Intersection

The question is this: Show by example that the intersection of infinitely many open sets need not be open.

"The intersection of a finite number of open sets is always open," Georg explains, "but this is kind of an interesting problem. We have infinity under our fingers, isn't that kind of neat? We get to use an example that goes on forever."

Georg stares at the chalkboard for a little bit, and then he puts down his chalk and wipes his fingers on his sweater. At the table, Richard looks up from his phone. "No ideas?"

Georg shakes his head. "You?"

Richard puts down his phone and regards the board for a minute. They do their problem set on Wednesday nights in the small study room on the third floor of the library. It's the Western facing corner, and they always get there right after dinner - just in time for the sunset. It's kind of a centering experience.

Richard: "I've been thinking about signing up for the swim class."

Georg: "You don't know how to swim?"

Richard: "No, I do, but what if I just showed up and pretended I didn't know how to and then acted like I was the fastest learner ever? The swim girls teach that class to raise money for the team."

Georg looks back at the board. "Yeah, I guess."

The Remote: Part III

Wide shot of the interior of the office. Suddenly, JOHNSON emerges from his cubicle carrying his monitor and yelling as he runs for the window.

2 - Ext. Office - Day - 2

The monitor explodes out from the window.

3 - Int. Office - Day - 3

JOHNSON turns from the hole in the window to face his co-workers, all staring from their offices and cubicles.

A beat. JOHNSON catches his breath, lifts the remote, and...

Suddenly, we're back inside JOHNSON's cubicle. His monitor is returned to its normal spot, and JOHNSON is sitting, still holding the remote like he was before.

Short montage here: JOHNSON smacks his attractive female co-worker's rear in passing, JOHNSON dances on his desk, JOHNSON watches his building burn from the parking lot.

4 - Int. BOSS's Office - Day - 4

Inside the BOSS's office, the BOSS at his desk. The inside of this office is just as the rest of the setting - gray, mostly. We see photographs on the BOSS's desk, but, instead of his family, there are pictures of his car and of him at the pool with babes. Also on the desk: a protein shake, several empty Red Bulls, and a bodybuilding magazine.

The BOSS himself is blonde, good-looking, and wearing an expensive suit. He works at his computer, until JOHNSON enters.

The BOSS stands up upon seeing JOHNSON, who strolls straight up to his superior and, before either one has time to say anything, punches him straight in the nose. There's an audible crack at connection.

BOSS (enraged)
Johnson, what the fuck is your problem?

JOHNSON pulls out the remote smoothly.

JOHNSON
Oh, no problem, boss.

He clicks the remote.

Nothing happens.

He clicks at again, and then again. His BOSS is still in front of him, dripping blood from a broken nose. JOHNSON, meanwhile, is at a loss for words - his remote is suddenly broken.

Cut to JOHNSON, still clutching the remote, then to the BOSS, his reddening face clearly showing his rage. The BOSS inhales and prepares to scream.

Freeze.

On-screen: THE REMOTE.

The Remote: Part II

Back inside the cubicle, JOHNSON's phone rings. He reaches for it as he peruses a piece of paper from the stack, and, as he does so, he accidentally knocks all of the files and the remote onto the floor. He swears and picks up the phone.

JOHNSON (flustered)
Hello? Hello? No, I'm sorry, I think you have the wrong number.

He hangs up, frustrated, and leans down to pick up what he dropped. He picks up the remote first and tosses it on the desk, button-side down.

Insert: the remote hitting the desk with enough force to press the button.

JOHNSON leans back down to get the rest of the papers.

They aren't there.

He leans back up towards his desk, and, there they are - exactly how they were before he dropped them. He looks at the ground again, then back up at the papers.

A beat. JOHNSON continues to stare around. Was this a trick? Did anyone see? He back at his papers, and then notices, finally: the remote.

Another beat.

JOHNSON, now starting to understand what we've realized from the beginning, picks a pen from a mug on his desk and puts it carefully on the desk in front of him.

JOHNSON regards the pen. The pen regards JOHNSON. JOHNSON blinks, and then he presses the remote.

