Barton Fink Page #8

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BARTON:

Looking at the picture. He presses the heels of his hands against his ears.

HIS POV:

The bathing beauty. Faint, but building, is the sound of the surf.

BARTON:

Head cocked. The surf is mixing into another liquid sound.

Barotn looks sharply around.

THE BATHROOM:

Barton enters.

The sink, which Charlie apparently left running when he wet Barton's towel,

is overflowing. Water spills onto the tile floor.

Barton hurriedly shuts off the tap, rolls up one sleeve and reaches into the

sink.

As his hand emerges, holding something, we hear the unclogged sink gulp

water.

BARTON'S HAND

Holding a dripping wad of cotton.

BARTON:

After a brief, puzzled look he realizes where the cotton came from - and

convulsively flips it away.

FADE OUT:

FADE IN:

On the title page of a book:

NEBUCHADNEZZAR:

By

W.P. Mayhew

A hand enters with pen to inscribe:

To Barton-

May this little entertainment divert you in your sojourn

among the Philistines.

-Bill

The book is closed and picked up.

WIDER:

As-thoomp!-the heavy volume is deposited across the table, in front of

Barton, by Mayhew.

Barton, Mayhew, and Audrey are seated around a picnic table. It is one of

a few tables littering the lot of a small stucco open-air hamburger stand.

It is peaceful early evening. The last of the sunlight slopes down through

palm trees. Barton, Mayhew, and Audrey are the only customers at the stand.

Mayhew's black Ford stands alone at the edge of the lot.

Mayhew leans back in his chair.

MAYHEW:

If I close m'eyes I can almost smell the

live oak.

AUDREY:

That's hamburger grease, Bill.

MAYHEW:

Well, m'olfactory's turnin' womanish on me -

lyin' and deceitful . . .

His eyes still closed, he waves a limp hand gently in the breeze.

. . . Still, I must say. I haven't felt

peace like this since the grand productive

days. Don't you find it so, Barton? Ain't

writin' peace?

BARTON:

Well . . . actually, no Bill . . .

Barton looks nervously at Audrey before continuing.

. . . No, I've always found that writing comes

from a great inner pain. Maybe it's a pain

that comes from a realization that one must

do something for one's fellow man - to help

somehow to ease his suffering. Maybe it's a

personal pain. At any rate, I don't believe

good work is possible without it.

MAYHEW:

Mmm. Wal, me, I just enjoy maikn' things up.

Yessir. Escape...It's when I can't write, can't

escape m'self, that I want to tear m'head off

and run screamin' down the street with m'balls

in a fruitpickers pail. Mm . . .

He sighs and reaches for a bottle of Wild Turkey.

. . . This'll sometimes help.

AUDREY:

That doesn't help anything, Bill.

BARTON:

That's true, Bill. I've never found it to

help my writing.

Mayhew is becoming testy:

MAYHEW:

Your writing? Son, have you ever heard the

story of Soloman's mammy-

Audrey, anticipating, jumps hastily in. She taps the book on the table.

AUDREY:

You should read this, Barton. I think it's

Bill's finest, or among his finest anyway.

Mayhew looks at her narrowly.

MAYHEW:

So now I'm s'posed to roll over like an ol'

b*tch dog gettin' ger belly scratched.

AUDREY:

Bill-

BARTON:

Look, maybe it's none of my business, but a

man with your talent - don't you think your

first obligation would be to your gift?

Shouldn't you be doing whatever you have to

do to work again?

MAYHEW:

And what would that be, son?

BARTON:

I don't know exactly. But I do know what

you're doing with that drink. You're cutting

yourself off from your gift, and from me

and Audrey, and from your fellow man, and

from everything your art is about.

MAYHEW:

No son, thisahere moonshine's got nothin' to

do with shuttin' folks out. No, I'm usin'

it to build somethin'.

BARTON:

What's that?

MAYHEW:

I'm buildin' a levee. Gulp by gulp, brick

by brick. Raisin' up a levee to keep that

ragin' river of manure from lappin' at

m'door.

AUDREY:

Maybe you better too, Barton. Before you get

buried under his manure.

Mayhew chuckles.

MAYHEW:

M'honey pretends to be impatient with me, Barton,

but she'll put up with anything.

AUDREY:

Not anything, Bill. Don't test me.

BARTON:

You're lucky she puts up with as much as she does.

Mayhew is getting to his feet.

MAYHEW:

Am I? Maybe to a schoolboy's eye. People who

know about the human heart, though, mebbe they'd

say, Bill over here, he gives his honey love, and

she pays him back with pity - the basest coin there

is.

AUDREY:

Stop it, Bill!

He wanders over to a corner of the lot between two palm trees, still

clutching his bottle, his back to Barton and Audrey, and urinates into the

grass.

He is singing - loudly - "Old Black Joe."

Audrey walks over to him.

BARTON:

Watching her go.

HIS POV:

Audrey touches Mayhew's elbow. He looks at her, stops singing, she murmurs

something, and he bellows:

MAYHEW:

The truth, m'honey, is a tart that does

not bear scrutiny.

She touches him again, murmuring, and he lashes out at her, knocking her to

the ground.

Breach my levee at your peril!

BARTON:

He rises.

AUDREY:

Coming back to Barton.

MAYHEW:

Stumbling off down the dusty road, muttering to himself and waving his

bottle of Wild Turkey.

AUDREY:

Let him go.

BARTON:

That son of a b*tch . . . Don't get me

wrong, he's a fine writer.

He looks down the road. Mayhew is a small lone figure, weaving in the dust.

MAYHEW:

I'll jus' walk on down to the Pacific,

and from there I'll...improvise.

BARTON:

Are you all right?

We hear distant bellowing:

MAYHEW:

Silent upon a hill in Darien!

Audrey bursts into tears. Barton puts his arms around her and she leans

into him.

BARTON:

Audrey, you can't put up with this.

Gradually, she collects herself, wiping her tears.

AUDREY:

. . . Oh Barton, I feel so . . . sorry

for him!

BARTON:

What?! He's a son of a b*tch!

AUDREY:

No, sometimes he just . . . well, he

thinks about Estelle. His wife still

lives in Fayettesville. She's . . .

disturbed.

BARTON:

Really? . . .

He considers this for a moment, but his anger returns.

. . . Well that doesn't excuse his

behavior.

AUDREY:

He'll wander back when he's sober and

apologize. He always does.

BARTON:

Okay, but that doesn't excuse his -

AUDREY:

Barton. Empathy requires . . .

understanding.

BARTON:

What. What don't I understand?

Audrey gazes at him.

MAYHEW:

He is very distant now, weaving but somehow dignified in his light summer

suit. "Old Black Joe" floats back to us in the twilight.

FADE OUT:

BARTON'S HOTEL ROOM

From a high angle, booming down on Barton.

The room is dark. Barton lies fully clothed, stretched out on the bed,

asleep. The hum of the mosquito fades up in the stillness.

Suddenly Barton slaps his cheek. His eyes open, but he remains still. The

hum fades up again.

Barton reaches over and turns on the bedside lamp. His eyes shift this way

and that as he waits, listening.

The hum fades down to silence.

Barton's eyes shift.

HIS POV:

The typewriter sits on the secretary, a piece of paper rolled halfway

through the carriage.

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