Taxi Driver Page #7

That song by Kris Kristofferson,

where it's said "Like a pusher,

party truth, partly ficition, a

walking contradiction".

(smiles)

TRAVIS:

I'm no pusher, Betsy. Honest. I

never have pushed.

TRAVIS:

I didn't mean that, Travis. Just

the part about the contradiction.

TRAVIS:

(more at ease)

Oh. Who was that again?

BETSY:

The singer?

35.

TRAVIS:

Yeah. Yes. I don't follow music too

much.

BETSY:

(slowly)

Kris Kristofferson.

Travis looks at Betsy intently and they exchange smiles.

CUT TO:

Travis is walking confusedly around SAM GOODY'S at MIDDAY,

obviously unable to locate what he desires.

Travis is lost among the hip, young intellectual type that

populate the store. He watches the stylish, attractive

female help, unable to come right out and requests what he

desires.

A young SALESGIRL sees his plight, walks over and asks if he

needs any help. Travis INAUDIBLY says a name to her, although

the name is obviously Kris Kristofferson.

The Salesgirl digs out Kristofferson's "Silver-Tongued

Devil" album for him.

Travis says something additional to the Salesgirl and she

goes off to gift-wrap the album.

Travis emerges from the RECORD STORE, the brightly giftwrapped

album proudly tucked under his arm.

CUT TO:

A lengthy POV SHOT from Travis' vantage point behind the

wheel.

We see the city as Travis sees it. The front windshield is a

little dirty, the lighted meter just up at the low right

screen. The intercom crackles with STATIC and MESSAGES.

The light turns green; we take off with a start. A short

first gear - quick shift - a long second gear. The cab eases

to the right of the street, checking out prospective fares.

Our eyes scan the long lines of PEDESTRIANS. The regular -

bums, junkies, tourists, hookers, homosexuals, hippies -

they mean nothing now. They only blend into the sidewalks

and lighted storefronts.

Our eyes now concentrate on those that step away from the

curb - is that man hailing a cab or scratching his head?

36.

In the next block there are perhaps three, four fares -

quick gas-up through this yellow light - brake sharply -

check the action. The first: Tourist, nickel tipper - let

the next guy pick them up. Let the second go also, the

third - there's a live fare. Middle-aged LOCAL WOMAN: Short

fare to the East Side, good tip.

We pull to the curb, waiting for her to get in. It is a long

wait - a Black STREET WALKER crosses in front of the cab. We

focus on (as Travis would) a YOUNG COUPLE embracing in the

distance.

As we travel, we hear Travis' random thoughts about selecting

fares and tips:

TRAVIS (V.O.)

You work at night, you get an

instinct. You can smell them. The

big tippers, the stiffs, the

trouble makers. Quarter is good tip

for Manhattan. Queens is better,

Brooklyn is best. go for the guys

with suitcases. The rich are the

worst tippers, hooks are lousy.

Spooks are okay, but they don't

live at Park Ave after all.

The meter is activated: $.60 registers. Tick, tick, tick. A

quick glance shows the woman is now seated. She says softly,

"192 East 89". We take off with another jolt. Cross back up

9th Ave, then cut through the park.

We're zooming up 9th Ave - how many green lights can we

string together? Somebody steps out to hail the cab, but

quickly steps back again. The meter is up $.90. It'll be a

$1.40 fare.

Now through the park and we're almost there. Check the

numbers - 134 - 140. End of the block. Fare=$1.40.

Check back mirror - she's getting out two bills. Two quarters

and a dime change. Tip'll be either.25 or .35.

The tip comes back: 35 cents - good tip. Good lady. We take

off again with a jolt.

This is Travis' world: Dark side streets, garish glaring

main streets, quick glances, quicker evaluations - a dozen

instantaneous decisions a minute. Are these people, are

these objects?

EXT. TRAVIS' TAXI speed down darkened street.

Travis lets off a fare and pulls into line at the Plaza.

37.

TRAVIS (V.O.)

I called Betsy again at her office,

and she said maybe we could go to a

movie together after she gets off

work tomorrow. That's my day off.

At first she hesitated, but I

called her again and she agreed.

(pause)

Betsy. Betsy what? I forgot to ask

her last name again. Damn. I've

got to remember stuff like that.

Travis' thoughts are with Betsy, as THREE MEN enter Travis'

cab. He activates the meter and pulls off.

MAN'S VOICE

St. Regis Hotel.

Travis checks the mirror. Scanning across the back seat, he

recognizes the middle passenger. It is CHARLES PALANTINE,

candidate for President. He must have left the Hotel

shortly after BETSY.

Tom, seated on the jump seat, checks his watch and speaks

deferentially to Palantine:

TOM:

It's 12:
30 now. You'll have fifteen

minutes before the actual luncheon

begins.

Palantine nods as his assistant picks up the thread of an

earlier conversation.

ASSISTANT:

I don't think we have to worry

about anybody here committing

themselves until things start

coming in from California.

Travis recognizes his passenger. He puts out his cigarette.

TRAVIS:

(interrupting)

Say, aren't you Charles Palantine,

the candidate?

PALANTINE:

(only mildly irritated)

Yes I am.

38.

TRAVIS:

Well, I'm one of your biggest

supporters. I tell everybody that

comes in this cab that they should

vote for you.

PALANTINE:

(pleased; glances to

check Travis' license)

Why, thank you Travis.

TRAVIS:

I'm sure you'll win, sir. Everybody

I know is going to vote for you.

(a beat)

I was going to put one of your

stickers on my taxi but the company

said it was against their policy.

PALANTINE:

(pleasant)

I'll tell you, Travis, I've learned

more about this country sitting in

taxi cabs than in the board room of

General Motors.

TOM:

(joking)

And in some other places too...

Palantine, his Assistant and Tom all laugh. Palantine,

quickly reassuming candiorial mien, speaks to Travis:

PALANTINE:

Travis, what single thing would you

want the next President of this

country to do most?

TRAVIS:

I don't know, sir. I don't follow

political issues much.

PALANTINE:

There must be something...

TRAVIS:

(thinks)

Well, he should clean up this city

here. It's full of filth and scum.

Scum and filth. It's like an open

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