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Wilder, Billy
Diamond, I.A.L.
THE APARTMENT (1960)
C.C. Baxter (Jack Lemmon) has his future mapped out -- all he needs to do is cozy up to the top feeders in the corporate food chain. But his fast track to the executive suite gets short-circuited when he falls for one of the bosses' girlfriends. The Apartment features top-notch performances from Lemmon and Shirley MacLaine and was nominated for 10 Academy Awards, winning five, including Best Picture.
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This moviescript available in following formats:
Wilder, Billy. THE APARTMENT
Apartment, The Script
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,
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