Deconstruction: The Manuscript

We see the three men now inside of a cozy diner. They are seated in the middle of the counter, side by side, unencumbered by anyone directly at either side of them. Their overcoats are off. They are all wearing jackets and ties. Derrida in the middle. The observation deck man is at his right and the newcomer, the third man, is to his left.  Derrida is gesturing, his hands in the air as he speaks, animatedly talking to his colleague at his right.

Behind the counter is a waitress, and a short order cook with his back turned, occupied with tending the grill. In the background in the diner we see a Baltimore cop sitting at a table against the far wall. He is calmly minding is own business, facing the direction away from the men. A waitress is behind the counter by the cash register, somewhat off to the side of the group. She is punching buttons on the register.

Now we are close enough to hear their dialogue between Derrida and the man seated to his right.  Derrida has picked up the coffee cup to take a sip. In a voice just loud enough for Derrida alone to hear, observation deck man says, in native French:

"Tu l'as--içi?"  (Subtitle: "You have it--here?")

Derrida puts the coffee cup down in the saucer and pats his left vest pocket of his jacket in two quick taps. He gently moves the hand up with raised finger to say give me a second, and contorting himself in his counter seat, he reaches inside his jacket packet and carefully draws out a thin sheaf of papers, a manuscript, folded neatly down the middle the long way. The pages are somewhat rumpled, as if they have been handled already.

Derrida quickly unfolds the manuscript with bold hands, as if opening a book, while his colleague slides his own coffee cup out of the away on the counter,

In the cleared space, Derrida places the manuscript down face up and presses it firmly onto the countertop with the palm of his right hand, as if sealing it in wax. In the tight counter space between him and his colleague, he holds up both his hands, as if showing his palms, with all ten fingers out.

"Dix jours,"  (Subtitle: "Ten days.")

he says, bouncing his hands gently with the syllables of the word.

He is proud of himself. He looks for acknowledgment in the reaction of his colleague.

He pivots to the man on his left, who is leaning in to listen, and says to him,  showing him his fingers in the same way,

"Ten days.


The man on his right is already scrutinizing the first page of the manuscript, while stirring his coffee.

As Derrida is frozen in that second with his hands raised, we see the waitress his standing right behind the counter from Derrida, looming over him. She's holding the order pad, looking straight at him, herself frozen, as if waiting for him to finish.