🎬 Apparently, We’re the Problem

Ep. 1 – Masks

A Liberty Electro Original Series

Created and Written by William Kilpatrick

FRANKLIN SOUTH CAROLINA - FICTIONAL MIDSIZE OCEANFRONT  CITY

INT. BOONE’S BREW – MORNING

The espresso machine makes a shrill nerve-racking whine. St. Patrick's day decorations hang on the wall.

ZEKE (20s, hipster barista) stands behind the counter in an N95 mask, fogged safety goggles, latex gloves, and an apron stained by disinfectant. He’s taping a sign to the counter):

    MASKS REQUIRED
    (Underneath, in Sharpie: “No exceptions. Don’t make it weird.”)

MAI (bright, smiling under her floral mask) watches him from the pastry case.
MAI: You look like you’re about to operate on a croissant.

ZEKE: I’m modeling responsibility.

MAI: The customers don't come to the barista for role-model. They come for tasty caffeine.

The bell dings.

STACY McCONAUGHEY enters — sweaty from her run, holding a half-empty water bottle.

ZEKE: (muffled through the mask) Ma’am! Mask required!

STACY: I'm not sick Zeke. I feel great. (Poses in her tight runner's outfit for the coffee shop) And I'm drinking water.

ZEKE: But you’re not.

STACY: But I’m about to.

MAI: (giggles) Is this going to happen every day now? Stacy will never wear a mask.

ZEKE: She has too! (whining)


BRIANNA BEAUMONT and RAMONA TATE sit at a corner table, sipping lattes and pretending not to watch.

BRIANNA: (to Ramona) I can’t decide what’s worse — no mask or that mask.

RAMONA: He’s following CDC guidance. There’s literally a droplet simulation about this.

STACY: Oh, good. A simulation. I feel much safer now.

BRIANNA: (sotto) I miss 2019.

The upstairs door creaks open.

JEMMA BOONE (late 60s, gray braid, denim jacket, house slippers) appears, mug in hand, scanning the scene.

JEMMA: Zeke, why does my café look like a hazmat drill?

ZEKE: Just being proactive.

JEMMA: You’re scaring the foam off the cappuccinos.

STACY: (grinning) Finally, management.

JEMMA: Don’t start, Stace. You’re stink. I should make you shower before you get your latte.

Beat. The customers quiet. Jemma looks around the room.

JEMMA: Look, in hear wear a mask if you want. Don’t if you don’t. Just keep the debate outside — this place sells coffee, not convictions and I don't have the money to discriminate.

STACY: Amen.

RAMONA: (uneasy) But technically—

JEMMA: (cuts her off) Ramona, if “technically” bought muffins, I’d be retired.

BRIANNA: (to Mai) I’d tip extra for that kind of energy.

JEMMA: Then do. The rent’s due.

Light laughter. Zeke adjusts his goggles. Mai shrugs. Stacy finally heads to the counter.

JEMMA (cont’d): Now, who wants caffeine before we all lose consciousness from virtue signaling?

INT. FRANKLIN TAP – EARLY EVENING

Country rock hums low over the speakers. The place smells like peanuts, beer, and just a hint of hand sanitizer.

Stacy and Ric sit at the bar, halfway through their first round. Tasha, fit and gorgeous in a fitted Tap T-shirt, polishes a glass behind the counter.

RIC: So, I’m workin’ from home now. Corporate said it’s “temporary.”

STACY: (laughs) With four kids who can’t go to school? That’s not work from home — that’s hostage negotiation.

RIC: Tell me about it. I tried to mute myself on a Zoom call, but the kids staged a coup behind me. Looked like Lord of the Flies with Legos.

TASHA: (chuckling) At least you got job security. Last time I worked from home, my cat fired me.

They all laugh.

STACY: Speaking of power trips — Zeke over at Boone’s Brew tried to make me wear a mask this morning.

RIC: Zeke the bandana guy?

STACY: That’s the one. Looked like he was about to perform surgery or rob a stagecoach. Then Brianna swooped in like his moral support animal.

RIC: (laughs) Oh boy.

STACY: She starts lecturing me in line — says “real patriots protect others.” I said “real patriots mind their own business.”

