Taxi Driver Page #12

It's nothing.

TRAVIS cannot see the Sport's face lime green completely,

but notices he is wearing a jacket. The voice is that of a

man in his early twenties.

TRAVIS turns to catch a glimpse of Sport as he walks off

with Iris.

TRAVIS shrugs and turns around.

TRAVIS' taxi pulls away.

CUT TO:

EARLY MORNING, 6:00 a.m. Quitting time -- TRAVIS pulls into

TAXI GARAGE.

INT. GARAGE

TRAVIS pulls into his stall.

TRAVIS sits in driver's seat, thinking a moment. He looks

to his right:
the crumpled $20 bill still lies there,

untouched since it was thrown there six hours previously.

TRAVIS reluctantly picks up the $20 bill and stuffs it into

his jacket pocket as he gets out of the cab. He gathers up

his time report and heads toward book-in table.

60.

A SHORT WHILE LATER, TRAVIS is walking down the sidewalk

near the taxi garage. His hands are in his jacket pockets,

obscuring the slight bulge on his left side.

TRAVIS turns into the box offfice of PORNO THEATER. He

reaches into jacket pocket for money to purchase ticket and

pulls out crumpled $20 bill. Seeing the $20 bill, he

decides not to use it, and pays for ticket out of his wallet

instead.

TRAVIS walks past concession stand en route to the darkened

theater auditorium. A YOUNG MAN is now sitting listlessly

behind the concessions counter.

INT. PORNO THEATER AUDITORIUM

TRAVIS slouches down into his seat, his face glowing in the

reflected light from the screen.

FEMALE MOVIE VOICE (O.S.)

Oh, come on, now, down, lick it,

come on...

(a beat)

Mmm, that's good. Ahh, ahh, more ...

TRAVIS averts his eyes as the action on screen becomes too

graphic. Placing his stiffened right hand beside his eyes,

TRAVIS can, by turning it inward, shut off or open up his

field of vision by small degrees.

MOVIE VOICE DIMINISHES, replaced by SOUND of TRAVIS' voice

over.

TRAVIS (V.O.)

The idea had been growing in my

brain ...

CUT TO:

TRACKING SHOT to wall of TRAVIS' APARTMENT. CAMERA MOVES

slowly across wall covered with clippings, notes, maps,

pictures. We now see their contents clearly:

The wall is covered with CHARLES PALANTINE political

paraphernalia; there are pictures of him, newspaper articles,

leaflets, bumper stickers. As the CAMERA MOVES along it

discovers a sketch of Plaza Hotel, Kennedy Airport and cutup

sections of city maps with notations written in. There

is lengthy N.Y. Times clipping detailing the increased

Secret Security Protection during the primaries. A section

pertaining to PALANTINE is underlined. Further along there

is a sheet reading "traveling schedule" and a calendar for

June with finely written notations written over the dates.

61.

TRAVIS (V.O.)(CONTD)

... for some time. True Force.

All the king's men cannot put it

back together again.

As the CAMERA reaches the end of its track, it finds TRAVIS,

standing, his shirt open, but the mattress. He is wearing

the empty holster, and the .44 is in his hand.

In the SHOTS that follow TRAVIS gives the audience a lesson

in gunmanship:

TRAVIS practices fast-drawing the .38 Special from his

holster and firing it.

He hooks the .44 into his pants behind his back and practices

withdrawing it. He holds the .44 firmly at an arm's length,

tightening his forearm muscles.

He has worked out a system of metal gliders taped to his

inner forearm, whereby the Colt .25 can rest hidden behind

the upper forearm until a spring near the elbow is activated,

sending the .25 flying down the gliders into his palm. He

has cut open his shirt to accomodate the gun mechanism and

now checks in the mirror to see how well the gun is hidden.

He straps an Army combat knife to his calf and cuts a slit

in his jeans where the knife can be pulled out quickly.

He now tries on various combinations of shirts, sweater and

jacket in front of the mirror to see how well he can hide

all the handguns he wishes to carry. Finally, wearing two

western shirts, a sweater and jacket, he manages to obscure

the location of all three guns, although he resembles a

hunter bundled up against the Arctic winter.

He sits at the table dum-dumming the .44 bullets -- cutting

"x's" across the bullet heads.

P.O.V.:
he scans the objects of his room through the scope

of the .38.

TRAVIS stands in the middle of his apartment, staring at his

PALANTINE wall. His eyes are glazed with introspection; he

sees nothing but himself.

TRAVIS (V.O.)(CONTD)

Listen you screwheads: Here is a

man ...

TRAVIS lies on his mattress, all bundled up in his shirts,

sweater, jacket and guns. His face is turned toward the

ceiling, but his eyes are closed. Although the room is

flooded with light, he is finally catching some sleep.

62.

The big furry animal drifts into his own world.

TRAVIS (V.O.)(CONTD)

... who wouldn't take it any more,

a man who stood up against the

scum, the c*nts, the dogs, the

filth. Here is ...

(voice trails off)

C.U. of diary:
entry ends with words "Here is" followed by

erratic series of dots.

CUT TO:

NIGHT:
the taxis are roaming the slick streets.

Sometimes after 2:00 a.m., TRAVIS pulls his cab to the curb

near an all-night delicatessen in Spanish Harlem. The

streets are relatively deserted.

TRAVIS waves to STOREKEEPER as he walks past counter:

TRAVIS:

Hey 'Melio.

Spanish rhythm and blues blares from a cheap radio.

TRAVIS walks over to dairy counter in rear of store, picks

out a pint of chocolate milk, goes over to the open cooler

and picks through various chilled prepackaged sandwiches.

He overhears a VOICE as he looks at the sandwiches.

When TRAVIS returns to the counter with the chocolate milk

and a sandwich in one hand, he sees a YOUNG BLACK MAN

holding a gun on 'Melio. The STICK-UP MAN is nervous,

hopped-up, or both; he bounces on the balls of his cheap

worn black tennis shoes -- a strung-out junkie on a

desperation ride. The STICK-UP MAN, a thorough

unprofessional, doesn't notice TRAVIS.

'MELIO watches the STICK-UP MAN closely, deciding what to do

himself.

STICK-UP MAN

(shaking gun)

Come on, man. Quick, quick, quick.

Hand over that bread.

It doesn't take TRAVIS long to decide what to do: without

hesitation he pulls his .32 from his jacket pocket.

TRAVIS:

Hey dude!

63.

The STICK-UP MAN, surprised, turns toward TRAVIS, finding

only an exploding .32. The MAN's lower jaw bursts open with

blood as he reels and crashes to the floor. There is no

emotion on TRAVIS' face.

As the STICK-UP MAN falls, 'MELIO leans over the counter,

wielding his battered .38. He is about to fire when he

realizes the MAN is already dead.

'MELIO, charged up, turns his gun toward TRAVIS, then,

realizing the danger is over, lowers it again.

'MELIO

Thanks, man. Figured I'd get him

on the way out.

TRAVIS sets his .32 on the counter.

TRAVIS:

You're gonna have to cover me on

this one, 'Melio. I can't stay for

the cop show.

'MELIO

You can't do that, Travis. You're

my witness.

TRAVIS:

The hell I can't. It's no sweat

for you. What is this for you,

number five?

'MELIO smiles and holds up four fingers:

'MELIO

No, only four.

(shrug)

Alright, Travis, I'll do what I can.

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