Some Like It Hot Page #19

JOE:

Men!

SUGAR:

So you pull yourself together and

you go on to the next job, and the

next saxophone player, and it's the

same thing all over again. See what

I mean? -- not very bright.

JOE:

(looking her over)

Brains aren't everything.

SUGAR:

I can tell you one thing -- it's not

going to happen to me again. Ever.

I'm tired of getting the fuzzy end

of the lollipop.

Olga bursts in through the curtains.

OLGA:

Ice! What's keeping the ice? The

natives are getting restless.

Joe hands her the cymbal piled with ice.

JOE:

How about a couple of drinks for us?

OLGA:

Sure.

She scoots out. Joe and Sugar are alone again.

SUGAR:

You know I'm going to be twenty-five

in June?

JOE:

You are?

SUGAR:

That's a quarter of a century. Makes

a girl think.

JOE:

About what?

SUGAR:

About the future. You know -- like a

husband? That's why I'm glad we're

going to Florida.

JOE:

What's in Florida?

SUGAR:

Millionaires. Flocks of them. They

all go south for the winter. Like

birds.

JOE:

Going to catch yourself a rich bird?

SUGAR:

Oh, I don't care how rich he is --

as long as he has a yacht and his

own private railroad car and his own

toothpaste.

JOE:

You're entitled.

SUGAR:

Maybe you'll meet one too, Josephine.

JOE:

Yeah. With money like Rockefeller,

and shoulders like Johnny Weismuller --

SUGAR:

I want mine to wear glasses.

JOE:

Glasses?

SUGAR:

Men who wear glasses are so much

more gentle and sweet and helpless.

Haven't you ever noticed?

JOE:

Well, now that you've mentioned it --

SUGAR:

They get those weak eyes from reading --

you know, all those long columns of

tiny figures in the Wall Street

Journal.

Olga is back again, carrying two Manhattans in paper cups on

the cymbal. She hands them the drinks, starts to refill the

cymbal with ice.

OLGA:

That bass fiddle -- wow! She sure

knows how to throw a party!

She dashes out. Joe looks after her, worriedly.

SUGAR:

(raising cup)

Happy days.

JOE:

(lifting his cup)

I hope this time you wind up with

the sweet end of the lollipop.

They drink. Joe studies her like a cat studying a canary.

INT. PULLMAN CAR - NIGHT

Olga is climbing up on the ladder to Upper 7 with the new

supply of ice in the cymbal. The party is now really winging.

Amidst the hushed hilarity, the hot water bottle is being

passed around, paper cups and crackers are flying, some of

the girls are smoking. Despite the absence of Sugar, Jerry

is enjoying himself hugely. Dolores has the floor -- finishing

the joke that Bienstock interrupted earlier.

DOLORES:

So the one-legged jockey said --

(she breaks up in

helpless laughter)

JERRY:

(eagerly)

What did he say?

DOLORES:

The one-legged jockey said -- 'Don't

worry about me, baby. I ride side-

saddle.'

To Jerry, this is excruciatingly comical. He puts his hand

over his mouth, trying to smother his wild laughter, starts

to hiccup.

JERRY:

(Lady Daphne again)

I beg your pardon.

Another hiccup. And another.

ROSELLA:

Put some ice on her neck!

She takes a hunk of ice out of the cymbal, rubs it against

the back of Jerry's neck. Jerry leaps up with a squeal, and

the ice slides down into his nightgown. He squirms and

wiggles, crying and laughing and hiccuping.

JERRY:

Oooh! Aaah! It's cold! Owwww!

The girls try to fish the ice from inside his nightie, and

suddenly Jerry gets a new shock, worse than the ice. His

hiccups stop, his eyes widen in panic. His bosoms have torn

lose from their moorings again. He folds his arms over his

suddenly flat chest, to ward off exposure.

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