Written by Devin Da Graca




Rick Bowman (Service Advisor for Car Dealership)JIM CARREY

Jim Bowman (Student attending Christian school)EMILE HIRSCH

Edwin Rodriguez (Mechanic for Car Dealership)GEORGE LOPEZ

Larry Bowman (Rick's father, living in an old folks home) CHRISTOPHER WALKEN

Emily Toleson (Rick's love interest) TEA LEONI

Lyle (Service Advisor for Car Dealership) MORGAN FREEMAN


The opening credits unfold silently onto a black screen. After the title, GETTING TO KNOW YOU, fades off the screen, moans begin to abrupt the silence. The moans are not the result of sexual intercourse, but rather are the sounds of a slumbering individual who is stuck in a nightmare.

At the bottom of the black screen, a line of light appears, followed by the line of light opening into a vertical rectangle with a person eclipsing, what now seems to be a doorway. The silhouetted individual walks towards the camera, moves past it, and heads down the dark hallway.

The tired eighteen-year-old, JIM, opens a door at the end of the hallway, flips on the light switch, and finds his father rustling in bed.

JIM (whispering): Dad.

The forty-two year old father of one, doesn't hear his son and continues to toss and turn.

JIM (a little louder): Dad, wake up.

Still nothing.

JIM (pounds his hand against the wall; yells): Dad!

The father, RICK, startles awake, his eyes blinking open.

RICK: What, what?

JIM frowns, flips the light switch off and closes the door, returning back to his room.

RICK stumbles out of bed, unsure of what just happened and steps out into the hallway, right as JIM is about to walk into his room.

RICK: What's goin' on? Wha-

JIM (closing his bedroom door): You did it again.

JIM shuts his door, leaving the confused father standing in the doorway. Contemplating for a moment, RICK shrugs it off, shuts his door and goes back to bed, leaving the audience, once again in darkness.


RICK opens a door, stepping out of his bedroom well groomed and suited. As he makes his way towards the kitchen, RICK begins to fiddle with his necktie, until he gives up, allowing the two strands to dangle on his chest.

Walking into the kitchen, RICK turns on a television resting on the counter.

TELEVISION: You're watching Channel 7 news at 6:30.

RICK opens a cupboard and pulls out a package of poptarts. Setting the untoasted breakfast snack on the table, RICK heads back to the cupboard to retrieve a coffee mug. He moves towards the sink, fills the cup up with tap water, and puts the mug into the microwave, setting it for a minute and twenty-five seconds.

Briefly watching the cup rotate in the microwave, RICK turns on the radio. The song "Have You Seen Her" by the Temptations is playing and after a few practice hums, RICK begins to sing the song as well.



The walls, thinner than a fasting Calista Flockheart, fail to hold RICK'S voice back from reaching his son's ears. JIM'S eyes open, his eyebrows begin to move in towards the bridge of his nose with annoyance. He turns over in his bed, plopping a pillow over his head to mute the sound.



RICK is now stirring instant coffee mix into his cup, while singing the Temptations song.

RICK (high pitched and off-key): Why, oh why, did you have to-

RICK stops abruptly, his eyebrow movements indicating concentration and curiosity. He hears something and turns the volume down on the radio. The phone is ringing.

RICK (to himself): Phone? Phone!

The forty-two year old begins a frantic search for the phone. Room to room, RICK searches, tossing over pillows, looking beneath furniture. As he's bent down, looking beneath the couch, RICK comes to the realization that the ring has ceased. RICK leaps to his feet and heads over to JIM'S room.

RICK: Jim, did you answer-

Opening the door, RICK finds his son already standing before him. His hair is messy, unkempt, and he looks both exhausted and annoyed. JIM hands his father the phone.

JIM: Edwin said to give him fifteen minutes. Said he had an extra pound to pinch off from that five pound burrito he had last night.

RICK (smirks): Hum, tasty.

JIM nods his head tiredly and trudges back to bed.

RICK: What are you doing?

JIM: Going back to bed.

RICK: Shouldn't you get ready? I don't want you missing class again cause you slept in.

JIM: Dad, I've got three hours until class starts.

RICK: Yeah, well, you have the sleeping habits of a bear entering hibernation.

JIM: Dad! I'll wake up, okay?

RICK: Sure.

JIM (tucking himself under the covers): I wouldn't be this tired if I didn't have to rescue you from your bed spasms at two in the friggin' morning.

