Sixty-two less dollars a week. Why would anyone want to leave this little spot of paradise to live in a podunk burg like Chesterton…
Oh, stop serving crab apples. Do some weeding.
Phil sizes up the woman he married. The woman he still finds so very beautiful…
Don’t treat me like some hired hand.
(then)
Unless you wearing that pretty dress means you want to play Seduce the Hired Hand.
You go out there with the weedwacker and flex your rippling muscles, maybe I’ll get all heated up.
Tell you what, woman. Give me twenty minutes to clear the south forty, then meet me in room 10. I just might be naked in the shower.
It’s a date.
A Buick convertible is coming down the road, its turn signal blinking.
Hold on. Looks like we have guests.
Rats.
(shouting)
Come back in an hour, folks!
The car pulls in to the motel. Hey, it’s none other than F.X.R. and Ms. Mercury! The top is still down.
He is smiling. She looks like hell after driving three hours in a convertible with the top down. They pull right up to Phil and Bea.
Howdy!
Howdy-do?
Howdy-do to you.
How-diddly-dee-dooty-do.
(all “folksy”)
As you can see, we happen to be weary travelers who have been on the road too long.
With no sunblock.
We seek a respite from our journey. You know—some real hospitality.
How about trying a motel of some kind?
Know any good motels around?
Well, let’s think here. Motels. You need a motel…
Best motel in the world is right here on the outskirts of Phrygia. Called the Olympic or the Olympian or something.
F.X.R. looks at the faded sign.
Motel Olympus!
That’s the one.
Ms. Mercury! Motel Olympus! This is fate!
Ms. Mercury wants out of the car and into a shower ASAP.
It must be. This parking lot screams destiny.
Welcome. I’m Bea. He’s Phil. Stay with us!
These two adorable old folks immediately freeze in the positions of the sign behind them, complete with waving arms.
F.X.R. and Ms. Mercury share a look. Phil and Bea have not moved. They are still frozen in their “sign” position. They remain so. For a beat. Then another.
And another.
So, do you have a vacancy?
(breaking her pose)
Nothing but.
INT. MOTEL OFFICE—SAME
CLOSE ON:
A faded photo from fifty years before—young Phil and Bea, in that same pose. Obviously the model for the sign back when it was constructed.
The office is clean and cozy. F.X.R. inspects the photo as Bea prepares the paperwork.
If it seems like you have the place to yourself, you do.
Business slow, is it?
Ever since Eisenhower built the interstates.
That how long you’ve owned this place?
Not quite. But Phil and I have been here since Phrygia was a three-star stop with the Autoclub.
She hands him a registration card and a cheap ballpoint pen.
EXT. MOTEL OLYMPUS—SAME
Ms. Mercury is parking the car. The engine is making lots of horrible noises. Phil comes up.
I think the squirrels are dying.
Three or four quarts of oil and the gnashing sound disappears.
Smoke starts coming from under the hood.
The woods are on fire!
(then)
Shut it down, honey.
Did he just call Ms. Mercury “honey”?
Okay, lamb chop.
She shuts down the engine just as something EXPLODES. The motor stops, but the after-chug makes the car seem alive.
This thing has a life of its own. Pop the hood!
How exactly does one pop that?
She finds a lever and pulls. The hood goes up, emitting a column of smoke.
INT. MOTEL OFFICE—DAY
F.X.R. sees the smoke as Bea inspects the registration card he’s filled out.
F.X.R?
Present!
No credit card, huh?
Lord no. Had one once. For a department store in Flint, Michigan. Ran up a tab, then had to split town.
He never did any such thing.
We’ve seen some of that.
(then)
I’ll need cash. In advance, ’cause I don’t know you.
How much?
Two rooms’ll be thirty-eight fifty.
As he pulls out his western-style wallet, a prop he picked out himself.
(worried)
Oooohhh…
Or, one room with double beds—twenty-two fifty.
(digging around in his wallet)
That much, eh?
Single room, double bed, sixteen fifty.
Turns out, I’ve only got… twelve dollars… and some change.
Well… we’ll give you the only-guests-in-the-motel special, then.
EXT. MOTEL OLYMPUS—DAY
Ms. Mercury leans over the hood of the car with Phil, who is monkeying around with a wrench.
What do I know about cars? I just put gas in it and go.
You’d think it’d be that easy, wouldn’t it?
(he pulls out the oil pump)
You know what this is?
She looks at the part like it is a dead rat.
A dead rat?
This is a De-Hypoxified Fusion Accelerator with Calcitrant Oxyspoilers.
Really?
I can get you another. Just gotta make a call to Tommy Boyer. He’ll run a rebuilt one out here soon as he can.
Fine. Great.
I can put it in for you so you’ll be on your way with the dawn.