can you fetch the Zander file?”

Mike looks up. “Of course.” He begins to look around the office. “My pleasure.”

Mr. Kincaid watches, amused.

Mike lifts his typewriter. Looks under the blotter on his desk. Then, he turns to Mr. Kincaid and says, “Actually, I have no idea where it is.”

Chuckles.

Kincaid smirks. “You don’t say?”

“I just did say.”

Laughter.

“You got moxie, kid.”

“Oh. Sorry. I need to work on that.”

Laughter.

“I LOVE moxie! Now, look in the bottom drawer.”

Mike opens the bottom drawer, looking through the files. “I don’t see it.”

“Stand up. That’s what the old secretary would do.  It’s the dim light.”

“Okay,” Mike says, wary. “If you say so.” He stands and leans down, looking through the files. “I still don’t see it.”

“Bend over a little more. A little more.”

Mike bends over more and more. Kincaid leers at his rear end, looks at the camera and waggles his eyebrows.

The audience roars.

“I still don’t see it.”

“Let me help,” Kincaid says, moving over and positioning himself behind Mike. The position is suggestive and the audience titers.

“I don’t think that’s helping,” Mike says.

“Maybe this will make things more clear,” Kincaid says, putting his hands on Mike’s butt and squeezing.

Mike shrieks and leaps away, spins around.  He wags his finger at Kincaid. “I should slap you for that!”

“Sounds good. Come on back to my office!”

The audience is roaring now, clapping and cheering.

Cut to Jason, sitting at his desk, his chin in his hands. “I want to be a part of it, New York, New York” he murmurs, forlorn. “How am I supposed to escape from this when I’m stuck behind this desk?” He says.

The phone buzzes. Jason sits up, excited. He picks up the phone, punches the blinking light and says, “Allen, Allen and Allen?”

“Josie,” we hear Allen says. “Come back to my office. I need you to take dictation.”

“Thank God,” Jason says. “I’m losing my mind out here.”

“Well, I can understand that,” Woodrow says. “It’s mostly composed of air.”

Laughter.

Click.

Jason huffs, but gets up and exits.

Cut to Woodrow’s office as Jason enters.. It’s dim. Disco music plays from the stereo system.  Woodrow stands at the full bar, pouring drinks. A grand, oak desk rests before wide windows with a view of Manhattan, though the blinds are partly closed, so we only see it in slashes.

“Is this an office or a nightclub?” Jason says.

Laughter.

“A little of both,” Woodrow says. “Take a seat. Make yourself comfortable.”

Jason starts toward the chair sitting near the desk.

“Please,” Woodrow says. “The couch.”

Jason looks to see a long, leather couch, a bucket chair, a glass coffee table. “Maybe since this is work, we should keep it formal?” Jason says, continuing toward the desk.

“Nonsense,” Woodrow says, intercepting Jason and steering him back toward the couch. “We like to keep a mellow vibe here. It’s a groovy place to work. Kind of like the Studio 54 of the accounting world.”

Jason reluctantly allows himself to be steered to the couch. He sits. Woodrow slips onto the couch, right next to him, handing him a drink.

“Did you want me to take dictation?” Jason says.

“I do want you to take DIC-tation,” Woodrow says, chuckling.

“Mr. Allen!” Jason says.

“Please. Call me Woody.”

Laughter.

“I’d really prefer to keep this professional,” Jason says. “I’m not the, um-- girl? You think I am.”

“Relax.” Woodrow takes a big gulp of his drink. Puts it down. “Don’t make me drink alone,” he says, looking at the glass still held in Jason’s hand. “That would make me an alcoholic!”

“Fine.” Jason takes a sip of his drink and sets it down. Then, he holds up his steno pad and pen. “Ready?”

“I was ready as soon as I saw you,” Woodrow says.

Laughter.

“Mr. Allen--”

“Woody.”

“Woody. Please.”

“Before we get started, I do have one question.”

“What is it?” Jason sighs.

“Do you like to boogie?”

“Boogie?”

Woody picks up a controller and pushes a button. A disco ball starts to spin and little balls of light swirl around the room. “I like to boogie the night away.”

“It’s ten o’clock in the morning!”

With that, Woody lunges at Jason, trying to kiss him. Jason puts his arms on Woody’s chest, pushing him back. “Stop! Woody!”

“I can’t help myself! You’re a stone cold fox!”

“Ahhhhhhh!” Jason wrestles himself free and runs from the office.

Woodrow takes a drink and smiles at the camera. “Oh, I do love it when they play hard to get!”

Laughter.

Cut To Mike and some girls from the office at the ashtray outside the doors to Chalker and Company. “And then he squeezed my booty! Mike says, finishing his story.

The girls all nod. “Sounds about right.”

“Yeah. Welcome to the big city.”

“Wait, this is normal?”

The girls laugh. “You’re not in Iowa anymore.”

“Actually, Lancaster.”

Laughter.

“Well, back to the grind,” one of the girls says, crushing out her cigarette. The girls exit as Jason enters. “Hey, Jason” Mike says.

“Apparently, I’m Josie now,” Jason says. “Give me one of those.”

“I guess I’m Mary.” Mike hands the pack of Virginia Slims to Jason. Since when do you smoke?”

“Since my boss tried to put the moves on me.”

“You, too?”

“In the worst way.” Jason taps a cigarette out of the pack and waves to Mike to hand him the lighter. He lights the cigarette and takes a drag, not realizing he is holding it with his fingers in a V. He puts a hand on his hip and blows the smoke toward the ceiling.

“My boss squeezed my booty.” Mike says. “The girls tell me it’s pretty copacetic.”

“I’d call it freaky deaky!”

Laughter.

“I’ve got to stop saying that.”

“So what is going on, anyway?” Mike says.

“We’re trapped in a sitcom, like I told you. And I recognize the subgenre more clearly.”

“Subgenre?”

“It’s working girls in the city,” Jason says. “Like Mary Tyler Moore or That Girl. You even look like That Girl.”

The camera zooms in on Mike, whose eyes go wide with surprise.

“But, a darker, grittier sitcom that’s maybe a little more real to what things were like for women in the 70s-- but exaggerated for comic effect!”

“So, the ghosts?”

“We’re turning into them! You’re becoming Mia, and me? Look at this hair? I’m turning into Farah Fawcett.”

“I always thought Farah had great faucets!” Mike says, chuckling.

“Just stop.”

“Anyway, Farah didn’t do sitcoms. I’d say you’re turning into Lonnie Anderson from WKRP.”

“That isn’t any better.”

Laughter.

“How am I supposed to live in this world as a blonde bimbo?”

“Easy,” Mike says. “Peroxide.”

Laughter.

Jason takes another drag on his cigarette. “At least these smokes are actually pretty good.”

“They’re slender so they fit in a woman’s small hand,” Mike says, looking at his cigarette. “They aren’t all thik and clumsy like cigarettes made for men. I read it in a magazine.”

“Then I have one thing to say. I am never smoking another one!” Jason tosses the cigarette in the ashtray, spins and storms off.

The camera follows Jason, focuses on his swaying hips.

Mike looks at the camera. “Lonnie Anderson. I’d recognize that booty anywhere.”

Laughter.

The camera pulls away and rises up to show the Empire State Building. We hear the theme song play:

Guys. Guys just moved to the city

Thinking that life was so pretty

But then they found

Themselves wearing gowns

And it’s heels

And skirts all day

And it’s hands

Just groping away

But somehow these two guys

Will learn to be women

Will learn to be women

Black and white flashbacks of Kincaid grabbing Mike’s butt and his shocked and appalled reaction, Jason struggling to get away from Woody.