The pen is back in the mug.

JOHNSON stares. He stares for a while, I mean, because what do you do when you figure this kind of thing out, and then JOHNSON - God have mercy on his soul - JOHNSON smiles.

The Remote: Part I

1 - Int. Office - Day - 1

Close-up of a small package neatly wrapped in brown paper.

Further out: the package is sitting on a gray desk in a gray cubicle. The cubicle itself is overwhelmingly non-descript - a computer, a stapler, a few file folders.

Further out once more, now from the outside of the cubicle looking in. The package remains visible.

ON-SCREEN: THE REMOTE

Enter JOHNSON, young, with dark hair, in a short-sleeved white shirt and a gray plaid tie. He glances at his watch to find he’s a little late. He puts his briefcase down next to his desk and then, as he goes to sit down, notices a massive stack of papers on his chair. He picks a sticky note off the top.

Insert: the note, which reads, “I needed these yesterday!!! Get them to me ASAP!”

JOHNSON sighs and crinkles up the note.

He picks up the papers and put them all on his desk, and then, sitting, turns to his computer.

Then he notices the package.

He examines it briefly, turning it over in his hands - it’s clear he doesn’t know what or from whom it is. He tears into it with his letter opener.

Inside the paper lies a remote, dark, with one small replay button and nothing else.

JOHNSON inspects the remote for a moment. We see him examining it from outside his cubicle, where a woman walks by in a dark pantsuit.

From inside the cubicle again: JOHNSON, finding nothing else to do with it, presses the replay button.

Nothing seems to have happened. He puts down the remote on his desk and turns to the stack of papers.

From outside the cubicle, though, we see the woman in the pantsuit walk by again - from the same direction as last time.

Jeremy Silverberg, 37, Upon His Graduation From Life

Ah, er- I was just walking my dog in town, and the truck lost control, and I assume, well- I'm dead, aren't I? This is it?

[Laughter]

This is it. Wow.

[A beat, more laughter]

I'm just saying that it's the kind of thing you always hear about happening, but here I am. Does everyone get this? Is this heaven? What's even going on?

[The speaker leans from the microphone, some inaudible discussion between him and someone backstage]

Oh, I see. Well, like, don't take life for granted, spend more time with your family, and, uh-

[Last Pause]

Look, I just died or whatever, can I at least get a minute to make some notes?

Powers

Something's coming, and I know you can feel it just as well as I can - in the way your top sheet is fitting so perfectly, in the bread that you've had for a month that won't run out or grow stale, in the electricity you feel under your fingers. You can pretend not to notice it all you want, but the fact is plain: science is dying and we're making out like bandits in the will. You have powers, friend. It might be time you decide how you're going to use them.

Easy Furniture

The post office in is small; I remember you drove by it the first time you went to pick up stamps - the single-lane road it sits on (speed limit 50, cops strict and swift and frequent), houses a hundred yards apart and with driveways twice that length. Take McGuire Hill past the cemetery to US-1 and bear right. Mark your odometer. Six miles and on the left, just after the sign for strawberries. It has white vinyl siding, and the postmaster wears the same sort of boat shoes as your dad.

Lists: Camp Edition

1. Sadness of the foreign, sadness of gossip, sadness of rusty nails, sadness of early mornings, sadness of cold nights, sadness of being left out, sadness of unanswered questions, sadness of lice, sadness of tradition, sadness of medication, sadness of rain, sadness of chicken pot pie.

2. Toilet, sink/mirror, trash/outside, box benches, porch (x2), sweep (x2), shades/shelves.

3. Ice cream, a normal sleep schedule, letters.

Herbert Dainer Knows The World is Ending Tomorrow

Herbert Dainer knows the world is ending tomorrow.

I mean the guy isn't crazy. He's gone through life up to this point feeling sad for all those who prophesied about the apocalypse - feeling sad in a kind of superior way, but feeling sad none-the-less, I think. Regardless, though, the point stands: Herb knows the world will end tomorrow. He doesn't know how and he doesn't know why, but he knows. He knows for sure.

