Barton Fink Page #7

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As his ear meets the wall.

The woman's moaning continues. We hear the creaking of bedsprings and her

partner, incongruously giggling.

Barton grimaces, gets down off the bed and crosses to the secretary, where

he sits. He stares at the paper in the carriage.

HIS POV:

The blank part of the page around the key-strike area, under the metal

prongs that hold the paper down.

We begin to hear moaning again.

BACK TO BARTON:

Still looking; sweating.

HIS POV:

Tracking in on the paper, losing the prongs from frame so that we are

looking at the pure unblemished white of the page.

The moaning is cut short by two sharp knocks.

THE DOOR:

As it swings open.

Charlie Meadows leans in, smiling.

CHARLIE:

Howdy, neighbor.

BARTON:

Charlie. How are you.

CHARLIE:

Jesus, I hope I'm not interrupting you again.

I heard you walking around in here. Figured

I'd drop by.

BARTON:

Yeah, come in Charlie. Hadn't really gotten

started yet - what happened to your ear?

- for Charle's left ear is plugged with cotton wadding. As he enters:

CHARLIE:

Oh, yeah. An ear infection, chronic thing.

Goes away for a while, but it always comes

back. Gotta put cotton in it to staunch the

flow of pus. Don't worry, it's not contagious.

BARTON:

Seen a doctor?

Charlie gives a dismissive wave.

CHARLIE:

Ah, doctors. What's he gonna tell me? Can't

trade my head in for a new one.

BARTON:

No, I guess you're stuck with the one you've

got. Have a seat.

Charlie perches on the corner of the bed.

CHARLIE:

Thanks, I'd invite you over to my place, but

it's a goddamn mess. You married, Bart?

BARTON:

Nope.

CHARLIE:

I myself have yet to be lassoed.

He takes his flask out.

. . . Got a sweetheart?

BARTON:

No . . . I guess it's something about my

work. I get so worked up over it, I

don't know; I don't really have a lot of

attention left over, so it would be a

little unfair . . .

CHARLIE:

Yeah, the ladies do ask for attention. In

my experience, they pretend to give it, but

it's generally a smoke-screen for demanding

it back - with interest. How about family,

Bart? How're you fixed in that department?

Barton smiles.

BARTON:

My folks live in Brooklyn, with my uncle.

CHARLIE:

Mine have passed on. It's just the three of

us now . . .

He taps himself on the head, chuckling.

. . . What's the expression - me myself and

I.

BARTON:

Sure, that's tough, but in a sense, we're

all alone in this world aren't we Charlie?

I'm often surrounded by family and friends,

but . . .

He shrugs.

CHARLIE:

Mm...You're no stranger to loneliness, then.

I guess I got no beef; especially where the

dames are concerned. In my line of work I

get opportunities galore - always on the

wing, you know what I'm saying. I could tell

stories to curl your hair - but it looks

like you've already heard 'em!

He laughs at his reference to Barton's curly hair, and pulls a dog-eared

photograph from his wallet. As he hands it to Barton:

. . . That's me in Kansas City, plying my

trade.

THE PHOTO:

Charlie smiles and waves with one foot up on the running board of a 1939

roadster. A battered leather briefcase dangles from one hand.

CHARLIE:

. . . It was taken by one of my policy holders.

They're more than just customers to me, Barton.

they really appreciate what I have to offer them.

Ya see, her hubby was out of town at the time -

BARTON:

You know, in a way, I envy you Charlie. Your

daily routine - you know what's expected.

You know the drill. My job is to plumb the

depths, so to speak, dredge something up from

inside, something honest. There's no road map

for that territory . . .

He looks from Charlie to the Underwood.

. . . and exploring it can be painful. The

kind of pain most people don't know anything

about.

He looks back at Charlie.

. . . This must be boring you.

CHARLIE:

Not at all. It's damned interesting.

BARTON:

Yeah . . .

He gives a sad chuckle.

. . . Probably sounds a little grand coming

from someone who's writing a wrestling picture

for Wallace Beery.

CHARLIE:

Beery! You got no beef there! He's good.

Hell of an actor - though, for my money, you

can't beat Jack Oakie. A stitch, Oakie.

Funny stuff, funny stuff. But don't get me

wrong - Beery, a wrestling picture, that could

be a pip. Wrestled some myself back in school.

I guess you know the basic moves.

BARTON:

Nope, never watched any. I'm not that

interested in the act itself -

CHARLIE:

Okay, but hell, you should know what it is. I

can show you in about thirty seconds.

He is getting down on his hands and knees.

. . . You're a little out of your weight class,

but just for purposes of demonstration -

BARTON:

That's all right, really -

CHARLIE:

Not a bit of it, compadre! Easiest thing in

the world! You just get down on your knees

to my left, slap your right hand here . . .

He indicated his own right bicep.

. . . and your left hand here.

He indicated his left bicep.

Barton hesitates.

. . . You can do it, champ!

Barton complies.

. . . All right now, when I say "Ready...

wrestle!" you try and pin me, and I try

and pin you. That's the whole game. Got

it?

BARTON:

. . . Yeah, okay.

CHARLIE:

Ready . . .wrestle!

With one clean move Charlie flips Barton onto his back, his head and

shoulders hitting with a thump. Charlie pins Barton's shoulders with his

own upper body.

But before the move even seems completed Charlie is standing again, offering

his hand down to Barton.

Damn, there I go again. We're gonna wake the

downstairs neighbors. I didn't hurt ya, did I?

Barton seems dazed, but not put out.

BARTON:

It's okay, it's okay.

CHARLIE:

Well, that's all that wrestling is. Except

usually there's more grunting and squirming

before the pin. Well, it's your first time.

And you're out of your weight class.

Barton has propped himself up and is painfully massaging the back of his

head. This registers on Charlie.

. . . Jesus, I did hurt you!

He clomps hurriedly away.

. . . I'm just a big, clumsy lug. I sure do

apologize.

We hear water running, and Charlie reenters with a wet towel.

Barton accepts the towel and presses it to his head.

. . . You sure you're okay?

Barton gets to his feet.

BARTON:

I'm fine, Charlie. Really I am. Actually,

it's been helpful, but I guess I should get

back to work.

Charlie looks at him with some concern, then turns and heads for the door.

CHARLIE:

Well, it wasn't fair of me to do that. I'm

pretty well endowed physically.

He opens the door.

. . . Don't feel bad, though. I wouldn't be

much of a match for you at mental gymnastics.

Gimme a holler if you need anything.

The door closes.

Barton crosses to the secretary and sits down, rubbing the back of his head.

He rolls up the carriage and looks at the page in the typewriter.

HIS POV:

The page.

FADE IN:

A tenement building on Manhatten's Lower East Side. Early

morning traffic is audible, as is the cry fishmongers.

BACK TO BARTON:

He rubs the back of his head, wincing, as he stares at the page.

His gaze drifts up.

HIS POV:

The bathing beauty.

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