And did you exchange a walk on part in the war for a lead role in a cage?
 Roger Waters
 

Let me run this storyline past you: there’s a down and out guy who has no money, no real direction; he’s just sitting at a bus station.  It’s more of an image, I know, but you get the picture - you know this guy’s life and you know where he’s at.  Especially if it’s a familiar scene to you.  He’s just sitting there waiting for the next bus to take him to the next bus station, and so on.  Caught in a cliche and hoping for a spoon to eat his way out of the custard.  That’s me up there on the screen.  I just wish it was different somehow.  Anyway, why should this be just my life?  There’s no set rule.  My life is boring, full of memories that mean something to me but nothing to you.  If I had a camera I could zoom in on someone else’s life.  I could see what you’re doing; it has to be more exciting than this.

[Cut to standard bus depot scene: a woman is standing on the platform with a bag.  She looks down and out, broke, lost, yet somehow defiant.]

Damn.  Looks like I got the wrong person.  It’s like looking in a perverted mirror, the person is different though the background is the same.  I know why I’m here, I’m fleeing the boredom of a two dimensional life.  But why are you at the bus depot?  I bet you have an interesting story lurking in your past.  Let’s see, something macabre and sinister.  It began when you fled your parents for true love.  Then you found out he really was scum, the worst slime.  He’d drink and beat you, and bring his drunken buddies over on Fridays for poker and let the winner rape you.  The first time you tried running, he caught you and beat you severely.
     Everybody around the town knew what was going one, but refuse to get involved.  Out of sheer desperation, you plead to your mother-in-law, but she shrugs and says something about it being a man’s right to do what he wants.
     “Besides,” she adds, “this town’s too small.  You’re on your own.”
     It goes on.  Some days you could barely lift your arms to get a glass of water, water that stings your split lips.  Then the fire that used to burn, the determination that first led you to rebel against you parents, re-ignited.  Late one night you put a pillow over his head and fired his gun into it.  Six shots.
     As a final farewell you placed a candle on the bed.  You stared into the dancing flame, watching the shadows it cast.  With a little nudge you tipped the candle over and leave the room.
     Then you run, taking just a bag and the little cash you could scavenge, and you’ve been hitching and bussing across the country ever since.  You never stop long in any one place, don’t take the time to meet people;  you’re afraid of being recognised.  You’re afraid to love.  You look over your shoulder a lot.

[Cut to standard bus depot scene: a woman is standing on the platform with a bag.  She looks down and out, broke, lost, yet somehow defiant.]

I guess that’s not the movie of your life, is it?  There’s no betrayal of love and toughened heart in your defiance.  Maybe there’s something more macabre. Let me run this scene past you.
     You and four friends all decide to take a weekend away from the city and you rent a shack on the edge of a small town.  You plan to spend your days bushwalking, your nights singing songs and telling stories until dawn and then sleep-in until noon.  Your friends are going down early, and you’ll meet them at the bus depot.
     In the movie of your life, that’s maybe the first twenty minutes or so.  As you step from the bus, quietly ominous music plays in the background.  The tension builds, the audience sits just a little straighter, leaning forward a bit.  A young woman alone in a small country town, where all the people look odd, wax-like.
     Shadows move.  You realised this is a town of voodoo, sacrifice.  Strangers are definitely welcome.  In this town, the kind of man you run to for protection, when you’re running from the mob, smiles sweetly and comes at you with a chainsaw or a machete.  The corners are filled with wax works, all grabbing for you.  Your friends are nowhere to be found.
     The sheriff is the biggest wax work of them all.  He leers at you with an evil grin, squinting with one eye.  He walks with a limp, the other leg scrapes on the ground.  You hear him following you:  step, scrape, step, scrape.  There are a lot of camera shots of his legs, backlit to create shadows that reach forward, reaching out for you.
     You drop your bag and break into a run.  A glance back to see the sheriff’s evil eyes on you, and you run into the arms of another wax work.  You recognise her as one of your friends.  She doesn’t appear to recognise you.  She holds you tightly.  You struggle and scream as the sheriff gets closer.  You kick at her shins, bite at her arms - they taste of wax - you scream and dig your fingernails into her arms.
     The sheriff comes closer still.  Step.  Scrape.  The camera is on his face from below, his nose and cheeks cast terrifying shadows across his face and there is a blob of drool on his lips.  You feel the blood run over your fingers from the wax work’s arms.  You feel sick but neither of you let go.  Step.  Scrape.
     As the sheriff gets close you kick out clumsily with both feet.  He tries to catch them, misses and backs off a little.  Step.  Scrape.  He comes at you again. Your timing is better and both feet hit his chest solidly, forcing him back.  He looks surprised for a moment, then angry.
Roaring like a wounded lion, he charges towards you.  Step ... only to fall forward.  He hits the ground at your feet and does not move.  There is now only the wax work holding you, slowly reducing your lung capacity. Breathing becomes difficult.  You have maybe a minute to break her hold.  One of your hands goes for the wax work’s eyes.  You hear a sickening squelch and she lets go, screaming and holding her face.
     You stumble trying to escape the sheriff.  He reaches for you.  Kicking free, you run towards the open road as dawn rises silently through fields of corn.  It is a long way to the next town.

