Mike's Encounter with Isolation in a Diner, Exams of Voice

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THE TWILIGHT ZONE

Episode 101: "WHERE IS EVERYBODY?" Written by Rod Serling

ACT ONE

STANDARD ROAD OPENING

Shot of the sky... the various nebulae and planet bodies stand out in sharp, sparkling relief. As the camera begins a slow pan across the Heavens -- NARRATOR'S VOICE There is a sixth dimension beyond that which is known to man. It is a dimension as vast as space, and as timeless as infinity. It is the middle ground between light and shadow -- between man's grasp and his reach; between science and superstition; between the pit of his fears and the sunlight of his knowledge. This is the dimension of imagination. It is an area that might be called the Twilight Zone. The camera has begun to pan down until it passes the horizon and is flush on the opening shot (each week the opening shot of the play). We are now looking down the small two-lane asphalt highway. It is dawn, the road is deserted save for a small diner on the left hand side. A broken neon light flashes on and off over the front door. From inside the sound of a rock-'n'-roll record lends a strange, raucous dissonance to the early morning silence. Then the camera sweeps right for a LONG SHOT MIKE FERRIS Who suddenly appears, walking down the road. His step is tentative, unsure. He's a tall man in his thirties. His dress is nondescript, his only identifiable garment being army pants. There's an indecisiveness, a puzzlement, in his features as he comes closer to the camera, sees the diner, stops, rubs his knuckles over the side of his face and feels his beard's stubble. He pats in his pocket, unsure, reaches in and pulls out a couple of dollar bills. For some reason this buoys him up. He looks a little more resolved as he walks up the steps and into the diner.

MIKE

(sardonically calling out) Is this thing loud enough for you out here? I mean, can you hear it all right? He grins wryly, waits momentarily for an answer that never comes, turns and looks again at the juke box. He rises, gets off his stool, goes over the juke box, looks all around it, pushes it away from the wall a few inches, reaches back, fiddles with a knob. The music goes much lower. Then, satisfied, he pushes the machine back against the wall and goes back over to the counter. MIKE Kind of early for that kind of music, isn't it? Still, silence. MIKE I noticed there's a town just up the road. What's the name of it? Again, silence. Mike puts the menu down, peers through the little opening to the kitchen. INT. KITCHEN A small room with a couple of stoves, et cetera. He goes over to the stove, turns down the oven, and looks around the room. He goes over to a back door, tries it and it swings open. He steps back as it creaks open and reveals the diner's backyard. MIKE (calls out) Hey? You got a customer out front! Hey! Customer here! Still no answer. Mike turns, retraces his steps to the lunch counter. MED. SHOT ROOM Mike still shows no real emotion beyond a puzzlement. He's neither frightened nor concerned as yet. Again he picks up the menu and studies it. He talks out loud, now.

MIKE

I think ham and eggs. Eggs up and soft. Hash browns. Coffee. Black. (looks up, calls out again) Customer! Got a customer out front! (he rises from the stool again -- sticks his head in the kitchen) Ham and eggs. Hash browns. Coffee black. He stands there by the open, swinging door staring into the empty kitchen. His eyes dart about now and for the first time we see something beyond puzzlement on his features. What supplants it is irritation, not acute, but definitely there. He reaches into his shirt pocket and takes out a crumpled pack of cigarettes, goes back to the lunch counter. Now he scratches his head, sits down on the stool for a long moment. Suddenly the music on the juke box stops. The sudden cessation of noise brings with it a silence even more obvious. Mike turns to stare at the juke box. He looks up at the clock. CLOSE SHOT CLOCK It is on the counter near the coffee urn, its face turned sideways so that Mike can't see it. MED. CLOSE SHOT MIKE As he goes over to the clock to turn it around and stare at it. CLOSE SHOT CLOCK It reads a quarter to six. MED. SHOT MIKE Mike turns away from it, but in doing so brushes against it and knocks it to the floor. CLOSE SHOT CLOCK On the floor as Mike bends over and picks it up. The face of it is broken. He puts it back on the counter, then goes back over to his seat.

