The Apartment by Billy Wilder and I.A.L. Diamond
THE APARTMENT
by
Billy Wilder and I.A.L. Diamond
THE APARTMENT
A DESK COMPUTER
A man's hand is punching out a series of figures on the
keyboard.
BUD (V.O.)
On November first, 1959, the
population of New York City was
8,042,783. if you laid all these
people end to end, figuring an
average height of five feet six and
a half inches, they would reach
from Times Square to the outskirts
of Karachi, Pakistan. I know facts
like this because I work for an
insurance company --
THE INSURANCE BUILDING - A WET, FALL DAY
It's a big mother, covering a square block in lower
Manhattan, all glass and aluminum, jutting into the leaden
sky.
BUD (V.O.)
-- Consolidated Life of New York.
We are one of the top five companies
in the country -- last year we
wrote nine-point-three billion
dollars worth of policies. Our
home office has 31,259 employees --
which is more than the entire
population of Natchez, Mississippi,
of Gallup, New Mexico.
INT. NINETEENTH FLOOR
Acres of gray steel desk, gray steel filing cabinets, and
steel-gray faces under indirect light. One wall is lined
with glass-enclosed cubicles for the supervisory personnel.
It is all very neat, antiseptic, impersonal. The only human
tough is supplied by a bank of IBM machines, clacking away
cheerfully in the background.
BUD (V.O.)
I work on the nineteenth floor --
Ordinary Policy Department -
Premium Accounting Division -
Section W -- desk number 861.
DESK 861
Like every other desk, it has a small name plate attached to
the side. This one reads C.C. BAXTER.
BUD (V.O.)
My name is C.C. Baxter - C. for
Calvin, C. for Clifford -- however,
most people call me Bud. I've been
with Consolidated Life for three
years and ten months. I started in
the branch office in Cincinnati,
then transferred to New York. My
take-home pay is $94.70 a week, and
there are the usual fringe benefits.
BAXTER is about thirty, serious, hard-working, unobtrusive.
He wears a Brooks Brothers type suit, which he bought
somewhere on Seventh Avenue, upstairs. There is a stack of
perforated premium cards in front of him, and he is totaling
them on the computing machine. He looks off.
ELECTRIC WALL CLOCK
It shows 5:19. With a click, the minute hand jumps to 5:20,
and a piercing bell goes off.
BUD (V.O.)
The hours in our department are
8:50 to 5:20 --
FULL SHOT - OFFICE
Instantly all work stops. Papers are being put away,
typewriters and computing machines are covered, and everybody
starts clearing out. Within ten seconds, the place is
empty -- except for Bud Baxter, still bent over his work,
marooned in a sea of abandoned desks.
BUD (V.O.)
-- they're staggered by floors, so
that sixteen elevators can handle
the 31,259 employees without a
serious traffic jam. As for
myself, I very often stay on at the
office and work for an extra hour
or two -- especially when the
weather is bad. It's not that I'm
overly ambitious -- it's just a way
of killing time, until it's all
right for me to go home.
You see, I have this little problem
with my apartment --
DISSOLVE TO:
STREET IN THE WEST SIXTIES - EVENING
Bud, wearing a weather-beaten Ivy League raincoat and a
narrow-brimmed brown hat, comes walking slowly down the
street skirting the puddles on the sidewalk. He stops in
front of a converted brownstone, looks up.
BUD (V.O.)
I live in the West Sixties - just
half a block from Central Park. My
rent is $84 a month. It used to be
eighty until last July when Mrs.
Lieberman, the landlady, put in a
second-hand air conditioning unit.
The windows on the second floor are lit, but the shades are
drawn. From inside drifts the sound of cha cha music.
BUD (V.O.)
It's a real nice apartment -
nothing fancy -- but kind of
cozy -- just right for a bachelor.
The only problem is - I can't
always get in when I want to.
INT. THE APARTMENT - EVENING
What used to be the upstairs parlor of a one-family house in
the early 1900's has been chopped up into living room,
bedroom, bathroom and kitchen. The wallpaper is faded, the
carpets are threadbare, and the upholstered furniture could
stand shampooing. There are lots of books, a record player,
stacks of records, a television set (21 inches and 24
payments), unframed prints from the Museum of Modern Art
(Picasso, Braque, Klee) tacked up on the walls.
Only one lamp is lit, for mood, and a cha cha record is
spinning around on the phonograph. On the coffee table in
front of the couch are a couple of cocktail glasses, a
pitcher with some martini dregs, an almost empty bottle of
vodka, a soup bowl with a few melting ice cubes at the
bottom, some potato chips, an ashtray filled with cigar
stubs and lipstick-stained cigarette butts, and a woman's
handbag.
MR. KIRKEBY, a dapper, middle-aged man, stands in front of
the mirror above the fake fireplace, buttoning up his vest.
He does not notice that the buttons are out of alignment.
KIRKEBY
(calling off)
Come on, Sylvia. It's getting late.
SYLVIA, a first baseman of a dame, redheaded and saftig,
comes cha cha-ing into the room, trying to fasten a necklace
as she hums along with the music. She dances amorously up
to Kirkeby.
KIRKEBY
Cut it out, Sylvia. We got to get
out of here.
He helps her with the necklace, then turns off the phonograph.
SYLVIA
What's the panic? I'm going to
have another martooni.
She crosses to the coffee table, starts to pour the remnants
of the vodka into the pitcher.
KIRKEBY
Please, Sylvia! It's a quarter to
nine!
SYLVIA
(dropping slivers of
ice into the pitcher)
First you can't wait to get me up
here, and now -- rush, rush, rush!
Makes a person feel cheap.
KIRKEBY
Sylvia -- sweetie -- it's not
that -- but I promised the guy I'd
be out of here by eight o'clock,
positively.
SYLVIA
(pouring martini)
What guy? Whose apartment is this,
anyway?
KIRKEBY
(exasperated)
What's the difference? Some
schnook that works in the office.
EXT. BROWNSTONE HOUSE - EVENING
Bud is pacing back and forth, throwing an occasional glance
at the lit windows of his apartment. A middle-aged woman
with a dog on a leash approaches along the sidewalk.
She is MRS. LIEBERMAN, the dog is a Scottie, and they are
both wearing raincoats. Seeing them, Bud leans casually
against the stoop.
MRS. LIEBERMAN
Good evening, Mr. Baxter.
BUD
Good evening, Mrs. Lieberman.
MRS. LIEBERMAN
Some weather we're having. Must be
from all the meshugass at Cape
Canaveral.
(she is half-way up
the steps)
You locked out of your apartment?
BUD
No, no. Just waiting for a friend.
Good night, Mrs. Lieberman.
MRS. LIEBERMAN
Good night, Mr. Baxter.
She and the Scottie disappear into the house. Bud resumes
pacing, his eyes on the apartment windows. Suddenly he
stops -- the lights have gone out.
INT. SECOND FLOOR LANDING - EVENING
Kirkeby, in coat and hat, stands in the open doorway of the
darkened apartment.
KIRKEBY
Come on -- come on, Sylvia!
Sylvia comes cha cha-ing out, wearing an imitation Persian
lamb coat, her hat askew on her head, bag, gloves, and an
umbrella in her hand.
SYLVIA
Some setup you got here. A real,
honest-to-goodness love nest.
KIRKEBY
Sssssh.
He locks the door, slips the key under the doormat.
SYLVIA
(still cha cha-ing)
You're one button off, Mr. Kirkeby.
She points to his exposed vest. Kirkeby looks down, sees
that the buttons are out of line. He starts to rebutton
them as they move down the narrow, dimly-lit stairs.
SYLVIA
You got to watch those things.
Wives are getting smarter all the
time. Take Mr. Bernheim -- in the
Claims Department -- came home one
night with lipstick on his shirt --
told his wife he had a shrimp
cocktail for lunch -- so she took
it out to the lab and had it
analyzed -- so now she has the
house in Great Neck and the children
and the new Jaguar --
KIRKEBY
Don't you ever stop talking?
EXT. BROWNSTONE HOUSE - EVENING
Bud, standing on the sidewalk, sees the front door start to
open. He moves quickly into the areaway, almost bumping
into the ashcans, stands in the shadow of the stoop with his
back turned discreetly toward Kirkeby and Sylvia as they
come down the steps.
KIRKEBY
Where do you live?
SYLVIA
I told you -- with my mother.
KIRKEBY
Where does she live?
SYLVIA
A hundred and seventy-ninth
street -- the Bronx.
KIRKEBY
All right -- I'll take you to the
subway.
SYLVIA
Like hell you will. You'll buy me
a cab.
KIRKEBY
Why do all you dames have to live
in the Bronx?
SYLVIA
You mean you bring other girls up
here?
KIRKEBY
Certainly not. I'm a happily
married man.
They move down the street. Bud appears from the areaway,
glances after them, then mounts the steps, goes through the
front door.
INT. VESTIBULE - EVENING
There are eight mailboxes. Bud opens his, takes out a
magazine in a paper wrapper and a few letters, proceeds up
the staircase.
INT. SECOND FLOOR LANDING - EVENING
Bud, glancing through his mail, comes up to the door of his
apartment. As he bends down to lift the doormat, the door
of the rear apartment opens and MRS. DREYFUSS, a jovial
well-fed middle-aged woman, puts out a receptacle full of
old papers and empty cans. Bud looks around from his bent
position.
BUD
Oh. Hello there, Mrs. Dreyfuss.
MRS. DREYFUSS
Something the matter?
BUD
I seem to have dropped my key.
(faking a little search)
Oh -- here it is.
He slides it out from under the mat, straightens up.
MRS. DREYFUSS
Such a racket I heard in your
place -- maybe you had burglars.
BUD
Oh, you don't have to worry about
that -- nothing in there that
anybody would want to steal...
(unlocking door quickly)
Good night, Mrs. Dreyfuss.
He ducks into the apartment.
INT. THE APARTMENT - EVENING
Bud snaps on the lights, drops the mail and the key on a
small table, looks around with distaste at the mess his
visitors have left behind. He sniffs the stale air, crosses
to the window, pulls up the shade, opens it wide. Now he
takes off his hat and raincoat, gathers up the remains of
the cocktail party from the coffee table. Loaded down with
glasses, pitcher, empty vodka bottle, ice bowl and potato
chips, he starts toward the kitchen.
The doorbell rings. Bud stops, undecided what to do with
the stuff in his hands, then crosses to the hall door,
barely manages to get it open. Mr. Kirkeby barges in past
him.
KIRKEBY
The little lady forgot her galoshes.
He scours the room for the missing galoshes.
BUD
Mr. Kirkeby, I don't like to
complain -- but you were supposed
to be out of here by eight.
KIRKEBY
I know, Buddy-boy, I know. But
those things don't always run on
schedule -- like a Greyhound bus.
