The Apartment Page #8

INT. NINETEENTH FLOOR - DAY

Bud, at his desk, is on the phone.

BUD:

Thank you, Mr. Kirkeby.

(hangs up, consults

directory, dials)

Mr. Eichelberger? It's okay for

Friday.

(hangs up, consults

directory, dials)

Mr. Vanderhof? It's okay for

Wednesday.

During this, the phone has rung at the next desk, and the

occupant, MR. MOFFETT, has picked it up. As Bud hangs up --

MOFFETT:

(into phone)

All right -- I'll tell him.

(hangs up, turns to Bud)

Hey, Baxter -- that was Personnel.

Mr. Sheldrake's secretary.

BUD:

Sheldrake?

MOFFETT:

She's been trying to reach you for

the last twenty minutes. They want

you up stairs.

BUD:

Oh!

He jumps up, stuffs the nose-spray into one pocket, a

handful of Kleenex into the other.

MOFFETT:

What gives, Baxter? You getting

promoted or getting fired?

BUD:

(cockily)

Care to make a small wager?

MOFFETT:

I've been here twice as long as you

have --

BUD:

Shall we say -- a dollar?

MOFFETT:

It's a bet.

Bud snake-hips between the desks like a broken-field runner.

At the elevator, Bud presses the UP button, paces nervously.

One of the elevator doors opens, and as Bud starts inside,

the doors of the adjoining elevator open, and Fran Kubelik

sticks her head out.

FRAN:

Going up?

Hearing her voice, Bud throws a quick "Excuse me" to the

other operator, exits quickly and steps into Fran's elevator.

BUD:

Twenty-seven, please. And drive

carefully. You're carrying precious

cargo -- I mean, manpower-wise.

Fran shuts the doors.

INT. ELEVATOR - DAY

Fran presses a button, and the elevator starts up.

FRAN:

Twenty-seven.

BUD:

You may not realize it, Miss

Kubelik, but I'm in the top ten --

efficiency-wise and this may be the

day -- promotion-wise.

FRAN:

You're beginning to sound like Mr.

Kirkeby already.

BUD:

Why not? Now that they're kicking

me upstairs --

FRAN:

Couldn't happen to a nicer guy.

(Bud beams)

You know, you're the only one

around here who ever takes his hat

off in the elevator.

BUD:

Really?

FRAN:

The characters you meet. Something

happens to men in elevators. Must

be the change of altitude -- the

blood rushes to their head, or

something -- boy, I could tell you

stories --

BUD:

I'd love to hear them. Maybe we

could have lunch in the cafeteria

sometime -- or some evening, after

work --

The elevator has stopped, and Fran opens the doors.

FRAN:

Twenty-seven.

INT. TWENTY-SEVENTH FLOOR FOYER - DAY

It is pretty plush up here -- soft carpeting and tall

mahogany doors leading to the executive offices. The elevator

door is open, and Bud steps out.

FRAN:

I hope everything goes all right.

BUD:

I hope so.

(turning back)

Wouldn't you know they'd call me on

a day like this -- with my cold and

everything --

(fumbling with his tie)

How do I look?

FRAN:

Fine.

(stepping out of elevator)

Wait.

She takes the carnation out of her lapel, starts to put it

in Bud's buttonhole.

BUD:

Thank you. That's the first thing I

ever noticed about you -- when you

were still on the local elevator --

you always wore a flower --

The elevator buzzer is now sounding insistently. Fran steps

back inside.

FRAN:

Good luck. And wipe your nose.

She shuts the doors. Bud looks after her, then takes a

Kleenex out of his pocket, and wiping his nose, crosses to a

glass door marked J. D. SHELDRAKE, DIRECTOR OF PERSONNEL. He

stashes the used Kleenex away in another pocket, enters.

INT. SHELDRAKE'S ANTEROOM - DAY

It is a sedate office with a secretary and a couple of

typists. The secretary's name is MISS OLSEN. She is in her

thirties, flaxen- haired, handsome, wears harlequin glasses,

and has an incisive manner. Bud comes up to her desk.

BUD:

C. C. Baxter -- Ordinary Premium

Accounting -- Mr. Sheldrake called

me.

MISS OLSEN:

I called you -- that is, I tried to

call you -- for twenty minutes.

BUD:

I'm sorry, I --

MISS OLSEN:

Go on in.

She indicates the door leading to the inner office. Bud

squares his shoulders and starts in.

INT. SHELDRAKE'S OFFICE - DAY

Mr. Sheldrake is a $14,000 a year man, and rates a four-

window office.

It is not quite an executive suite, but it is several pegs

above the glass cubicles of the middle echelon. There is

lots of leather, and a large desk behind which sits MR.

SHELDRAKE. He is a substantial looking, authoritative man in

his middle forties, a pillar of his suburban community, a

blood donor and a family man. The latter is attested to by a

framed photograph showing two boys, aged 8 and 10, in

military school uniforms.

As Baxter comes through the door, Sheldrake is leafing

through Dobisch's efficiency report. He looks up at Bud

through a pair of heavy-rimmed reading glasses.

SHELDRAKE:

Baxter?

BUD:

Yes, sir.

SHELDRAKE:

(studying him)

I was sort of wondering what you

looked like. Sit down.

BUD:

Yes, Mr. Sheldrake.

He seats himself on the very edge of the leather armchair

facing Sheldrake.

SHELDRAKE:

Been hearing some very nice things

about you -- here's a report from

Mr. Dobisch -- loyal, cooperative,

resourceful --

BUD:

Mr. Dobisch said that?

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