The Lost Weekend Page #16

He pulls himself away and recrosses the street.

Reason has entirely deserted him, but blind instinct drives

him on.

Sixty-first Street, Seventy-first Street. Four more pawn

shops, all of them closed. Seventy-ninth Street. He's almost

struck by a car. The typewriter falls from his hand. A truck

runs over it but straddles it. Don gets it again.

Up the street, up the street, up the street. One pawn shop

closed after another. His feet are burning, as if the sidewalk

were hot lava. His ears are bursting.

Eighty-ninth Street, Ninety-fifth Street. Past bars, funeral

parlors, children on roller skates, and always the recurrent

torture of the elevated overhead. On and on, unable to stop.

Finally, half dead, he reaches a pawn shop on 120th St., and

finds the answer to his crucifixion. Two men in dark suits

with black bowlers and prayer books under their arms watch

him as he rattles the closed gate of the pawn shop, almost

out of his mind.

1ST MAN

What's the matter with you?

DON:

Why are they all closed? They're all

closed, every one of them.

1ST MAN

Sure they are. It's Yom Kippur.

DON:

It's what?

1ST MAN

It's Yom Kippur, a Jewish holiday.

DON:

It is.

That makes sense to him. Or does it?

DON:

What are you talking about? How about

Kelly's? How about Gallagher's?

1ST MAN

They're closed too. We've got an

agreement. They keep closed on Yom

Kippur and we don't open on St.

Patrick's.

The two men stand grinning.

DON:

(Almost weeping)

That's a good joke. That's funny,

that's very funny.

He picks up the typewriter, turns and starts walking back.

THE CAMERA goes slowly up to a sidewalk clock with a diadem

of three balls, which stands outside the hock shop. The time

is twenty minutes of one.

VERY SLOW DISSOLVE TO:

C-9 THE CLOCK IN NAT'S BAR

It says five minutes of four. THE CAMERA PANS DOWN. Nat is

at the bar. He and two or three customers are listening to

race results on a little radio. Don drags himself in, drenched

in sweat, his breath as short and agonized as that of a dying

man. He goes to the end of the bar closest the door, hoists

the typewriter on it with a final awful effort, leans his

head on it.

DON:

Nat --

Nat comes to him.

NAT:

What's the matter, Mr. Birnam?

DON:

Let me have one, Nat. I'm dying.

Just one.

NAT:

I thought you were home writing that

book.

DON:

They're playing a trick on me. A

dirty trick. Give me one, Nat. I'll

pay you when I can. Just don't let

me die here.

NAT:

No credit, and you know it.

DON:

All right, so it's charity. I'm

begging you for one. Give me one.

NAT:

Yeah, one.

(Pouring a drink)

One's too many and a hundred's not

enough.

He shoves the drink at Don.

Don is shaking so that he can't pick up the glass. He bends

down, sucks half of it, then lifts the glass, drains the

rest. He holds out the empty glass to Nat, his eyes imploring.

NAT:

That's all.

DON:

Come on, Nat, come on. I'll let you

have my typewriter.

NAT:

I'm no writer. You're the writer.

Now go. Go away.

DON:

Nat --

NAT:

I mean it. Get out.

Don takes the typewriter, drags himself out of Nat's place.

C-10 THIRD AVENUE, OUTSIDE NAT'S

Don emerges, starts dragging himself up the street towards

home. As he passes the antique shop, suddenly he stops. There

stands the wooden Indian Gloria spoke about, pointing up.

That's where Gloria lives. Second floor, this same house.

Don walks into the house.

DISSOLVE TO:

C-11 STAIRS AND HALLWAY OUTSIDE GLORIA'S DOOR

This is a really crummy Third Avenue house -- dark woodwork,

paint peeling from the walls. Beside the door at the head of

the stairs there are about three bells, for the several

occupants of the apartment within. Don drags himself up the

stairs, puts down the typewriter and inspects the name tags

by the bells. One of them says: GLORIA DE VRIES. Don rings

the bell beside it. From inside comes:

GLORIA'S VOICE

Who is it?

Don rings again.

GLORIA'S VOICE

Who is it?

DON:

It's me.

The door is opened by Gloria. She is wearing a dressing gown

and bedroom slippers. Her hair is the ruined elaborate

hairdress of yesterday, and her eyes are blazing with anger.

GLORIA:

Why, Mr. Birnam, as I live and

breathe! Only if you're coming for

our date, you're a little late, aren't

you, Mr. Birnam? And if you're coming

to apologize -- no thanks. Thanks a

lot, but no thanks.

DON:

Gloria --

GLORIA:

Save your saliva. I've had enough of

you. Def, but def. What do you think

I am? I break a business date. I buy

an evening purse, a facial, a new

hair-do. Well, maybe you can do that

to your ritzy friends. You can't to

me, understand?

DON:

Gloria.

GLORIA:

Okay, what do you want, Mr. Don Birnam

Esquire?

DON:

I need some money.

GLORIA:

You what?

DON:

Could you let me have some money?

GLORIA:

Say, you out of your mind? Don't be

ridic. Get out of here. Make with

those stairs. Go on!

She starts back into the apartment, but Don gets her by the

hand, pulls her towards him and kisses her. At first she

resists, then her hand creeps up to the back of his neck,

clutches it hungrily.

GLORIA:

I was waiting half the night, like

it was the first date I ever had.

And the other half I was crying.

(She looks at him)

How much money?

DON:

Could you let me have ten or five,

or something?

GLORIA:

I'll see.

She slips into the apartment, leaving the door about three

inches a jar. Don leans against the door jamb, breathing

heavily.

After a couple of seconds Gloria reappears with a wallet.

She takes five dollars out, gives it to him. Don takes it

with a shaking hand.

GLORIA:

(noticing)

You look awful sick, honey. You got

a fever or something?

She brushes his forehead with the back of her hand.

DON:

I'm all right now.

He takes her hand and kisses it. Gloria looks at him, then

at her hand.

GLORIA:

Thank you a lot. You do really like

me a little, don't you, honey?

DON:

Why, natch, Gloria. Natch.

He bends, picks up the typewriter and starts downstairs.

Gloria looks after him. From inside the apartment comes:

NAGGING WOMAN'S VOICE

Gloria, where are you?

GLORIA:

Coming.

She reenters the apartment, closing the door.

C-12 STAIRCASE - GLORIA'S HOUSE

Don is coming down, holding the banister with his left hand,

the typewriter in his right. Up the staircase comes a little

girl about seven, running a stick along the spindles of the

banister and singing the Hut Sut Song. The sound makes Don

wince, and as the child gives no sign of yielding precedence

to him, he switches the typewriter to his other hand and

leans against the stair wall.

The child passes him. As Don goes on, he slips, starts

falling, clutches a light bracket trying to check his fall.

It pulls from the wall under his weight and he falls,

clutching the typewriter, down the long flight of stairs. A

terrible, back-breaking fall.

The little girl stands horrified, then starts crying and

runs up the stairs. For an instant Don lies at the foot of

the stairs, still clutching the typewriter. His hat has fallen

off. He struck his head. It is in wild pain. He gets to his

knees, to his feet, lunges towards the door to the street,

taking the five dollars from his pocket.

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