The young JEAN-PAUL SARTRE and his earnest, bourgeoisie PARENTS are together at home. JEAN-PAUL is furrowed into a book; he's about 11; moody, intense, and very much like the Widow Hen's genius boychick that Foghorn Leghorn endlessly tries to teach baseball to. JEAN-PAUL is just back from school; his parents are trying to get him to talk about it.
PARENTS: What are you reading, Jean-Paul?
JEAN-PAUL: Nothing.
PARENTS: What are you thinking, Jean-Paul?
JEAN-PAUL: Nothing.
PARENTS: What did you learn in school today?
JEAN-PAUL: Nothing.
PARENTS: Then what did you do?
JEAN-PAUL: Nothing.
PARENTS: Nothing? I can't believe that — it's what you always say, Jean-Paul! You mean to say nothing happened to you? Nobody said anything? You learned nothing?
JEAN-PAUL: Nothing...(angry, with finality) NOTHING!
PARENTS: Jean-Paul ...
JEAN-PAUL: God, there's no exit around here! I hate you! I hate you! Living with you is hell!
He storms away.
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