BUD
I don't mind in the summer -- but
on a rainy night -- and I haven't
had any dinner yet --
KIRKEBY
Sure, sure. Look, kid -- I put in
a good word for you with Sheldrake,
in Personnel.
BUD
(perking up)
Mr. Sheldrake?
KIRKEBY
That's right. We were discussing
our department -- manpower-wise --
and promotion-wise --
(finds the galoshes
behind a chair)
-- and I told him what a bright boy
you were. They're always on the
lookout for young executives.
BUD
Thank you, Mr. Kirkeby.
KIRKEBY
(starting toward door)
You're on your way up, Buddy-boy.
And you're practically out of liquor.
BUD
I know. Mr. Eichelberger -- in the
Mortgage Loan Department -- last
night he had a little Halloween
party here --
KIRKEBY
Well, lay in some vodka and some
vermouth -- and put my name on it.
BUD
Yes, Mr. Kirkeby. You still owe me
for the last two bottles --
KIRKEBY
I'll pay you on Friday.
(in the open doorwaY)
And whatever happened to those
little cheese crackers you used to
have around?
He exits, shutting the door.
BUD
(making a mental note)
Cheese crackers.
He carries his load into the kitchen.
The kitchen is minute and cluttered. On the drainboard are
an empty vermouth bottle, some ice-cube trays, a jar with
one olive in it, and a crumpled potato-chip bag.
Bud comes in, dumps his load on the drainboard, opens the
old-fashioned refrigerator. He takes out a frozen chicken
dinner, turns the oven on, lights it with a match, rips the
protective paper off the aluminum tray and shoves it in.
Now he starts to clean up the mess on the drainboard. He
rinses the cocktail glasses, is about to empty the martini
pitcher into the sink, thinks better of it. He pours the
contents into a glass, plops the lone olive out of the jar,
scoops up the last handful of potato chips, toasts an
imaginary companion, and drinks up. Then he pulls a
wastebasket from under the sink.
It is brimful of liquor bottles, and Bud adds the empty
vodka and vermouth bottles and the olive jar. Picking up
the heavy receptacle, he carries it through the living room
toward the hall door.
INT. SECOND FLOOR LANDING - EVENING
The door of Bud's apartment opens, and Bud comes out with
the wastebasket full of empty bottles. Just then, DR. DAVID
DREYFUSS, whose wife we met earlier, comes trudging up the
stairs. He is a tall, heavy-set man of fifty, with a bushy
mustache, wearing a bulky overcoat and carrying an aged
medical bag.
DR. DREYFUSS
Good evening, Baxter.
BUD
Hi, Doc. Had a late call?
DR. DREYFUSS
Yeah. Some clown at Schrafft's
57th Street ate a club sandwich,
and forgot to take out the toothpick.
BUD
Oh.
(sets down wastebasket)
'Bye, Doc.
DR. DREYFUSS
(indicating bottles)
Say, Baxter -- the way you're
belting that stuff, you must have a
pair of cast-iron kidneys.
BUD
Oh, that's not me. It's just that
once in a while, I have some people
in for a drink.
DR. DREYFUSS
As a matter of fact, you must be an
iron man all around. From what I
hear through the walls, you got
something going for you every night.
BUD
I'm sorry if it gets noisy --
DR. DREYFUSS
Sometimes, there's a twi-night
double-header.
(shaking his head)
A nebbish like you!
BUD
(uncomfortable)
Yeah. Well -- see you, Doc.
(starts to back
through door)
DR. DREYFUSS
You know, Baxter -- I'm doing some
research at the Columbia Medical
Center -- and I wonder if you could
do us a favor?
BUD
Me?
DR. DREYFUSS
When you make out your will -- and
the way you're going, you should --
would you mind leaving your body to
the University?
BUD
My body? I'm afraid you guys would
be disappointed. Good night, Doc.
DR. DREYFUSS
Slow down, kid.
He starts into the rear apartment as Bud closes the door.
INT. THE APARTMENT - EVENING
Bud, loosening his tie, goes into the kitchen, opens the
oven, turns off the gas. He takes a coke out of the
refrigerator, uncaps it, gets a knife and fork from a
drawer, and using his handkerchief as a potholder, pulls the
hot aluminum tray out of the oven. He carries everything
out into the living room.
In the living room, Bud sets his dinner down on the coffee
table, settles himself on the couch. He rears up as
something stabs him, reaches under his buttocks, pulls out a
hairpin. He drops it into an ashtray, tackles his dinner.
Without even looking, he reaches over to the end table and
presses the remote TV station-selector. He takes a sip from
the coke bottle, his eyes on the TV screen across the room.
The picture on the TV set jells quickly. Against a
background of crisscrossing searchlights, a pompous announcer
is making his spiel.
ANNOUNCER
-- from the world's greatest
library of film classics, we
proudly present --
(fanfare)
Greta Garbo -- John Barrymore --
Joan Crawford -- Wallace Beery --
and Lionel Barrymore in --
(fanfare)
GRAND HOTEL!
There is an extended fanfare. Bud leans forward, chewing
excitedly on a chicken leg.
ANNOUNCER
But first, a word from our sponsor.
If you smoke the modern way, don't
be fooled by phony filter claims --
Bud, still eating, automatically reaches for the station-
selector, pushes the button.
A new channel pops on. It features a Western -- Cockamamie
Indians are attacking a stagecoach.
That's not for Bud. He switches to another station. In a
frontier saloon, Gower Street cowboys are dismantling the
furniture and each other.
Bud wearily changes channels. But he can't get away from
Westerns -- on this station, the U.S. Cavalry is riding to
the rescue. Will they get there in time?
Bud doesn't wait to find out. He switches channels again,
and is back where he started.
On the screen, once more, is the announcer standing in front
of the crisscrossing searchlights.
ANNOUNCER
And now, Grand Hotel -- starring
Greta Garbo, John Barrymore, Joan
Crawford --
(Bud is all eyes and
ears again)
-- Wallace Beery, and Lionel
Barrymore. But first -- a word
from our alternate sponsor.
(unctuously)
Friends, do you have wobbly
dentures -- ?
That does it. Bud turns the set off in disgust.
The TV screen blacks out, except for a small pinpoint of
light in the center, which gradually fades away.
In the bathroom, Bud, in pajamas by now, is brushing his
teeth. From the shower rod hang three pairs of socks on
stretchers. Bud takes a vial from the medicine shelf,
shakes out a sleeping pill, washes it down with a glass of
water. He turns the light off, walks into the bedroom.
In the bedroom, the single bed is made, and the lamp on the
night table is on. Bud plugs in the electric blanket, turns
the dial on. Then he climbs into bed, props up the pillow
behind him. From the night table, he picks up the magazine
that arrived in the mail, slides it out of the wrapper,
opens it. It's the new issue of PLAYBOY. Bud leafs through
it till he comes to the piece de resistance of the magazine.
He unfolds the overleaf, glances at it casually, refolds it,
then turns to the back of the magazine and starts to read.
What he is so avidly interested in is the men's fashion
section. There is a layout titled WHAT THE YOUNG EXECUTIVE
WILL WEAR with a sub-head reading The Bowler is Back.
Illustrating the article are several photographs of male
models wearing various styles of bowlers.
Bud is definitely in the market for a bowler, but somehow
his mind starts wandering. He turns back to the overleaf
again, unfolds it, studies it, then holds the magazine up
vertically to get a different perspective on the subject.
By now the sleeping pill is beginning to take effect, and he
yawns. He drops the magazine on the floor, kills the light,
settles down to sleep. The room is dark except for the glow
from the dial of the electric blanket.
Three seconds. Then the phone jangles shrilly in the living
room. Bud stumbles groggily out of bed, and putting on his
slippers, makes his way into the living room. He switches
on the light, picks up the phone.
BUD
Hello? -- Hello? -- yes, this is
Baxter.
INT. PHONE BOOTH IN A MANHATTAN BAR - NIGHT
On the night is a hearty man of about forty-five, nothing
gut personality, most of it obnoxious. His name is DOBISCH.
Outside the booth is a blonde babe, slightly boozed, and
beyond there is a suggestion of the packed, smoky joint.
DOBISCH
Hiya, Buddy-boy. I'm in this bar
on Sixty-first Street -- and I got
to thinking about you -- and I
figured I'd give you a little buzz.
BUD - ON PHONE
BUD
Well, that's very nice of you --
but who is this?
INT. PHONE BOOTH
DOBISCH
Dobisch -- Joe Dobisch, in
Administration.
BUD - ON PHONE
BUD
(snapping to attention)
Oh, yes, Mr. Dobisch. I didn't
recognize your voice --
INT. PHONE BOOTH
DOBISCH
That's okay, Buddy-boy. Now like I
was saying, I'm in this joint on
Sixty-first -- and I think I got
lucky --
(glances toward blonde)
-- she's a skater with the Ice
Show --
(he chuckles)
-- and I thought maybe I could
bring her up for a quiet drink.
BUD - ON PHONE
BUD
I'm sorry, Mr. Dobisch. You know I
like to help you guys out -- but
it's sort of late -- so why don't
we make it some other time?
INT. PHONE BOOTH
DOBISCH
Buddy-boy -- she won't keep that
long -- not even on ice. Listen,
kid, I can't pass this up -- she
looks like Marilyn Monroe.
BUD - ON PHONE
BUD
I don't care if it is Marilyn
Monroe -- I'm already in bed -- and
I've taken a sleeping pill -- so
I'm afraid the answer is no.
INT. PHONE BOOTH
DOBISCH
(pulling rank)
Look, Baxter -- we're making out
the monthly efficiency rating --
and I'm putting you in the top ten.
Now you don't want to louse yourself
up, do you?
BUD - ON PHONE
BUD
Of course not. But -- how can I be
efficient in the office if I don't
get enough sleep at night?
INT. PHONE BOOTH
DOBISCH
It's only eleven -- and I just want
the place for forty-five minutes.
The blonde opens the door of the phone booth, leans in.
BLONDE
I'm getting lonely. Who are you
talking to, anyway?
DOBISCH
My mother.
BLONDE
That's sweet. That's real sweet.
Dobisch shuts the door in her face.
DOBISCH
(into phone again)
Make it thirty minutes. What do
you say, Bud?
BUD - ON PHONE
BUD
(a last stand)
I'm all out of liquor -- and
there's no clean glasses -- no
cheese crackers -- no nothing.
INT. PHONE BOOTH
DOBISCH
Let me worry about that. Just
leave the key under the mat and
clear out.
INT. THE APARTMENT
BUD
(into phone; resigned)
Yes, Mr. Dobisch.
He hangs up, shuffles back into the bedroom.
BUD
(muttering to himself)
Anything you say, Mr. Dobisch -- no
trouble at all, Mr. Dobisch -- be
my guest --
He reappears from the bedroom, pulling his trousers on over
his pajama pants.