MIKE (CONT'D)

This much is established! He gets up off the stool and suddenly slams both palms down hard on the counter, making all the salt shakers and catsup bottles quiver and rattle. MIKE (shouts) I got two dollars and eighty-five cents and I'm hungry! He stops dead now, listening to the silence that enfolds and surrounds him. Then he looks around. Again the sense of irritation. He takes a drag on his cigarette, then butts it out, rises, goes to the front door and stares out. EXT. LUNCH ROOM The long road that leads away from the lunch counter without a sign of traffic, people, or anything. He whirls around to look back into the lunchroom. MIKE (aloud) I'm gonna wake up in a minute. I know I'm gonna wake up. I wish... I wish there'd be a noise or something to wake me up. He suddenly sticks two fingers in his mouth and whistles, listens for a moment, then he whistles again, kind of grinning to himself. MIKE A little noise, please! (now he sings at the top of his voice) "Yes sir, that's my baby. No sir, don't mean maybe. Yes sir, that's my baby now!" He laughs a little sheepishly, listens for a moment to the silence, then he turns and goes back to the lunch counter. INT. LUNCH ROOM Mike sits down, buries his face in his hands, rubbing his eyes, massaging his temples as if trying to force out with

his fingers some connective link... some reassurance of existence... some knowledge of where he is and what he's doing. Once again he looks around the room. PAN SHOT WITH HIS EYES Taking in the shots of the coffee urn, the menus, the salt and pepper shakers, all the simple, commonplace, terribly normal adjuncts to what should be a normal scene but somehow isn't. He rises now, looks around again, then walks to the door. CLOSE SHOT THE 'OPEN' SIGN ON THE DOOR CLOSE SHOT MIKE As he slowly reaches down and turns the sign over to read CLOSED. Then he walks out. DISSOLVE TO: EXT. TOWN STREET MIKE'S P.O.V. It's still early morning, and what we're looking at is the main drag of a small town, flanked by stores, a courthouse, a post office, et al. The most singularly overwhelming feature of this is the complete absence of motion and all noise. LONG SHOT MIKE FERRIS As he walks down the sidewalk looking from one side of the street to the other. TRACK SHOT Past stores as Mike goes by them. Drugstore, grocery, soda bar. Most of the doors are open and there are lights on inside, but there are no people. There's an odd, indefinable feeling that permeates the scene, a sense of activity and yet coming with no players, and no people, as if it was a place full of motion and movement suddenly stripped of the people performing it. LONG SHOT DOWN THE STREET From Mike's point of view. It is devoid of any kind of movement whatsoever. It is absolutely quiet. Over this

(CONT'D)

cab of the truck, a little puzzled. He smiles again.) You know, it's a real oddball thing but... well, I woke up this morning... (he stops and rubs his jaw) I didn't exactly wake up. I just sort of found myself on the road walking. (and then suddenly) Amnesia, that's what they call it, isn't it? Amnesia? Well that must be what I've got. I just don't remember a thing... I can't find anybody to ask... TRACKING SHOT As he starts to walk across the street. MIKE (as he walks) You're the first person I've seen. Look, I really don't want you to be frightened or anything, but I was wondering if you could just tell me if maybe there's a doctor or something. CLOSE SHOT MIKE As he stops dead in his tracks. He's about ten feet from the truck. MED. LONG SHOT THE TRUCK The female figure is outlined in the passenger seat but very much in the shadows. MOVING SHOT MIKE As he gets close to the cab. CLOSE SHOT PROFILE FEMALE HEAD FLASH CLOSE SHOT MIKE'S EYES As they suddenly narrow in reaction.