CHUCK: She’s the one with the custom-embroidered mask, right? Looks like it was made by Louis Vuitton in collaboration with Eva Braun.

STACY: That’s the one. She wears it like she’s the hall monitor of humanity. She wants everyone to be scared to breathe.

TASHA: Please. Only thing I’m scared of is losin’ circulation behind my ears — or gettin’ run over by one of these weirdos drivin’ around alone with a mask on.

RIC: Amen.

CHUCK: (to Tasha) You single-handedly restored my faith in humanity.

TASHA: Good. Now restore the beer to this tap.

They all laugh. Glasses clink.

INT. MCCONAUGHEY HOUSE / GARAGE – MORNING

Coffee brews in a nice but messy suburban kitchen.
RIC McConaughey, mid-40s, ex-Army IT guy with calm precision and visible fatigue, pours a cup. Dress shirt tucked in crisp. Below the waist — gym shorts and socks.

He takes a sip, sighs, and opens the door to the rest of the house—

CHAOS.

Kids shouting, dog barking, cereal spilling. The 5-year-old’s in a bike helmet and cape. The 7-year-old’s arguing with the iPad. Someone’s crying in the bathroom.

RIC: Morning, team. Love the energy.

He navigates through toys and spilled milk, clutching his mug like it’s sacred. He steps into the garage, converted halfway into his “office.” Folding table. Laptop. Router hanging by a cord. Behind him: tools, bikes, boxes, and a lawnmower.

He logs into Zoom. A grid of faces loads:
- One guy in a full bubble wrap suit.
- One woman with six cats.
- The boss using a beach background that flickers between waves and beige cubicle walls.

RIC: Morning, everyone.

MANAGER (over Zoom): Remember, folks — camera on, masks visible. We lead by example.

RIC: You know the virus doesn’t come through Outlook, right?

A few awkward chuckles. The bubble-wrap guy nods seriously.

KID (O.S.): Dad! The dog’s eating my Chromebook!

RIC: (Sighs) I gotta go, gang. IT emergency.

RIC (quietly, to himself): How am I supposed to work like this?

He powers down.

EXT. FRANKLIN NURSERY – DAY FALL ( 3 months Later)

A  beautiful early summer day. Bags of mulch, rows of ferns, and hanging baskets fill the outdoor nursery. A wooden sign near the checkout reads:
MASKS OPTIONAL — SMILES ENCOURAGED.
A faded CDC flyer flaps underneath it.

STACY is behind the counter, dirt on her hands, hair tied in a bandana. RAMONA sits on a bag of potting soil, sipping an iced tea — her mask dangling around her wrist like a tired accessory.

STACY: Hard to believe this all started as “two weeks.”

RAMONA: Yeah. Now it’s two years of sourdough starters and trust issues.

STACY: (laughs) At least the plants don’t complain. They don’t judge, don’t panic-buy toilet paper. Just need sun, water, and a little patience.

RAMONA: Wish I could photosynthesize.

STACY: You still masking up everywhere?

RAMONA: Mostly. Habit at this point. Plus, people glare if you don’t.

STACY: That’s not public health. That’s peer pressure with a better slogan.

RAMONA: Maybe. I just… I don’t know what’s right anymore. Every time I think I get it, the rules change.

STACY: That’s because they’re not rules — they’re trends. Give it a month, and we’ll all be wearing face shields made out of yoga mats.

RAMONA snorts. Then —

BRIANNA (O.S.): Not funny, Stacy.

BRIANNA strides in — perfect hair, matching floral mask and gloves, clipboard in hand.

BRIANNA: Stacy! You should put a proper sign up! Something official — people might think you don’t care.

STACY: Morning to you too, Brianna.

BRIANNA: I’m serious. The town council just recommended all businesses require masks. You don’t want to be that place everyone’s whispering about.

STACY: (deadpan) You mean the one still open?

RAMONA hides a smirk.

BRIANNA: It’s not a joke, Stacy. This is about community responsibility. We’re all in this together.

STACY: (lightly) That’s not what the bill collectors keep saying.

BRIANNA: (ignoring it) I actually started a group — “Mask the Town.” We’re promoting awareness and accountability. Maybe I can drop off a few extra boxes here?