BUD
-- We never close at Buddy-boy's --
looks like Marilyn Monroe --
(he chuckles a la Dobisch)
Putting on his raincoat and hat, Bud opens the hall door,
takes the key from the table, shoves it under the doormat.
His eyes fall on the Dreyfuss apartment, and there is some
concern on his face. He picks up a pad and pencil from the
table, prints something in block letters. Tearing off the
top sheet, he impales it on the spindle of the phonograph,
then walks out, closing the door behind him. The note reads:
NOT TOO LOUD
THE NEIGHBORS ARE COMPLAINING
EXT. BROWNSTONE HOUSE - NIGHT
Bud comes out the door, in slippered feet, pants and raincoat
over his pajamas. As he sleep-walks down the steps, a cab
pulls up in front of the house. Bud ducks discreetly into
the areaway. Mr. Dobisch, bareheaded, emerges cautiously
from the cab. Between the fingers of his hands he is
carrying four long-stemmed glasses, brimful of stingers.
The blonde steps out, holding his hat.
BLONDE
This the place?
DOBISCH
Yeah.
(to cab driver)
How much?
CABBIE
Seventy cents.
Dobisch, his hands full of stingers, turns to the blonde,
indicates his pants pocket.
DOBISCH
Get the money, will you?
The blonde plants the hat on top of his head, unbuttons his
overcoat, reaches into his pants pocket. As she does so,
she jogs his elbow.
DOBISCH
Watch those stingers!
The blonde has taken out Dobisch's money clip, with about a
hundred dollars in it.
DOBISCH
Give him a buck.
The blonde peels a bill off, hands it to the cabbie, hangs
on to the rest of the roll just a second too long.
DOBISCH
Now put it back, honey.
(she does)
Atta girl.
The cab drives off. Dobisch and the blonde start up the
steps to the house.
BLONDE
You sure this is a good idea?
DOBISCH
Can't think of a better one.
BLONDE
(holding door open
for him)
I mean - barging in on your
mother -- in the middle of the night?
DOBISCH
(edging past her with stingers)
Don't worry about the old lady.
One squawk from her, and she's out
of a job.
In the areaway, Bud has overheard them, and it doesn't make
him any happier. He steps out on the sidewalk, shuffles
down the street.
INT. SECOND FLOOR LANDING - NIGHT
The blonde and Dobisch, his hands full of stingers, come up
to Bud's door.
DOBISCH
Get the key, will you.
Automatically, she reaches into his pocket.
DOBISCH
Not there. Under the mat.
BLONDE
(puzzled)
Under the mat?
(picks up key)
DOBISCH
(impatiently)
Open up, open up -- we haven't got
all night.
The blonde unlocks the door to the apartment, opens it.
BLONDE
(suspiciously)
So this is your mother's apartment?
DOBISCH
That's right. Maria Ouspenskaya.
BLONDE
(sticking her head in)
Hiya, Ouspenskaya.
Dobisch nudges her inside with his knee, kicks the door shut
behind him.
The landing is empty for a second. Then the door of the
rear apartment opens, and Dr. Dreyfuss, in a beaten bathrobe,
sets out a couple of empty milk bottles with a note in them.
Suddenly, from Bud's apartment, comes a shrill female giggle.
Dr. Dreyfuss reacts. Then the cha cha music starts full
blast.
DR. DREYFUSS
(calling to his wife,
off-screen)
Mildred -- he's at it again.
Shaking his head, he closes the door.
EXT. CENTRAL PARK - NIGHT
Bud, in raincoat and slippered feet, turns in off the
street, plods along a path in the deserted park. He stops
at a damp bench under a lamp post, sits. In the background,
lights shine from the towering buildings on Central Park
South.
Bud huddles inside his raincoat, shivering. He is very
sleepy by now. His eyes close and his head droops. A gust
of wind sends wet leaves swirling across the bench. Bud
doesn't stir. He is all in.
FADE OUT.
FADE IN:
INT. LOBBY INSURANCE BUILDING - DAY
It's a quarter to nine of a gray November morning, and work-
bound employees are piling in through the doors. Among them
is Bud, bundled up in a raincoat, hat, heavy muffler and
wool gloves, and carrying a box of Kleenex. He coughs,
pulls out a tissue, wipes his dripping nose. He has a bad
cold.
The lobby is an imposing, marbled affair, as befits a
company which last year wrote 9.3 billion dollars worth of
insurance. There are sixteen elevators, eight of them
marked LOCAL - FLOORS 1-18, and opposite them eight marked
EXPRESS - FLOORS 18-37. The starter, a uniformed Valkyrie
wielding a clicker, is directing the flow of traffic into
the various elevators.
Bud joins the crowd in front of one of the express elevators.
Also standing there is Mr. Kirkeby, reading the Herald-
Tribune.
BUD
(hoarsely)
Good morning, Mr. Kirkeby.
KIRKEBY
(as if he just knew
him vaguely)
Oh, how are you, Baxter. They
keeping you busy these days?
BUD
Yes, sir. They are indeed.
(he sniffs)
The elevator doors open, revealing the operator. She is in
her middle twenties and her name is FRAN KUBELIK. Maybe
it's the way she's put together, maybe it's her face, or
maybe it's just the uniform -- in any case, there is
something very appealing about her. She is also an
individualist -- she wears a carnation in her lapel, which
is strictly against regulations. As the elevator loads, she
greets the passengers cheerfully.
FRAN
(rattling it off)
Morning, Mr. Kessel -- Morning,
Miss Robinson -- Morning, Mr.
Kirkeby -- Morning, Mr. Williams --
Morning, Miss Livingston -- Morning,
Mr. McKellway -- Morning, Mr.
Pirelli -- Morning, Mrs. Schubert --
Interspersed is an occasional "Morning, Miss Kubelik" from
the passengers.
FRAN
Morning, Mr. Baxter.
BUD
Morning, Miss Kubelik.
He takes his hat off -- he is the only one. The express is
now loaded.
STARTER
(working the clicker)
That's all. Take it away.
FRAN
(shutting the door)
Watch the door, please. Blasting
off.
INT. ELEVATOR
Bud is standing right next to Fran as the packed express
shoots up.
BUD
(studying her)
What did you do to your hair?
FRAN
It was making me nervous, so I
chopped it off. Big mistake, huh?
BUD
I sort of like it.
He sniffs, takes out a Kleenex, wipes his nose.
FRAN
Say, you got a lulu.
BUD
Yeah. I better not get too close.
FRAN
Oh, I never catch colds.
BUD
Really? I was looking at some
figures from the Sickness and
Accident Claims Division -- do you
know that the average New Yorker
between the ages of twenty and
fifty has two and a half colds a
year?
FRAN
That makes me feel just terrible.
BUD
Why?
FRAN
Well, to make the figures come out
even -- since I have no colds a
year -- some poor slob must have
five colds a year.
BUD
That's me.
(dabs his nose)
FRAN
You should have stayed in bed this
morning.
BUD
I should have stayed in bed last
night.
The elevator has slowed down, now stops. Fran opens the door.
FRAN
Nineteen. Watch your step.
About a third of the passengers get out, including Bud and
Mr. Kirkeby. As Kirkeby passes Fran, he slaps her behind
with his folded newspaper. Fran jumps slightly.
FRAN
(all in the day's work)
And watch your hand, Mr. Kirkeby!
KIRKEBY
(innocently)
I beg your pardon?
FRAN
One of these days I'm going to shut
those doors on you and --
She withdraws her hand into the sleeve of her uniform, and
waves the "amputated" arm at him.
FRAN
Twenty next.
The doors close.
INT. NINETEENTH FLOOR - DAY
Kirkeby turns away from the elevator, and grinning smugly,
falls in beside Bud.
KIRKEBY
That Kubelik -- boy! Would I like
to get her on a slow elevator to
China.
BUD
Oh, yes. She's the best operator
in the building.
KIRKEBY
I'm a pretty good operator myself --
but she just won't give me a
tumble -- date-wise.
BUD
Maybe you're using the wrong
approach.
KIRKEBY
A lot of guys around here have
tried it -- all kinds of
approaches -- no dice. What is she
trying to prove?
BUD
Could be she's just a nice,
respectable girl -- there are
millions of them.
KIRKEBY
Listen to him. Little Lord
Fauntleroy!
Leaving Bud at the employees' coat-racks, Kirkeby heads
toward his office, one of the glass-enclosed cubicles. Bud
hangs up his hat and raincoat, stows away the gloves and
muffler. Out of his coat pocket he takes a plastic anti-
histamine sprayer and a box of cough drops, and still
carrying the Kleenex, threads his way to his desk. Most of
the desks are already occupied, and the others are filling
rapidly.
Once seated at his desk, Bud arranges his medicaments neatly
in front of him. He takes a Kleenex out of the box, blows
his nose, then leaning back in his swivel chair sprays first
one nostril, then the other. Suddenly the piercing bell goes
off -- the workday has begun. Being the ultra-conscientious
type, Bud instantly sits upright in his chair, removes the
cover from his computing machine, picks up a batch of
perforated premium cards, starts entering figures on his
computer.
After a few seconds, he glances around to make sure that
everybody in the vicinity is busy. Then he looks up a number
in the company telephone directory, dials furtively.
BUD
(cupping hand over
phone mouthpiece)
Hello, Mr. Dobisch? This is Baxter,
on the nineteenth floor.
INT. DOBISCH'S OFFICE - DAY
It is a glass-enclosed cubicle on the twenty-first floor.
Through the glass we see another enormous layout of desks,
everybody working away. Dobisch is holding the phone in one
hand, running an electric shaver over his face with the other.
DOBISCH
Oh, Buddy-boy. I was just about to
call you.
(shuts off electric shaver)
I'm sorry about that mess on the
living room wall. You see, my
little friend, she kept insisting
Picasso was a bum -- so she started
to do that mural -- but I'm sure it
will wash off -- just eyebrow pencil.
BUD - ON PHONE
BUD
It's not Picasso I'm calling about.
It's the key -- to my apartment --
you were supposed to leave it under
the mat.
DOBISCH - ON PHONE
DOBISCH
I did, didn't I? I distinctly
remember bending over and putting
it there --
BUD - ON PHONE
BUD
Oh, I found a key there, all
right -- only it's the wrong key.
DOBISCH - ON PHONE
DOBISCH
It is?
(takes Bud's key out
of his pocket)
Well, how about that? No wonder I
couldn't get into the executive
washroom this morning.
BUD - ON PHONE
BUD
And I couldn't get into my
apartment -- so at four a. m. I had
to wake up the landlady and give
her a whole song and dance about
going out to mail a letter and the
door slamming shut.
