Harbor City Blues
Harbor City Blues
EXT. LONG BEACH NEIGHBORHOOD - ESTABLISHING - NIGHT
A sweltering August evening. Working-class PEOPLE on the street, on their porches, the sounds of 30’s popular music on the radios.
SUPER: “LONG BEACH, CA. AUGUST. 1939.”
INT. FRIEDMAN APARTMENT - NIGHT
MACK ADAMS (28, Black, medium-build, a husky smoker’s voice) scribbles shorthand into a writing pad. Seated on a couch across from him are NETTA FRIEDMAN (30s, white, slight German accent) and STAN FRIEDMAN (30s, white, flat American accent).
MACK
And you have family in Germany?
NETTA
No more. Not after the Kristallnacht. They fled west. Netherlands. Belgium.
STAN
Nowhere in Europe is safe. Wherever they go, they’re persecuted.
NETTA
Taken. Against their will. Like your people.
Mack looks up from his pad. A small Tape Recorder sits on the Friedman’s coffee table between them.
NETTA (CONT’D)
I’ve read my history. The Middle Passage. Stolen from their homes, their families, forced into slavery. Truly a horror.
MACK
Yes, Mrs. Friedman. But that was a long time ago. Things here are better now.
NETTA
Are they? I don’t know. I see the way people treat --
STAN
(a hand on her arm)
Netta.
(to Mack)
We mean no disrespect, Mack.
MACK
None taken, Mr. Friedman.
NETTA
This article you’re writing... it will be in the paper?
MACK
(brightens)
That’s what my editor tells me.
(pause)
It’s important, what’s going on over there. Let’s hope it doesn’t happen here.
A Bedroom Door opens. ILAN FRIEDMAN (12, an energetic pre-teen) enters, holding a hardcover prayer book. He sits near Mack, his book open. The text is in Hebrew.
MACK (CONT’D)
What’s that you have there, Ilan?
NETTA
He’s studying. For his bar mitzvah.
MACK
Your transition to adulthood! A proud moment.
ILAN
If being a man is as hard as memorizing all this Hebrew, I’d rather stay a kid all my life.
STAN
He’s exaggerating. I did it, son, and with only half the smarts you possess.
NETTA
What religion are you, Mack?
MACK
Raised Baptist. Sad to say, it didn’t stick.
NETTA
You’re a decent man. Even when you are not always on time with the rent check.
She playfully wags her finger at him.
MACK
I’ll be on time next month, Mrs. Friedman. A promise.
NETTA
No matter. Please, ask us more of your questions. It is important, as you say.
INT. HARBOR CITY GAZETTE - OFFICE - DAY
Mack stands, hands clasped, in front of the Editor’s Desk. Behind it, EDGAR POPPLE (40’s, white, trimmed beard, rolled-up sleeves) fingers typewritten pages.
EDGAR
We can’t use it.
MACK
But, Edgar... Mr. Popple... you approved the assignment. Eight hundred words.
EDGAR
This is a local paper. People here care about what affects them in their own neighborhood, not thousands of miles away on another continent. It’s a tragedy what’s happening, but it’s not a Long Beach problem.
MACK
So you won’t be running it. And I won’t be getting paid for it.
EDGAR
Plenty of paid freelance assignments will come your way. You’re a talented writer, Mack. Just got to write what the public wants to read, is all.
Mack stands silent. Crestfallen. And broke.
Edgar scours his cluttered desk. Pulls out an embossed invitation. Hands it to Mack.
EDGAR (CONT’D)
Here. Three hundred words on this. Get me some pictures and I’ll pay you for a thousand.
Mack looks at the invite. At the top it reads, “THE PORT OF LONG BEACH INVITES YOU TO A ONCE-IN-A-LIFETIME EVENT!”
EXT. L.A. TIMES BUILDING - DAY
SFX: Street Sounds
CLOSE ON Embossed Invitation
Folded by white hands, dropped out of sight
WIDE
BENJAMIN SMITH, 40’s, the owner of the hands, and TJ WILKES, 30’s, glasses, watch the invitation flutter to the ground. They are among a GROUP of white MEN, ages ranging from 20 to 60, all with press passes hanging around their necks or from their lapels. Smith wears a pass with “Hawthorne Press Tribune” on it; Wilkes has “L.A. Times” on his.