STACY: Appreciate it, but my customers can decide for themselves. It’s fresh air out here. Plants don’t cough.

BRIANNA: That’s not the point!

STACY: Funny — freedom used to mean I got to decide what I cared about.

RAMONA: (tentative) Maybe there’s a middle ground. Like, if someone wants to wear one, great. If not, also great?

BRIANNA: (in disbelief) Ramona, this is like the civil rights movement of our time. We have to stand up for public safety.

RAMONA: (pauses, then) Mmm… except back then, people were fighting against government restrictions — not begging for more of them.

BRIANNA: (stunned) That’s… not the same thing.

STACY: Don’t worry, Brianna. I’ll make sure the roses stay six feet apart.

BRIANNA exhales sharply, visibly irritated. Stacy’s dad, BUCK, chuckles; Stacy’s mom, LINDA, peers out.

BUCK: If the virus mutates so it infects plants, well… guess we had a good run.

They all laugh. Cicadas buzz louder.

INT. RIC’S GARAGE OFFICE — LATE AFTERNOON

The garage hums. Sawdust glitters in the sunlight. RIC sits at a makeshift workstation — laptop on a paint-stained table. He’s in woodworking overalls, mask dangling off one ear.

A corporate ping sounds on his laptop.

RIC (reading): “‘Company morale initiative: Mask Selfie Challenge! Post your best masked workspace photo and tag #CoverUpForCare!’”
(pauses) Yeah, ‘cause nothing says morale like mandatory fun.

He scrolls the feed: coworkers smiling with color-coordinated masks, ring lights, and plants in the background. The same guy from before is back — in a full hazmat bubble suit.

RIC (mutters): “Bet HR loves that one.”

He props his phone on a clamp, adjusts his overalls, takes a selfie — sawdust on his face, mask hanging from one ear.

RIC (typing): “Holding the line in the garage.”
He hits post.

Ping ping ping.

RIC (reading): “Love the grit, Ric!” “Maybe tighten that mask next time 😉” “Doesn’t really align with our safety messaging.”
Another ping — HR.

HR REP (on screen): Ric, while your enthusiasm is appreciated, corporate policy requires masks be fully secured during all work activities — even remote.

RIC: Even remote? I’m literally alone in a garage.

HR REP (message): Correct. It’s about solidarity optics.

RIC (to himself): Solidarity optics... sounds like a communist sunglasses brand.

STACY enters with her phone.

STACY: Uh, you’re famous.

RIC: Please tell me not for the reason I think.

STACY: (reads) “‘Working-class hero refuses to muzzle up in corporate challenge.’” You’re trending. #RealWork.

RIC: Fantastic. Any of those likes come with hazard pay?

STACY: No, but apparently you’re “the voice of reason for normal people.”

RIC: Well, that’s new. Usually I’m just the guy who missed the meeting.

STACY (grinning): Careful — you might end up on Tucker.

RIC: Great. Maybe he’s hiring.

STACY: You really didn’t wear the mask for the picture, huh?

RIC: I did. Around my ear. That counts for solidarity optics, right?

They clink coffee mugs.

EXT. FRANKLIN FARMER’S MARKET — SATURDAY MORNING — FALL (6 months later)

The town square bustles under a canopy of orange leaves and white vendor tents. The air smells like kettle corn and sanitizer.

STACY runs her plant stall — potted herbs, mums, and succulents. A homemade sign reads: “Grow Something Real.”

Across the row, BRIANNA BEAUMONT has set up a sleek, over-branded booth: banners that read “MASK THE TOWN: PROTECT FRANKLIN 💕 #CareIsCool”. She’s surrounded by pastel-colored masks, donation jars, and a ring light.

RAMONA drifts between their booths holding a pumpkin latte.

BRIANNA: Stacy! You should put a few masks out on your table. People love a socially-conscious business.

STACY: I sell plants, Brianna. They already believe in photosynthesis.

BRIANNA: You know what I mean — you’d look more… considerate.

STACY: I already look considerate. I’m smiling.

BRIANNA: You’re not wearing one.

STACY: That’s how you can tell I’m smiling.

