Marty Page #23

CLARA:

We just live one flight up.

MARTY:

So I'll call you tomorrow.

CLARA:

Okay.

Clara leans against the iron banister of the stairway.

CLARA:

Call me about two-thirty, because I

won't be home from my aunt's till

about then.

The doors of the ELEVATOR slide open, and a middle-aged COUPLE

comes out. They have obviously been having a heated exchange;

but at the sight of Marty and the girl at the stairway, they

become silent. They march across the lobby and out to the

street in repressed silence. The door CLANGS behind them.

Marty and Clara have waited stiffly through this interruption,

and now they look at each other and smile.

MARTY:

Okay, so I'll see you tomorrow night

then.

CLARA:

Okay.

Marty turns and moves across the lobby toward the street

door.

OUTSIDE THE APARTMENT HOUSE.

Marty stands a moment in the clear black night air,

expressionless, but within him, a strange exhilaration is

beginning to stir. He mosies away from the building along

the sidewalk, CAMERA panning with him.

He strikes out suddenly with a spirited stride, as if he

knew where he was going.

176TH STREET.

CLOSER SHOT of Marty marching along 176th Street. He quickly

reaches the Grand Concourse. Here he pauses a moment, a little

at a loss for what direction to take -- then remembers he

needs the uptown bus.

He moves across the wide street to get to the other side of

the boulevard. Again, he seems to lose track of which

direction is homeward.

He walks uptown a ways with a strange jerky stride, pausing

every once in a while to see whether there's a bus coming.

Suddenly Marty breaks into a dog-trot, then drops back into

the stiff stride as he approaches...

THE INTERSECTION OF THE GRAND CONCOURSE.

The corner near the bus stop is deserted. Marty stops, leans

against the pole of the bus stop sign.

Abruptly, he turns and walks uptown a little further.

SERIES OF INTERCUTS: Marty strides, walks, stops short, goes

to the curb desultorily, a few paces into the street, moves

back. The traffic moves by him. He stands in the wide street,

then with a gesture of magnificent expansiveness, he raises

his arm and calls out.

MARTY:

Taxi! Taxi! Hey, taxi! Taxi! Taxi!

CLOSE-UP of Marty standing in the street, crying...

MARTY:

Taxi!... Taxi!...

FADE OUT.

PILLETTI HOME, MARTY'S BEDROOM. DAY

Marty is in his trousers and T-shirt. He whistles as he

assembles his toilet articles for a shave. He starts out

toward the living room, still whistling. Bright sunlight

pours through the curtains on his window.

SECOND FLOOR.

Marty's whistling accompanies him to the second floor where

he turns into the bathroom. CAMERA ANGLES to include Mrs.

Pilletti's bedroom, disclosing her wearing an old faded

batiste kimona, puttering around her room and cleaning. As

Marty's toneless tune reaches her, Mrs. Pilletti turns her

head and stares off, listening.

THOMAS AND VIRGINIA'S APARTMENT. DAY.

Catherine, in the living room, is packing her meager but

neatly folded belongings into an old European carpet bag.

She has regained her stiff, mordant crustiness. The mild

WAIL of a baby can be heard.

BEDROOM.

The crowded bedroom is furnished in white modern. It is

cluttered by a baby's bassinet and other baby items. Virginia

sits on the edge of the bed, holding the baby, quieting it.

She is half-dressed, wearing her pajama top, a half-slip, no

stockings; her hair is still uncombed. Thomas slouches against

a chest of drawers, in morning semi-deshabille. He is

obviously sick with guilt. Virginia looks anxiously at her

husband then to the baby in her arms.

VIRGINIA:

(heavy whisper)

Don't you think I feel lousy about

this too?

THOMAS:

All right, Ginnie. I don't wanna

talk anymore about it.

(sits on a wooden

chair, unrolls a

fresh pair of socks

he's been holding)

I don't think I got one hour's sleep

the whole night.

(raises one leg to

put a sock on, pauses

with his heel on the

edge of his chair)

Last night was the first time in my

life I ever heard my mother cry, you

know that?

VIRGINIA:

Tommy...

THOMAS:

(snapping)

I don't wanna talk about it!

He pulls his sock on angrily, then lets his leg fall back to

the floor and just sits, one sock on, one sock in his hand.

He looks sullenly in the direction of his wife.

THOMAS:

(continuing, huffy)

I know what you're gonna say. A man's

gotta stop being his mother's baby

sooner or later. How many times you

gonna say it? She's my mother, you

know. I oughta have some feelings

about her, don't you think?

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