The Lost Weekend Page #15

Don has entered. Automatically he switches on the light in

the corridor. In a stupor of shame and misery he stumbles

over to the living room couch, flings himself down on it and

lies covering his face with his arms. After a time he brushes

the tears from his eyes with his sleeve and as he does so,

catches sight of something which rivets his attention, brings

a half-crazed smile to his lips.

On the ceiling is the shadow of the bottle which he hid in

the light fixture.

With new strength Don gets to his feet, nervous laughter

shaking him. He pulls the coffee table under the light

fixture, puts the chair on it, climbs up and retrieves his

bottle. He climbs down again, opening the bottle fiercely.

He goes to the table where his empty glass stands, pours it

half full. Over his face as he looks at the glass of whiskey

comes the uplifted peace of a worshipper at the high altar.

There the glass stands, gleaming in the light from above.

Again the CAMERA SLOWLY MOVES TOWARD IT, immerses in its

depths. Oblivion again.

FADE OUT:

END OF SEQUENCE "B"

SEQUENCE "C"

FADE IN:

C-1 THE BIRNAM APARTMENT - LIVING ROOM

About 9:
30 the next morning. The living room is in the same

wild disorder -- books on the floor, a table on the chair

under the ceiling fixture, the couch moved from the wall,

clothes and shoes spilled from the closet. Two empty bottles

and a sticky glass stand about, and the portable, with its

almost virgin sheet of white paper in the roller.

It's a nasty sight, and its nastiness is emphasized by the

sunlight streaming in and mixing with the yellow pallor of

the electric light, forgotten and burning on.

Don is not in sight. Only the telephone, which stands on the

desk next the open portable, is alive. It is ringing at the

top of its bell.

C-2 BIRNAM APARTMENT - BEDROOM

Here reigns the same confusion: the suitcase flung on the

floor, the window shade flapping, and on the unmade bed, not

in it, fully dressed -- shoes, suit, tie -- lies Don, the

comforter and bedspread pulled up over him.

The telephone rings remorselessly. Don opens his eyes slowly.

The brightness of the day stabs them, he shuts them. Again

the telephone.

Don gets up. He is weaker than he thought. Steadying himself

on the bedpost and holding the door frame, he slowly moves

out of the bedroom.

C-3 LIVING ROOM

Don enters. He seems to be going straight to the ringing

telephone, only he isn't. He passes it and goes to the open

window. He puts his arm against the window frame, presses

his forehead against it, stands there, every vibration of

the telephone bell shaking his nerves.

DON:

Stop it, Helen, stop it, stop it.

I'm all right. I just can't talk.

Stop it.

There is another ring and another, then the phone stops.

Don's eyes fall on the bottle and the glass by the big chair.

He moves slowly towards it, picks up the bottle, holds it

upside down over the glass. One slow drop is all it yields.

Don puts down the bottle, goes to the other bottle on the

mantel shelf, picks it up, goes to the kitchen.

C-4 KITCHEN - BIRNAM APARTMENT

In the sink is the bottle Wick emptied that first afternoon.

Don picks it up, goes back into the living room.

C-5 LIVING ROOM - BIRNAM APARTMENT

Don goes to the glass, holds the two bottles upside down

over it. Two more meagre drops emerge, like thick syrup.

They barely stain the bottom of the glass.

Don puts down the two bottles, picks up the glass, empties

the pitiable three drops into the parched desert of his

throat. For a second it seems that he has found some relief.

That's not true. His need for alcohol has been multiplied

tenfold by that mockery of a drink. He's got to get another

bottle, another drink.

What are his finances? Quickly he goes through his pockets.

In the palm of his hand there are exactly two cents. He looks

around the apartment. There on the desk stands the typewriter.

Don walks towards it, rips the sheet of paper from the roller,

slams the lid of the cover shut, picks up the typewriter. It

is heavy, terribly heavy. He drags it to the little hall,

picks up his hat and puts it on.

At the door, weakness overcomes him. Dragging his hand with

it, the typewriter sinks to the floor.

DON:

You'll never make it. You'll never

make that hock shop. It's a block

and a half away.

He is crouched helplessly against the door. At that moment

the telephone shrills again. Once more Don straightens

himself, opens the door and leaves.

C-6 OUTER DOOR - BIRNAM APARTMENT

The note from Helen is still pinned to the door. There are

now two newspapers, two bottles of milk. Don steps over them

carefully, closes the door and starts down the stairs.

DISSOLVE TO:

C-7 EXT. BIRNAM APARTMENT - (SUNNY MORNING)

Mrs. Deveridge and her dog Sophie are outside the apartment

house. Mrs. Deveridge is talking to Dave, the janitor, who

leans on his broom.

Don comes from the house with the typewriter. He stops to

make sure the two are absorbed in conversation, then steps

quickly past them down the street toward Third Avenue. Looking

back to see whether they have seen him, he turns into Third

Avenue and starts uptown.

C-8 THIRD AVENUE

This is to be Don's Via Dolorosa, this black, roaring,

perilous street up which he, drags the hellish weight of

that portable -- that portable which grows heavier with every

step -- in quest of a pawn shop which will give him a few

dollars for it. A few dollars which will mean drink, drink

which he needs to live.

Setting his jaw and whipping on his will, he reaches the

first hock shop. A steel gate is drawn across its entrance.

Don stares at the obstruction, completely mystified. There

is a woman standing nearby, wheeling a baby in a baby

carriage. Don turns to her.

DON:

This isn't Sunday, is it, lady?

WOMAN:

Huh?

DON:

I asked is this Sunday.

WOMAN:

No, Sattaday. Why?

DON:

Because it's closed.

(Looking around)

Nothing else is closed.

WOMAN:

Well, somebody passed away, most

likely.

Don stands helpless for a moment, then, feeling the woman's

intrusive stare, straightens up. In the next block, miles

and miles away for the way he feels, is another pawn shop.

He starts for it.

Again every step is agony. Overhead the elevated thunders

excruciatingly. Sweat pours from his forehead. He changes

the typewriter from one hand to another.

At last he makes the second pawn shop. It too is closed. He

peers through the iron gate into the dark shop, turns around.

Across the street, in the same block, is the third pawn shop.

He must make it, but to get there he must cross the raging

torrent of Third Avenue.

He makes a pillar of the el, leans against it, shaking. When

a trolley car gets out of his way, he continues to cross the

street.

That pawn shop is closed too. Don takes a bar and shakes it.

DON:

What's going on? What is it? Did you

all go to a funeral, all of you?

Maybe it's you that died, Don Birnam.

Maybe it's your funeral.

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