SCRIPT: "TERMINATOR" by James Cameron

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Big Bob's/Dining: An old man with a shrunken, ungenerous face scowls at the menu as Sarah wipes the tabletop in front of him.

SARAH: I haven't seen you in here lately, Mr. Miller.

MR. MILLER: What's it to ya?

SARAH: You must have a girlfriend.

MR. MILLER: That's none of your business.

SARAH: Aha! Is she young?

Mr. Miller lowers his menu and glares at her.

MR. MILLER: Compared to me she is. How come you're not at the cash anymore? They catch ya stealing?

SARAH (smiling): What's it to ya?

When she leaves, the old man is grinning, behind the menu, where no one can see him.

Sarah rounds the corner, walking fast as she undoes her apron. She calls out to the walls without looking up.

SARAH: I'm on break, Chuck. Carla's got my station.

As she approaches the locker room where the girls take their coffee breaks, the door bursts open and Nancy beckons to Sarah.

NANCY (excitedly): Hurry up. It's about you... I mean sort of...Come on!

Break room: Nancy guides Sarah to the small black and white portable TV in the corner. Two other girls, smoking cigarettes with their shoes off and nyloned feet on the table, are already watching. One glances at Sarah.

WAITRESS: Hey, Sarah. This is weird.

They huddle around the set, intent on a newscast in progress.

TV ANCHORWOMAN: ...and a police spokesman at the scene refused to speculate on a motive for the execution-style slaying of the Encino housewife. He did however say that an accurate description of the suspect has been compiled from several witnesses. Once again, Sarah Connor, thirty-five, mother of two, brutally shot to death in her home this afternoon.

As the news grinds on, Sarah gazes unseeingly at the screen. Nancy claps her on the shoulder, laughing.

NANCY: You're dead, honey.

Health club: Sunlight is dying when Sarah swings her moped to the curb in front of the 'Good Life Spa', a large, crowded health club. Inside the aerobics studio, music booms and masses of leotarded cellulite sway along a row of panting, stretching women. Sarah slips in through the door and waits against the wall while the human dynamo, Ginger Ventura, leads the class energetically. Ginger, Sarah's roommate, is a party-stopper.

Red-haired, athletic, sensuous. She's pretty enough when still, but stunning in motion. And she's in motion. Ginger yells commands and cheerfully dives into contortions to the beat of a Motown favorite. Marco, a handsome, well-defined guy wearing a tight staff T-shirt, strolls up for a drink at the water fountain next to Sarah.

MARCO: Hi. I've seen you around. You're cute. Cute I remember.

SARAH: I'm Sarah. Ginger's roommate.

MARCO: Yeah, right. I'm Marco.

The dance tape ends.

GINGER: ...and three aaand four! And that's it ladies! Now, didn't that feel good?

The group collapses ensemble. A chorus of groans.

GINGER: Let's think positive or next time I'll play the FM version.

Ginger walks over to Sarah as the class disperses. Marco is leaning on the wall next to Sarah, who is enjoying the attention.

SARAH: ...yeah, really? Say something in Italian.

Before Marco can reply, Ginger pulls the front of his gym shorts out and peers down. She shakes her head.

GINGER: You're wasting your time, kiddo. Let's go.

She grabs Sarah by the arm and pulls her out the door. Sarah catches a glimpse of Marco's expression over her shoulder as the door closes. The two girls descend to the first floor and enter a hallway. Sarah is gasping with laughter.

SARAH (weakly): I don't believe you did that.

Ginger is adjusting her ever-present Walkman-type cassette player at her hip. She slips on the earphones as they walk along. Sarah feigns outrage.

SARAH (continuing): I had him hooked. He was just about to ask me out. I could tell.

GINGER: That guy's a jerk. I did you a favor.

SARAH: I'll do the same for you sometime.

Sarah laughs and claps her friend on the back. They turn in at a door marked Weight Room. Glistening arms, legs, torsos merge into bio-mechanical kinetic sculptures with the chrome-steel levers and tubes. The crash and squeal of metal against metal. Two Conan-esque arms thrust upward, glistening. Ginger's boyfriend, Matt McCallister, the assistant manager of the club, strains out his last reps, bench-pressing enormous weight on the Nautilus machine.

Despite his imposing appearance, Matt is one of the warmest people you'd ever want to meet. His face is contorted, muscles knotted for the last push. He heaves it up with a guttural cry. Lowering his weights with a clang, Matt lies panting, arms dangling at his side, eyes closed. A pair of female legs appear.

GINGER (V.O.): What's this? Sleep therapy?

Matt opens his eyes.

GINGER (continuing): You think somebody's gonna do this for you? Look at those shriveled bi's. And you haven't worked lat's or ab's since Wednesday.

MATT (smiling): Hello, sweetheart. Had a rough day?

GINGER (softening): Come here, wimp.

She leans down as he sits up and they meet in a kiss that's bad for the other guys' discipline. Sarah waits until they break the clinch to speak.

SARAH: Hi, Matt.

Matt look backwards over the bench, and replies, upside-down.

MATT (grinning broadly): Heeey! It's my favorite Sarah. Hi, babe.

Ginger pulls the pin on Mat's weights and re-inserts it beneath the entire stack, the maximum weight.

GINGER: Alright, warm-ups are over. Back to work, Bunky.

Ginger readadjusts her headphones as the two girls walk away.

MATT: 'Bye beautiful. You too, Ginger.

Two weightlifters nearby look at each other, then at Matt.


Outside the health club, Sarah lurches away from the curb on her moped, almost spilling Ginger who is attempting to ride double. They swing out onto a main thoroughfare and careen through the bumper-to-bumper traffic. Sarah maneuvers deftly though overloaded and unstable. Ginger doesn't know whether to laugh of scream at the near-misses. She does both.

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