[Cut to standard bus depot scene: a bus pulls into the near deserted depot at night.  On the platform are a few minor characters, disappearing and appearing behind pillars as the camera follows the woman getting off the bus.  Furthest from the camera is an old man with a broom and a dustpan.  The sound of the bus pulling away fades into the scrape of the straw broom on the concrete, sweeping the cigarette ends and chewing gum wrappers.  Closer, there are a couple of destitutes, age and gender indeterminable.  Life’s forgotten warriors clad in rags and wielding bottles in brown paper bags.  The woman who stepped off the bus looks about twenty-five.  As the bus pulls away behind her its headlights catch her light brown hair, turning it to gold.  She shoulders her duffel bag and thrusts her hands deep into the pockets of her anorak.  Her breath condenses as her denim clad legs take her out of the main lighting.  The darkness closes in around her.  The depot no longer exists and she is alone.]

Hmmm.  This is your present, but where is your past? It certainly appears to be a deeply guarded secret.  This intrigues me more.  You certainly look fit, maybe you were a dancer or athlete?  You were on tour from Russia or Hungary or someplace like that, found you loved the freedom this land gave you, and defected.
     You got off the bus with all the rest of the troupe, all dressed in identical track suits.  You looked around the big city.  People wandering from shop to shop.  No queues!  You are taken into a souvenir shop.  In here are the ultimate symbols of the West, from the Coke vending machines outside the door to the sheer exploitation within.
     Every facet of the country is for sale: its rocks, stuffed toys resembling its fauna, postcards, dish towels, key rings, condoms, and other odd items you haven’t seen before and wouldn’t know how to use even if you had one.  Back home, the country is not sold like this.  You love it!
You motion to your tour manager that you need the toilet.  You are given an escort who waits outside the cubicle.  Inside, you read the graffiti:  tasteless jokes about the latest celebrity scandal, gossip and other material created by someone so deranged that it is totally unfit to print.  While you don’t understand most of it, you consider it another example of Western superiority - a great flaunting of freedom.
     You want in, to experience completely the freedom of this new world.  You lure your escort into the cubicle, bash her unconscious with the cistern lid, and run.  You dodge other guards and members of your own troupe who call after you, “Capitalist slut!”
     You end up in a post office demanding asylum.  Through some diplomatic wrangling or other, you get it.  Now you are travelling, enjoying the freedom.  The depot is basked in sunset; it is the triumphant end to this part of the movie.  The audience smiles.

[Cut to standard bus depot scene: bus pulls in, woman steps out.]

I know!  I’ve seen that bit.  Where is your past, the explanation for the defiant look on your face?  There has to be a past, a reason.  Even the Mona Lisa has a reason for her smile - and this camera should find it!  Please, can we try again?  Where is your future?

[Cut to standard bus depot scene: bus pulls in, woman steps out.  She looks apologetic.]

Ah, I understand now.  You have no past, no future.  You’re a moment, a frozen instant.  It’s as if you’re an extra in the movie of your life, or are you a walk on part in someone else’s life? Maybe it was the bus driver I should have focused on, or one of the bums.  There is nothing for you outside of this scene, is there? Am I right?

[Cut to standard bus depot scene: bus pulls in, woman steps out.  She looks around, eventually looking straight into the camera.  Close up of her face and shoulders.  She nods, and says, “Look around you”.]

[Cut to standard bus depot scene: guy sits on a bench, waiting, staring into an imaginary monitor.  He looks around, and sees the camera zooming in on his face.  His scream is drowned out by the sound of someone sweeping.]