And what do you do about that? Knowing he's surrounded by reasonable and scientific people, what do you do? How do you make your son stay home from his sleep-over so you can spend the last hours you have as a family? How do you get your wife to come home early from a business trip?

Herbert takes a drive and thinks it over.

Family (Sketch)

This isn't supposed to be my family, just for the record. This is mostly just to show off my awesome drawing skills, which aren't at all like a 12-year-old's.

Barton Shows Up Drunk To Her House

Late August. On his 21st birthday, Barton shows up drunk to her house. They both are working for the same lawfirm this summer - he dropped out of school after a month three years ago and now does clerical work there full-time; she'll be completing her major in political science with a concentration in legal studies a semester early this coming December.

Barton? Sarah says.

Yep, he says in return - neck tilted down and back, lids heavy - and then he throws up on her doorstep. Doesn't even bother trying to turn his head a little bit, just all over the mat, just like that. And then he starts crying.

But her parents are out of town so what does any of it matter anyway? She'll never see him again after this summer, and it's not like after tonight they'll act anything different from the mildly friendly way they did earlier today. The story won't get mentioned so it might have never have happened, none of it - the way she takes him upstairs and cleans him up and puts him in her brother's bed, the way he keeps talking and she keeps quietly murmuring her assents, the way she brushes his hair back and kisses him kind of softly. We had to cheat to find these details out right, but it's a nice story, anyway.

Reasons to Lie Still in Bed

1. You are in the back of a pickup truck, green and not too worn-in, wrapped head-to-toe in a blanket wrapped in a carpet and covered by garden tools and old violin cases and battered end tables. The darkness is consuming and warm, like felt, like warm felt. Your best friend is driving, his girlfriend sits shotgun, and they are approaching a checkpoint.

2. You are in a sledding race that starts on the top of a mountain so high it takes a day and night to get to the finish line. The sled is totally enclosed and designed to be ridden on your stomach - your head goes in front; there is not enough room to change position. You are approaching the portion of the race where the track is straight and the incline is easy - where the snow hums low under the wooden slats, where participants are encouraged to try to get some rest.

3. You are in your bed. The top bunk. Your roommate is below you and he has an early class.

Little Things

This will happen to you too: after the hard part, after all the terrible dinner small talk and the name games, after you've given up on some high school friends and worked hard to keep a choice few, after you've lost your campus map. After all that, I mean, you will start to notice the similarities. The way the rugby captain - the one who let the team set fire to his car in honor of their victory at regionals - smiles in the same way as your eternally nervous finger-picking co-captain from knowledge bowl; the way that sophomore in your a capella group shakes you by the shoulders and grits his teeth after a bad pun just like your best friend from back home; the way the girl down the hall orders Subway like your ex: a six-inch meatball on italian with provolone cheese and nothing else, thanks.

Seasons, Drinking

It's come to this.

1.
The fall is firework displays in colors bright and brash,
A veritable light show to be raked and hauled and trashed.
Yes nothing quite beats days that grow as short as they are cold.
If I said Fall was crappy I don't think that would be bold.

2.
Now winter, that's an easy one, with all the cold and ice,
And though you'll come by people who will say the snow is nice,
Whose eyes will sparkle listening of Santa and his elves
I think that all the car crashes can speak fine for themselves.

3.
The birds sing in the morning and you whine they wake you up.
I understand the problem given what was in your cup.
My friend and I discussed it and decided here's the thing:
These birds are just another reason why we hate the spring.

4.
And finally there's summer, days of heat, and dry, and sweat,
Of traffic jams on Fridays and of cell phones cracked and wet,
Of searing sandy sunburns and of sailboats lost at sea,
I guess the fact is frankly there's no season that's for me.

This

One day I will write something with a plot and characters and everything, the works, a grand story arc about the nature of identity and love and coming of age in America, and I will take a photograph that is so related and beautiful it will just make you cry. In the mean time, though, I'm probably going to keep doing this random scene posts that are really and transparently just mildly exaggerated moments from my own life written in the third person,

he said.

AND THEN SHARKS ETCETERA.