RAMONA: Okay, okay, let’s not start again. It’s Saturday. Let’s just enjoy the farmer’s market.

BRIANNA: It’s not about starting anything, it’s about awareness. Franklin’s infection rate is up again — we can’t just pretend it’s over.

STACY: I’m not pretending anything. I’m working. You remember work, right? That thing people used to do before hashtags replaced paychecks?

RAMONA: (sipping latte) Oh, that’s good. That’s quotable.

BRIANNA: Stacy, you act like caring about people is a bad thing.

STACY: It’s not. Forcing them to care your way is.

RAMONA: Maybe there’s a middle ground.

KID (running up, dinosaur mask): Miss Stacy, do these plants need masks too?

STACY: Nah, buddy. Not yet. But it's coming.

BRIANNA: You think this is funny? People are dying.

STACY (shrugs): The only ones dying of it are obese hospice residents and every person who dies in a hospital for any reason..

BRIANNA (gasps): That’s awful.

STACY (level, calm): So is using the flu to control people’s lives and using it to make massive profits.

RAMONA: I just came for basil.

EXT. ELEMENTARY SCHOOL PAVILION — EVENING — FALL

String lights over folding chairs spaced six feet apart. A projector displays: “Protect Our Community — Mask the Town Initiative.” Ramona moderates. Brianna leads the meeting.

RAMONA: Okay, everyone — let’s remember, this is about community, not conflict. We’re all neighbors here.

BRIANNA: Exactly. And if everyone would just comply — just do the simple, decent thing — we could finally get back to normal.

STACY: You mean your version of normal. The new normal. (air quotes)

BRIANNA: My version of safety. People are dying, Stacy.

STACY: But are they though?

LINDA: Oh dear…

BUCK: That’s my girl.

BRIANNA: That’s why this pandemic will never end.

STACY: It’ll end when the powers that be learn exactly how far they can push the citizens.

BRIANNA: This attitude is exactly the problem.

STACY: Yeah, yeah — we’ve heard it. “Trust the science,” “follow the rules,” “report your neighbor.” I’m sure the founding fathers would’ve loved that one.

BUCK: Now she’s warming up.

RAMONA: Let’s not make this political—

STACY: Everything’s political now. You want to control how people talk, where they go, what they wear, when they can hug their own mother — and you call it compassion.

STACY (standing, calm, direct. picks up a mask from the table):
All the month's hearing about this terrible virus. Then seeing it for ourselves. Comparing what we see and feel against what the TV is telling us. This mask.. It' a litmus test. 
Are you the type that makes up your own mind based on what you believe. Or will just give up control of your life and do what your told. 
If it makes you feel better. If it helps you. By all means wear one. It's your body. Your life. That's your prerogative. 
Stay home, opt out of events, stay away from your friends and family if that’s what makes you feel healthy and safe.
This is America — it’s a free country.
The land of liberty. That means we all get to decide what we're going to do
All of us.
This is my life and my family, and I’ll decide what’s right for them in my country.
And as far as mandates from the government, I’m just as much an American as anyone else, and I’m not following any rule or order that I don’t agree with.
I'll die on that hill.

(Older members and fit blue collar members of the meeting stand clap and cheer)

BRIANNA: I mean… I guess that’s not entirely unreasonable.

RAMONA: Alright, let’s move to new business — the bake sale.

INT. FRANKLIN TAP — NIGHT — CHRISTMAS

The bar is quiet and cozy. A small Christmas tree twinkles in the corner. Garland hangs from the mirror behind the bar. The TV above plays a muted news ticker: “New Variant Detected,” “Mask Mandates Return,” “Stay Home for the Holidays.”

CHUCK wipes down the bar, steady as ever.
TASHA scrolls her phone, sighs.

TASHA: What the hell happened to “two weeks to slow the spread”?

CHUCK: Sure — and we were only supposed to be in Afghanistan a year.

TASHA: Guess we’re in it for the long haul then.

CHUCK: Least we got plenty of beer.

(He slides her a pint. They clink glasses as faint Christmas music plays from the jukebox.)

Created and Written by William Kilpatrick

A Liberty Electro Original Series

© Liberty Electro 2025