Apartment, The
Writers: Billy Wilder, I.A.L Diamond
Genres: Comedy
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 don't just sit down at the breakfast table and say "Pass the sugar -- and I want a divorce." It's not that easy. (he resumes pacing; Fran continues crying) Anyway, this is the wrong time. The kids are home from school -- my in- laws are visiting for the holidays -- I can't bring it up now. (stops in front of her) This isn't like you, Fran -- you were always such a good sport -- such fun to be with -- FRAN (through tears) Yeah -- that's me. The Happy Idiot -- a million laughs. SHELDRAKE Well, that's more like it. At least you're speaking to