RICK: What are you talking about?

JIM: You had another nightmare or whatever.

RICK: Oh… well, thanks for waking me up.

JIM: I don't know how you don't wake yourself up sounding like that.

RICK (smiles): I'll call you when I get to work.

RICK steps out of the doorway and into the hall.

JIM (yells): Dad! Close the door!

RICK walks back and sticks his head into the room.

RICK (closing the door): Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed.

JIM: I sleep on a futon; there's only the wrong side for me to wake up on.

RICK walks away.

RICK: You chose that futon buddy, love you.

RICK stops to hear a reply.

JIM: Yeah.

RICK shakes his head.

RICK (to himself): Love you too dad.



RICK waits for EDWIN, his friend, to pick him up. The two have been carpooling for years. Finally a midnight blue, 1987 Cadillac Seville pulls up to the house. Driving it, EDWIN RODRIGUEZ, a forty-five year old Hispanic man, dark haired and tanned.

RICK gets in the car, settling himself.

EDWIN: Sorry I'm late bro.

RICK: You five pounds lighter?

EDWIN starts driving as soon as RICK closes the door.

EDWIN: More like seven, I think I might've shit out part of my intestine.

RICK: Ouch, you gonna be okay? I got some Tums if you need them.

EDWIN: Naw, I'm good bro, thanks.

RICK: So, what's up with Miss Toleson's car? You hear any of the noises she was bitching about?

EDWIN: While braking? Not a damn thing. I took a look at this thing last night, and it's running fine. I'm telling you, this is the fourth time she's brought in this damn car with there being nothing wrong with it.

RICK: I know, I keep telling her the same thing, but what can you do. The woman's older than the American flag, got to be nice, can't make her think she's going nuts. The customer's always right.

EDWIN (laughs): Not this one. She's bringing her car in to be serviced when she's the one with the problems. I'm telling you, it's her fucking hearing aid, I guarantee it.

RICK: We don't carry any of those in the parts department do we?

RICK and EDWIN both laugh.

EDWIN: Not for the Flintstone models bro.



JIM is resting peacefully in bed. He turns to face the audience and the beginnings of a smile start to form at the corner of his lips. He slowly opens his eyes, closes them, and opens them once more, this time, wide open. JIM looks at the clock, which reads: 8:30 AM.

JIM: Shit!

The teen leaps out of bed and scurries to the bathroom. He turns on the shower faucet, begins removing his shirt, but stops. He pulls the shirt back down over his head, looks at the clock, then the shower. JIM turns the shower off and opts to use a deodorant stick instead, rubbing it underneath his arms, then his hands, which he rubs over his body.

JIM (sniffing himself): You smell all right.

JIM quickly brushes his teeth, spits into the sink, and messes up his hair a bit, while glancing into the mirror. Before he exits the bathroom, he steps back in, spotting a morning eye booger, lingering just beneath his eyelid. He looks into the mirror and rubs both of his eyes clean of any debris.

Running out of the bathroom and into his bedroom, JIM is quick in snatching his backpack and his keys before heading out the door. Once out the door, JIM locks up, and proceeds to walk across his lawn that's wet with morning dew. A few steps in and he stops with an unpleasant groan. He looks down to find that he is not wearing any shoes, just socks. He runs back to the house, muttering inaudible curses to himself.



The camera views the CADILLAC DEALERSHIP service floor from a bird eyes view. The service floor is open and wide (for now), with a few cars parked on it. To the left side of the service floor are offices belonging to those higher up in the Cadillac dealership food chain and to the right, seven desks, appropriately spaced between each other, belonging to the service advisors of the dealer.

It's a relatively quiet moment that the camera has happened to come across, with a few power drills and clanking tools echoing in the background. Only four out of the seven desks are occupied at the moment, the other three vacant due to their owners having fallen victim to their nagging customers.

One service advisor, LYLE, an African-American man in his mid-fifties, sits in his chair and watches events unfold in the dealership, all the while, eating sunflower seeds with the shells still in tact. He looks to be in deep contemplation, when suddenly RICK, who is walking back to his desk, distracts him.

RICK sits down at his desk and begins typing at his computer. LYLE, his neighbor, watches the frustrated white man.

LYLE: Why can't we just win the lotto.

RICK, whose eyes are fixated on the computer screen, hears LYLE, but is delayed in response, as he is still typing.

