The Apartment Page #6

He sniffs, takes out a Kleenex, wipes his nose.

FRAN:

Say, you got a lulu.

BUD:

Yeah. I better not get too close.

FRAN:

Oh, I never catch colds.

BUD:

Really? I was looking at some

figures from the Sickness and

Accident Claims Division -- do you

know that the average New Yorker

between the ages of twenty and

fifty has two and a half colds a

year?

FRAN:

That makes me feel just terrible.

BUD:

Why?

FRAN:

Well, to make the figures come out

even -- since I have no colds a

year -- some poor slob must have

five colds a year.

BUD:

That's me.

(dabs his nose)

FRAN:

You should have stayed in bed this

morning.

BUD:

I should have stayed in bed last

night.

The elevator has slowed down, now stops. Fran opens the door.

FRAN:

Nineteen. Watch your step.

About a third of the passengers get out, including Bud and

Mr. Kirkeby. As Kirkeby passes Fran, he slaps her behind

with his folded newspaper. Fran jumps slightly.

FRAN:

(all in the day's work)

And watch your hand, Mr. Kirkeby!

KIRKEBY:

(innocently)

I beg your pardon?

FRAN:

One of these days I'm going to shut

those doors on you and --

She withdraws her hand into the sleeve of her uniform, and

waves the "amputated" arm at him.

FRAN:

Twenty next.

The doors close.

INT. NINETEENTH FLOOR - DAY

Kirkeby turns away from the elevator, and grinning smugly,

falls in beside Bud.

KIRKEBY:

That Kubelik -- boy! Would I like

to get her on a slow elevator to

China.

BUD:

Oh, yes. She's the best operator

in the building.

KIRKEBY:

I'm a pretty good operator myself --

but she just won't give me a

tumble -- date-wise.

BUD:

Maybe you're using the wrong

approach.

KIRKEBY:

A lot of guys around here have

tried it -- all kinds of

approaches -- no dice. What is she

trying to prove?

BUD:

Could be she's just a nice,

respectable girl -- there are

millions of them.

KIRKEBY:

Listen to him. Little Lord

Fauntleroy!

Leaving Bud at the employees' coat-racks, Kirkeby heads

toward his office, one of the glass-enclosed cubicles. Bud

hangs up his hat and raincoat, stows away the gloves and

muffler. Out of his coat pocket he takes a plastic anti-

histamine sprayer and a box of cough drops, and still

carrying the Kleenex, threads his way to his desk. Most of

the desks are already occupied, and the others are filling

rapidly.

Once seated at his desk, Bud arranges his medicaments neatly

in front of him. He takes a Kleenex out of the box, blows

his nose, then leaning back in his swivel chair sprays first

one nostril, then the other. Suddenly the piercing bell goes

off -- the workday has begun. Being the ultra-conscientious

type, Bud instantly sits upright in his chair, removes the

cover from his computing machine, picks up a batch of

perforated premium cards, starts entering figures on his

computer.

After a few seconds, he glances around to make sure that

everybody in the vicinity is busy. Then he looks up a number

in the company telephone directory, dials furtively.

BUD:

(cupping hand over

phone mouthpiece)

Hello, Mr. Dobisch? This is Baxter,

on the nineteenth floor.

INT. DOBISCH'S OFFICE - DAY

It is a glass-enclosed cubicle on the twenty-first floor.

Through the glass we see another enormous layout of desks,

everybody working away. Dobisch is holding the phone in one

hand, running an electric shaver over his face with the other.

DOBISCH:

Oh, Buddy-boy. I was just about to

call you.

(shuts off electric shaver)

I'm sorry about that mess on the

living room wall. You see, my

little friend, she kept insisting

Picasso was a bum -- so she started

to do that mural -- but I'm sure it

will wash off -- just eyebrow pencil.

BUD - ON PHONE

BUD:

It's not Picasso I'm calling about.

It's the key -- to my apartment --

you were supposed to leave it under

the mat.

DOBISCH - ON PHONE

DOBISCH:

I did, didn't I? I distinctly

remember bending over and putting

it there --

BUD - ON PHONE

BUD:

Oh, I found a key there, all

right -- only it's the wrong key.

DOBISCH - ON PHONE

DOBISCH:

It is?

(takes Bud's key out

of his pocket)

Well, how about that? No wonder I

couldn't get into the executive

washroom this morning.

BUD - ON PHONE

BUD:

And I couldn't get into my

apartment -- so at four a. m. I had

to wake up the landlady and give

her a whole song and dance about

going out to mail a letter and the

door slamming shut.

DOBISCH - ON PHONE

DOBISCH:

That's a shame. I'll send the key

right down. And about your

promotion --

(leafs through report

on desk)

-- I'm sending that efficiency

report right up to Mr. Sheldrake,

in Personnel. I wouldn't be

surprised if you heard from him

before the day is over.

BUD - ON PHONE

BUD:

Thank you, Mr. Dobisch.

He hangs up, feels his forehead. It is warm. Clipped to his

handkerchief pocket are a black fountain pen and, next to

it, a thermometer in a black case. Bud unclips the

thermometer case, unscrews the cap, shakes the thermometer

out, puts it under his tongue. He resumes work.

A messenger comes up to his desk with an interoffice envelope.

MESSENGER:

From Mr. Dobisch.

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