Three ideas, same world. Each one plays like documentary footage of a moving day going wrong. Not finished spots, just where our heads are at on tone and the beat each one's built around.
Half-loaded truck in a suburban driveway. A bearded mover sits on a white sofa in the middle of the concrete, eating a foot-long sub. Mustard drips onto the cushion. He doesn't notice. The owner walks up holding a clipboard, exhausted past the point of anger. Long pause. He looks up, mouth still full, and says: "Yeah, gonna be another seven-fifty. Cash." A piece of lettuce falls onto her clipboard. He keeps chewing.
A large box truck reverses slowly up a driveway. Steady beep-beep-beep. The owner watches calmly from the porch with a coffee mug. The driver leans out of the cab to check the trailer, leans further than is physically reasonable, and slips. Falls flat onto the driveway. The truck rolls backward in slow motion and the rear wheel passes over both his legs. He doesn't react. After a beat, he gives a thumbs up.
Front door opens. A guy in a mustard-stained tank top smokes a cigarette on the porch. Behind him: two small kids. He exhales smoke and says: "Yeah, it's my day with the kids." The eight-year-old walks down the front walk with a FRAGILE box almost as tall as he is. He drops it. Glass shatters. He shrugs and walks back inside. Then the six-year-old emerges carrying a ceramic table lamp three times her height, electrical cord dragging behind her.