CLOSE SHOT MIKE'S HANDS

On the door handle as he suddenly yanks the door open. MED. CLOSE SHOT INSIDE THE CAB The female figure suddenly slumps down in the seat, her head sticking out of the open door, the hair cascading down. The camera pans slowly across her body until it stops at what should be arms. There are no arms. Mike reaches over, grabs at the hair of the figure and pulls it up and around, to stare into the wooden face of a mannequin. He very slowly lets loose and the mannequin tumbles back onto the seat and then down to the floor of the cab. CLOSE SHOT FLOOR he mannequin staring up with glassy, manufactured eyes. MED. SHOT MIKE As he slowly backs away, then turns to read the lettering printed on the side of the truck. CLOSE SHOT LETTERING It reads, RESNICK'S STORE MANNEQUINS. CLOSE SHOT MIKE As his lips form the words that he's read. Then he turns to look through the window of the cab at the figure of the mannequin, He takes a few steps over to her and then very gently picks her up and sets her back on the seat. MIKE I'm very sorry, Madame. I can assure you that at no time did I mean to be so upsetting. As a matter of fact I've always had a kind of secret yen for quiet women. (then he grins) You get what I mean, Babe? (he kisses his fingertips and then plants them on the mannequin's nose) Now don't take any wooden boy friends. Then he looks at her again for a more pensive moment as if

VOICE (CONT'D)

The number you have reached is not a working number. Please make sure you have the right number and are dialing it correctly. Mike starts to shout into the phone. MIKE Is everybody asleep over there? What kind of operation do you people run? Then she repeats all she's just said as Mike listens to her, excited beyond words that he has found someone alive. When she finishes repeating the message he grabs the phone and is about to speak when suddenly he hears the Operator's voice again. VOICE This is a recording. There is a certain suggestion of tenseness that suddenly shows on Mike's face. VOICE (filtered) This is the Special Operator. The number you have reached is not a working number. Please make sure you have the right number and are dialing it correctly. MIKE A recording? (he pounds on the receiver hook and shouts) Operator! Look, all I want to know is where I am. I just want to know the name of this place. Then he slowly lets the receiver loose and it hangs down from the phone box. Mike's hand touches and then grasps a telephone book, a thin one that he grabs and looks at hungrily. CLOSE SHOT TELEPHONE COVER On it is written OAKWOOD.

MED. SHOT MIKE

He rips open the cover, looks down at the first page. MIKE A. Abel. Ackerman. Adams. Allenby. Arnold. All right, boys, where are you? (his voice is a little edgier now) Where do you all live? Just in this book here? (he rips the page open) Baker. Beldon. Biltmore. Botsford. Well, look, gang -- who's watching the store? He suddenly turns to look out at the street. FULL SHOT THE STREET MIKE'S P.O.V. MED. CLOSE SHOT MIKE MIKE Who's watching any of the stores? He lets loose of the phone book now, lets it fall to the floor, and stands there motionless for a moment, deep in thought. Then he automatically reaches for the door handle, turns it, and pushes. Nothing happens. He tries again and it remains locked. He waits a moment, then puts all his weight against it. It does not yield. It is more than irritation that we see on Mike's face now. There's the first suggestion of a real concern. He looks around his strange, glass prison. MIKE All right. Who's the wise guy? Who locked the door? (he tries the door once again) It's a great gag. He pounds again and then suddenly stops and looks all around. PAN SHOT FROM MIKE'S P.O.V. From inside the phone booth. The camera moves all the way

MIKE (CONT'D)

Look, I know I can be heard. I know... I know somebody's watching me. Immediately after he's said this he realizes he has suddenly given voice to his fear. He's labeled what is beginning to bother him. Simply a sense of being watched. He suddenly bends down, picks up the phone book, flings it against the glass of the door. The glass disintegrates. Mike sticks his hand through, opens the door from the outside, then kicks at it with his foot. It springs open and halfway off its hinges as he goes out onto the street. Then he looks down at his hand. It's cut; a rivulet of blood runs down through the fingers. He feels for a handkerchief, takes it and wraps it around the hand. He squeezes it a couple of times, trying to get more blood to flow. Then he starts down the street again. LONG SHOT STREET MIKE'S P.O.V. Once again the sense of emptiness and loneliness and that bizarre quality of activity with no actors. TRACK SHOT WITH MIKE AS HE CONTINUES DOWN THE STREET He pauses in front of a building and looks up. CLOSE SHOT SIGN Which reads, POLICE STATION. TRACK SHOT He walks up the steps and into the building. INT. POLICE STATION There's a small anteroom, and then an open, barred door which leads to a corridor lined with cells. MED. CLOSE SHOT MIKE As he enters and looks around. There is a police sergeant's desk, files, pictures of wanted men on the wall. A teletype machine hums in the corner. Mike goes to look at it. The light over it is on, but nothing is being written. He whirls around and stares toward the sergeant's desk, goes behind it, picks up a microphone, fingers it for a moment,

