The Lost Weekend Page #13

HELEN:

But you are a writer. You have every

quality for it. Imagination, wit,

pity --

DON:

Come on, let's face reality. I'm

thirty-three and I'm living on the

charity of my brother. Room and board

free, and fifty cents a week for

cigarettes. An occasional ticket for

a concert or a show, out of the

bigness of his heart. And it is a

big heart, a patient heart.

WICK:

Now, Don, I'm just carrying you along

for the time being.

DON:

Shut up, Wick. I've never done

anything, I'm not doing anything, I

never will do anything. Zero, zero,

zero.

HELEN:

Now you shut up. We'll straighten it

out.

DON:

Look. Wick has the misfortune to be

my brother. You just walked in on

this, and if you know what's good

for you, you'll turn around and walk

out again. Walk fast and don't turn

back.

Helen looks at him for a second, then takes off her hat and

throws it into a nearby chair.

HELEN:

(To Wick)

Why don't you make some coffee, Wick?

Strong. Three cups.

Wick goes into the kitchenette.

DON:

Do yourself a favor, Helen. Go on,

clear out.

HELEN:

Because I've got a rival? Because

you're in love with this?

(She points at the

bottle)

You don't know me, Don. I'm going to

fight and fight and fight. Bend down.

He doesn't bend. She raises herself to her tiptoes and kisses

him warmly.

DISSOLVE BACK TO:

B-40 NAT'S BAR - LATER IN THE DAY

Nat and Don alone. Nat is behind the bar, putting tooth-picks

into olives which he takes from a bowl and arranges in a row

on a plate. Don, about ten wet rings in front of him and

what's left of Mrs. Wertheim's five dollars, is playing with

a full jigger of rye.

DON:

That was three years ago, Nat. That's

a long time to keep fighting, to

keep believing. They'd try a health

farm, a psychiatrist, a sanatorium

in New Jersey, No go. She'd be

patient. She'd be gay. She'd encourage

him. She'd buy a new ribbon for his

typewriter -- a two-color job, black

and red. Just write, Don. Keep

writing. That first paragraph came

off so well... There was no second

paragraph. There were drinks. Drinks

sneaked in secret. In the bathroom,

here, in Harlem. Promises again,

lies again. But she holds on. She

knows she's clutching a razor blade

but she won't let go. Three years of

it.

NAT:

And what? How does it come out?

DON:

I don't know. Haven't figured that

far.

NAT:

Want me to tell you? One day your

guy gets wise to himself and gets

back that gun. Or, if he's only got

a dollar ten, he goes up to the Empire

State Building, way up on top, and

then --

(he snaps his fingers)

Or he can do it for a nickel, in a

subway under a train.

DON:

Think so, Nat? What if Helen is right,

after all, and he sits down and turns

out something good -- but good --

and that pulls him up and snaps him

out of it?

NAT:

This guy? Not from where I sit.

Don jumps up.

DON:

Shut up, Nat. I'm going to do it.

I'm going to do it now. It's all

there. You heard it.

NAT:

Yes, Mr. Birnam.

DON:

That's why I didn't go on that

weekend, see, so I can be alone up

there and sit down at my typewriter.

This time I'm going to do it, Nat.

I'm going to do it.

NAT:

By gosh, maybe you will.

DON:

Thank you, Nat.

(he's up on his feet)

Am I all paid up?

NAT:

Yes, Mr. Birnam.

DON:

Goodbye, Nat. I'm going home. This

time I've got it. I'm going to write.

NAT:

Good luck, Mr. Birnam.

DISSOLVE:

B-41 INT. BIRNAM APARTMENT - (DAY)

Don enters, the fire of real purpose in his eye. He hangs

his hat on the hatrack, goes to the bedroom, picks up the

typewriter, grabs the sheaf of typewriter paper Wick has

laid on top of his suitcase and carries them into the living

room. He puts the typewriter on the desk. Sitting down, he

inserts a sheet of paper in the roller and begins to type:

THE BOTTLE:

A Novel by Don Birnam

He pauses, then types underneath:

For Helen - With All My Love

He rolls the sheet of paper up, studies what he has typed as

though it were a painting. Then he begins to try and formulate

that first sentence of his book. To do so is absolute agony

for him. He gets up, puts a cigarette in his mouth, takes a

match from a folder, lights the cigarette, throws the folder

on the small table next to the big chair. As he does so his

eyes fall on the empty bottle and glass. He looks at them

for a minute, then goes over to the bookcase, puts his arm

in back of the books and runs his hand along the rear of the

shelf, looking for that bottle. It's not there.

He runs into the bedroom, hurries to his bed, where his

suitcase lies packed but not closed. He wipes the suitcase

from the bed, the contents spilling over the floor. He pulls

up one end of the mattress, looks under it. Nothing.

He goes back into the living room, pulls the couch from the

wall and, lying on his stomach, probes among the springs.

Nothing there. He lies on the couch, breathing heavily.

DON:

You had another bottle, you know you

did. Where did you put it? You're

not crazy. Where did you put it?

He jumps up, runs back to the bookcase, starts pulling out

books, row by row. He goes to the closet, opens it wide,

pulls out all its contents, throwing them on the floor.

Nothing there.

He goes back to the big chair, throws himself down, exhausted.

His eyes fall again on the empty bottle and the empty glass.

Behind the glass lies the folder of matches. Something is

written on it but it is distorted by the glass. However, it

attracts Don's attention enough to make him push the glass

to one side. The folder reads:

HARRY'S & JOE'S

Where Good Liquor Flows 13 W. 52nd St.

DISSOLVE TO:

B-42 INT. HARRY'S & JOE'S ON 52ND ST

You know how those places look: the lower floor of a

brownstone house, narrow, intimate, smoky. One side is a

bar. Along the other wall there is a long, built-in bench

with individual tables in front of it. At a miniature piano

a guy is playing and singing "It Was So Beautiful."

Don Birnam sits on the bench at one of the small tables. In

front of him is an empty cocktail glass. It is about his

fourth. At the next table on the bench sits a couple -- a

show girl type, about twenty-four, and a man about thirty-

five. They are nuts about each other and are holding hands

as they listen to the hoarse pianist. However, to Don the

music means little. He is very much the man of the world,

holding his alcohol superbly, smoking a cigarette. He snaps

his finger at a waiter, who is passing with a tray of drinks.

The waiter stops.

DON:

Where is my check.

WAITER:

Right here, sir.

The waiter takes the check which is thrust between his vest

and his stiff shirt and puts it face down in front of Don,

then hurries on with the tray of drinks. Don turns the check

over. It's for four dollars. Suddenly his financial situation

dawns on Don. He puts his hand in his pocket and pulls out

what cash he has. He does it very cautiously, under the table,

so that no one else can see it. He hasn't enough -- only two

one-dollar bills and some small change. Panic seizes him. At

that moment the waiter returns, expecting to be paid.

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