Lawton's Conversation In The Homeless

The lamppost casts a soft spotlight effect on the bus stop bench where Freddie sits in deep thought. He looks at the place he will call home for the night with a mystified stare. Even though it is a different bench, he has put himself in this position, sleeping on benches for the last five years. Battling his conscience, he questions,
“Why am I sleeping in the streets any damn-way,” weighing the pros and cons of his dilemma for twenty minutes. A serious conversation with one’s self may sound unusual, yet, ever since his mental collapse, these conversations, in fact, these behaviors, are all part of his prescribed therapy and deemed by the medical field as rehabilitation. The homeless hobo pays no attention to time as it passes,
“So I failed at

this Hollywood shit, I’m not an asshole, am I? I got common sense?” He debated, “So why am I doing this to myself?” Locked in deep thought, his mind drifts off. As the streetlight casts an enlightening glow upon his face, there is a certain somber look of a lost soul. It is obviously absent from all its invigorating properties and beaten down by the fickle finger of fate, with an empty look of sorrow that gazes into oblivion, completely void of all expectations. In addition, the tears of disappointments roll down his cheeks.

Using the newspaper as a pillow, he lies down on the bench while the darkened park surrounds him. The truth of his reality has consumed his mind, all his joys and ambitions, all his hopes and his dreams; his entire life spark is gone. Nevertheless, he can only remember when this was not the case. Arriving in Hollywood, stepping off the Greyhound Bus, walking the boulevard and gazing at the stars on the walk of fame. Those were the days he felt alive, the days he was living his dream.
The daydream effect was in full force despite the fact that is the night. He remembered the excitement as he prepared his portfolio, the constant search for representation; from one agent to another, anticipating [This would be the one to open the door.] Until a hope became a maybe, and a perhaps became a synonym for continually being turned down. He worked as a waiter, a parking assistant, and subsequently a door attendant. With a gleam of hope in his eye and expectation in his heart, he would go on auditions. One rejection turned into two, which escalated into endless times of constant refusal, leading to frustrations so overbearing, he drank to ease the stress.
With no money or job to support him, the eviction was inevitable, sleeping on park benches, hallways, bushes, and in some cases, tucked away behind the buildings. He pushed shopping carts filled with cans. Elevating his craft by way of shopping carts [filled with clothes], after a few months, shopping carts filled with just about everything he would find.
As he lies on the bench for the evening. Trying to make sense of the constant failures that have consumed him. He listens to his thoughts. “This is some crazy shit,” he whispers, questioning his existence, wearing a vacant look.
“My entire life I tried to do the right thing, and look at me now, one stupid mother…”
Pausing a moment, he shouts. “Fucker!” If anyone would take a closer look beyond his appearance, one might see a mirror image of themselves [but for the grace of God], he is there, and you are not. He has calmed down from the emotional outburst and settles in. But not before he delivers his last act of self-pity,
“God must have one extraordinary sense of screwed up humor,” he pauses for a moment, “Because, my Life is a bitch.”

Doctor Lawton’s Mansion

In the laboratory of Dr. Lawton, there are many sophisticated computers, countless containers, and evident throughout the area are several significant vials. A state of the art digital capture device makes up the control center. The scientists enter the room wearing the typical white coats common to the profession. Discussing the circumstances of their experiment, they are excited about the possibilities. Lawton is hoping the theory is correct, and they will indeed be the greatest scientists of all time. On the other hand, Boniface is not as excited as his counterpart is; he is extremely serious, explaining to Lawton, he had only proven it in theory, and the true test is ahead of them.

In the center of the room, sit two large wooden crates. Getting a crowbar the Professor starts to loosen the lid on one of the crates. Bursting into laughter Lawton wheels over to an enormous screen [Twice the size of the most prominent flat screens on the market today.] “This is a thought machine, I’ve recently developed but have not yet perfected; it will visually show your thoughts in a digital illustration. It operates by picking up electrical impulses and arranging them into a readable file, transferring the file into an image.”
Impressed with his colleague's description, the Professor remains straight-faced and serious. “Remarkable,” he responds. Lawton wheels to another computer pressing a multitude of keys, with a slight smirk of maliciousness, he pushes them.
“Tell me, Professor, do you cheat on your wife?”
The Professor, is a bit surprised by the intimacy of such an out of the ordinary question and looks at Lawton, “What kind of question is that?” he asks, moving to the next crate not responding to the question, in the attempt to change the subject.

But Lawton is insistent and demands that the professor answers his question.
“Professor, I’m sorry, did you hear my question; it is effortless, do you cheat on your wife, it’s a simple yes or no.” upset with the nature of the probe Boniface recognizes Lawton will not rest until he has an answer. Despite the uncomfortable feeling of the inquiry, he responds. “No, doctor, I don’t.”
A loud siren blares through the room, startling the Professor. The noise is echoing like a convoy of ambulances rushing up Sunset Boulevard in midday Traffic. Turning off the machine to halt the noise, Lawton is laughing hysterically while bent over in his wheelchair, surprised at Boniface, who has to take another glimpse of the elated Lawton, who to him is acting strangely?
“What in the world was that?”
The professor asks not knowing that soon he would wish he never answered the question. Ignoring his inquiry Lawton moves to the unopened crate. Calmed down from the laughter, he gives his

explanation.
“That my dear sir, was a lie detector, it operates using individual brain cells that produce thought, consciousness, which filters out the slightest movement in the organization and distribution in one's body temperature.”
The professor doesn’t like the direction the explanation is heading. As Lawton tells him that the machine in general discerns and monitors all body parts for any implication of deceit, revealing the inevitable truth. Upon hearing that, the professor’s face is modified, a blush red has covered his likeness.
“Its accuracy level, my dear professor,” Lawton adds,
“So there will be no doubt, is flawless, one hundred percent.”
A bit embarrassed the Professor not wanting to respond to the lie detectors high-tech implications moves to another piece of equipment.
“Why Professor, I never knew you cheated on the Mrs.”
The awkward situation is short lived when Fletcher enters the room with the electricians, carpenters and an entire moving crew, all carrying hammers, power tools, electrical cables and many panels of wood, all working under the cover of obscurity unknowingly generating an opportunity that may enshrine the two scientists. When Lawton sees the group, he gives his final instructions to Fletcher,
“Set up for a test as soon as possible, and when you have finished, move the apparatus to the Jet Stream.” Acknowledging he has the gist of it; Lawton turns his attention to the Professor.
“Do you have the blueprints?”
“Right here,”
“I say we ought to have lunch now,” Suggesting he is hungry from the hard work he has put into the project up to this time. Agreeing with the lunch proposition, the Professor approaches Lawton as if hiding something, bending over evasively he whispers.
“Once the equipment is setup aboard the Jet Stream, we must prepare the chamber ourselves.”