Curry Fever

Screenplay draft

Title: JD Vance later tonight after some homemade chicken tikka masala
Credit: Screenplay by
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FADE IN.

INT. HARLAN KITCHEN - NIGHT

Steam curls from a cast-iron skillet of orange chicken tikka masala on the Formica counter. Sodium-yellow light from the overhead fluorescent mixes with the muddy orange glow rising off the bubbling sauce. Spice jars line the backsplash, lids askew.

JD HARLAN, 43, still in his suit jacket and loosened tie, pushes through the side door. His scuffed dress shoes scuff the linoleum. Callused fingers drop a ring of keys beside the skillet. The metal clinks once and settles.

He stands there, shoulders slumped from the donor dinner. The cumin and chili hang thick in the air. His eyes track the steam as it twists toward the buzzing fluorescent tube.

JD steps closer to the pan. The chicken pieces glisten under the harsh light. He leans in, inhales, then pulls back with a small cough that turns into a flat Midwestern chuckle.

He opens the fridge, stares at the empty shelves, closes it again. His stomach gives a low, audible gurgle that echoes off the avocado-green trim along the counter.

JD rubs his face with one hand, the other resting on the cool Formica. The skillet pops and sizzles behind him. He glances at his watch, then at the dark window over the sink where his reflection stares back, tie crooked.

Outside, a car passes. The fluorescent keeps buzzing. Steam keeps rising.

INT. HARLAN KITCHEN - NIGHT

Steam curls from a cast-iron skillet on the Formica counter. Muddy orange sauce bubbles under sodium-yellow fluorescent light. Cumin and chili hang thick in the air. MARTHA HARLAN, early 40s, stands at the stove in a faded Ohio State sweatshirt, flour dusting her forearms. She stirs the pan in slow circles.

The back door opens. JD HARLAN, mid 40s, steps inside still wearing his suit jacket and loosened tie. He drops his keys beside the spice jars and pauses, nose lifting.

MARTHA
You’re late. It’s already resting.

JD
(sniffing)
That’s not the usual recipe.

MARTHA
New one. Extra chilies. Figured you could handle it after that donor speech.

She ladles glistening chicken onto two plates. The sauce catches the light, thick and bright. JD watches the steam rise, eyes narrowing.

JD
Smells like it could strip paint.

MARTHA
You can’t keep pretending you’re still eating meatloaf and survive in this town.

JD
(quiet chuckle)
Tell that to the guys on the line back in Middletown.

He pulls out a chair. The legs scrape the linoleum. Martha sets a plate in front of him, steam drifting across his face. He leans in, inhales again, and the unfamiliar burn hits his sinuses.

MARTHA
Go on. First bite’s the worst.

JD picks up his fork. The fluorescent buzz fills the pause. Outside, a car passes, headlights sweeping the window. He lifts a piece of chicken, sauce dripping. His shoulders stay square, but his free hand taps the table once, twice.

MARTHA
Don’t overthink it. It’s just dinner.

JD
(forced smile)
Right. Just dinner.

He brings the fork to his mouth.

INT. HARLAN KITCHEN - NIGHT

Steam curls from a cast-iron skillet on the Formica counter. Overhead fluorescents buzz and tint the orange sauce a muddy glow. Spice jars line the backsplash, lids askew. JD HARLAN, 43, still in his suit jacket, drops his keys beside a stack of unopened mail. His loosened tie hangs crooked. MARTHA HARLAN, 41, in a faded Ohio State sweatshirt, stirs the pan with a wooden spoon. Cumin and chili hang in the air.

MARTHA
You’re late. It’s already resting.

JD
(smelling the air)
That’s not the usual recipe.

MARTHA
New one. Extra chilies. Figured you could handle it after that donor speech.

She ladles glistening chicken onto two plates. The sauce clings thick, flecked with seeds. JD eyes the pieces warily, shoulders still tight from the evening.

JD
(smiling tight)
Smells like it could strip paint.

