LOLA

FADE IN:

EXT. VICTORIAN HOUSE – CLEVELAND, OHIO – DAY (2003)
A warm, sunny afternoon.
A BLACK TOW TRUCK rumbles backward into the yard of a
weathered VICTORIAN HOME. It grinds down the long driveway
toward the back. Painted on the driver’s door: “East
Cleveland Recovery, LLC.”
At the end of the drive, JEAN (late 50s, white, brisk and
practical) motions with her arms, guiding the truck carefully
down. She plants her palms out — stop.
The backyard looms ahead: a sprawl of weeds, rusted junk,
forgotten furniture.
The tow truck hisses to a stop.
From the cab steps WILL (late 30s, Black, tall, bald,
masculine with a sculpted five o’clock shadow). He slips off
his sunglasses, perching them on his head, revealing sharp,
steady eyes.
Jean strides over.

WILL
Ms. Armstrong.

JEAN
Please, call me Jean.
(extends a hand)
Will smiles, shakes her hand.

WILL

Jean. Nice to meet you.

JEAN
She’s back here.
(points)

She leads him past a sagging TWO-CAR GARAGE.
They stop before a thick snarl of weeds, grass, and fallen
branches.

WILL

Where?

JEAN
Right there.
(beat)
Peeping at us.

From the brush, a single HALF-CLOSED CLAMSHELL HEADLIGHT
peers out — like a suspicious, sleepy eye.
Will exhales, sizing up the junk pile like a man calculating
his own doom. He moves in.

JEAN (CONT’D)

Be careful...
(under her breath)
Please don’t let there be a dead
body inside.

Will digs through the brush. Slowly, uncovering the rusted
hood of a 1965 BUICK RIVIERA. Faded red paint still clings to
its curves.

WILL

How long’s it been parked?

JEAN

Since... maybe 1973 or ’74. So that’s
been...

WILL
Fifty-one years.

Jean blinks, impressed by his instant math.

JEAN
Yeah... you’re right.

Will clears enough to wrench open the driver’s door. It
CREAKS wide, revealing an interior cloaked in dust and
cobwebs — but intact.
WILL

No dead body. Thank you, Jesus.

Will leans in, cautious.

WILL (CONT’D)

She’s not in bad shape... for fifty
years buried. Why leave her sit
back here for this long?

2.

JEAN

It was my father’s. One day, after
school, my mom told me Daddy had to
go away for work. I never saw him
again.

She shrugs — the sting still fresh after all these years.

WILL
That’s sad.
JEAN

Anyway... My mom never liked the car
or drive it. But she refused to get
rid of it. So, Lola’s been sitting
right here... until today.

WILL

Lola?

JEAN

That’s what my father called her.
(beat)
Mom passed a few years ago. Now I’m
selling the house, leaving
Cleveland. Moving to Phoenix.

Will slides inside. He wipes the dust off the dashboard — the
speedometer reads: 51,474.
Then — his eyes catch the KEYS dangling from the ignition.

WILL
The keys are in here.
JEAN
Oh, that’s awesome!
He twists them, just curious—
CLICK.
The RADIO crackles to life. Dusty console lights flicker —
like a corpse remembering it has a pulse.
Will stares, disbelieving.
WILL

...Well, that’s not creepy at all.

Static hums. Then —

3.

RADIO (O.S.)
(singing)
♪ Well, she’s all you’d ever want,
She’s the kind they’d like to
flaunt and take to dinner... ♪
Jean freezes, hand over her mouth. Eyes wide.
Will stares, caught between awe and dread. He shakingly turns
the knob, quieting music.
WILL
Well... Lola is alive.

The car seems to hum in agreement. Dust swirls in a sunbeam,
like applause.
The car seems to hum in agreement.
EXT. RIVIERA – CONTINUOUS
Outside, the half-shut headlight twitches, then eases
closed... like an eye going back to sleep.
The SONG swells, carrying us out:
SONG (O.S.)

♪ She’s a lady, whoa, whoa, whoa,
she’s a lady... ♪

FADE TO BLACK:

INT. WILL’S GARAGE – DAY
Will’s garage looks like a neighborhood, home-based auto shop
— long and narrow, about ten feet deep, thirty wide. Tools
and car parts are scattered across the concrete floor. Two
cars sit in disrepair.
LOLA’s rear end comes into view as WILL pushes her into an
empty bay. He takes an exhausted step back, hands on his
hips, staring at the battered Buick: dents, scratches, all
four tires flat. A neglected beauty.
WILL pops the hood. Leaves and twigs clutter the engine bay.
He begins clearing them out, swiping debris until—

4.

SCRAPE.

WILL

Shit.

A small cut bleeds along his arm. He pulls a rag from his
back pocket and presses it against the wound.
He steps back to the trunk, pops it open. Inside: trash bags
of old clothes, small boxes, a duffle bag shoved deep in the
corner.
He leans in for a closer look when—
BANG!
The car jolts. The trunk slams down, pinning Will halfway
inside. The *garage rattles with the noise*.
He fights free, startled.

