The Big Lebowski Page #27

THOOMP! ON THE EMBRACE WE CUT TO:

BLACK:

After a beat, a long sigh, and then a voice from the

blackness:

MAUDE:

Tell me a little about yourself,

Jeffrey.

DUDE:

Well, uh. . . Not much to tell.

A match is dragged across a headboard; the Dude is lighting

himself a joint. He shakes the match out to restore blackness

except for the glowing tip of the joint.

DUDE:

I was, uh, one of the authors of the

Port Huron Statement.--The original

Port Huron Statement.

MAUDE:

Uh-huh.

DUDE:

Not the compromised second draft.

And then I, uh. . . Ever hear of the

Seattle Seven?

MAUDE:

Mmnun.

Click--the Dude turns on a bedside lamp. He and Maude lie

next to each other in bed.

DUDE:

And then. . . let's see, I uh--music

business briefly.

MAUDE:

Oh?

DUDE:

Yeah. Roadie for Metallica. Speed

of Sound Tour.

MAUDE:

Uh-huh.

DUDE:

Bunch of a**holes. And then, you

know, little of this, little of that.

My career's, uh, slowed down a bit

lately.

MAUDE:

What do you do for fun?

DUDE:

Oh, you know, the usual. Bowl.

Drive around. The occasional acid

flashback.

He climbs out of bed but Maude remains in it. She wedges a

pillow into the small of her back and clasps a hand on each

kneecap. She pulls her knees in toward her chest to keep

her pelvis raised.

MAUDE:

What happened to your house?

DUDE:

Jackie Treehorn trashed the place.

Wanted to save the finder's fee.

MAUDE:

Finder's fee?

DUDE:

He thought I had your father's money,

so he got me out of the way while he

looked for it.

MAUDE:

It's not my father's money, it's the

Foundation's. Why did he think you

had it? And who does?

DUDE:

Larry Sellers, a high-school kid.

Real f***ing brat.

He picks a White Russian off the bedside table.

MAUDE:

Jeffrey--

DUDE:

It's a complicated case, Maude.

Lotta ins, lotta outs. Fortunately

I've been adhering to a pretty strict,

uh, drug regimen to keep my mind,

you know, limber. I'm real f***ing

close to your father's money, real

f***ing close. It's just--

MAUDE:

I keep telling you, it's the

Foundation's money. Father doesn't

have any.

DUDE:

Huh? He's f***ing loaded.

MAUDE:

No no, the wealth was all Mother's.

DUDE:

But your father--he runs stuff, he--

MAUDE:

We did let Father run one of the

companies, briefly, but he didn't do

very well at it.

DUDE:

But he's--

MAUDE:

He helps administer the charities

now, and I give him a reasonable

allowance. He has no money of his

own. I know how he likes to present

himself; Father's weakness is vanity.

Hence the slut.

DUDE:

Huh. Jeez. Well, so, did he--is

that yoga?

Throughout, Maude has been lying on her back with her knees

pulled in.

MAUDE:

It increases the chances of

conception.

The Dude spits some White Russian.

DUDE:

Increases?

MAUDE:

Well yes, what did you think this

was all about? Fun and games?

DUDE:

Well...no, of course not--

MAUDE:

I want a child.

DUDE:

Yeah, okay, but see, the Dude--

MAUDE:

Look, Jeffrey, I don't want a partner.

In fact I don't want the father to

be someone I have to see socially,

or who'll have any interest in rearing

the child himself.

DUDE:

Huh...

Something occurs to him.

DUDE:

So...that doctor.

MAUDE:

Exactly. What happened to your face?

Did Jackie Treehorn do that as well?

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