> ## Content Index > Fetch the complete content index at: https://www.smdp.com/llms.txt > Use this file to discover other available public pages before exploring further. # Last Call: Our quest for passion should exceed all else - URL: https://www.smdp.com/last-call-our-quest-for-passion-should-exceed-all-else/ - Published: 2003-08-21T15:00:00.000Z - Updated: 2026-10-25T00:43:59.000Z - Author: Guest Author - Tags: Opinion, Pico, #archive-import, Homeless *TITTINGER’S TAKE* *By Michael J. Tittinger* A pair of footsteps repeatedly strikes the ground as the opening credits roll. Heavy breathing can be overheard. Suddenly, there is silence. FADE IN: A lone runner stands idle on the rubberized track that encircles the Santa Monica High School football field off Pico Boulevard. It is a track he knows well, having worn out three pairs of running shoes within the past year. With hands pulling on the leg ends of his shorts in an effort to catch his breath, he suddenly rises and focuses on the handful of other recreational joggers making their way ‘round and ‘round, each sticking to the inside lane, making only left-hand turns. Our thirtysomething protagonist, fit and good-looking, suddenly stands erect in the middle lane amid his determined gaze. A couple of women run past with blank expressions on their face, as if oblivious to the epiphany he is experiencing. MICHAEL de PLUME meanders slowly over to the outside lane and resumes running, this time heading in the opposite direction. His first few steps are tentative, then more certain. Soon, he is running full tilt with confidence, discarding the looks of chagrin from the other runners who are pointed in the “right” direction. A bounce in his step, de Plume smiles broadly as he runs. CUT TO: Days earlier in a Santa Monica apartment near Wilshire Boulevard. De Plume lies on his bed, channel changer in hand. The channels flicker by on the television with contemptible rapidity. In the living room, a computer monitor displays a blank white page, cursor flickering with contemptible rapidity. A closed loose-leaf binder rests on the carpet nearby. Its cover beginning to attract a fresh layer of dust. Suddenly, there is a knock on the door. It is the resident FOOL ON THE HILL. He has tied his horse to the railing just outside the front door. de Plume opens the door for his visitor with a silent look of resignation and sits back on the couch. Fool enters and sees the blinking cursor, the discarded binder of notes and the channel changer in de Plume’s hand. DE PLUME: “Look, I know what you’re going to say. (beat) “I realize the whole screenplay thing has-n’t been progressing the way we drew it up, but I’m tired. Come on, I’ve been working my tail off, working two and three jobs, seven days a week for the last year. Give me some credit. I’m working hard out here.” (beat) “You’re not much on words are you?….” “Regardless, I know that look on your face and I know you’re right, OK? I knew you were right before you so dramatically galloped over here. You happy? Jeez, cut me some slack.” “You don’t even have to say it. I’ll save you the trouble. Yes, I’ve been working hard but not at the right things. What’s been the point? Who am I saving serving up beers and pool tables a couple of nights a week? How was I contributing to this world toiling away at a nursery? You’re right, paying the rent, hitting on girls and drinking on rooftops was not the mission. I know that. You can wipe that omniscient smile of yours off your face now.” CUT TO: An exterior shot of a brick-faced Santa Monica billiards hall late at night. A homeless man digs through a trash can for scraps on the street corner. By the tavern door, a contingent of twentysome-things smoke cigarettes and playfully punch one another. CUT TO: Inside, de Plume grips the P.A. system microphone and announces to all the customers that it’s “last call.” He speaks with a decidedly handsome man who looks something like himself, only a bit more weathered with an additional 20-plus years on the odometer. The patron orders one more bottle of Guinness before de Plume and company close shop. The two have been talking about the retiring bartender’s plans for the future. BARFLY: “So what’s your story? You’re giving up all of this?” Smiles wryly. DE PLUME: “Hard to imagine, I know. Something just struck me. Maybe it’s just the fact that I’ve been out here for a year and needed a change.” BARFLY: “I think it’s more than that.” DE PLUME: “It is. I think I just realized how I was working and playing and doing everything to distraction, as if to provide myself with an excuse not to write my screenplay — the ultimate irony considering that’s what I came out here for in the first place. It’s just time to get back to basics and stop making excuses. Hey, winners do what losers don’t want to do, right?” “It’s just time.” BARFLY: “So you’re quitting the bar?” De Plume nods. BARFLY: “And the column?” DE PLUME: “I think I’ll be able to do more good in the long run by following my passion and writing what’s burning in my heart right now to be written. To be honest, I don’t even have a choice anymore.” BARFLY: “Change is good, my friend. You need that nervousness in your stomach, like when you are falling in love — something you’re so excited about you can’t wait to get out of the bed in the morning. If you got that, kid, there ain’t no failing.” DE PLUME: “So how does the story end? You gotta tell me.” BARFLY: “That’s up to you. It has yet to be written, Michael, but it sounds like you are on the right track. Keep pushing those doors to see which will open and don’t be afraid to veer from the comfortable path.” The bar patron fiddles around in his pocket but finds he has no cash remaining. BARFLY: “Well, I’ve gotta hit the road, kid, and unfortunately the only tip I can leave you with is this — if you always do what you always did, you’ll always have what you always had.” DE PLUME: “That’s all I get?” BARFLY: “Um, yeah … hey, no one said following your heart was lucrative, but it will make you rich.” CUT TO: An exterior shot of de Plume’s unassuming apartment at night. No horses are tied to the railing. The streets are quiet below, with the only sound evident being the rhythmic tapping of keys on a computer keyboard. CUT TO: Inside, de Plume is once again deep in thought. The notebook binder, now clean, is open on the desk beside the computer monitor, its pages littered with hastily scrawled notes. The camera holds on de Plume as he sits seemingly motionless for a good minute or two, and then, as if in the throes of another epiphany, he sits forward and begins banging away on the keys with a relentless frenzy. As the camera pans in it is evident he is smiling … broadly. FADE TO BLACK: (Mike Tittinger is a freelance writer and a struggling screenplay author. He). *Originally published in the Santa Monica Daily Press print edition on August 21, 2003.* [Read the original PDF.](https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/smdp%5Fbackissues/082103.pdf?ref=smdp.com)