The Apartment Page #13

Sheldrake slips a bill to the piano player, who gives them a

big smile, slides into JEALOUS LOVER again. Retrieving his

hat and coat from the checkroom girl, Sheldrake steers Fran

through the door.

Miss Olsen watches them with a cold smile.

EXT. CHINESE RESTAURANT - EVENING

Fran and Sheldrake come up the steps.

SHELDRAKE:

(to a passing cab)

Taxi!

It passes without stopping.

FRAN:

I have that date -- remember?

SHELDRAKE:

I love you -- remember?

Another taxi approaches. Sheldrake gives a shrill whistle,

and it pulls up. He opens the door.

FRAN:

Where are we going, Jeff? Not back

to that leaky boat --

SHELDRAKE:

I promise.

He helps her into the cab, takes out of his coat pocket the

page from the pad on which Bud wrote the address of the

apartment.

SHELDRAKE:

(to cab driver)

51 West Sixty-Seventh.

He gets in beside Fran, shuts the door. As the cab pulls

away, through the rear window the two can be seen kissing.

CUT TO:

EXT. MAJESTIC THEATRE - EVENING

It's 9 o'clock, the lobby is deserted, and standing on the

sidewalk all by himself, is Bud. He takes a Kleenex out of

his pocket, blows his nose, stuffs the used Kleenex in

another pocket. He looks up and down the street, consults

his watch, decides to wait just a little longer.

FADE OUT:

FADE IN:

BAXTER'S DESK CALENDAR

The leaves are flipping over. Mr. Sheldrake seems to be

using The Apartment regularly -- for the name Sheldrake, in

Bud's handwriting, appears on the pages dated Monday,

November 9, Thursday, November 12, Thursday, November 19,

Monday, November 23, and Monday, November 30. Mr. Sheldrake

also seems to be Baxter's only customer by now, since the

other leaves of the calendar are blank.

DISSOLVE TO:

INT. NINETEENTH FLOOR - INSURANCE BUILDING - DAY

It is a gloomy December morning, and hundreds of desk-bound

employees are bent over their paper-work.

Bud Baxter, in raincoat and hat, is clearing out his desk.

He has piled everything on his blotter pad -- reference

books, papers, a fountain pen set, pencils, paper clips and

the calendar. Watching him from the next desk is a

dumbfounded Moffett. Bud picks up the blotter pad with his

stuff on it, and as he moves past Moffett's desk, Moffett

takes out a dollar bill, drops it grudgingly on the loaded

pad. Bud flashes him a little grin, continues between the

desks toward the row of glass-enclosed offices housing the

supervisory personnel.

He comes up to an unoccupied cubicle. A sign painter is

brushing in some new lettering on the glass door -- it reads

C. C. BAXTER, Second Administrative Assistant. Bud studies

the sign with a good deal of satisfaction.

BUD:

(to painter)

Would you mind --?

(the painter turns around)

C. C. Baxter -- that's me.

With an "Oh, " the painter opens the door for him.

INT. BAXTER'S OFFICE - DAY

Bud enters his new office, deposits his stuff on the bare

desk, looks around possessively. The small cubicle boasts

one window, carpeting on the floor, a filing cabinet, a

couple of synthetic-leather chairs, and a clothes-tree -- to

Bud, it is the Taj Mahal. He crosses to the clothes-tree,

removes his hat and coat, hangs them up. From OFF comes --

KIRKEBY'S VOICE

Hi, Buddy-boy.

DOBISCH'S VOICE

Congratulations, and all that jazz.

Bud turns. Kirkeby, Dobisch, Eichelberger and Vanderhof have

come into the office.

BUD:

Hi, fellas.

EICHELBERGER:

Well, you made it, kid -- just like

we promised.

VANDERHOF:

Quite an office -- name on the

door -- rug on the floor -- the

whole schmear.

BUD:

Yeah.

DOBISCH:

Teamwork -- that's what counts in

an organization like this. All for

one and one for all -- know what I

mean?

BUD:

I have a vague idea.

Kirkeby signals to Vanderhof, who shuts the door. The four

charter members of the club start closing in on Bud.

KIRKEBY:

Baxter, we're a little disappointed

in you -- gratitude-wise.

BUD:

Oh, I'm very grateful.

EIGHELBERGER:

Then why are you locking us out,

all of a sudden?

BUD:

It's been sort of rough these last

few weeks -- what with my cold and

like that --

He has picked up the desk calendar, shoves it discreetly

into one of the drawers.

DOBISCH:

We went to bat for you -- and now

you won't play ball with us.

BUD:

Well, after all, it's my

apartment -- it's private

property -- it's not a public

playground.

VANDERHOF:

All right, so you got yourself a

girl -- that's okay with us -- but

not every night of the week.

KIRKEBY:

How selfish can you get?

(to the others)

Last week I had to borrow my

nephew's car and take Sylvia to a

drive-in in Jersey. I'm too old for

that sort of thing -- I mean, in a

Volkswagen.

BUD:

I sympathize with your problem --

and believe me, I'm very sorry --

DOBISCH:

You'll be a lot sorrier before

we're through with you.

BUD:

You threatening me?

DOBISCH:

Listen, Baxter, we made you and we

can break you.

He deliberately flips a cigar ash on Bud's desk. At the same

time, the door opens, and Sheldrake comes striding in briskly.

BUD:

Good morning, Mr. Sheldrake.

The others swivel around.

SHELDRAKE:

Morning, gentlemen.

(to Bud)

Everything satisfactory? You like

your office?

BUD:

Oh, yes, sir. Very much. And I want

to thank you --

SHELDRAKE:

Don't thank me -- thank your

friends here -- they're the ones

who recommended you.

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