The Hudsucker Proxy Page #2

a moment of silent contemplation.

Thank you for your kind attention.

This moment has been noted

on your time cards

and will be deducted

from your pay. That is all.

[Alarm]

- Blue letter!

- It's a blue letter!

They're bringing down a blue letter!

[Bell rings]

[Buzzer]

[Sorter] It's a blue letter.

Top, top level.

Oonfidential communication

between the brass.

Usually bad news.

They hate blue letters upstairs.

- Hate 'em!

- You!

Yeah, you, Barnes.

You don't look busy.

Think you can handle a blue letter?

This was sent down this morning by

the big man himself, Waring Hudsucker.

Addressed to Sid Mussburger,

Hudsucker's right-hand-man.

It's a blue letter. You gotta put it

right in Mussburger's hands.

No secretaries, no receptionists,

no colleagues, no excuses!

Mussburger!

[Ping]

My name's Buzz, I got the fuzz,

I make the elevator do what she does.

Hang it up to dry.

What's your pleasure, buddy?

- 44th.

- 44, the top brass floor.

Say, what takes 50 years

to get up to the top floor

and 30 seconds to get down?

Waring Hudsucker.

You get it? Say... Mr Klein, up to nine.

Mrs Dell, Personnel.

- Mr Leven, 37... Walk down.

- 36.

Ladies and gentlemen, step to the rear.

Here's the gargantuan Mr Greer.

Say, buddy, who's the most liquid

businessman on the street?

Waring Hudsucker.

When is the sidewalk fully dressed?

When it's "wearing" Hudsucker!

Get it, buddy? It's a pun,

a knee-slapper, it's a play on...

Jesus, Joseph and Mary,

is that a blue letter?

Why didn't you tell a guy?

Hold on, folks.

Express to the top floor.

[Elevator whooshes]

[Ping]

[Buzz] Good luck, buddy.

You're gonna need it. [laughs]

[Scraping]

[Clears throat]

Mr Mussburger's office?

[Clears throat]

[Quietly] Hello.

Do you have an appointment?

No.

Shall we look in the book? Hm?

- I wouldn't... be in the book.

- You don't seem to be in the book.

If we had an appointment,

we'd be in the book.

You see, I have this...

Here it is.

[Screams]

[Mussburger]

Gambotz? Harry Gambotz?

Too risky.

He's green, but he's not slow.

Who's he? No, I want an imbecile,

not a cipher, or you'd have the job.

No, they moved him to grommets

and o-rings. He's doing pretty well.

No, not McLenahan.

He bungled the Teleyard merger,

he's got something to prove.

Who let you in?

Atwater? Tremendous,

except I fired him last week.

[Secretary] Mr Mussburger,

Mr Bumstead's waiting downstairs.

Tell him I'll be right there.

- Spit it out!

- [Norville] I...

Yeah? Well maybe you're

the company's biggest moron.

We can't use Morris, he's been here

too long, has too many friends.

In fact, why don't you fire him?

Scratch that, I'll fire him.

Make it fast.

[Secretary] Mr Bumstead is restless.

I'll be there.

Give him a magazine.

- What are you, a mute?

- [Alarm clock]

How's the stock doing?

Bad, huh?

That's not bad enough.

Listen, chump.

Find me a Grade A ding-dong

or give me your key

to the executive washroom.

That goes double for you, pal.

Earclay? Oodgay.

[Newton's cradle clicks]

This better be good.

I'm in a bad mood.

I've got something for you

from the mailroom but first,

if I could just take a minute or two

of your very valuable time,

to show you something I've been working

on for the past two or three years.

You know, for kids.

Perfect for Hudsucker.

Not that I'm any genius.

They say inspiration

is 99%% % perspiration,

and in my case it's twice that.

But I gotta tell you...

Wait a minute!

[Grunts]

Hm.

Sit down, son.

Go ahead.

Try it out.

[Leather squeaks]

Put your feet up.

Go ahead.

Let's get to know one another, shall we?

Let's chat.

Man to man.

Now, then.

You're from the basement, aren't you?

And weren't blessed with much...

...education.

Well, I'm a college graduate.

But you did not excel in your studies?

Well, I made the Dean's List.

At the Muncie Oollege

of Business Administration.

Your friends called you jerk,

didn't they?

- Dope? Dipstick?

- No.

Lamebrain? Schmo?

Not even behind your back?

They voted me Most Likely To Succeed.

You're fired.

Get your feet off my desk.

Get out of my office.

Leave your apron in the locker room.

[Mussburger]

My God, the Bumstead contracts.

Nitwit. We've been working

on that for four years.

Get out of here.

You could've destroyed the most

sensitive document of my career.

[Secretary]

Mr Bumstead is threatening to leave.

I'm coming.

We need the first page of the contract

re-typed with copies to Legal Affairs.

Yes?

Out! Out of the office!

[Breaking glass]

Down three points? That's encouraging.

How about New York?

Not that way, through the door!

It'll take three hours

to re-type the contract.

Where are you going?

Get out of here. Stop that!

Mr Bumstead...

Not the whole contract,

just the first page.

I'll be there.

Give him another magazine.

- I'll be there.

- Your wife's trying to reach you.

Up on your feet. We don't crawl

here at Hudsucker Industries.

- My leg is on fire.

- No assumptions. It's early yet.

Let me know where we stand

at the closing bell.

[Ringing]

- Oh, my God, sir.

- Yeah.

Oh, my God, the Bumstead contracts.

No magazines, no coffee.

Mussburger. I wanna see Mussburger.

Or did he jump out of a window too?

Don't worry, Mr Mussburger.

I got you by your pants!

Pants.

Mr Mussburger, I'm going to

give your pants a nice double stitch.

It'll make 'em real strong

and you're gonna look real sharp.

- No, single stitch is fine.

- But double stitch, she last forever.

Why on earth would I want

a double stitch?

To pad your account.

Single stitch is fine.

Damn.

[Sings]

What the heck?

Mr Moosburger is such a nice man,

I'm gonna give him

a double stitch anyway. [chuckles]

That's some strong stitch, you bet.

[Laughter]

[Norville guffaws]

[Laughter]

[Mussburger laughs]

The Einstein of Enterprise.

The Edison of Industry.

The Billion-Dollar Oranium.

Idea Man.

Not one of you mugs

has given me a story on him.

Bunch of lamebrained... Facts,

figures, charts never sold a newspaper.

This morning's edition of the Argus,

I'd wrap a fish in it.

I'd use it as kindling.

I'd train my poodle on it,

if he wasn't a French poodle

and partial to Paris Soir.

I wouldn't shell out a nickel

to read the darned thing.

Ohief, give us a break.

Sure, Tibbs. Take a break.

Go to Florida. Lie in the sun.

Wait for a coconut to drop.

File a story on it.

Better than your piece

on the Oommie grain surplus.

The human angle,

that's what sells papers.

We need a front page with a heart.

The Idea Man can put it there.

If we had more access...

If a frog had wings

it wouldn't bump its ass.

I don't want excuses, I want results.

What makes the Idea Man tick?

Where's he from?

I want to know everything.

- Has he got a girl? Parents?

- Everybody has parents.

Right.

How many? How about it, Parkinson?

You've been awful quiet.

- Er...

- Still waters run deep.

Only things deep are his ear-holes.

Yes, Idea Man.

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