DOBISCH - ON PHONE
DOBISCH
That's a shame. I'll send the key
right down. And about your
promotion --
(leafs through report
on desk)
-- I'm sending that efficiency
report right up to Mr. Sheldrake,
in Personnel. I wouldn't be
surprised if you heard from him
before the day is over.
BUD - ON PHONE
BUD
Thank you, Mr. Dobisch.
He hangs up, feels his forehead. It is warm. Clipped to his
handkerchief pocket are a black fountain pen and, next to
it, a thermometer in a black case. Bud unclips the
thermometer case, unscrews the cap, shakes the thermometer
out, puts it under his tongue. He resumes work.
A messenger comes up to his desk with an interoffice envelope.
MESSENGER
From Mr. Dobisch.
BUD
(thermometer in mouth)
Wait.
He turns away from the messenger, unties the string of the
envelope, takes his key out, puts it in a coat pocket. From
a trouser pocket, he extracts Dobisch's key to the executive
washroom, slips it discreetly into the envelope, reties it,
hands it to the messenger.
BUD
(thermometer in mouth)
To Mr. Dobisch.
Puzzled by the whole procedure, the messenger leaves. Bud
now removes the thermometer from his mouth, reads it. It's
worse than he thought. He puts the thermometer back in the
case, clips it to his pocket, takes his desk calendar out of
a drawer, turns a leaf. Under the date WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 4
there is an entry in his handwriting -- MR. VANDERHOF. Bud
consults the telephone directory again, picks up the phone,
dials.
INT. VANDERHOF'S OFFICE - DAY
This is another glass-enclosed cubicle on another floor. MR.
VANDERHOF, a Junior Chamber of Commerce type, is dictating
to an elderly secretary who sits across the desk from him.
VANDERHOF
Dear Mr. MacIntosh --
(phone rings and he
picks it up)
Vanderhof, Public Relations. Oh,
yes, Baxter. Just a minute.
(to secretary)
All right, Miss Finch -- type up
what we got so far.
(he waits till she is
out of the office;
then, into phone)
Now what is it, Baxter?
BUD - ON PHONE
BUD
Look, Mr. Vanderhof -- I've got you
down here for tonight -- but I'm
going to be using the place
myself -- so I'll have to cancel.
VANDERHOF - ON PHONE
VANDERHOF
Cancel? But it's her birthday -- I
already ordered the cake --
BUD - ON PHONE
BUD
I hate to disappoint you -- I mean,
many happy returns -- but not
tonight --
VANDERHOF - ON PHONE
VANDERHOF
That's not like you, Baxter. Just
the other day, at the staff meeting,
I was telling Mr. Sheldrake what a
reliable man you were.
BUD - ON PHONE
BUD
Thank you, Mr. Vanderhof. But I'm
sick -- I have this terrible
cold -- and a fever -- and I got to
go to bed right after work.
VANDERHOF - ON PHONE
VANDERHOF
Buddy-boy, that's the worst thing
you can do. If you got a cold, you
should go to a Turkish bath --
spend the night there -- sweat it
out --
BUD - ON PHONE
BUD
Oh, no. I'd get pneumonia -- and if
I got pneumonia, I'd be in bed for
a month -- and if I were in bed for
a month --
VANDERHOF - ON PHONE
VANDERHOF
Okay, you made your point. We'll
just have to do it next Wednesday --
that's the only night of the week I
can get away.
BUD - ON PHONE
BUD
Wednesday -- Wednesday --
(leafing through calendar)
I got somebody penciled in -- let
me see what I can do -- I'll get
back to you.
He hangs up, riffles through the directory, finds the
number, and with a furtive look around, dials again.
BUD
(into phone)
Mr. Eichelberger? Is this Mortgage
and Loan? I'd like to speak to Mr.
Eichelberger. Yes, it is urgent.
INT. EICHELBERGER'S OFFICE - DAY
Also glass-enclosed, but slightly larger than the others. MR.
EICHELBERGER, a solid citizen of about fifty, is displaying
some mortgage graphs to three associates. A fourth one has
answered the phone.
ASSOCIATE
(holding out phone to Eichelberger)
For you, Mel.
Eichelberger puts the charts down, takes the phone.
EIGHELBERGER
Eichelberger here -- oh, yes,
Baxter --
(a glance at his
associates; then
continues, as though
it were a business call)
What's your problem? -- Wednesday
is out? -- oh -- that throws a
little monkey wrench into my
agenda -- Thursday? No, I'm all
tied up on Thursday -- let's
schedule that meeting for Friday.
BUD - ON PHONE
BUD
Friday?
(checks calendar)
Let me see what I can do. I'll get
back to you.
He hangs up, consults the directory, starts to dial a number.
INT. KIRKEBY'S OFFICE - DAY
It's another of those glass-enclosed cubicles, on the
nineteenth floor. Kirkeby is talking into a dictaphone.
KIRKEBY
Premium-wise and billing-wise, we
are eighteen percent ahead of last
year, October-wise.
The phone has been ringing. Kirkeby switches off the machine,
picks up the phone.
KIRKEBY
Hello? Yeah, Baxter. What's up?
BUD - ON PHONE
BUD
Instead of Friday -- could you
possibly switch to Thursday? You'd
be doing me a great favor --
KIRKEBY - ON PHONE
KIRKEBY
Well -- it's all right with me, Bud.
Let me check. I'll get back to you.
He presses down the button on the cradle, dials Operator.
INT. SWITCHBOARD ROOM
There is a double switchboard in the center, with nine girls
on each side, all busy as beavers. In the foreground we
recognize Sylvia, Kirkeby's date of last night.
SYLVIA
Consolidated Life -- I'll connect
you -- Consolidated Life --
The girl next to her turns and holds out a line.
SWITCHBOARD GIRL
Sylvia -- it's for you.
Sylvia plugs the call into her own switchboard.
SYLVIA
Yes? Oh, hello -- sure I got home
all right -- you owe me forty-five
cents.
KIRKEBY - ON PHONE
KIRKEBY
Okay, okay. Look, Sylvia -- instead
of Friday - could we make it
Thursday night?
SYLVIA - AT SWITCHBOARD
SYLVIA
Thursday? That's The Untouchables --
with Bob Stack.
KIRKEBY - ON PHONE
KIRKEBY
Bob WHO? -- all right, so we'll
watch it at the apartment. Big deal.
(he hangs up, dials)
Baxter? It's okay for Thursday.
INT. NINETEENTH FLOOR - DAY
Bud, at his desk, is on the phone.
BUD
Thank you, Mr. Kirkeby.
(hangs up, consults
directory, dials)
Mr. Eichelberger? It's okay for
Friday.
(hangs up, consults
directory, dials)
Mr. Vanderhof? It's okay for
Wednesday.
During this, the phone has rung at the next desk, and the
occupant, MR. MOFFETT, has picked it up. As Bud hangs up --
MOFFETT
(into phone)
All right -- I'll tell him.
(hangs up, turns to Bud)
Hey, Baxter -- that was Personnel.
Mr. Sheldrake's secretary.
BUD
Sheldrake?
MOFFETT
She's been trying to reach you for
the last twenty minutes. They want
you up stairs.
BUD
Oh!
He jumps up, stuffs the nose-spray into one pocket, a
handful of Kleenex into the other.
MOFFETT
What gives, Baxter? You getting
promoted or getting fired?
BUD
(cockily)
Care to make a small wager?
MOFFETT
I've been here twice as long as you
have --
BUD
Shall we say -- a dollar?
MOFFETT
It's a bet.
Bud snake-hips between the desks like a broken-field runner.
At the elevator, Bud presses the UP button, paces nervously.
One of the elevator doors opens, and as Bud starts inside,
the doors of the adjoining elevator open, and Fran Kubelik
sticks her head out.
FRAN
Going up?
Hearing her voice, Bud throws a quick "Excuse me" to the
other operator, exits quickly and steps into Fran's elevator.
BUD
Twenty-seven, please. And drive
carefully. You're carrying precious
cargo -- I mean, manpower-wise.
Fran shuts the doors.
INT. ELEVATOR - DAY
Fran presses a button, and the elevator starts up.
FRAN
Twenty-seven.
BUD
You may not realize it, Miss
Kubelik, but I'm in the top ten --
efficiency-wise and this may be the
day -- promotion-wise.
FRAN
You're beginning to sound like Mr.
Kirkeby already.
BUD
Why not? Now that they're kicking
me upstairs --
FRAN
Couldn't happen to a nicer guy.
(Bud beams)
You know, you're the only one
around here who ever takes his hat
off in the elevator.
BUD
Really?
FRAN
The characters you meet. Something
happens to men in elevators. Must
be the change of altitude -- the
blood rushes to their head, or
something -- boy, I could tell you
stories --
BUD
I'd love to hear them. Maybe we
could have lunch in the cafeteria
sometime -- or some evening, after
work --
The elevator has stopped, and Fran opens the doors.
FRAN
Twenty-seven.
INT. TWENTY-SEVENTH FLOOR FOYER - DAY
It is pretty plush up here -- soft carpeting and tall
mahogany doors leading to the executive offices. The elevator
door is open, and Bud steps out.
FRAN
I hope everything goes all right.
BUD
I hope so.
(turning back)
Wouldn't you know they'd call me on
a day like this -- with my cold and
everything --
(fumbling with his tie)
How do I look?
FRAN
Fine.
(stepping out of elevator)
Wait.
She takes the carnation out of her lapel, starts to put it
in Bud's buttonhole.
BUD
Thank you. That's the first thing I
ever noticed about you -- when you
were still on the local elevator --
you always wore a flower --
The elevator buzzer is now sounding insistently. Fran steps
back inside.
FRAN
Good luck. And wipe your nose.
She shuts the doors. Bud looks after her, then takes a
Kleenex out of his pocket, and wiping his nose, crosses to a
glass door marked J. D. SHELDRAKE, DIRECTOR OF PERSONNEL. He
stashes the used Kleenex away in another pocket, enters.
INT. SHELDRAKE'S ANTEROOM - DAY
It is a sedate office with a secretary and a couple of
typists. The secretary's name is MISS OLSEN. She is in her
thirties, flaxen- haired, handsome, wears harlequin glasses,
and has an incisive manner. Bud comes up to her desk.
BUD
C. C. Baxter -- Ordinary Premium
Accounting -- Mr. Sheldrake called
me.
MISS OLSEN
I called you -- that is, I tried to
call you -- for twenty minutes.
BUD
I'm sorry, I --
MISS OLSEN
Go on in.
She indicates the door leading to the inner office. Bud
squares his shoulders and starts in.
INT. SHELDRAKE'S OFFICE - DAY
Mr. Sheldrake is a $14,000 a year man, and rates a four-
window office.
It is not quite an executive suite, but it is several pegs
above the glass cubicles of the middle echelon. There is
lots of leather, and a large desk behind which sits MR.