MARTHA
(quick, teasing)
You said the last one was bland. This one fights back.

JD
Factory days I ate whatever came out of the vending machine. Never thought I’d miss it.

He pulls out a chair. The legs scrape the linoleum. Martha sets a plate in front of him, then hers. She sits opposite, forearms dusted with flour.

MARTHA
You can’t keep pretending you’re still eating meatloaf and survive in this town.

JD
(pause, flat vowel)
Meatloaf never sent a memo that could end a career.

He lifts a fork. The first bite hovers. Juice drips onto the plate. He takes it. His eyes widen, then narrow. He chews slowly, throat working.

MARTHA
Well?

JD
(self-deprecating chuckle)
Hotter than the press room after a town hall.

MARTHA
Good. Means it’s working.

JD reaches for his water glass. Condensation runs down the side. He drinks deep, sets it down empty. Martha watches, amused, already cutting into her own portion.

The skillet still steams on the stove behind them, orange film thickening at the edges.

INT. HARLAN KITCHEN - NIGHT

Steam curls thicker from the cast-iron skillet. Orange masala glistens under the buzzing sodium-yellow fluorescents. JD HARLAN, 43, in a loosened tie and rumpled suit jacket, sits at the Formica counter. He spears a glistening chunk of chicken and lifts it to his mouth.

His eyes widen. A flush climbs his neck. Martha watches, amused, flour still dusting her forearms.

MARTHA
You can’t keep pretending you’re still eating meatloaf and survive in this town.

JD chews slower. His callused fingers tap once against the fork. He swallows hard, reaches for his water glass, and drains half of it.

JD
(smiling tight, a self-deprecating chuckle)
That’s one way to break in the new recipe.

MARTHA
Donor crowd liked the speech. They won’t like it if you keep sounding like the guy who still clocks in at the plant.

She slides the skillet closer. Cumin and chili hang heavy in the air. JD eyes the remaining pieces, wary.

JD
(midwestern vowels flattening)
Frank’s already texting about the memo leak. I don’t need the spice to finish the job.

MARTHA
(lowering her voice, warm but firm)
Exactly. You either let it hit or you keep faking it until the next poll drops.

JD sets the fork down. The orange sauce pools at the edge of his plate. Outside, a phone vibrates once on the counter. Neither moves to check it.

INT. HARLAN KITCHEN - NIGHT

Steam curls from the cast-iron skillet on the Formica counter. Cumin and chili hang thick in the air under the buzzing fluorescent. JD HARLAN pushes through the side door still wearing his suit jacket from the donor dinner. He drops his keys beside the spice jars and loosens his tie with one hand.

JD
(smelling the air)
That’s not meatloaf.

MARTHA HARLAN stands at the stove in her faded Ohio State sweatshirt, stirring the pan. Flour dusts her forearms. She glances over her shoulder.

MARTHA
New recipe. Figured the donor crowd left you needing something with bite.

JD crosses to the counter, eyes the glistening orange chicken. He works the tie knot free and tosses it onto a chair. The modest split-level feels smaller tonight, the kitchen light mixing sodium yellow with the steam rising off the skillet.

JD
Place still smells like the old factory floor after a long shift. Only now it’s coming out of our own oven.

MARTHA
(ladling onto plates)
You said you wanted to stay grounded. This’ll keep you that way.

JD pulls out a chair at the kitchen table. His scuffed dress shoes scrape the linoleum. He sits, then stands again, pacing once around the counter before settling.

JD
(smiling tight)
Grounded’s one thing. This might plant me six feet under before morning.

MARTHA sets a plate in front of him. She watches, arms folded, a quick teasing grin crossing her face.

MARTHA
Eat. The kids are asleep and Frank’s probably texting already. You can pretend you’re still eating meatloaf tomorrow.

JD picks up the fork. The first bite hits. His eyes widen for a second, then settle. He chews slowly, the sound of the fork against the plate the only noise under the fluorescent hum.

INT. HARLAN KITCHEN - NIGH

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