Taxi Driver Page #16

can't remember the exact dates, but

I hope this card will take care of

all of them.

I'm sorry I again can not send you

my address like I promised to last

year, but the sensitive nature of

my work for the Army demands utmost

secrecy. I know you will

understand.

I am healthy and well and making

lots of money. I have been going

with a girl for several months and

I know you would be proud if you

could see her.

(MORE)

78.

TRAVIS (V.O.; CONT'D)

Her name is Betsy, but I can tell

you no more than that.

(interrupted)

As TRAVIS reads third paragraph, a POLICEMAN is seen walking

from behind TRAVIS' taxi to his window.

The POLICEMAN's voice come during a pause in the narration.

LIVE SOUND RESUMES.

POLICEMAN:

(standing near window)

Hey, cabbie, you can't park here.

TRAVIS:

(penitent)

Sorry, officer.

POLICEMAN:

You waiting for a fare?

POLICEMAN leans his head in window, inspecting the cab. As

he does, TRAVIS slides his right hand into the left side of

his jacket, ready to draw his revolver.

TRAVIS:

No, officer.

POLICEMAN:

All right, move it.

TRAVIS starts up his taxi and drives off.

LIVE SOUND again CEASES as TRAVIS resumes reading letter as

taxi drives away.

As TRAVIS reads final paragraph, scene CUTS TO INT. APARTMENT

where TRAVIS sits at his table.

TRAVIS (V.O.)

(resuming reading)

I hope this card finds you all

well, as it does me. I hope no one

has died. Don't worry about me.

One day there will be a knock on

the door and it will be me.

Love, Travis.

TRAVIS, at his desk, examines the card upon which he has

just written this letter.

79.

C.U. cover of card. It is a 25?Wedding Anniversary card

with a four-color embossed cover. The design could only be

described as ur-kitsch. A cartoon Mr. and Mrs. All-America

stand before an outdoor barbecuing grill, clicking salt and

pepper shakers in a toast. Sentiment reads:

HAPPY ANNIVERSARY

To a Couple

Who Have Found

the Perfect Combination

For Marriage...

The card opens to read:

LOVE!

Underneath the word "Love!" begins TRAVIS' short message to

his parents, a message which extends to the back cover of

the card.

CUT TO:

NIGHT on the LOWER EAST SIDE. TRAVIS sits parked in the

dark shadows of a side street. The lone wolf waits.

TRAVIS watches the SLUM GODDESSES as they work the section

of the street reserved for hippie hookers.

TRAVIS' P.O.V.: some of the YOUNG STREET GIRLS are arrogant,

almost aggressive, others are more insecure and inexperienced.

A BLACK MAN charges down the sidewalk across the street from

TRAVIS. He walks at a fast, maniacal clip, looking only at

the sidewalk in front of him. Out of his mouth comes a

continuous stream of invective: "That-cock-sucking-crazy-nogood-

a**hole-b*tch-when-I-get-my-f***ing-fingers-on-hernigger-

tits-I'm-gonna-ring-em-and-sh*t-up-her-ass..." and so

on. He is Out of Control. Nobody seems to notice or care.

TRAVIS takes a swig of peach brandy and continues his stakeout.

Finally, TRAVIS spies the object of his search: IRIS walks

down the sidewalk with her GIRLFRIEND. Iris wears her large

blue sunglasses.

TRAVIS checks to see if his .38 is in place (it is), opens

the door and exits from the cab.

Flipping up the collar of his Army jacket, TRAVIS slouches

over and walks toward IRIS. He sort of sidles up next to

her and walks beside her: TRAVIS always looks most suspicious

when he's trying to appear innocent.

80.

TRAVIS:

(shy)

Hello.

IRIS:

You looking for some action?

TRAVIS:

Well...I guess so.

IRIS:

(eyeing him)

All right.

(a beat)

You see that guy over there?

(nods)

His name is Sport. Go talk to him.

I'll wait here.

Travis' eyes follow Iris' nod until they reach Sport,

standing in a doorway in his lime green jacket. Travis

walks toward him.

Sport, a thirtiesh white greaser, has the affections of a

black pimp. His hips are jiving, his fingers softly snapping.

