The Lost Weekend Page #12

WICK'S VOICE

He probably couldn't get to the right

people right away, missed a train.

You know how it is.

HELEN'S VOICE

Oh, it would be just wonderful if he

got the job and started working. Or

would it, Wick, with him in

Philadelphia and me in New York?

B-35 LIVING ROOM - WICK AND HELEN

HELEN:

Don't ever tell him I said that

though, will you?

WICK:

Of course not.

Suddenly his eyes are transfixed. From under the couch has

rolled the bottle. As Helen speaks, he tries to get near it

without her noticing.

HELEN:

I could never understand why somebody

like Don, a person with so much

talent, such flashes of real

brilliance... Maybe I'm a little

prejudiced.

Suddenly she sees Wick trying to kick the bottle back under

the couch.

HELEN:

What are you doing, Wick?

WICK:

Nothing, Helen.

HELEN:

Where'd that bottle come from?

WICK:

It just rolled out.

HELEN:

From under the couch?

WICK:

Yes, Helen.

(With an attempt at

casualness)

It's my guess that Don caught an

early train.

HELEN:

(A wild guess)

Is that Don's bottle?

WICK:

What makes you think that?

HELEN:

There was a bottle the first time we

met.

WICK:

There was?

HELEN:

It fell out of Don's pocket.

WICK:

It was for me, Helen.

B-36 DON, IN THE DARK BEDROOM

He stands with his head against the door post, listening,

harassed.

WICK'S VOICE

This one is mine, too. You might as

well hear the family scandal. I drink.

B-37 WICK AND HELEN IN THE LIVING ROOM

WICK:

Don thinks I drink too much.

He walks over to the records and picks up the glass.

WICK:

I had to promise I'd go on the wagon.

That's why I hid the bottle, so he

wouldn't see it.

He takes a drink.

HELEN:

I'm so sorry, Wick. I shouldn't have

started asking questions. It was

none of my business.

WICK:

Forget it.

B-38 DON, IN THE DARK BEDROOM

His brother's gesture has shaken him.

HELEN'S VOICE

I'd better be getting back to the

hotel. Don may be there already. And

don't worry, Wick, I won't mention

this to him.

WICK'S VOICE

Thank you, Helen.

HELEN'S VOICE

Goodbye, Wick.

WICK'S VOICE

Goodbye.

She must be on her way to the front door. With sudden decision

Don opens the door to the living room and walks slowly out.

DON:

Helen!

B-39 LIVING ROOM & ENTRANCE HALL

Almost at the door to the entrance hall, Helen turns back.

Wick stands, the glass of whiskey in his hand, startled taut

at the sight of Don who comes in, not too steady on his feet.

DON:

I'm sorry, Helen. I can't let you

go. Not like that.

HELEN:

Don!

WICK:

Shut your mouth, Don.

(To Helen)

I'll take you downstairs.

DON:

Thank you very much for your

Philadelphia story, Wick. Nice try.

Helen comes back into the room, staring at Don. She is

beginning to realize that he's drunk. Don looks at the glass

in Wick's hand.

DON:

That looks so silly on you.

He takes the glass out of Wick's hand.

WICK:

(To Helen)

Don't listen to him.

DON:

You don't have to. Just look at the

two of us.

HELEN:

Yes. What's all this covering up?

WICK:

All that happened is that Don was

nervous at the idea of meeting your

parents and so he took a couple of

drinks.

DON:

Come on, Wick, she'd have found out

sooner or later.

HELEN:

Stop it, both of you. Don's a little

tight. Most people drink a little. A

lot of them get tight once in a while.

DON:

Sure. The lucky ones who can take it

or leave it. But then there are the

ones who can't take it, but can't

leave it either. What I'm trying to

say is I'm not a drinker. I'm a drunk.

They had to put me away once.

WICK:

He went to a cure.

DON:

Which didn't take. That first day we

met, you see, the dirty trick was I

should have had the decency to get

drunk, just for your sake.

HELEN:

For my sake? We're talking about

you.

(Turning to Wick)

Is it really that bad, Wick?

DON:

Yes, it is.

WICK:

Can't we go over this tomorrow, Don

when you're feeling more like

yourself?

DON:

Helen's heard the facts. That's all

there is to it.

HELEN:

I've heard them and they're not very

pleasant. But they could be worse.

After all, you're not an embezzler

or a murderer. You drink too much.

That's not fatal. One cure didn't

take. There are others.

WICK:

Of course there are.

DON:

This has a familiar ring.

HELEN:

There must be a reason why you drink.

The right doctor can find it.

DON:

I'm way ahead of the right doctor. I

know the reason. The reason is me.

What I am. Or, rather, what I'm not.

HELEN:

What aren't you that you want to be,

Don?

DON:

A writer. Silly, isn't it? You see,

in college I passed for a genius.

They couldn't get out the college

magazine without one of my stories.

Boy, was I hot. Hemingway stuff. I

reached my peak when I was nineteen.

Sold a piece to the Atlantic Monthly.

It was reprinted in the Readers'

Digest. Who wants to stay in college

when he's Hemingway? My mother bought

me a brand new typewriter, and I

moved right in on New York. Well,

the first thing I wrote, that didn't

quite come off. And the second I

dropped. The public wasn't ready for

that one. I started a third, a fourth,

only about then somebody began to

look over my shoulder and whisper,

in a thin, clear voice like the E-

string on a violin. Don Birnam, he'd

whisper, it's not good enough. Not

that way. How about a couple of drinks

just to put it on its feet? So I had

a couple. Oh, that was a great idea.

That made all the difference. Suddenly

I could see the whole thing -- the

tragic sweep of the great novel,

beautifully proportioned. But before

I could really grab it and throw it

down on paper, the drink would wear

off and everything be gone like a

mirage. Then there was despair, and

a drink to counterbalance despair,

and one to counterbalance the

counterbalance. I'd be sitting in

front of that typewriter, trying to

squeeze out a page that was halfway

decent, and that guy would pop up

again.

HELEN:

What guy? Who are you talking about?

DON:

The other Don Birnam. There are two

of us, you know:
Don the drunk and

Don the writer. And the drunk will

say to the writer, Come on, you idiot.

Let's get some good out of that

portable. Let's hock it. We'll take

it to that pawn shop over on Third

Avenue. Always good for ten dollars,

for another drink, another binge,

another bender, another spree. Such

humorous words. I tried to break

away from that guy a lot of ways. No

good. Once I even bought myself a

gun and some bullets.

(He goes to the desk)

I meant to do it on my thirtieth

birthday.

He opens the drawer, takes out two bullets, holds them in

the palm of his hand.

DON:

Here are the bullets. The gun went

for three quarts of whiskey. That

other Don wanted us to have a drink

first. He always wants us to have a

drink first. The flop suicide of a

flop writer.

WICK:

All right, maybe you're not a writer.

Why don't you do something else?

DON:

Yes, take a nice job. Public

accountant, real estate salesman. I

haven't the guts, Helen. Most men

lead lives of quiet desperation. I

can't take quiet desperation.

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