SCRIPT: "TERMINATOR" by James Cameron


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Dissolve to city street: The night's rain has given way to a typical L.A. morning of diffuse sunlight. moving with A girl on a Moped as she zips through traffic. Sarah Connor is 19, small and delicate-featured. Pretty in a flawed, accessible way. She doesn't stop the party when she walks in, but you'd like to get to know her. Her vulnerable quality masks a strength even she doesn't know exists.


Sarah maneuvers nimbly, apparently in a hurry. Sarah buzzes into the parking lot of Big Bob's Family Restaurant and chains the moped to the icon of Big Bob himself. The fiberglass cherub holds up his mammoth hamburger in perpetual homage to whatever deity watches out for fat kids. Sarah removes a stack of college textbooks from the luggage carrier and tuRns to go into the restaurant.


SARAH (to Big Bob): Watch this for me, big buns.

Dining area, prominently featuring a video surveillance camera as Sarah enters below. She passes under another video eye as she crosses the main floor of the wholesomely appointed eatery. Sarah goes through the swinging staff doors under a third camera.

The manager's office is closet-like, lit by the glow of several security monitors. Chuck Breen, day manager, pimply and officious, watches Sarah in an overhead view of the service corridor. He punches a switch and reaches for a microphone on a studio gooseneck. In the service corridor, Sarah glances up as Breen's voice rasps from a ceiling speaker.

BREEN (V.O.): Sarah?

SARAH (answers the empty hallway): Yes, Chuck?

BREEN: Come to the office, please.

She turns back toward the office door at the end of the corridor. Sarah opens the door to Breen's closet control center.

SARAH: Mission control to Chuck, come in...

BREEN (without looking up): You're late.

SARAH (undaunted): Aren't I worth waiting for?

BREEN: Not really. Do you think you can get here on time if I put you on the floor as a waitress?

SARAH (grinning): I don't know. I kinda had my heart set on being a cashier the rest of my life.

BREEN: The pay's the same but you'll make more in tips.

SARAH: Thanks, Chuck. I need the money. Can I still work the hours around my classes?

Breen turns to punch up a display on the restaurant's small accounting computer. Sarah looks over his shoulder as he modifies the week's schedule.

BREEN: Mmm. Same schedule's okay.

SARAH: Alright!

BREEN (gravely): Can you handle it?

SARAH: It's not brain surgery, Chuck.

BREEN (hands her an apron ceremoniously): Here you go. You're a Bob's Girl now. Nancy will check you out.

SARAH: I won't let the fat kid down.


Locker room: the locker door slams shut, revealing Sarah transformed into a "Bob's Girl". Her hair is in a bun. White blouse. Short flared skirt and apron with a bow. She resembles a suburbanized peasant maid looking for a goat to milk. Sarah confronts her reflection in the mirror, pondering its absurdity. She pinches her cheeks. Smiles vacuously.

SARAH: Hi, I'm Sarah and I'll be you waitress. . . . . I'm so wholesome, I could puke.


Sarah is bustling about, trying to service the start of the dinner rush. In waitress parlance, she's 'in it'. She runs the gauntlet between tables, precariously balancing two full dinner plates on one arm and hand-carrying a third. A customer tugs on her apron for attention and she barely averts contributing the chili size to his wardrobe.

CUSTOMER: Honey, can I get that coffee now?

SARAH: Yes sir, just a second.

She reaches her table after near collisions with a Mexican busboy and two teenage girls doing cheerleading routines in lock-step.


SARAH: Who gets the Burly Burger?

CUSTOMER TWO: I ordered Barbecue Beef.

CUSTOMER THREE: Does mine come with fires?

CUSTOMER FOUR: He's got the Barbecue Beef, I've got a Chili-Beef Deluxe.

SARAH: Okay, who gets the Burly Beef?

CUSTOMER AT NEXT TABLE: Miss, we're ready to order.


In the process of setting down all the plates Sarah knocks over someone's water glass.

SARAH (mopping frantically): Oh, sorry. That's not real leather, is it?

As she cleans up the spill, a kid at the next booth reaches over and dumps a scoop of ice cream into the top pouch of Sarah's apron. She stares down at the mess melting over her hard-earned and sags with defeat. Nancy, a plump, gum-chewing waitress, stops beside her to whisper.

NANCY: Look at it this way: in a hundred years, who's gonna care?




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