SHELDRAKE. He is a substantial looking, authoritative man in
his middle forties, a pillar of his suburban community, a
blood donor and a family man. The latter is attested to by a
framed photograph showing two boys, aged 8 and 10, in
military school uniforms.
As Baxter comes through the door, Sheldrake is leafing
through Dobisch's efficiency report. He looks up at Bud
through a pair of heavy-rimmed reading glasses.
SHELDRAKE
Baxter?
BUD
Yes, sir.
SHELDRAKE
(studying him)
I was sort of wondering what you
looked like. Sit down.
BUD
Yes, Mr. Sheldrake.
He seats himself on the very edge of the leather armchair
facing Sheldrake.
SHELDRAKE
Been hearing some very nice things
about you -- here's a report from
Mr. Dobisch -- loyal, cooperative,
resourceful --
BUD
Mr. Dobisch said that?
SHELDRAKE
And Mr. Kirkeby tells me that
several nights a week you work late
at the office -- without overtime.
BUD
(modestly)
Well, you know how it is -- things
pile up.
SHELDRAKE
Mr. Vanderhof, in Public Relations,
and Mr. Eichelberger, in Mortgage
and Loan -- they'd both like to
have you transferred to their
departments.
BUD
That's very flattering.
Sheldrake puts the report down, takes off his glasses, leans
across the desk toward Bud.
SHELDRAKE
Tell me, Baxter -- just what is it
that makes you so popular?
BUD
I don't know.
SHELDRAKE
Think.
Bud does so. For a moment, he is a picture of intense
concentration. Then --
BUD
Would you mind repeating the
question?
SHELDRAKE
Look, Baxter, I'm not stupid. I
know everything that goes on in
this building -- in every
department -- on every floor --
every day of the year.
BUD
(in a very small voice)
You do?
SHELDRAKE
(rises, starts pacing)
In 1957, we had an employee here,
name of Fowler. He was very popular,
too. Turned out he was running a
bookie joint right in the Actuarial
Department tying up the switchboard,
figuring the odds on our I.B.M.
machines -- so the day before the
Kentucky Derby, I called in the
Vice Squad and we raided the
thirteenth floor.
BUD
(worried)
The Vice Squad?
SHELDRAKE
That's right, Baxter.
BUD
What -- what's that got to do with
me? I'm not running any bookie joint.
SHELDRAKE
What kind of joint are you running?
BUD
Sir?
SHELDRAKE
There's a certain key floating
around the office -- from Kirkeby
to Vanderhof to Eichelberger to
Dobisch -- it's the key to a
certain apartment -- and you know
who that apartment belongs to?
BUD
Who?
SHELDRAKE
Loyal, cooperative, resourceful C.
C. Baxter.
BUD
Oh.
SHELDRAKE
Are you going to deny it?
BUD
No, sir. I'm not going to deny it.
But if you'd just let me explain --
SHELDRAKE
You better.
BUD
(a deep breath)
Well, about six months ago -- I was
going to night school, taking this
course in Advanced Accounting --
and one of the guys in our
department -- he lives in Jersey --
he was going to a banquet at the
Biltmore -- his wife was meeting
him in town, and he needed someplace
to change into a tuxedo -- so I
gave him the key and word must
have gotten around -- because the
next thing I knew, all sorts of
guys were suddenly going to
banquets -- and when you give the
key to one guy, you can't say no to
another and the whole thing got out
of hand -- pardon me.
He whips out the nasal-spray, administers a couple of quick
squirts up each nostril.
SHELDRAKE
Baxter, an insurance company is
founded on public trust. Any
employee who conducts himself in a
manner unbecoming --
(shifting into a new gear)
How many charter members are there
in this little club of yours?
BUD
Just those four -- out of a total
of 31,259 -- so actually, we can be
very proud of our personnel --
percentage-wise.
SHELDRAKE
That's not the point. Four rotten
apples in a barrel -- no matter how
large the barrel -- you realize
that if this ever leaked out --
BUD
Oh, it won't. Believe me. And it's
not going to happen again. From now
on, nobody is going to use my
apartment --
In his vehemence he squeezes the spray bottle, which squirts
all over the desk.
SHELDRAKE
Where is your apartment?
BUD
West 67th Street. You have no idea
what I've been going through --
with the neighbors and the landlady
and the liquor and the key --
SHELDRAKE
How do you work it with the key?
BUD
Well, usually I slip it to them in
the office and they leave it under
the mat -- but never again -- I can
promise you that --
The phone buzzer sounds, and Sheldrake picks up the phone.
SHELDRAKE
Yes, Miss Olsen.
INT. SHELDRAKE'S ANTEROOM - DAY
Miss Olsen is on the phone.
MISS OLSEN
Mrs. Sheldrake returning your
call -- on two --
She presses a button down, starts to hang the phone up,
glances around to see if the typists are watching, then
raises the receiver to her ear and eavesdrops on the
conversation.
INT. SHELDRAKE'S OFFICE - DAY
Sheldrake is talking into the phone.
SHELDRAKE
Yes, dear -- I called you earlier --
where were you? Oh, you took Tommy
to the dentist --
During this, Bud has risen from his chair, started inching
toward the door.
SHELDRAKE
(turning to him)
Where are you going, Baxter?
BUD
Well, I don't want to intrude --
and I thought -- since it's all
straightened out anyway --
SHELDRAKE
I'm not through with you yet.
BUD
Yes, sir.
SHELDRAKE
(into phone)
The reason I called is -- I won't
be home for dinner tonight. The
branch manager from Kansas City is
in town -- I'm taking him to the
theatre Music Man, what else? No,
don't wait up for me -- 'bye,
darling.
(hangs up, turns to Bud)
Tell me something, Baxter -- have
you seen Music Man?
BUD
Not yet. But I hear it's one swell
show.
SHELDRAKE
How would you like to go tonight?
BUD
You mean -- you and me? I thought
you were taking the branch manager
from Kansas City --
SHELDRAKE
I made other plans. You can have
both tickets.
BUD
Well, that's very kind of you --
only I'm not feeling well -- you
see, I have this cold -- and I
thought I'd go straight home.
SHELDRAKE
Baxter, you're not reading me. I
told you I have plans.
BUD
So do I -- I'm going to take four
aspirins and get into bed -- so you
better give the tickets to somebody
else --
SHELDRAKE
I'm not just giving those tickets,
Baxter -- I want to swap them.
BUD
Swap them? For what?
Sheldrake picks up the Dobisch reports, puts on his glasses,
turns a page.
SHELDRAKE
It also says here -- that you are
alert, astute, and quite
imaginative --
BUD
Oh?
(the dawn is breaking)
Oh!
He reaches into his coat pocket, fishes out a handful of
Kleenex, and then finally the key to his apartment. He holds
it up.
BUD
This?
SHELDRAKE
That's good thinking, Baxter. Next
month there's going to be a shift
in personnel around here -- and as
far as I'm concerned, you're
executive material.
BUD
I am?
SHELDRAKE
Now put down the key --
(pushing a pad toward him)
-- and put down the address.
Bud lays the key on the desk, unclips what he thinks is his
fountain pen, uncaps it, starts writing on the pad.
BUD
It's on the second floor - my name
is not on the door -- it just says
2A --
Suddenly he realizes that he has been trying to write the
address with the thermometer.
BUD
Oh -- terribly sorry. It's that
cold --
SHELDRAKE
Relax, Baxter.
BUD
Thank you, sir.
He has replaced the thermometer with the fountain pen, and
is scribbling the address.
BUD
You'll be careful with the record
player, won't you? And about the
liquor -- I ordered some this
morning -- but I'm not sure when
they'll deliver it --
He has finished writing the address, shoves the pad over to
Sheldrake.
SHELDRAKE
Now remember, Baxter -- this is
going to be our little secret.
BUD
Yes, of course.
SHELDRAKE
You know how people talk.
BUD
Oh, you don't have to worry --
SHELDRAKE
Not that I have anything to hide.
BUD
Oh, no sir. Certainly not. Anyway,
it's none of my business -- four
apples, five apples -- what's the
difference -- percentage-wise?
SHELDRAKE
(holding out the tickets)
Here you are, Baxter. Have a nice
time.
BUD
You too, sir.
Clutching the tickets, he backs out of the office.
DISSOLVE TO:
INT. LOBBY INSURANCE BUILDING - EVENING
It is about 6:30, and the building has pretty well emptied
out by now. Bud, in raincoat and hat, is leaning against one
of the marble pillars beyond the elevators. His raincoat is
unbuttoned, and Fran's carnation is still in his lapel. He
is looking off expectantly toward a door marked EMPLOYEES'
LOUNGE - WOMEN.
Some of the female employees are emerging, dressed for the
street. Among them are Sylvia and her colleague from the
switchboard.
SYLVIA
So I figure, a man in his position,
he's going to take me to 21 and El
Morocco -- instead, he takes me to
Hamburg Heaven and some schnook's
apartment --
They pass Bud without paying any attention to him. Bud has
heard the crack, and looks after Sylvia, a little hurt. Then
he glances back toward the door of the lounge, as it opens
and Fran Kubelik comes out. She is wearing a wool coat over
a street dress, no hat.
FRAN
(passing Bud)
Good night.
BUD
(casually)
Good night.
She is about three paces beyond him when he suddenly realizes
who it is.
BUD
Oh -- Miss Kubelik.
(he rushes after her,
taking off his hat)
I've been waiting for you.
FRAN
You have?
BUD
I almost didn't recognize you --
this is the first time I've ever
seen you in civilian clothes.
FRAN
How'd you make out on the twenty-
seventh floor?
BUD
Great. Look -- have you seen The
Music Man?
FRAN
No.
BUD
Would you like to?
FRAN
Sure.
BUD
I thought maybe we could have a
bite to eat first -- and then --
FRAN
You mean tonight?
BUD
Yeah.
FRAN
I'm sorry, but I can't tonight. I'm
meeting somebody.
BUD
Oh.
(a beat)
You mean -- like a girl-friend?
FRAN
No. Like a man.
She proceeds across the lobby toward the street entrance,
Bud following her.
BUD
I wasn't trying to be personal --
it's just that the fellows in the
office were -- whether you wondering
about you ever --
FRAN
Just tell 'em -- now and then.
BUD
This date -- is it just a date --
or is it something serious?
FRAN
It used to be serious -- at least I
was -- but he wasn't -- so the
whole thing is more or less kaputt.
BUD
Well, in that case, couldn't you -- ?
FRAN
I'm afraid not. I promised to have
a drink with him -- he's been
calling me all week --
BUD
Oh, I understand.
He follows her out through the revolving doors.
EXT. INSURANCE BUILDING - EVENING
Fran and Bud come out.
BUD
(putting his hat on)
Well, it was just an idea -- I hate
to see a ticket go to waste --
FRAN
(stops)
What time does the show go on?
BUD
Eight-thirty.
