The Apartment Page #2

KIRKEBY:

(exasperated)

What's the difference? Some

schnook that works in the office.

EXT. BROWNSTONE HOUSE - EVENING

Bud is pacing back and forth, throwing an occasional glance

at the lit windows of his apartment. A middle-aged woman

with a dog on a leash approaches along the sidewalk.

She is MRS. LIEBERMAN, the dog is a Scottie, and they are

both wearing raincoats. Seeing them, Bud leans casually

against the stoop.

MRS. LIEBERMAN

Good evening, Mr. Baxter.

BUD:

Good evening, Mrs. Lieberman.

MRS. LIEBERMAN

Some weather we're having. Must be

from all the meshugass at Cape

Canaveral.

(she is half-way up

the steps)

You locked out of your apartment?

BUD:

No, no. Just waiting for a friend.

Good night, Mrs. Lieberman.

MRS. LIEBERMAN

Good night, Mr. Baxter.

She and the Scottie disappear into the house. Bud resumes

pacing, his eyes on the apartment windows. Suddenly he

stops -- the lights have gone out.

INT. SECOND FLOOR LANDING - EVENING

Kirkeby, in coat and hat, stands in the open doorway of the

darkened apartment.

KIRKEBY:

Come on -- come on, Sylvia!

Sylvia comes cha cha-ing out, wearing an imitation Persian

lamb coat, her hat askew on her head, bag, gloves, and an

umbrella in her hand.

SYLVIA:

Some setup you got here. A real,

honest-to-goodness love nest.

KIRKEBY:

Sssssh.

He locks the door, slips the key under the doormat.

SYLVIA:

(still cha cha-ing)

You're one button off, Mr. Kirkeby.

She points to his exposed vest. Kirkeby looks down, sees

that the buttons are out of line. He starts to rebutton

them as they move down the narrow, dimly-lit stairs.

SYLVIA:

You got to watch those things.

Wives are getting smarter all the

time. Take Mr. Bernheim -- in the

Claims Department -- came home one

night with lipstick on his shirt --

told his wife he had a shrimp

cocktail for lunch -- so she took

it out to the lab and had it

analyzed -- so now she has the

house in Great Neck and the children

and the new Jaguar --

KIRKEBY:

Don't you ever stop talking?

EXT. BROWNSTONE HOUSE - EVENING

Bud, standing on the sidewalk, sees the front door start to

open. He moves quickly into the areaway, almost bumping

into the ashcans, stands in the shadow of the stoop with his

back turned discreetly toward Kirkeby and Sylvia as they

come down the steps.

KIRKEBY:

Where do you live?

SYLVIA:

I told you -- with my mother.

KIRKEBY:

Where does she live?

SYLVIA:

A hundred and seventy-ninth

street -- the Bronx.

KIRKEBY:

All right -- I'll take you to the

subway.

SYLVIA:

Like hell you will. You'll buy me

a cab.

KIRKEBY:

Why do all you dames have to live

in the Bronx?

SYLVIA:

You mean you bring other girls up

here?

KIRKEBY:

Certainly not. I'm a happily

married man.

They move down the street. Bud appears from the areaway,

glances after them, then mounts the steps, goes through the

front door.

INT. VESTIBULE - EVENING

There are eight mailboxes. Bud opens his, takes out a

magazine in a paper wrapper and a few letters, proceeds up

the staircase.

INT. SECOND FLOOR LANDING - EVENING

Bud, glancing through his mail, comes up to the door of his

apartment. As he bends down to lift the doormat, the door

of the rear apartment opens and MRS. DREYFUSS, a jovial

well-fed middle-aged woman, puts out a receptacle full of

old papers and empty cans. Bud looks around from his bent

position.

BUD:

Oh. Hello there, Mrs. Dreyfuss.

MRS. DREYFUSS

Something the matter?

BUD:

I seem to have dropped my key.

(faking a little search)

Oh -- here it is.

He slides it out from under the mat, straightens up.

MRS. DREYFUSS

Such a racket I heard in your

place -- maybe you had burglars.

BUD:

Oh, you don't have to worry about

that -- nothing in there that

anybody would want to steal...

(unlocking door quickly)

Good night, Mrs. Dreyfuss.

He ducks into the apartment.

INT. THE APARTMENT - EVENING

Bud snaps on the lights, drops the mail and the key on a

small table, looks around with distaste at the mess his

visitors have left behind. He sniffs the stale air, crosses

to the window, pulls up the shade, opens it wide. Now he

takes off his hat and raincoat, gathers up the remains of

the cocktail party from the coffee table. Loaded down with

glasses, pitcher, empty vodka bottle, ice bowl and potato

chips, he starts toward the kitchen.

The doorbell rings. Bud stops, undecided what to do with

the stuff in his hands, then crosses to the hall door,

barely manages to get it open. Mr. Kirkeby barges in past

him.

KIRKEBY:

The little lady forgot her galoshes.

He scours the room for the missing galoshes.

BUD:

Mr. Kirkeby, I don't like to

complain -- but you were supposed

to be out of here by eight.

KIRKEBY:

I know, Buddy-boy, I know. But

those things don't always run on

schedule -- like a Greyhound bus.

BUD:

I don't mind in the summer -- but

on a rainy night -- and I haven't

had any dinner yet --

KIRKEBY:

Sure, sure. Look, kid -- I put in

a good word for you with Sheldrake,

in Personnel.

BUD:

(perking up)

Mr. Sheldrake?

KIRKEBY:

That's right. We were discussing

our department -- manpower-wise --

and promotion-wise --

(finds the galoshes

behind a chair)

-- and I told him what a bright boy

you were. They're always on the

lookout for young executives.

BUD:

Thank you, Mr. Kirkeby.

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