They gather on the sidewalk near a chartered bus with an “LB Port” sign at the front.
SMITH
Event of a lifetime? Some rich turd scoops up more pier space on the harbor and we’re supposed to get all in a lather? Ain’t there any real news to cover?
WILKES
(teasing)
Maybe have your rag send you to Germany, get a face-to-face with Adolf.
Mack, a press pass and camera against his black turtleneck, stands a distance from the men, with his notepad in one hand. Waiting.
SMITH
Better than smelling dirty water and oil fumes all day.
(shakes his head)
They so hard up for publicity, the port gotta roll out the red carpet for a spook?
A pointed look over toward Mack, who is within earshot but pretends not to hear them.
SMITH (CONT’D)
Christ Almighty, can’t avoid them in your city.
WILKES
Relax, Ben, guy’s just doing his job, same as us. Not like he’s moving into your neighborhood.
The bus doors open.
SMITH
Not yet.
SIMON WAVERLY, in a crisp blue suit and with an even crisper British accent, appears at the bottom step of the bus. He wears a nametag.
SIMON
Gentlemen, welcome! All aboard!
He steps back inside. The Reporters form an unkempt queue. Mack is at the end of it.
INT. BUS
Mack is the last to walk up the stairs of the bus. The DRIVER (50’s, white, military haircut, gruff) stops him, arm out.
DRIVER
Nope. You’re in the wrong place.
MACK
(holds up his pass)
I have my press pass.
DRIVER
Not on my bus.
MACK
I don’t underst -- how am I supposed to get all the way out there?
DRIVER
You got two feet. Better start walking.
Waves him away rudely.
Simon steps up to the two men.
SIMON
(to the Driver)
What appears to be the trouble?
DRIVER
I don’t let no jigabo--
SIMON
Everyone is welcome.
He gently ushers Mack inside the bus.
SIMON (CONT’D)
Now, please, we have a schedule to make. Must get on the road!
The Driver stares at the two men. Seething. Slowly turns and starts the bus.
Mack looks into the crowd of Reporters. Not hostile, but not friendly, either.
SIMON (CONT’D)
Come. Join me.
Mack takes a seat near Simon at the front of the bus.
SIMON (CONT’D)
(holds out his hand)
Simon Waverly. I work PR for the port.
MACK
(shakes his hand)
Mack Adams. Harbor City Gazette.
SIMON
Ah. I understand your readership includes quite a few of our employees. We do our part and run the occasional advertisement. A wholesome publication, yes?
MACK
(rote; without enthusiasm)
It’s the people’s paper.
SIMON
Well, there are a fair share of Negroes who work on the docks, and we are always open to hiring more.
(points to Mack’s notepad)
You’re welcome to... write that down, if you’d like.
MACK
(nods)
I’m aware. My brother works there.
SIMON
Oh, that’s splendid! It’s honest work for good wages.
MACK
Is it?
An odd look from Simon.
MACK (CONT’D)
(smiles, disarming him)
I mean, it is. He says so... my brother. He hauls cargo on and off the ships.
SIMON
A longshoreman? Well, perhaps you can pay him a visit. The event isn’t far from the hustle and bustle of the docks.
(snaps his fingers)
A photo of him for your paper!
MACK
(a weighted pause)
Maybe.
EXT. LONG BEACH PORT - HOSPITALITY AREA - DAY
A section of the port -- with views of Piers A and B, and the San Pedro Bay -- is festooned with celebratory decorations. There are balloons, a banner reading “THE FUTURE BELONGS TO LONG BEACH,” a long table of food, and a standing bar. BLACK SERVERS man the table in tuxedos and white gloves.
On a raised stage, a dais occupied by OLDER WHITE MEN in suits. At the podium is FRANCIS BAKER HALL (40s, slim, a little slick), in front a microphone.
He addresses the assembled crowd of bussed-in reporters taking notes and photographers taking snaps. Mack stands among them, his camera clicking away.