then talks into it. MIKE Calling all cars. Calling all cars. Unknown man walking around the police station. Suspicious looking character. Probably wanted by the FBI -- Then he stops, looks at the mike, chuckles softly for a moment and then stops abruptly, the smile gone. He flings the microphone away from him and looks slowly around the room. MIKE I wish I could shake that feeling... (he looks around again) That crazy feeling of being watched... listened to... He stares toward the cell doors then begins to walk slowly toward them. CLOSE SHOT MIKE As he stands in the middle of the next room, looking from empty cell to empty cell. Then he whirls around at a bubbling sound. There, on a hot plate, is a pot of coffee perking. Behind him we see the barred door leading to the anteroom begin to close. Mike's eyes look wild, as if subconsciously he realizes he's in danger. He whirls around to see the cell door closing and then, with a shout, throws himself against it, pushing it away before it locks. He seems to hang on it now, breathing deeply. MIKE All right, time to wake up! Time to wake up now! He whirls around, his face distorted, close up against the camera. He shouts. MIKE Time to wake up! He stumbles through the anteroom and then back to the street.

ACT TWO

FADE ON:

FILM CLIP A HOT AND HIGH AFTERNOON SUN

Shimmering in a sea of heatwaves. The camera sweeps down until it is level with the street and a LONG SHOT MIKE FERRIS As he sits on a curb, staring dully and numbly across at nothing. The church steeple clock sounds two. He looks up, listens to it, but is no longer shocked by it. He just lets the sound of the chimes play along the edges of his consciousness without really being aware of them. Now he rises and walks slowly, methodically, without much apparent purpose across the street. He looks up to see a sign reading DRUGSTORE. He enters. INT. DRUGSTORE It is light and cheerful inside. On the left hand side is the soda bar with a big mirror behind it full of stickers advertising various concoctions -- soft drinks, ice cream, sandwiches. Mike, as he enters, pauses by the cigarette and candy counter. He looks through the glass for a long moment, then reaches behind and takes out a couple of cigars. He unwraps one, sticks it in his mouth, lights it, takes a couple of draws, butts it out, reaches in another box, takes one of those, then looks in the box. MIKE Two for a dollar. Now that's more like it. I always like an expensive cigar. Then he turns with a smile and says to nobody. MIKE How about you guys -- any of you want a cigar? SERIES OF SHOTS OF EMPTY BOOTHS MED. CLOSE SHOT MIKE As he gets up on a stool.

MIKE

I'll take a chocolate soda with chocolate ice cream. He starts to laugh, but the laugh is checked almost immediately as he sees his reflection in the mirror behind the counter. His fingers run exploringly across his face, taking in the beard stubble, the hollowness beneath the eyes, the strange, haunted, frightened look that is obvious there. He looks at himself again for a long moment. MIKE You'll forgive me, old pal, but I don't recollect the name. The face seems vaguely familiar... but it's the name that escapes me. (a pause) I'll tell you what my problem is. I'm in the middle of a nightmare that I can't wake up from. (he points to the reflection) You're part of it. You and the ice cream and the cigar. That police station and the phone booth. That little mannequin. This whole bloody town, wherever it is. (a pause) Whatever it is. I just remembered something. Scrooge said it. You remember Scrooge, old buddy? Ebenezer Scrooge? It's what he said to the ghost, Jacob Marley. he said, "You may be an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of an undone potato. There's more of gravy than of grave about you." You see? That's what you all are. You're what I had for dinner last night. You must be. But now I'd like to wake up. I've had it... I'd like to wake up now. And if I can't wake up, at least I'd like... I'd like to find somebody to talk to. He rises now and goes behind the counter. He starts to fix himself a chocolate soda, experimenting with some of the cupboards until he finds the right ingredients, the ice cream, the milk, et cetera. Then he mixes himself a soda,