RICK: You say that every day Lyle.

LYLE: I know, I know, but shit, it's just nice to think about, you know?

RICK: More like depressing.

LYLE: Depressing? Why depressing?

RICK (smirks): Because, you're comparing winning the lotto to our jobs. I mean, you can do that all you want, but in the end, when you're done thinking about all of that, you still wind up back here, closing tickets, road testing cars, working eleven hours a day, six days a week-

LYLE (stares at RICK with disappointment): God damn. You just love raining on my parade, don't you?

RICK laughs.

LYLE: You like a bird, shittin' on the windshield of my life, you know that?

RICK (still typing): That's what I'm here for. To shit on your windshield of life.

LYLE shakes his head and laughs. He returns to eating his sunflower seeds, while staring at a large sign that reads: WE PUT OUR CUSTOMERS FIRST.

LYLE: You know what the worst part of it is?

RICK: Huh? What's that?

LYLE: We got to put up with some bullshit. Why do seven out of every ten customers gotta be assholes with attitudes? And why are those seven always the ones who come in the most and not the other four?

RICK (handing paperwork to a passing body): I don't know Lyle.

LYLE: It pisses me off that we gotta treat the assholes with respect and courtesy. You know what? It's because of people like us, who take their bullshit, that there are assholes still thriving in this world today. If we keep treating them nice, how are they ever gonna know they're wrong? How are they ever gonna know how to properly communicate with anotha human being? If you ask me, we're doing society a disservice.

RICK (chuckling at LYLE'S intensity): You might be on to something there Lyle, but on the other hand, the whole purpose behind us treating those assholes with courtesy might be to set an example for how those assholes shouldn't be acting like assholes.

LYLE (frowns with disagreement): Man, whatever, it's a good thing I got my windshield wipers on, cause you are shittin' all over the place today.

RICK smiles, pulling an apple out of his sack-lunch. He takes notice to LYLE eating whole sunflower seeds.

RICK: Are you eating whole sunflower seeds?

LYLE: Yes I am, care to shit on my windshield again Mr. Bowman?

RICK: No, I just… you're not supposed to eat a sunflower seed like that.

LYLE: Look, I'm at work here. If you ask me to eat a sunflower seed proper, that means I gotta physically crack the shell off the seed without destroying the seed AND find a cup to spit it in, which, in turn, is more work, hence I say fuck it.

RICK nods his head understandably.

LYLE (continued): Besides, the shells the part that has all the cool ranch flavoring on it.

A black Escalade pulls into the service floor, music blaring loud.

LYLE: Looks like I found a place to spit my sunflower seeds.

A young white fellow hops out of the Escalade. He's wearing a dew rag, a FUBU jersey three sizes too big, and shorts that look more like pants they're so baggy. He walks up to LYLE'S desk.

YOUNG MAN: Yo, Lyle, my nigga, how's it hanging?

LYLE'S expression is somewhat taken aback, yet unimpressed at the white guy's impersonation of a black man. LYLE looks at RICK and RICK smiles.

RICK: Go get him 'my nigga'.

LYLE walks away to greet his customer. RICK shakes his head and presses a button on his phone.

PHONE: The time is 8:51 AM.

RICK checks his cell phone, which reads NO MISSED CALLS. He picks up the phone and dials a number. After a few rings, he begins to leave a message.

RICK: Jim, it's you're father. It's ten till, you're supposed to call me when you get to school.



JIM'S cell phone sits in the passenger seat, silently vibrating against a loud backdrop of stereo pumped music. JIM is singing along to ATTITUDE by ALIEN ANT FARM, while driving 50 mph in a 35 mph zone.

Quickly approaching a red light, JIM decides to take a short cut through the parking lot of a restaurant, to avoid the light. Speeding through the parking lot, JIM finds his exit, and quickly, without looking, makes a right hand turn. This maneuver cuts off a van behind him, to which the van responds with two loud honks of the horn.

JIM, startled, turns down the music and looks into his rearview mirror.

JIM (waving his hand): Oh, shit! Sorry, sorry!

JIM keeps looking back, noticing that the van is following him.

JIM (to himself):Fuck, please don't go to my school, please, please, please.

Reaching a four way stop, JIM feels confidant in losing his tracker. By the time it's his turn to move forward, two different vehicles stand between him and the vengeful minivan.

JIM (again to himself): Thank you Jesus.