O Brother, Where Art Thou? Page #5

A sixty-year-old man in enormous seersucker pants held up by

suspenders and the outward pressure of a blooming belly is

getting out of the first car. His face is familiar from

countless sacks of Pass the Biscuits Pappy O'Daniel Flour.

Delmar waves a fistful of money at him.

DELMAR:

Hey mister! I don't mean to be tellin'

tales out a school, but there's a

man in there hands out ten dollars

to anyone sings into his can!

PAPPY:

I'm not here to make a record, ya

dumb cracker, they broadcast me out

on the radio.

A big shambling man of about thirty has followed him out of

the car. He has the sloping shoulders, the pasty skin, and

the aimlessly bobbing head of an intellectual flyweight.

JUNIOR:

That's Governor Menelaus 'Pass the

Biscuits, Pappy' O'Daniel, and he'd

sure 'preciate it if you ate his

farina and voted him a second term.

Two other members of the retinue, older men whose girth rivals

the governor's, are Eckard and Spivey.

ECKARD:

Finest governor we've ever had in

M'sippi.

SPIVEY:

In any state.

ECKARD:

Oh Lord yes, any parish'r precinct;

I was makin' the larger point.

As Pappy brushes by them, Junior wheedles:

JUNIOR:

Aintcha gonna press the flesh, Pappy,

do a little politickin'?

Pappy slaps at the young man with his hat.

PAPPY:

I'll press your flesh, you dimwitted

sonofabitch - you don't tell your

pappy how to cawt the elect 'rate!

Pappy waves his hat at the radio building as singers in faux

hillbilly outfits with various musical instrument cases get

out of the second car.

PAPPY:

We ain't one-at-a-timin' here, we

mass communicatin'!

ECKARD:

Oh, yes, assa parful new force.

SPIVEY:

Mm-mm.

The men head for the station, with Junior lagging.

PAPPY:

Shake a leg, Junior! Thank God your

mama died givin' birth-if she'd a

seen ya she'd a died of shame...

A CAMPFIRE:

It is night.

Tommy sits in the background, playing and singing a slow

blues. The three convicts, holding coffee cups, gaze into

the fire.

Over the dreamy song:

DELMAR:

Why don't we bed down out here

tonight?

PETE:

Yeah, it stinks in that ol' barn.

EVERETT:

Suits me...

He stretches out.

EVERETT:

Pretty soon it'll be nothin' but

feather beds'n silk sheets.

Pete swishes his coffee as he stares into the blaze.

PETE:

A million dollars.

EVERETT:

Million point two.

DELMAR:

Five... hunnert... thousand... each.

EVERETT:

Four hundred, Delmar.

DELMAR:

Izzat right?

EVERETT:

What're you gonna do with your share

of the treasure, Pete?

PETE:

Go out west somewhere, open a fine

restaurant. I'm gonna be the maider

dee. Greet all the swells, go to

work ever' day in a bowtie and tuxedo,

an' all the staff'll all say Yassir

and Nawsir and in a Jiffy Pete...

He gives his coffee a thoughtful swish and murmurs:

PETE:

An' all my meals for free...

EVERETT:

What about you, Delmar? What're you

gonna do with your share a that dough?

DELMAR:

Visit those foreclosin' sonofaguns

down at the Indianola Savings and

Loan and slap that cash down on the

barrelhead and buy back the family

farm. Hell, you ain't no kind of man

if you ain't got land.

PETE:

What about you, Everett? What'd you

have in mind when you stoled it in

the first place?

EVERETT:

Me? Oh, I didn't have no plan. Still

don't, really.

PETE:

Well that hardly sounds like you...

A distant Voice:

VOICE:

All right, boys, itsy authorities!

The three men tense up. Tommy stops singing.

VOICE:

Your sitchy-ation is purt nigh

hopeless!

Pete shovels dirt onto the fire as Delmar and Everett scramble

to peek over a low ridge.

Their point-of-view shows a lone barn with their car parked

to one side. Various police vehicles have pulled up facing

the barn, and armed men, their backs to us, train guns on

it, some taking cover on the near side of their parked cars.

EVERETT:

Damn! They found our car!

The man with the bullhorn continues, directing his comments

at the distant barn:

MAN:

We ain't got the time-and nary

inclination-to gentle you boys no

further!

The three convicts notice the sheriff who once again stands

impassively next to the man with the bullhorn, holding a

leash against which a bloodhound strains.

MAN:

It's either the penal farm or the

fires of damnation-makes no nevermind

to me!

The sheriff makes a signal to a man holding a torch, who

skitters up to the barn and lights it.

DELMAR:

Damn! We gotta skedaddle!

EVERETT:

I left my pomade in that car! Maybe

I can creep up!

DELMAR:

Don't be a fool, Everett, we gotta R-

U-N-O-F-F-T, but pronto!

EVERETT:

Where's Tommy?

PETE:

Already lit out, scared out of his

wits. Let's go!

DAYTIME ROAD:

The three men shuffle down the dusty road.

PETE:

The hell it ain't square one! Ain't

no one gonna pick up three filthy

unshaved hitchhikers, and one of 'em

a know-it-all that can't keep his

trap shut!

EVERETT:

Pete, the personal rancor reflected

in that remark I don't intend to

dignify with comment, but I would

like to address your general attitude

of hopeless negativism. Consider the

lilies a the goddamn field, or-hell!-

take a look at Delmar here as your

paradigm a hope.

DELMAR:

Yeah, look at me.

EVERETT:

Now you may call it an unreasoning

optimism. You may call it obtuse.

But the plain fact is we still have...

close to... close to...

He loses his drift as all three men turn, reacting to the

sound of an approaching speeding car.

EVERETT:

...close to... three days... before

they dam that river...

The car comes into view cornering on two wheels. It crashes

back onto all four and, as it speeds along, dollar bills

snap and flutter out its windows. The car roars up to the

three men as Delmar waggles a hopeful thumb. It screeches to

a halt.

The driver, a young man in a sharp suit with a round, babylike

face, leans over to call through the passenger window.

DRIVER:

Is this the road to Itta Bena?

PETE:

Uh... Itta Bena...

Delmar plucks a fluttering dollar bill out of the air and

looks at it wonderingly. He holds it stretched between two

hands, brings the two sides together, then gives it an

appraising pop.

EVERETT:

Itta Bena, now, uh, that would be...

PETE:

Isn't it, uh...

Like a child gazing at soap bubbles, Delmar looks around at

the wafting currency, and yanks another fluttering bill out

of the air.

EVERETT:

I'm thinkin' it's uh, you could take

this road to, uh...

There is the sound of a distant siren.

The driver, still patiently leaning over to hear out the two

brainwrackers, shoots a quick look in his rearview mirror.

PETE:

...Nah, that ain't right... I'm

thinkin' of...

EVERETT:

...I believe, unless I'm very much

mistaken - see, we've been away for

several years, uh...

The driver pushes open the passenger door.

DRIVER:

Hop on in while you give it a think.

The three men climb in and the car squeals out.

INT. CAR

The driver shoots a glance up to the rearview mirror as the

sirens grow louder, then gropes inside his coat.

DRIVER:

Any a you boys know your way around

a Walther PPK?

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