Taxi Driver Page #11

TRAVIS:

(intensely)

They'd never get me to go back.

They'd have to shoot me first.

(pause)

You got anything to carry these in?

(gestures to pistols)

Travis is like a light switch: For long periods he goes

along dark and silent, saying nothing; then suddenly, the

current is turned on and the air is filled with the

electricity of his personality. Travis' inner intensity sets

Andy back a bit, but he quickly recovers.

ANDY:

Sure.

Andy pulls a gym bag from under his bed. He wraps the gun in

the sheet in the bag and zips it up. An identical gym bag

can be partially seen under the bed. He hands Travis the bag.

ANDY:

You like ball games?

TRAVIS:

Huh?

ANDY:

I can get you front and center.

What do you like? I can get you

Mets, Knicks, Rangers? Hell, I can

get you the Mayor's box.

TRAVIS:

Nah. I ain't interested.

Andy closes and locks the suitcases.

ANDY:

Okay, okay.

Travis turns to leave.

56.

ANDY:

Wait a second, Travis. I'll walk

you out.

CUT TO:

SEVERAL WEEKS LATER. The face of TRAVIS' apartment has

changed. The long, blank wall behind the table is now

covered with tacked-up charts, pictures, newspaper-clippings,

maps. CAMERA does not come close enough to discern the exact

contents of these clippings.

Travis is in C.U. in the middle of the floor doing push-ups.

He is bareback, wearing only his jeans. There is a long scar

across his left side.

TRAVIS (V.O.)

May 29, 1972. I must get in shape.

Too much sitting has ruined my body.

Twenty-five push-ups each morning,

one hundred sit-ups, one hundred

knee-bends. I have quit smoking.

Travis, still bareback, passes his stiff arm through the

flame of a gas burner without flinching a muscle.

TRAVIS (V.O.)

Total organization is necessary.

Every muscle must be tight.

INT. FIRING RANGE

The CRACKING SOUND of rapid-fire pistol shots fills the

musty air of the firing range. The walls are heavily

soundproofed, and sawdust is spread over the floor.

Travis stands rock solid, firing the .44 Magnum at an arm's

length. With each blasting discharge from the Magnum,

Travis' body shudders and shakes, his arm as if each recoil

from the giant gun was a direct attack on his masculinity.

Travis fires the Magnum as quickly as he can re-set, re-aim

and re-fire. The Magnum is empty, he sets it down, picks up

the .38 Special and begins firing as soon as he can aim.

After the .38, comes the .25: It is as if he were in a

contest to see how quickly he can fire the pistols. After

all the guns are discharged, he begins reloading them

without a moment's hesitation.

Downrange, the red and white targets have the black outline

of a human figure drawn over them. The contour-man convulses

under the steady barrage of Travis' rapid-fire shots.

57.

INT. APARTMENT

TRAVIS, now wearing an unfastened green plaid western shirt,

sits at the table writing in his diary. The vial of bennies

is on the table.

TRAVIS (V.O.)

My body fights me always. It won't

work, it won't sleep, it won't

sh*t, it won't eat.

LATER. TRAVIS, his shirt still revealing his bare chest,

sits on his straight-backed chair watching the TV. The .44

Magnum rests on his lap.

The TV is Broadcasting ROCK TIME, a late afternoon local

teenage dance and rock show. On screen YOUNG TEENYBOPPERS

are dancing, and the TV CAMERAMAN, as any devotee of the

genre knows, is relentlessly ZOOMING-IN on their firm young

breasts, fannies and crotches -- a sensibility which reflects

TRAVIS' own. These supper-hour rock dance shows are the most

unabashedly voyeuristic form of broadcasting the medium has

yet developed.

The HARD ROCK NUMBER ends, and the TV CAMERA CUTS TO the

local DISC JOCKEY, a hirsute plastic-looking man about 35.

FIVE scrumptious TEENYBOPPERS are literally hanging on his

shoulders and arms, their faces turned up to him in droolish

awe. Out of his mouth comes an incessant stream of disc

jockey blather. He is the complete a**hole; I don't know who

is currently performing this function in New York, but in

Los Angeles his name is Real Don Steele.

TV DISC JOCKEY:

Freshingly, fantastic, freaked-out

dance time. Can you dig it? Dig on

it. You got it, flaunt it.

TRAVIS watches the show, his face hard and unmoving. He is,

as the Scriptures would say, pondering all these things in

his heart. Why is it the a**holes get all the beautiful

young chicks? He takes a swig of peach brandy.

CUT TO:

EARLY EVENING, about 6:30 p.m. TRAVIS' taxi, with 'Off

Duty' light on, sits near the curb somewhere in midtown

Manhattan.

TRAVIS runs his hand down the left side of his jacket,

attempting to smooth out the bulge underneath.

TRAVIS opens his jacket partially, checking underneath.

There rests the nickel-plated .38 Special in its holster.

58.

P.O.V. down the street where TRAVIS' taxi is parked: Several

blocks ahead the red, white and blue campaign headquarters

of CHARLES PALANTINE are visible.

TRAVIS' eyes resume their watch.

TRAVIS starts the car and drives toward the PALANTINE

HEADQUARTERS.

TRACKING P.O.V. shot of row of storefronts leading up to

Palantine Headquarters. P.O.V. passes headquarters: it is

half-empty. A few stalwart SUPPORTERS continue to work

toward the rear of the office. BETSY'S desk ----

Sign in window reads: "Only 4 More Days Until Arrival of

CHARLES PALANTINE."

TRAVIS' "Off Duty" light goes off as he speeds up and heads

toward a prospective fare.

LATER THAT NIGHT, about 9:30. UPTOWN -- 128th and Amsterdam.

The Jungle. TRAVIS' taxi pulls up to an address, lets off

YOUNG BLACK MAN.

TRAVIS receives fare and tip, takes off.

P.O.V. as TRAVIS works his way through Harlem back down

Seventh Ave. Cluster of YOUNG BLACK STREET PUNKS pretend to

hail cab -- we ignore them. One throws wine bottle which

crashes in our path -- taxi swerves to avoid it.

CAMERA TRACKS through sidewalk CROWDS with the roving,

suspicious, antagonistic eye of a taxi-driver.

LATER THAT NIGHT, about 12:30. TRAVIS is on the LOWER EAST

SIDE, somewhere on B Street, east of Tompkins Square.

The sidewalks are populated with the remains of what once

was the hippie movement: TEENAGE STREET-WALKERS, JUNKIES,

THUGS, emaciated LONERS on the prowl.

TRAVIS' taxi pulls over, letting out a fare.

TRAVIS pockets his fare, but the rear right door doesn't

slam -- instead there is the SOUND of another person jumping

into the cab.

TRAVIS checks the back seat in the rear-view mirror: there

sits a pale HIPPIE PROSTITUTE.

The GIRL is, at best, 14 or 15, although she has been made

up to look older. She wears floppy, Janis Joplin clothes.

Her face is pallid. She wears large blue-tinted sunglasses

and multi-colored leg stockings.

59.

Her name, as we shall learn later, is IRIS.

TRAVIS hesitates, looking at her in the mirror.

IRIS:

Come on, mister, let's get outta

here -- quick.

TRAVIS moves to activate the meter, when the rear door opens.

IRIS is helped out of the cab by a MAN TRAVIS cannot see.

SPORT:

(to IRIS)

Come on, baby, let's go. This is

all a real drag.

IRIS lets herself be taken out of the cab. The rear door

closes.

Sport leans partially in the front window, throwing something

on the front seat. TRAVIS looks: it is a crumpled $20 bill.

SPORT:

Just forget all about this, cabbie.

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