FRAN
(looks at her watch)
Well -- I could meet you at the
theatre -- if that's all right.
BUD
All right? That's wonderful! It's
the Majestic -- 44th Street.
FRAN
Meet you in the lobby. Okay?
Bud nods happily, falls in beside her as she starts down the
street.
BUD
You know, I felt so lousy this
morning -- a hundred and one
fever -- then my promotion came
up -- now you and I -- eleventh row
center -- and you said I should
have stayed in bed.
FRAN
How is your cold?
BUD
(high as a kite)
What cold? And after the show, we
could go out on the town --
(does a little cha
cha step)
I've been taking from Arthur Murray.
FRAN
So I see.
BUD
They got a great little band at El
Chico, in the Village -- it's
practically around the corner from
where you live.
FRAN
Sounds good.
(a sudden thought)
How do you know where I live?
BUD
Oh, I even know who you live
with -- your sister and brother-in-
law -- I know when you were born --
and where -- I know all sorts of
things about you.
FRAN
How come?
BUD
A couple of months ago I looked up
your card in the group insurance
file.
FRAN
Oh.
BUD
I know your height, your weight and
your Social Security number -- you
had mumps, you had measles, and you
had your appendix out.
They have now reached the corner, and Fran stops.
FRAN
Well, don't tell the fellows in the
office about the appendix. They may
get the wrong idea how you found
out.
(turning the corner)
'Bye.
BUD
(calling after her)
Eight-thirty!
He watches her walk away, an idiot grin on his face. Despite
what he told Fran, his nose is stuffed up, so he takes out
the anti-histamine and sprays his nostrils. Then, carried
away, he squirts some of the stuff on the carnation in his
buttonhole, moves off in the opposite direction.
EXT. DOWNTOWN STREET - EVENING
Fran comes hurrying along the street. She is late. Her
objective is a small Chinese restaurant, with a neon sign
reading THE RICKSHAW - COCKTAILS - CANTONESE FOOD. She
starts down a flight of steps leading to the entrance.
INT. CHINESE RESTAURANT - EVENING
The bar is a long, narrow, dimly-lit room with booths along
one side. Beyond a bamboo curtain is the main dining room,
which does not concern us. The place is decorated in Early
Beachcomber style rattan, fish-nets, conch-shells, etc.
The help is Chinese. At this early hour, there are only half
a dozen customers in the place -- all at the bar except for
one man, sitting in the last booth with his back toward
camera. At a piano, a Chinese member of Local 808 is
improvising mood music.
Fran comes through the door, and without looking around,
heads straight for the last booth. The bartender nods to
her -- they know her there. As she passes the piano player,
he gives her a big smile, segues into JEALOUS LOVER.
Fran comes up to the man sitting in the last booth.
FRAN
(a wistful smile)
Good evening, Mr. Sheldrake.
Sheldrake, for that's who it is, looks around nervously to
make sure no one has heard her.
SHELDRAKE
Please, Fran -- not so loud.
(he gets up)
FRAN
Still afraid somebody may see us
together?
SHELDRAKE
(reaching for her coat)
Let me take that.
FRAN
No, Jeff. I can't stay very long.
(sits opposite him,
with her coat on)
Can I have a frozen daiquiri?
SHELDRAKE
It's on the way.
(sits down)
I see you went ahead and cut your
hair.
FRAN
That's right.
SHELDRAKE
You know I liked it better long.
FRAN
Yes, I know. You want a lock to
carry in your wallet?
A waiter comes up with a tray: two daiquiris, fried shrimp,
eggrolls, and a bowl of sauce.
WAITER
(showing all his teeth)
Evening, lady. Nice see you again.
FRAN
Thank you.
The waiter has set everything on the table, leaves.
SHELDRAKE
How long has it been -- a month?
FRAN
Six weeks. But who's counting?
SHELDRAKE
I missed you, Fran.
FRAN
Like old times. Same booth, same
song --
SHELDRAKE
It's been hell.
FRAN
(dipping shrimp)
-- same sauce -- sweet and sour.
SHELDRAKE
You don't know what it's like --
standing next to you in that
elevator, day after day -- Good
morning, Miss Kubelik -- Good
night, Mr. Sheldrake -- I'm still
crazy about you, Fran.
FRAN
(avoiding his eyes)
Let's not start on that again,
Jeff -- please. I'm just beginning
to get over it.
SHELDRAKE
I don't believe you.
FRAN
Look, Jeff -- we had two wonderful
months this summer -- and that was
it. Happens all the time -- the
wife and kids go away to the
country, and the boss has a fling
with the secretary or the
manicurist -- or the elevator girl.
Comes September, the picnic is
over -- goodbye. The kids go back
to school, the boss goes back to
the wife, and the girl --
(she is barely able
to control herself)
They don't make these shrimp like
they used to.
SHELDRAKE
I never said goodbye, Fran.
FRAN
(not listening)
For a while there, you try kidding
yourself that you're going with an
unmarried man. Then one day he
keeps looking at his watch, and
asks you if there's any lipstick
showing, then rushes off to catch
the seven-fourteen to White Plains.
So you fix yourself a cup of
instant coffee -- and you sit there
by yourself -- and you think -- and
it all begins to look so ugly --
There are tears in her eyes. She breaks off, downs what's
left of the daiquiri.
SHELDRAKE
How do you think I felt -- riding
home on that seven-fourteen train?
FRAN
Why do you keep calling me, Jeff?
What do you want from me?
SHELDRAKE
(taking her hand)
I want you back, Fran.
FRAN
(withdrawing her hand)
Sorry, Mr. Sheldrake -- I'm full up.
You'll have to take the next
elevator.
SHELDRAKE
You're not giving me a chance, Fran.
I asked you to meet me because -- I
have something to tell you.
FRAN
Go ahead -- tell me.
SHELDRAKE
(a glance around)
Not here, Fran. Can't we go some
place else?
FRAN
No. I have a date at eight-thirty.
SHELDRAKE
Important?
FRAN
Not very -- but I'm going to be
there anyway.
She takes out an inexpensive square compact with a fleur de
lis pattern on it, opens it, starts to fix her face. The
waiter comes up with a couple of menus.
WAITER
You ready order dinner now?
FRAN
No. No dinner.
SHELDRAKE
Bring us two more drinks.
CUT TO:
EXT. MAJESTIC THEATRE - EVENING
It is 8:25, and there is the usual hectic to-do -- taxis
pulling up, people milling around the sidewalk and crowding
into the lobby. In the middle of this melee, buffeted by the
throng, stands Bud, in raincoat and hat, looking anxiously
for Fran.
CUT TO:
INT. CHINESE RESTAURANT - EVENING
Fran and Sheldrake, in the booth, are working on the second
round of drinks.
SHELDRAKE
Fran -- remember that last weekend
we had?
FRAN
(wryly)
Do I. That leaky little boat you
rented -- and me in a black negligee
and a life preserver --
SHELDRAKE
Remember what we talked about?
FRAN
We talked about a lot of things.
SHELDRAKE
I mean -- about my getting a divorce.
FRAN
We didn't talk about it -- you did.
SHELDRAKE
You didn't really believe me, did
you?
FRAN
(shrugging)
They got it an a long playing
record now - Music to String Her
Along By. My wife doesn't understand
me -- We haven't gotten along for
years -- You're the best thing that
ever happened to me --
SHELDRAKE
That's enough, Fran.
FRAN
(going right on)
Just trust me, baby -- we'll work
it out somehow --
SHELDRAKE
You're not being funny.
FRAN
I wasn't trying.
SHELDRAKE
If you'll just listen to me for a
minute --
FRAN
Okay. I'm sorry.
SHELDRAKE
I saw my lawyer this morning -- I
wanted his advice -- about the
best way to handle it --
FRAN
Handle what?
SHELDRAKE
What do you think?
FRAN
(looking at him for a
long moment - then)
Let's get something straight,
Jeff -- I never asked you to leave
your wife.
SHELDRAKE
Of course not. You had nothing to
do with it.
FRAN
(her eyes misting up again)
Are you sure that's what you want?
SHELDRAKE
I'm sure. If you'll just tell me
that you still love me --
FRAN
(softly)
You know I do.
SHELDRAKE
Fran --
He takes her hand, kisses it. The bar has been filling up,
and now two couples are seating themselves in a nearby booth.
One of the women is Miss Olsen.
FRAN
(pulling her hand
away gently)
Jeff -- darling --
She indicates the other customers. Sheldrake glances over
his shoulder.
SHELDRAKE
It is crowding up. Let's get out of
here.
They rise. Sheldrake leaves some money on the table, leads
Fran toward the entrance. As they pass Miss Olsen's booth,
she turns around slowly, and putting on her glasses, looks
after them.
Sheldrake slips a bill to the piano player, who gives them a
big smile, slides into JEALOUS LOVER again. Retrieving his
hat and coat from the checkroom girl, Sheldrake steers Fran
through the door.
Miss Olsen watches them with a cold smile.
EXT. CHINESE RESTAURANT - EVENING
Fran and Sheldrake come up the steps.
SHELDRAKE
(to a passing cab)
Taxi!
It passes without stopping.
FRAN
I have that date -- remember?
SHELDRAKE
I love you -- remember?
Another taxi approaches. Sheldrake gives a shrill whistle,
and it pulls up. He opens the door.
FRAN
Where are we going, Jeff? Not back
to that leaky boat --
SHELDRAKE
I promise.
He helps her into the cab, takes out of his coat pocket the
page from the pad on which Bud wrote the address of the
apartment.
SHELDRAKE
(to cab driver)
51 West Sixty-Seventh.
He gets in beside Fran, shuts the door. As the cab pulls
away, through the rear window the two can be seen kissing.
CUT TO:
EXT. MAJESTIC THEATRE - EVENING
It's 9 o'clock, the lobby is deserted, and standing on the
sidewalk all by himself, is Bud. He takes a Kleenex out of
his pocket, blows his nose, stuffs the used Kleenex in
another pocket. He looks up and down the street, consults
his watch, decides to wait just a little longer.
FADE OUT:
FADE IN:
BAXTER'S DESK CALENDAR
The leaves are flipping over. Mr. Sheldrake seems to be
using The Apartment regularly -- for the name Sheldrake, in
Bud's handwriting, appears on the pages dated Monday,
November 9, Thursday, November 12, Thursday, November 19,
Monday, November 23, and Monday, November 30. Mr. Sheldrake
also seems to be Baxter's only customer by now, since the
other leaves of the calendar are blank.
DISSOLVE TO:
INT. NINETEENTH FLOOR - INSURANCE BUILDING - DAY
It is a gloomy December morning, and hundreds of desk-bound
employees are bent over their paper-work.
Bud Baxter, in raincoat and hat, is clearing out his desk.
