The Apartment Page #4

That does it. Bud turns the set off in disgust.

The TV screen blacks out, except for a small pinpoint of

light in the center, which gradually fades away.

In the bathroom, Bud, in pajamas by now, is brushing his

teeth. From the shower rod hang three pairs of socks on

stretchers. Bud takes a vial from the medicine shelf,

shakes out a sleeping pill, washes it down with a glass of

water. He turns the light off, walks into the bedroom.

In the bedroom, the single bed is made, and the lamp on the

night table is on. Bud plugs in the electric blanket, turns

the dial on. Then he climbs into bed, props up the pillow

behind him. From the night table, he picks up the magazine

that arrived in the mail, slides it out of the wrapper,

opens it. It's the new issue of PLAYBOY. Bud leafs through

it till he comes to the piece de resistance of the magazine.

He unfolds the overleaf, glances at it casually, refolds it,

then turns to the back of the magazine and starts to read.

What he is so avidly interested in is the men's fashion

section. There is a layout titled WHAT THE YOUNG EXECUTIVE

WILL WEAR with a sub-head reading The Bowler is Back.

Illustrating the article are several photographs of male

models wearing various styles of bowlers.

Bud is definitely in the market for a bowler, but somehow

his mind starts wandering. He turns back to the overleaf

again, unfolds it, studies it, then holds the magazine up

vertically to get a different perspective on the subject.

By now the sleeping pill is beginning to take effect, and he

yawns. He drops the magazine on the floor, kills the light,

settles down to sleep. The room is dark except for the glow

from the dial of the electric blanket.

Three seconds. Then the phone jangles shrilly in the living

room. Bud stumbles groggily out of bed, and putting on his

slippers, makes his way into the living room. He switches

on the light, picks up the phone.

BUD:

Hello? -- Hello? -- yes, this is

Baxter.

INT. PHONE BOOTH IN A MANHATTAN BAR - NIGHT

On the night is a hearty man of about forty-five, nothing

gut personality, most of it obnoxious. His name is DOBISCH.

Outside the booth is a blonde babe, slightly boozed, and

beyond there is a suggestion of the packed, smoky joint.

DOBISCH:

Hiya, Buddy-boy. I'm in this bar

on Sixty-first Street -- and I got

to thinking about you -- and I

figured I'd give you a little buzz.

BUD - ON PHONE

BUD:

Well, that's very nice of you --

but who is this?

INT. PHONE BOOTH

DOBISCH:

Dobisch -- Joe Dobisch, in

Administration.

BUD - ON PHONE

BUD:

(snapping to attention)

Oh, yes, Mr. Dobisch. I didn't

recognize your voice --

INT. PHONE BOOTH

DOBISCH:

That's okay, Buddy-boy. Now like I

was saying, I'm in this joint on

Sixty-first -- and I think I got

lucky --

(glances toward blonde)

-- she's a skater with the Ice

Show --

(he chuckles)

-- and I thought maybe I could

bring her up for a quiet drink.

BUD - ON PHONE

BUD:

I'm sorry, Mr. Dobisch. You know I

like to help you guys out -- but

it's sort of late -- so why don't

we make it some other time?

INT. PHONE BOOTH

DOBISCH:

Buddy-boy -- she won't keep that

long -- not even on ice. Listen,

kid, I can't pass this up -- she

looks like Marilyn Monroe.

BUD - ON PHONE

BUD:

I don't care if it is Marilyn

Monroe -- I'm already in bed -- and

I've taken a sleeping pill -- so

I'm afraid the answer is no.

INT. PHONE BOOTH

DOBISCH:

(pulling rank)

Look, Baxter -- we're making out

the monthly efficiency rating --

and I'm putting you in the top ten.

Now you don't want to louse yourself

up, do you?

BUD - ON PHONE

BUD:

Of course not. But -- how can I be

efficient in the office if I don't

get enough sleep at night?

INT. PHONE BOOTH

DOBISCH:

It's only eleven -- and I just want

the place for forty-five minutes.

The blonde opens the door of the phone booth, leans in.

BLONDE:

I'm getting lonely. Who are you

talking to, anyway?

DOBISCH:

My mother.

BLONDE:

That's sweet. That's real sweet.

Dobisch shuts the door in her face.

DOBISCH:

(into phone again)

Make it thirty minutes. What do

you say, Bud?

BUD - ON PHONE

BUD:

(a last stand)

I'm all out of liquor -- and

there's no clean glasses -- no

cheese crackers -- no nothing.

INT. PHONE BOOTH

DOBISCH:

Let me worry about that. Just

leave the key under the mat and

clear out.

INT. THE APARTMENT

BUD:

(into phone; resigned)

Yes, Mr. Dobisch.

He hangs up, shuffles back into the bedroom.

BUD:

(muttering to himself)

Anything you say, Mr. Dobisch -- no

trouble at all, Mr. Dobisch -- be

my guest --

He reappears from the bedroom, pulling his trousers on over

his pajama pants.

BUD:

-- We never close at Buddy-boy's --

looks like Marilyn Monroe --

(he chuckles a la Dobisch)

Putting on his raincoat and hat, Bud opens the hall door,

takes the key from the table, shoves it under the doormat.

His eyes fall on the Dreyfuss apartment, and there is some

concern on his face. He picks up a pad and pencil from the

table, prints something in block letters. Tearing off the

top sheet, he impales it on the spindle of the phonograph,

then walks out, closing the door behind him. The note reads:

NOT TOO LOUD:

THE NEIGHBORS ARE COMPLAINING

EXT. BROWNSTONE HOUSE - NIGHT

Bud comes out the door, in slippered feet, pants and raincoat

over his pajamas. As he sleep-walks down the steps, a cab

pulls up in front of the house. Bud ducks discreetly into

the areaway. Mr. Dobisch, bareheaded, emerges cautiously

from the cab. Between the fingers of his hands he is

carrying four long-stemmed glasses, brimful of stingers.

The blonde steps out, holding his hat.

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