The Lost Weekend Page #11

MR. ST. JAMES

He ought to have a job anyway.

MRS. ST. JAMES

He's a writer.

MR. ST. JAMES

A writer? What does he write? I never

heard of his name.

MRS. ST. JAMES

Now Father, relax. You always expect

the worst. I've made up my mind he's

a well-brought-up young man who wipes

his feet before he enters a house

and doesn't even smoke.

MR. ST. JAMES

I hope he realizes Helen's our only

daughter and we ought to know a few

things about him.

MRS. ST. JAMES

Those'll all come out -- his

background, his prospects, his church

affiliations.

Don can't take any more of this. He picks up the florist's

box, rises and moves away from the settee. When he has reached

the security of some potted palms, he looks back. Through

one of the revolving doors comes Helen, in a new spring suit.

She looks around, sees her parents, goes up to them. There

is a greeting, some conversation apparently about Don and

the fact that he'll get there any minute. She sits on the

settee between her parents, all three of them waiting for

Don.

Don stands undecided, then looks around, locates the public

telephone booths, steps into one of them.

B-26 INT. TELEPHONE BOOTH

Don deposits a nickel and dials the number of the Hotel

Manhattan, which is above the mouthpiece of the phone.

DON:

Manhattan Hotel?... Will you page

Miss St. James? She must be in the

lobby.

He holds the phone and looks through the glass door of the

telephone booth.

B-27 LOBBY, FROM DON'S POINT OF VIEW - (SILENT, AS IT IS

SHOT THROUGH THE GLASS OF THE PHONE BOOTH)

A bell-hop crosses the lobby, paging Miss St. James. Helen

rises and follows him over to the line of house phones on a

shelf. She picks up the phone, speaks.

B-28 DON, AT THE PHONE

DON:

Helen?... Don. I'm terribly sorry

but I can't get there for a while.

Please go ahead with your lunch and

apologize to your parents... No,

nothing serious. I'll be there.

Goodbye.

B-29 LOBBY, FROM DON'S ANGLE, THROUGH THE GLASS OF THE PHONE

BOOTH:

Helen has hung up too. She goes towards her parents, her

face a little crestfallen. As she joins them she evidently

starts to explain.

B-30 EXT. TELEPHONE BOOTH

Don emerges with the florist's box, careful not to be seen.

He leaves through one of the side doors.

DISSOLVE TO:

B-31 LIVING ROOM, BIRNAM BROTHERS' APARTMENT - TWILIGHT

SHOOTING TOWARDS hall and entrance door. In the dim fore-

ground stands a small table, beyond it the vague contours of

Don lying on the couch. On the floor beside him an empty

bottle, in his hand a half-filled glass. There are footsteps

from the stairs. A key is turned in the lock, and Wick enters.

He wears a hat and carries a brief-case. He switches on the

light in the little entrance hall, flips his hat jauntily to

a hook on the coat-rack and comes into the living room. As

he crosses the threshold he becomes aware of Don's presence.

WICK:

Don?

He snaps on the light, sees Don on the couch, drunk. Don

doesn't move an inch, only his eyes close.

DON:

Turn off that light.

WICK:

For heaven's sake, Don.

DON:

Turn it off!

Wick snaps off the light. From now on the scene plays in

dimness, save for the shaft of light from the entrance hall.

Wick throws the briefcase into a chair.

WICK:

I thought you were with Helen and

her father and mother.

No answer.

WICK:

What happened?

Still no answer. Wick goes and sits beside Don, takes the

glass from his hand.

WICK:

(Gently)

Come on, Don.

DON:

I couldn't face it.

WICK:

You couldn't face what? Didn't you

go to see them?

DON:

Certainly I went. One o'clock sharp.

And I saw them, all right. Only they

didn't see me.

WICK:

How was that?

DON:

Such nice, respectable people. I

couldn't face them, Wick, and all

the questions they'd ask me. I

couldn't face them. Not cold. I had

to have a drink first. Just one.

Only the one didn't do anything to

me.

WICK:

So you had another and another. You

poor idiot, Don. Won't you ever learn

with you it's like stepping off a

roof and expecting to fall just one

floor?

Don puts his arm over his face.

DON:

You're right, you're right. There's

nothing I can say.

There is a long second of silence, Wick looking at Don.

DON:

Go ahead. Bawl me out, Wick, let me

have it. Why don't you take that

bottle and smash it over my face.

There is another pause. Wick speaks very quietly.

WICK:

It's a quarter of eight. I suppose

they're still in that hotel, waiting

for you.

DON:

Call her up, Wick, will you? Tell

her something. Tell her I'm sick.

Tell her I'm dead.

Wick has bent over Don and loosened his tie.

DON:

Will you call her?

WICK:

Yes, I'll call her.

DON:

She must have written them a lot of

nice things about me. What a gentleman

I am. A prince.

WICK:

Which hotel is it?

DON:

The Manhattan. Mr. and Mrs. Charles

St. James from Toledo, Ohio.

Paying no attention to the sound of steps which has been

coming from the staircase, Wick rises, puts the glass of

whiskey on the table and is about to cross towards the

telephone when the doorbell rings -- short, short, long,

short. Wick freezes. Don sits up on the couch. They know

that ring. There is a helpless look in Don's eyes.

WICK:

(Whispering)

Get up, Don.

Don, clinging to Wick's arm, pulls himself up. Wick pushes

him through the doorway to the dark bedroom, closing the

door after him. The bell rings again, that same ring.

WICK:

Just a minute, Helen.

He snaps on the lights in the living room, rolls the empty

bottle under the couch, takes the glass of whiskey, puts it

behind the pile of records. As he is starting towards the

door, the bottle rolls from under the couch. Wick stops and

rolls it back again, then goes into the hall and opens the

door. Helen, in a great hurry, stands outside, nervous.

HELEN:

Hello, Wick. Is Don here?

WICK:

Don? No.

Helen comes into the living room.

HELEN:

Any idea where he could be?

WICK:

Wasn't he meeting you?

B-32 DON, IN THE DARK BEDROOM

He stands leaning against the wall, breathing heavily. His

eyes gleam with anxiety. Coming from the living room, stabbing

him deep, is:

HELEN'S VOICE

He was supposed to meet us for lunch,

then he telephoned he'd be late.

Mother's beginning to think I just

made him up.

B-33 LIVING ROOM

HELEN:

Do you suppose something's happened

to him?

WICK:

Nonsense.

HELEN:

But surely he'd have called back if

he were all right.

WICK:

Where did he call you from?

HELEN:

I don't know.

WICK:

I think I've got an idea. He called

from out of town.

HELEN:

Out of town? Where?

WICK:

Philadelphia.

HELEN:

What's he doing in Philadelphia?

WICK:

There's an opening on the Philadelphia

Inquirer, The Book Section. Don wrote

them. He wired. I think this morning

early he just took a train.

HELEN:

He never told me a word about it.

WICK:

I'm not supposed to tell you either.

He wanted it to be a surprise.

HELEN:

He did!

B-34 DON, IN THE DARK BEDROOM

He suffers like a dog as he hears what's being said in the

living room.

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