INT. LIBRARY. NIGHT.
Eli stands at a podium reading from a book to a crowded audience. A telegram marked “Ship to Shore” is tucked into his coat pocket. His voice is quietly dramatic.
ELI
The crickets and the rust-beetles
scuttled among the nettles of the
sagethicket. Vamanos, amigos, he
whispered, and threw the busted leather
flintscraw over the loose weave of the
saddlecock. And they rode on in the
friscalating dusklight.
Eli looks up. He closes his book. The audience applauds uproariously.
NARRATOR (V.O.)
Eli was an assistant professor of
English Literature at Brooks College.
The recent publication of his second
novel --
INSERT:
A copy of Eli Cash’s latest book, Old Custer. On the dust jacket there is an illustration of an Indian in warpaint with a long, bloody knife clasped between his teeth and a yellow scalp hanging from his hand.
INT. LOBBY. NIGHT.
Eli walks among the card catalogues surrounded by a crowd of admirers.
NARRATOR (V.O.)
-- had earned him a sudden, unexpected
literary celebrity.
CUT TO:
Eli standing near the circulation desk with a group of professors drinking cocktails.
ELI
Well, everyone knows Custer died at
Little Bighorn. What this book
presupposes is:
(tentatively)
maybe he didn’t?
Eli shrugs and smiles.
CUT TO:
Eli placing a call from a pay phone in the lobby. He unfolds a newspaper clipping and looks at it while he waits. He says suddenly into the receiver:
ELI (CONT’D)
Let me ask you something. Why would a
reviewer make the point of saying
someone’s not a genius? I mean, do you
think I’m especially not a genius?
Isn’t that –
Someone gives Eli a book to sign. He scribbles his name on it and hands it back without looking. He says sadly:
ELI (CONT’D)
You didn’t even have to think about it,
did you?
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