He has piled everything on his blotter pad -- reference
books, papers, a fountain pen set, pencils, paper clips and
the calendar. Watching him from the next desk is a
dumbfounded Moffett. Bud picks up the blotter pad with his
stuff on it, and as he moves past Moffett's desk, Moffett
takes out a dollar bill, drops it grudgingly on the loaded
pad. Bud flashes him a little grin, continues between the
desks toward the row of glass-enclosed offices housing the
supervisory personnel.
He comes up to an unoccupied cubicle. A sign painter is
brushing in some new lettering on the glass door -- it reads
C. C. BAXTER, Second Administrative Assistant. Bud studies
the sign with a good deal of satisfaction.
BUD
(to painter)
Would you mind --?
(the painter turns around)
C. C. Baxter -- that's me.
With an "Oh, " the painter opens the door for him.
INT. BAXTER'S OFFICE - DAY
Bud enters his new office, deposits his stuff on the bare
desk, looks around possessively. The small cubicle boasts
one window, carpeting on the floor, a filing cabinet, a
couple of synthetic-leather chairs, and a clothes-tree -- to
Bud, it is the Taj Mahal. He crosses to the clothes-tree,
removes his hat and coat, hangs them up. From OFF comes --
KIRKEBY'S VOICE
Hi, Buddy-boy.
DOBISCH'S VOICE
Congratulations, and all that jazz.
Bud turns. Kirkeby, Dobisch, Eichelberger and Vanderhof have
come into the office.
BUD
Hi, fellas.
EICHELBERGER
Well, you made it, kid -- just like
we promised.
VANDERHOF
Quite an office -- name on the
door -- rug on the floor -- the
whole schmear.
BUD
Yeah.
DOBISCH
Teamwork -- that's what counts in
an organization like this. All for
one and one for all -- know what I
mean?
BUD
I have a vague idea.
Kirkeby signals to Vanderhof, who shuts the door. The four
charter members of the club start closing in on Bud.
KIRKEBY
Baxter, we're a little disappointed
in you -- gratitude-wise.
BUD
Oh, I'm very grateful.
EIGHELBERGER
Then why are you locking us out,
all of a sudden?
BUD
It's been sort of rough these last
few weeks -- what with my cold and
like that --
He has picked up the desk calendar, shoves it discreetly
into one of the drawers.
DOBISCH
We went to bat for you -- and now
you won't play ball with us.
BUD
Well, after all, it's my
apartment -- it's private
property -- it's not a public
playground.
VANDERHOF
All right, so you got yourself a
girl -- that's okay with us -- but
not every night of the week.
KIRKEBY
How selfish can you get?
(to the others)
Last week I had to borrow my
nephew's car and take Sylvia to a
drive-in in Jersey. I'm too old for
that sort of thing -- I mean, in a
Volkswagen.
BUD
I sympathize with your problem --
and believe me, I'm very sorry --
DOBISCH
You'll be a lot sorrier before
we're through with you.
BUD
You threatening me?
DOBISCH
Listen, Baxter, we made you and we
can break you.
He deliberately flips a cigar ash on Bud's desk. At the same
time, the door opens, and Sheldrake comes striding in briskly.
BUD
Good morning, Mr. Sheldrake.
The others swivel around.
SHELDRAKE
Morning, gentlemen.
(to Bud)
Everything satisfactory? You like
your office?
BUD
Oh, yes, sir. Very much. And I want
to thank you --
SHELDRAKE
Don't thank me -- thank your
friends here -- they're the ones
who recommended you.
The four friends manage to work up some sickly smiles.
DOBISCH
We just dropped in to wish him the
best.
(quickly brushes
cigar ash off desk)
KIRKEBY
(as they move toward
the door)
So long, Baxter. We know you won't
let us down.
BUD
So long, fellas. Drop in any time.
The door is always open -- to my
office.
They leave. Sheldrake and Bud are alone.
SHELDRAKE
I like the way you handled that.
Well, how does it feel to be an
executive?
BUD
Fine. And I want you to know I'll
work very hard to justify your
confidence in me --
SHELDRAKE
Sure you will.
(a beat)
Say, Baxter, about the apartment -
now that you got a raise, don't you
think we can afford a second key?
BUD
Well -- I guess so.
SHELDRAKE
You know my secretary -- Miss
Olsen --
BUD
Oh, yes. Very attractive. Is she --
the lucky one?
SHELDRAKE
No, you don't understand. She's a
busybody -- always poking her nose
into things -- and with that key
passing back and forth -- why take
chances?
BUD
Yes, sir. You can't be too careful.
He glances toward the glass partitions to make sure that
nobody is watching.
BUD
I have something here -- I think it
belongs to you.
Out of his pocket he has slipped the compact with the fleur-
de-lis pattern we saw Fran use at the Rickshaw. He holds it
out to Sheldrake.
SHELDRAKE
To me?
BUD
I mean -- the young lady -- whoever
she may be -- it was on the couch
when I got home last night.
SHELDRAKE
Oh, yes. Thanks.
BUD
The mirror is broken.
(opens compact,
revealing crack in mirror)
It was broken when I found it.
SHELDRAKE
So it was.
(takes the compact)
She threw it at me.
BUD
Sir?
SHELDRAKE
You know how it is -- sooner or
later they all give you a bad time.
BUD
(man-of-the-world)
I know how it is.
SHELDRAKE
You see a girl a couple of times a
week -- just for laughs -- and
right away she thinks you're going
to divorce your wife. I ask you --
is that fair?
BUD
No, sir. That's very unfair --
especially to your wife.
SHELDRAKE
Yeah.
(shifting gears)
You know, Baxter, I envy you.
Bachelor -- all the dames you
want -- no headaches, no
complications --
BUD
Yes, sir. That's the life, all right.
SHELDRAKE
Put me down for Thursday again.
BUD
Roger. And I'll get that other key.
Sheldrake exits. Bud takes the calendar out of the desk
drawer, makes an entry.
DISSOLVE TO:
BAXTER'S DESK CALENDAR
Again the leaves are flipping over, and again we see
Sheldrake's name in Bud's handwriting -- booked for the
following dates: Monday, December 14, Thursday, December 17,
Monday, December 21, Thursday, December 24.
DISSOLVE TO:
INT. SWITCHBOARD ROOM - DAY
Perched on top of the switchboard is a small decorated
Christmas tree, and the operators are dispensing holiday
greetings to all callers.
OPERATORS
Consolidated Life -- Merry
Christmas -- I'll connect you --
Consolidated Life -- Merry
Christmas -- I'm ringing --
In the foreground, Sylvia is engaged in a private
conversation of her own.
SYLVIA
(into mouthpiece)
Yeah? -- YEAH? -- Where? -- You
bet --
She tears off her headset, and turns to the other girls.
SYLVIA
Somebody watch my line -- there's a
swinging party up on the nineteenth
floor --
She scoots out the door. The other girls immediately abandon
their posts, and dash after her.
INT. NINETEENTH FLOOR - DAY
It's a swinging party, all right. Nobody is working. Several
desks have been cleared and pushed together, and on top of
this improvised stage four female employees and Mr. Dobisch,
with his pants-legs rolled up, are doing a Rockette kick
routine to the tune of JINGLE BELLS. Employees are ringed
around the performers, some drinking out of paper cups,
others singing and clapping in rhythm.
One of the cubicles has been transformed into a bar, and it
is jammed with people. Mr. Kirkeby and Mr. Vanderhof are
pouring -- each has a couple of bottles of liquor in his
hands, and is emptying them into the open top of a water-
cooler.
But the stuff is flowing out as fast as it flows in --
everybody is in line with a paper cup waiting for a refill.
Bud comes shouldering his way out of the crowded cubicle,
holding aloft two paper cups filled with booze. Since his
promotion he has bought himself a new suit, dark flannel,
and with it he wears a white shirt with a pinned round
collar, and a foulard tie. He also has quite a glow on.
Detouring past necking couples, he heads in the direction of
the elevators.
The doors of Fran's elevator are just opening, and the
switchboard operators, led by Sylvia, come streaming out.
SYLVIA
(to a colleague)
-- so I said to him: Never again! --
either get yourself a bigger car or
a smaller girl --
As they head for the party, they pass Bud, who is approaching
the elevator with the two drinks. Fran is just closing the
elevator doors.
BUD
Miss Kubelik.
The doors slide open again, and Fran looks out. Instead of
the customary carnation in the lapel of her uniform, she
wears a sprig of holly.
BUD
(holding out one of
the drinks)
Marry Christmas.
FRAN
Thank you.
(takes drink)
I thought you were avoiding me.
BUD
What gave you that idea?
FRAN
In the last six weeks you've only
been in my elevator once -- and
then you didn't take your hat off.
BUD
Well, as a matter of fact, I was
rather hurt when you stood me up
that night --
FRAN
I don't blame you. It was
unforgivable.
BUD
I forgive you.
FRAN
You shouldn't.
BUD
You couldn't help yourself. I mean,
when you're having a drink with one
man, you can't just suddenly walk
out on him because you have another
date with another man. You did the
only decent thing.
FRAN
Don't be too sure. Just because I
wear a uniform -- that doesn't make
me a Girl Scout.
BUD
Miss Kubelik, one doesn't get to be
a second administrative assistant
around here unless he's a pretty
good judge of character -- and as
far as I'm concerned, you're tops.
I mean, decency-wise -- and
otherwise-wise.
(toasting)
Cheers.
FRAN
Cheers.
They down their drinks. Bud takes the empty cup from her.
BUD
One more?
FRAN
(indicating elevator)
I shouldn't drink when I'm driving.
BUD
You're so right.
He reaches into the elevator, takes a cardboard sign off a
hook, hangs it on the elevator door. It reads USE OTHER
ELEVATOR.
BUD
By the power vested in me, I
herewith declare this elevator out
of order.
(leading her toward
the party)
Shall we join the natives?
FRAN
Why not?
(as they pass a
kissing couple)
They seem friendly enough.
BUD
Don't you believe it. Later on
there will be human sacrifices --
white collar workers tossed into
the computing machines, and punched
full of those little square holes.
FRAN
How many of those drinks did you
have?
BUD
(holding up four fingers)
Three.
FRAN
I thought so.
They have now reached the entrance to the bar, which is
overflowing with thirsty natives.
BUD
You wait here. I think I hear the
sound of running water.
He leaves her outside the cubicle, and elbows his way
through the crowd toward the booze-filled water cooler. Out
of another cubicle comes Miss Olsen, cup in hand. She too
has had quite a few. Seeing Fran, she walks up to her, with
an acid smile on her face.
MISS OLSEN
Hi. How's the branch manager from
Kansas City?
FRAN
I beg your pardon?
MISS OLSEN
I'm Miss Olsen -- Mr. Sheldrake's
secretary.
FRAN
Yes, I know.