WILL (CONT’D)

What the—

He turns to find TIFFANY (8), a tomboy on a dirt-scuffed
bike. Helmet off, she’s brown-skinned, scrappy, full of
energy.

TIFFANY

Sorry, Dad! Are you okay?

WILL

Tiffany... what did I tell you about
being so rough on that bike?

TIFFANY
I’m a ruff rider!

She flashes mock gang signs, forming her fingers into an “R.”
Will shakes his head, returning to LOLA’s hood.

WILL

Just watch yourself around here,
okay? This isn’t a dirt path.

TIFFANY

Yes, sir.

She eyes LOLA with confusion.

TIFFANY (CONT’D)

This car looks like it belongs in a
junkyard.

5.

WILL

Looks can be deceiving, little
girl. When I’m finished with her,
she’ll be as good as new.
She could even be yours one day.

TIFFANY

No, thank you. When I’m old enough,
I want a sports bike.
WILL
Is that right?

He grabs a air compressor, Tiffany trailing after him.

TIFFANY

Yes, sir. A Yamaha YZF — R-series.

WILL

We’ll see. In the meantime, want to
earn a few bucks?
TIFFANY

Yes, sir!
WILL

Everything in that trunk goes in
the dumpster. Job pays five
dollars.

TIFFANY

Per hour?
WILL
Five total.
TIFFANY

...Okay.

She peers inside the trunk, stunned by the mountain of junk.
WILL goes back to BLOWING the engine.
TIFFANY (CONT’D)
You want me to throw *all this*
away?

WILL
All of it.

She grabs a couple boxes, hauls them to the dumpster in the
driveway. On the way back, she sneaks a look at her dad and
rolls her eyes.
Will chuckles, shaking his head.

6.

Tiffany drags a heavy duffle bag from the trunk, struggling.
It *scrapes along the concrete with a hollow, dragging
sound*. Finally, she wrestles it into her arms.

TIFFANY
This bitch is heavy.

She heaves it over the lip of the dumpster.
THUD.
The sound rings unnaturally loud in the quiet of the
afternoon.

TIFFANY

Damn.

She dusts herself off and turns back toward the garage.
A BEAT OF SILENCE.
The CAMERA tilts up, peering into the dumpster.
The duffle bag has split open.
Something pale rolls into view.
A HUMAN SKULL. Bones spill across the trash with a dry,
rattling CLATTER.
SUPER: **MR. ARMSTRONG**

CUT TO BLACK.

CLEVELAND, OHIO – PRESENT DAY

FADE IN:

INT. TIFFANY’S HOME – MASTER BEDROOM – LATE EVENING
The room is dark. Only the flickering glow of the television
illuminates a king-size bed.
The CAMERA DRIFTS toward the screen.

7.

ON TELEVISION – “SANFORD & SON” – EPISODE: “COFFINS FOR SALE”
Fred snores on the bed of his red pickup truck in the
junkyard.

LAMONT

Say Pop.
FRED
What is it now?
LAMONT

You betta come back in the house.

FRED

Are those things still in there?

LAMONT

Yeah.

FRED

Then I ain’t coming in.
LAMONT

But what about your arthritis? You
only got it in your hands now. If
you sleep out here, you’ll be a
cripple from the neck up.

FRED

And we’ll be a perfect match, cause
you’re a cripple from your neck up.

BACK TO SCENE
Suddenly — the SHARP RING of an alarm clock cuts through the
quiet.
The CAMERA TRACKS across the bedroom — carefully decorated
space with wood-trimmed floor-to-ceiling windows — before
resting on the canopy bed.
The alarm BLARES. A body stirs beneath the covers.
TIFFANY is NOW an adult now, mid-20s, flings an arm out from
under the blankets. She wears a black satin eye mask and a
bonnet over her hair. Half-blind, she fumbles until the alarm
finally stops.
The TV continues to play faintly in the background.

8.

ON TELEVISION – “SANFORD & SON”
LAMONT
Pop, you sleep?
FRED

No, I’m just checking my eyelids
for cracks.

BACK TO SCENE
Tiffany sits up on the side of the bed, sluggish, and slumps
forward. She pulls the bonnet off, leaving the eye mask on.
ON TELEVISION – “SANFORD & SON”
LAMONT

Say, Pop.
FRED

What’s wrong with you?
LAMONT

If I get rid of them coffins, will
you come back in the house?

FRED

Are you gonna get rid of them
tonight?

LAMONT

No, first thing in the morning.
ON TIFFANY: frozen in place, like a dead person
LAMONT (O.S.) (CONT’D)
No, first thing in the morning.
FRED (O.S.) & TIFFANY
Then I’ll see you the first thing
tomorrow morning.

BACK TO SCENE

Tiffany LAUGHS along with the TV.
Still in her eye mask, she rises, shuffles into the ensuite
bathroom, and closes the door behind her.

CUT TO: