Short Story/TV Movie Treatment
Nate nails in the window moldings in the tenement flat. Out of nails in his mouth, he reaches in his nail belt, glancing now out at the gray city outside. Smokestacks of the mills puffing up clouds, cloak the tenements in a gray veil. He hammers a faster beat. Much harder than he has to. "This city not only eats away your paint and rots your windows, it gives no place to rest your eyes," his Russian accent grinds out the words. "In Russia you could look out on trees, and hills, and valleys and green meadows."
"And the soldiers with their guns, and cruelty and beatings," a man's voice interjects, in an even heavier Russian accent.
"Yes," Nate is forced to agree, now raising and lowering the window. "There, the window's all fixed now. Good as new." The old man closes the curtains on the window, cutting out the sights and sounds apparently not welcomed in this household.
Leaving the building, Nate glances up at the window he had just repaired, noticing that most of the other windows in the tenement also have their drapes drawn shut. He loads his tools in the back of his old Model A Ford pickup truck. The puffing mills and tenements loom behind the truck, painting a misty black and white scene that Nate has now been made more acutely aware of.
"Hi, poppa," his children call out almost in unison as Nate enters their bedroom. A gentle touch contacts Nate with the other pleasures in his life. That pleasure, apparent in his face, turns sour when he sees the curtains also drawn in the children's room. He gets up and opens them sharply, letting in a little light and the view of a brick wall.
A repair job takes Nate just beyond the city. The big buildings are fewer. There are open fields of ragged brush with scattered factory buildings in between. Completing the job, he casts his eyes further out. He wonders what's beyond. "It doesn't look like there are any factories or apartment buildings out there. Let's go on just a little more," he reasons as he gets back into the truck. "See what's just up ahead, now that I'm already here."
The road ahead starts up and down. There are hills and trees. He can't stop. Suddenly Nate finds himself in a small country village spotted with small cottages, back of which lay fields with barns and animals. He could have been back in Europe, it so resembles the town where he used to live. "Am I lost in my dreams?," he wonders.
The village center has little shops. A "FOR RENT" sign hangs in a small carpenter shop. He can see what looks like jigs for making window frames, and stacks of wood stock for window sash and jambs — and thin, flat sheets of glass.
"There are a lot of windows in the city that need replacing. I can't afford to rent this shop, but I could go into partnership with the owners. It looks like all the other shops in town are shut down, too. Maybe they can't get anyone to rent out here during these hard times. I'm here, what do I have to lose by trying?" Nate shivers with the excitement of the moment.
At the shop owner's house, he is about to knock when the door opens, startling him. A very old, white-haired woman appears.
"I've been waiting a long time for you," she says.
Nate, taken back by this statement, finally gains composure, explaining it for himself. "Huh, oh yes, not many people coming through these days? I came about renting the carpenter shop, but..." Nate struggles for the words, "I can't really afford..."
"Yes, of course," she cuts him short. "Let me get the key to show it to you."
In the shop a jig for assembling windows sits square in front of an expanse of glass facing the back. The old lady begins to wipe the windows with a rag. Nate helps and wipes clear an image he cannot believe. He stands transfixed a long time till he starts wiping again. The view is breathtaking. The back of the shop sits on a hill that drops off into a wide valley ringed by cottages, trees, winding hedgerows and rustic fences. At the bottom, farms, streams, animals grazing. He begins to feel very strange and wonders where he really was. Who this old lady really is. He is afraid to speak. Now he sits down on a stool looking at the view through the opening of the window jig.
"You can make some beautiful picture windows in this shop," the old lady speaks as she peers through the jig next to Nate. "Do you have a need to make picture windows?"
"Yes," Nate nods. "There is much need in the city. The windows are in terrible condition."
"Then there is money to be made selling windows. Then a portion of that money can pay the rent on this shop. That is how we will work it," the old lady closes the deal with a shake of a bewildered Nate's hand.
Sharing the view out the back of the shop now with his wife and kids, Nate turns to his wife Becky, "Beginning to believe me? What are you thinking about your story teller, now?"
"It's real or you finally have me seeing your dreams," she confesses.
A ray of light shines through the outside view window and flashes on the glass of the window he is working on, reflecting across Nate's face. He blinks, raises his hand to block it from his eyes, but as quick as it came it is gone.
Later Nate loads the new window, wrapped in blankets, in the back of the Model A.
Next day finds Nate and his helper removing the new window from the back of the Model A. Carefully they carry it up the stairs of the third floor walk-up. "Mrs. Rabinovich, your new window is here," Nate calls through the door.
Nate and his helper dismantle the old rotted window and prepare the window opening to receive the new one. They hoist the new window into position. While Nate works, concentrating on nailing the window frames to the jambs, he once more finds a captive audience for his stories. The apartment dwellers are also from Russia. While he nails, he describes every detail of the picturesque little village where their new window was made and the village valley view against which it was assembled. The valley ringed by cottages, trees, winding hedgerows and rustic fences. At the bottom, farms, streams, animals grazing. And how that village so resembled the old Russian town where they all had lived.
"You're right, Nate, it's just like our old town in Russia," Mrs. Rabinovich exclaims.
Nate turns to look out the window. Nate's helper and Mrs. Rabinovich stand transfixed, staring out the window at the country village valley scene beyond.
Nate starts wiping away at the glass with his hands. That not working, he grabs at the handles to open the window to see if the city is still out there, but the old lady stops him, crying: "No. Leave it. Leave it!"
He stops. And they all just stand there staring at the window.
Nate and his helper descend the dark staircase to the entry door below. The gray, smoky city is still outside. They look back up, as they leave the building, to see Mrs. Rabinovich still staring out the window.
A picture of the green valley view jiggles up and down in sync with the clickety clack of the Model A's wheels on the streets of the city. It is a hand-painted picture of the 'valley view' with a window framing it – painted on the side of Nate's new top on the back of his truck. Alongside the picture of the window are painted, in big letters: 'NATE'S PICTURE WINDOWS.'
The painted window stops jiggling. The Model A, tiny against the giant gray tenements, screeches and groans to a stop. Its doors open and Nate and his helper get out and go around to the back. They open the back door of the truck and carefully pull out a window. Getting a secure hold on it, they make their way toward one of the large apartment buildings, most of its window curtains drawn wide open, residents standing at the windows, staring out.
Nate points his helper to an apartment with its curtains still drawn shut.
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