MISS OLSEN
So you don't have to play innocent
with me. He used to tell his wife
that I was the branch manager from
Seattle -- four years ago when we
were having a little ring-a-ding-
ding.
FRAN
I don't know what you're talking
about.
MISS OLSEN
And before me there was Miss Rossi
in Auditing -- and after me there
was Miss Koch in Disability -- and
just before you there was Miss
What's-Her-Name, on the twenty-
fifth floor --
FRAN
(wanting to get away)
Will you excuse me?
MISS OLSEN
(holding her by the arm)
What for? You haven't done
anything -- it's him -- what a
salesman -- always the last booth
in the Chinese restaurant -- and
the same pitch about divorcing his
wife -- and in the end you wind up
with egg foo yong on your face.
Bud comes burrowing out of the crowded cubicle, balancing
the two filled paper cups, spots Fran.
BUD
Miss Kubelik.
Fran turns away from Miss Olsen.
FRAN
Well -- thank you.
MISS OLSEN
Always happy to do something for
our girls in uniform.
She moves off as Bud joins Fran, who is looking a little pale.
BUD
You all right? What's the matter?
FRAN
Nothing.
(takes the drink)
There are just too many people here.
BUD
Why don't we step into any office?
There's something I want your
advice about, anyway.
(leads her toward his cubicle)
I have my own office now, naturally.
And you may be interested to know
I'm the second youngest executive
in the company -- the only one
younger is a grandson of the
chairman of the board.
INT. BAXTER'S OFFICE - DAY
Bud ushers Fran in, and is confronted by a strange couple
necking in the corner. He gestures them out, crosses to his
desk.
BUD
Miss Kubelik, I would like your
honest opinion. I've had this in my
desk for a week -- cost me fifteen
dollars -- but I just couldn't get
up enough nerve to wear it --
From under the desk he has produced a hatbox, and out of the
hatbox a black bowler, which he now puts on his head.
BUD
It's what they call the junior
executive model. What do you think?
Fran looks at him blankly, absorbed in her own thoughts.
BUD
Guess I made a boo-boo, huh?
FRAN
(paying attention again)
No -- I like it.
BUD
Really? You mean you wouldn't be
ashamed to be seen with somebody in
a hat like this?
FRAN
Of course not.
BUD
Maybe if I wore it a little more to
the side --
(adjusting hat)
is that better?
FRAN
Much better.
BUD
Well, as long as you wouldn't be
ashamed to be seen with me -- how
about the three of us going out
this evening -- you and me and the
bowler -- stroll down Fifth
Avenue -- sort of break it in --
FRAN
This is a bad day for me.
BUD
I understand. Christmas -- family
and all that --
FRAN
I'd better get back to my elevator.
I don't want to be fired.
BUD
Oh, you don't have to worry about
that. I have quite a bit of
influence in Personnel. You know Mr.
Sheldrake?
FRAN
(guardedly)
Why?
BUD
He and I are like this.
(crosses his fingers)
Sent me a Christmas card. See?
He has picked up a Christmas card from his desk, shows it to
Fran. It is a photograph of the Sheldrake clan grouped
around an elaborate Christmas tree -- Mr. and Mrs.
Sheldrake, the two boys in military school uniforms, and a
big French poodle. Underneath it says:
SEASON'S GREETINGS
from the SHELDRAKES
Emily, Jeff, Tommy, Jeff Jr.,
and Figaro.
FRAN
(studying the card ruefully)
Makes a cute picture.
BUD
I thought maybe I could put in a
word for you with Mr. Sheldrake --
get you a little promotion -- how
would you like to be an elevator
starter?
FRAN
I'm afraid there are too many other
girls around here with seniority
over me.
BUD
No problem. Why don't we discuss it
sometime over the holidays -- I
could call you and pick you up and
we'll have the big unveiling --
(touching the brim of
his bowler)
-- you sure this is the right way
to wear it?
FRAN
I think so.
BUD
You don't think it's tilted a
little too much --
Fran takes her compact out of her uniform pocket, opens it,
hands it to Bud.
FRAN
Here.
BUD
(examining himself in
the mirror)
After all, this is a conservative
firm -- I don't want people to
think I'm an entertainer --
His voice trails off. There is something familiar about the
cracked mirror of the compact -- and the fleur-de-lis
pattern on the case confirms his suspicion. Fran notices the
peculiar expression on his face.
FRAN
What is it?
BUD
(with difficulty)
The mirror -- it's broken.
FRAN
I know. I like it this way -- makes
me look the way I feel.
The phone has started to ring. Bud doesn't hear it. He
closes the compact, hands it to Fran.
FRAN
Your phone.
BUD
Oh.
(picks up phone from desk)
Yes?
(throws a quick look
at Fran)
Just a minute.
(covers mouthpiece;
to Fran)
If you don't mind -- this is sort
of personal
FRAN
All right. Have a nice Christmas.
She exits, closing the door. Bud takes his hand off the
mouthpiece.
BUD
(every word hurts)
Yes, Mr. Sheldrake -- no, I didn't
forget -- the tree is up and the
Tom and Jerry mix is in the
refrigerator -- yes, sir -- same to
you.
He hangs up, stands there for a moment, the bowler still on
his head, the noise from the party washing over him. He
slowly crosses to the clothes-tree. picks up his coat -- a
new, black chesterfield. With the coat over his arm, he
starts out of the office.
INT. NINETEENTH FLOOR - DAY
The party has picked up tempo. On top of the desks, Sylvia
is doing a mock strip tease -- without taking any clothes
off. There is hollering, drinking and clapping all around her.
Bud moves past the floor show, paying no attention. Kirkeby
spots him, detaches himself from the cheering section around
Sylvia.
KIRKEBY
Where you going, Buddy-boy? The
party's just starting.
(catching up with him)
Listen, kid -- give me a break,
will you -- how about tomorrow
afternoon? I can't take her to that
drive-in again -- the car doesn't
even have a heater four o'clock --
okay?
Bud ignores him, continues walking through the ranks of
empty desks.
DISSOLVE TO:
INT. CHEAP BAR - COLUMBUS AVENUE IN THE SIXTIES - EVENING
It is six o'clock, and the joint is crowded with customers
having one for the road before joining their families for
Christmas Eve. There are men with gaily wrapped packages,
small trussed-up Christmas trees, a plucked turkey in a
plastic bag. Written across the mirror behind the bar, in
glittering white letters, is HAPPY HOLIDAYS. Everybody is in
high spirits, laughing it up and toasting each other.
Everybody except Bud Baxter. He is standing at the bar in
his chesterfield and bowler, slightly isolated, brooding
over an almost empty martini glass. The bartender comes up,
sets down a fresh martini with an olive on a toothpick,
takes his payment from a pile of bills and coins lying in
front of Bud. Bud fishes out the olive, adds it to half a
dozen other impaled olives neatly arranged in fan shape on
the counter. He is obviously trying to complete the circle.
A short, rotund man dressed as Santa Claus hurries in from
the street, and comes up to the bar beside Bud.
SANTA CLAUS
(to bartender)
Hey, Charlie -- give me a shot of
bourbon -- and step on it -- my
sleigh is double parked.
He laughs uproariously at his own joke, nudges Bud with his
elbow. Bud stares at him coldly, turns back to his martini.
The laughter dies in Santa Claus' throat. He gets his short
of bourbon, moves down the bar to find more convivial company.
Standing near the end of the curved bar is a girl in her
middle twenties wearing a ratty fur coat. Her name is MARGIE
MacDOUGALL, she is drinking a Rum Collins through a straw,
and she too is alone. From a distance, she is studying Bud
with interest. On the bar in front of her is a container of
straws in paper wrappers. She takes one of them out, tears
off the end of the paper, blows through the straw -- sending
the wrapper floating toward Bud. The paper wrapper passes
right in front of Bud's nose. He doesn't notice it.
Margie, undaunted, lets go with another missile.
This time the wrapper lands on the brim of Bud's bowler. No
reaction. Another wrapper comes floating in, hits Bud's
cheek. He never takes his eye off his martini.
Margie leaves her place, and carrying her handbag and her
empty glass, comes up alongside Bud. Without a word, she
reaches up and removes the wrapper from Bud's bowler.
MARGIE
You buy me a drink, I'll buy you
some music.
(sets the glass down)
Rum Collins.
Not waiting for an answer, she heads for the juke box. Bud
looks after her noncommittally, then turns to the bartender.
BUD
Rum Collins.
(indicating martini glass)
And another one of these little
mothers.
At the juke box, Margie has dropped a coin in and made her
selection. The music starts -- ADESTE FIDELIS. She rejoins
Bud at the bar just as the bartender is putting down their
drinks in front of them. Bud removes the new olive, adds it
to the pattern on the counter in front of him. They both
drink, staring straight ahead. For quite a while, there is
complete silence between them.
MARGIE
(out of nowhere)
You like Castro?
(a blank look from Bud)
I mean -- how do you feel about
Castro?
BUD
What is Castro?
MARGIE
You know, that big-shot down in
Cuba with the crazy beard.
BUD
What about him?
MARGIE
Because as far as I'm concerned,
he's a no good fink. Two weeks ago
I wrote him a letter -- never even
answered me.
BUD
That so.
MARGIE
All I wanted him to do was let
Mickey out for Christmas.
BUD
Who is Mickey?
MARGIE
My husband. He's in Havana -- in
jail.
BUD
Oh. Mixed up in that revolution?
MARGIE
Mickey? He wouldn't do nothing like
that. He's a jockey. They caught
him doping a horse.
BUD
Well, you can't win 'em all.
They sit there silently for a moment, contemplating the
injustices of the world.
MARGIE
(to herself)
'Twas the night before Christmas
And all through the house
Not a creature was stirring --
Nothing --
No action --
Dullsville!
(drinks; to Bud)
You married?
BUD
No.
MARGIE
Family?
BUD
No.
MARGIE
A night like this, it sort of
spooks you to walk into an empty
apartment.
BUD
I said I had no family -- I didn't
say I had an empty apartment.
They both drink.
CUT TO:
INT. BUD'S APARTMENT - EVENING
The living room is dark, except for a shaft of light from
the kitchen, and the glow of the colored bulbs on a small
Christmas tree in front of the phony fireplace.
Hunched up in one corner of the couch is Fran, still in her
coat and gloves, crying softly. Pacing up and down is
Sheldrake. His coat and hat are on a chair, as are several
Christmas packages. On the coffee table are an unopened
bottle of Scotch, a couple of untouched glasses, and a bowl
of melting ice.
SHELDRAKE
(stops and faces Fran)
Come on, Fran -- don't be like that.
You just going to sit there and
keep bawling?
(no answer)
You won't talk to me, you won't
tell me what's wrong --
(a new approach)
Look, I know you think I'm stalling
you. But when you've been married
to a woman for twelve years, you
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