He sings to him self, "Going to the chapel, gonna get

married..." His complexion is sallow; his eyes cold and

venal. He could only seem romantic to a confused underaged

runaway.

TRAVIS:

You name Sport?

Sport immediately takes Travis for an undercover cop. He

extends his crosses wrists as if to be handcuffed.

SPORT:

Here, officer, take me in. I'm

clean. I didn't do it. Got a

ticket once in Jersey. That's all.

Honest, officer.

TRAVIS:

Your name Sport?

SPORT:

Anything you say, officer.

TRAVIS:

I'm no cop.

(looks back at Iris)

I want some action.

81.

SPORT:

I saw. $20 fifteen minutes. $30

half hour.

TRAVIS:

Sh*t.

SPORT:

Take it or leave it.

TRAVIS digs in his pocket for money.

SPORT:

No, not me. There'll be an elderly

gent to take the bread.

TRAVIS turns to walk away.

SPORT:

Catch you later, Copper.

TRAVIS freezes, not saying anything. He turns back toward

SPORT.

TRAVIS:

I'm no cop.

SPORT:

Well, if you are, it's entrapment

already.

TRAVIS:

I'm hip.

SPORT:

Funny, you don't look hip.

(laughs)

TRAVIS walks back to IRIS.

IRIS motions for TRAVIS to follow her and he does.

IRIS and TRAVIS turn the corner and walk about a block,

saying nothing. IRIS turns into a darkened doorway and

TRAVIS follows her.

At the top of the dark stairs IRIS and TRAVIS enter a dimly

lit hallway. On either side are doors with apartment

numbers. IRIS turns toward the first door, No. 2.

IRIS:

This is my room.

82.

At the far end of the darkened corridor sits a huge OLD MAN.

His face is obscured by shadow. TRAVIS is about to enter

the room when the OLD MAN speaks up:

OLD MAN:

Hey cowboy!

TRAVIS turns his head toward the OLD MAN who has stood up

and is advancing toward him.

OLD MAN:

(motioning to TRAVIS' jacket)

The rod.

(a beat)

Gimme the rod, cowboy.

TRAVIS hesitates a moment, uncertain what to do. The OLD

MAN reaches in TRAVIS' jacket and pulls out the .38 Special.

OLD MAN:

This ain't Dodge City, cowboy. You

don't need no piece.

(glances at watch)

I'm keepin' time.

TRAVIS enters No. 2 with IRIS.

TRAVIS looks around IRIS' room: although dimly lit, the room

is brightly decorated. There is an orange shag carpet, deep

brown walls and an old red velvet sofa. On the walls are

posters of Mick Jagger, Bob Dylan and Peter Fonda. A Neil

Young album is playing on a small phonograph.

This is where IRIS lives: it bears the individual touch of a

young girl.

IRIS lights a cigarette, takes a single puff and places it

in an ashtray on the bedstand.

TRAVIS:

Why you hang around with them

greasers?

IRIS:

A girl needs protection.

TRAVIS:

Yeah. From the likes of them.

IRIS:

(shrugs)

It's your time mister. Fifteen

minutes ain't long.

(gestures to cigarette)

That cigarette burns out, your time

is up.

83.

IRIS sits on the edge of the bed and removes her hat and

coat. She takes off her blue-tinted sunglasses--her last

defense. Without the paraphernalia of adulthood, Iris looks

like a little girl she is. About 14, 15.

TRAVIS:

What's your name?

IRIS:

Easy.

TRAVIS:

That ain't much of a name.

IRIS:

It's easy to remember. Easy Lay.

TRAVIS:

What's your real name?

IRIS:

I don't like my real name.

TRAVIS:

(insistent)

What's your real name?

IRIS:

Iris.

TRAVIS:

That's a nice name.

IRIS:

That's what you think.

IRIS unbuttons her shirt, revealing her small pathetic

breasts -- two young doves hiding from a winter wind.

TRAVIS is unnerved by her partial nudity.

TRAVIS:

Don't you remember me? Button your

shirt.

IRIS buttons only the bottom button of her shirt.

IRIS:

(examining him)

Why? Who are you?

TRAVIS:

I drive a taxi. You tried to get

away one night. Remember?

84.

IRIS:

No.

Rate this script:4.1 / 16 votes