MEC-S C E N E (XXVI)  

TITLE: “WEEKEND WARRIOR”

INT. ROACH MOTEL – NIGHT

A flickering light. Cracked tiles. Roaches climb the wall.

NARRATOR (V.O.)
The rooms I slept in charged by the hour.
The kind with grunts through paper walls and headboards that banged like war drums.
Cheap vodka. Cheaper sex.

EXT. TEL AVIV – BEACH – NIGHT

Under a pergola. He lies in the sand, shirtless, eyes to the stars.

NARRATOR (V.O.)
When I couldn’t afford filth, I took the beach.
Jerusalem Beach. Wooden slats and sea mist.
Sometimes a couch.
Gay men. Girls with names that ended in -a.
Always hot, never sober.

INT. BOARDWALK BAR – NIGHT

He pours vodka into plastic cups, preaching to strangers.

NARRATOR (V.O.)
They called it missionary work.
I sold paintings after sermons.
Stories of exile and New York.
They paid more if I wept a little.
Sometimes they offered a bed.
Sometimes just a place to fall.

MONTAGE:

• Opium pipe burns.
• Russian girls dance in a haze of cigarette smoke.
• Laughter in broken languages.

NARRATOR (V.O.)
Other nights I was a genie.
Released in smoke, sex, vodka.
A party prophet to a lost tribe of Russians.
They drank me like they drank the myth of America.

INT. ROACH MOTEL – NIGHT

Frantic sex. No sheets. Anya’s hair in his fist.

NARRATOR (V.O.)
Anya lived up the coast, but worked the city.
We fucked like it meant something.
She cursed in three tongues, told stories of Sharon and war.
I wanted to take her on a picnic.
Figs, cheese, maybe a poem.
But that would’ve been wasted on both of us.

INT. BOARDWALK – NIGHT

He walks alone past the Opera Towers, cigarette lit.

NARRATOR (V.O.)
Everyone likes an artist.
I sold them more than paintings.
I sold hope.
They thought I was the hero.
But I was just another ghost in their fantasy.

EXT. STREETS OF TEL AVIV – DAY

Two rough-looking kids, GILEAD and THE GREEK, lead him down back alleys.

NARRATOR (V.O.)
I found a free place to sleep.
Bet Ashanti.
Meals and a bed, no questions asked.
Just don’t do drugs.
Be back by midnight.

EXT. FLORENTINE NEIGHBORHOOD – SUNSET

An urban kibbutz. Kids smoke, fight, flirt. Laughter and broken things everywhere.

NARRATOR (V.O.)
It was like Lord of the Flies with Wi-Fi.
A pregnant girl on the couch.
A woman who looked like she’d punched half the room.
They gave me a locker with no lock, a bed among thieves.

INT. BET ASHANTI – DINING HALL – NIGHT

Candles lit. Prayers sung. Forty broken kids singing Shabbos hymns.

NARRATOR (V.O.)
We sang prayers like it mattered.
Forty kids pretending this was home.
I stayed because it was clean.
And because I had nowhere else to go.

FADE OUT.

NARRATOR (V.O.)
The weekend warrior tale has no real end.
Only detours.
Only nights.