The Lost Weekend Page #4

Don stops. He'll have to pass them if he goes down the street

and he doesn't want to, not with these bottles peeking out

of that bag. He turns back and approaches the grocery store

next door to Brophy's. In front of it is a fruit stand.

Screening his gesture from the ladies with his back, he picks

up three apples and puts them in the top of the bag, to

camouflage the bottles. He puts down a coin, then walks down

the street toward the ladies, flaunting a paper bag which is

obviously full of apples.

The lady with the dog sees him. Don removes his hat in a

courtly bow, very much at ease with the apples.

DON:

Good afternoon, Mrs. Deveridge.

MRS. DEVERIDGE

Hello, Mr. Birnam.

Don passes the ladies.

MRS. DEVERIDGE

(Confidentially, to

her companion)

That's that nice young man that

drinks.

The other lady tsk-tsks. They both look after Don.

Don is about ten feet beyond them. Perhaps he has overheard

the remark. In any case, he is looking back. His look meets

theirs. Embarrassed, they turn. Mrs. Deveridge jerks on the

leash.

MRS. DEVERIDGE

Come on, Sophie. Let's go.

They walk down the street in the opposite direction from

Don.

A-24 DON

He looks after them. He is just in front of NAT'S BAR. He

steps hurriedly into the bar.

A-25 INT. NAT'S BAR

A typical dingy Third Avenue bar. The sun slants dustily

into the walnut-brown room. There is a long bar with a mirror

behind it, some marble-topped tables and bentwood chairs.

The woodwork, the furniture, the plaster of the place have

absorbed and give forth a sour breath of hard liquor, a stale

smell of flat beer.

As Don enters with the two bottles and the apples, there are

three people in the bar. Nat, the bartender, a broad-

shouldered, no-nonsense type of guy, squeezing lemons in

preparation for the evening trade; and, sitting at a table

in the corner, a girl named GLORIA, with an out-of-towner

who hasn't bothered to take off his hat. He's about fifty

and the manager of a hardware store in Elizabeth, New Jersey.

Gloria is a shopworn twenty-three. She's brunette, wears net

stockings and a small patent leather hat, and is a little

below the standards of the St. Moritz lobby trade.

Don crosses to the bar.

DON:

And how is my very good friend Nat

today?

NAT:

(On guard)

Yes, Mr. Birnam.

Don sits on a bar stool, putting down the paper bag.

DON:

This being an especially fine

afternoon, I have decided to ask for

your hand in marriage.

NAT:

(Wiping his hands)

Look, Mr. Birnam --

DON:

If that is your attitude, Nat, I

shall have to drown my sorrows in a

jigger of rye. Just one, that's all.

NAT:

Can't be done, Mr. Birnam.

DON:

Can't? Let me guess why. My brother

was here, undermining my financial

structure.

NAT:

I didn't tell him nothing about the

wrist watch you left here, or your

cuff links.

DON:

Thank you, Nat. Today, you'll be

glad to know, we can barter on a

cash basis.

He takes the bills and change from his pocket, puts it on

the bar.

NAT:

(Reaching for the

bottle and the jigger)

One straight rye.

DON:

That was the idea.

Nat pours the drink, then returns to squeezing lemons. Don

picks up the glass, is suddenly acutely aware of the people

at the table, of Nat's eyes. The glass freezes halfway to

his mouth. He puts it down and starts playing the nonchalant,

casual drinker -- the man who can take it or leave it. He

fingers the glass, turning it round and round. He takes a

pack of cigarettes from his pocket and shakes one out, lights

it. As he puts the match in the ashtray, his eyes fall on

that jigger of whiskey. It's hard to resist it any longer.

He takes a handkerchief from his pocket, wipes his forehead,

then his parched mouth. The time has come now. He puts the

handkerchief back in his pocket, lifts the glass and drains

it in one gulp. Actually, Don doesn't like the taste of

liquor, actively hates it indeed, as a one-legged man might

hate the sight of his crutches but need them in order to

walk.

Now that he has the drink in him, a kind of relieved grin

comes back to Don's face. He holds the empty jigger in his

hand. Nat has come up with the bar towel to wipe off the wet

ring left by the glass.

DON:

Don't wipe it away, Nat. Let me have

my little vicious circle. The circle

is the perfect geometric figure. No

end, no beginning... What time is

it?

NAT:

Quarter of four.

DON:

Good. That gives us the whole

afternoon together.

(He holds out his

glass for another

drink)

Only remind me when it's a quarter

of six. Very important. We're going

to the country for a weekend, my

brother and I.

From the table in the background comes Gloria, headed for

the powder room. Passing Don, she runs her finger through

the neckline of his hair.

GLORIA:

Hello, Mr. Birnam. Glad to have you

back with the organization.

DON:

Hello, Gloria.

She goes on. Don turns back to Nat.

DON:

Not just a Saturday-Sunday weekend.

A very long weekend. I wish I could

take you along, Nat. You --

(With a gesture towards

the liquor shelves)

and all that goes with you.

Without a change of expression, Nat pours the second drink.

DON:

Not that I'm cutting myself off from

civilization altogether.

He points at the bag with the apples showing. Nat looks, but

doesn't get it. Like a magician, Don takes two apples out,

revealing the necks of the bottles.

DON:

(Gulping down the

whiskey)

Now of course there arises the problem

of transportation into the country.

How to smuggle these two time bombs

past the royal guard. I shall tell

you how, Nat, because I'm so fond of

you. Only give me another drink.

Nat pours one.

DON:

I'm going to roll one bottle in a

copy of the Saturday Evening Post,

so my brother can discover it like

that.

(He snaps his fingers)

And I want him to discover it, because

that'll set his mind at rest. The

other bottle --

(Confidentially to

Nat)

Come here.

Nat leans over the bar towards --

DON:

That one I'm tucking into my dear

brother's suitcase. He'll transport

it himself, without knowing it, of

course. While he's greeting the care-

taker, I'll sneak it out and hide it

in a hollow of the old apple tree.

NAT:

Aw, Mr. Birnam, why don't you lay

off the stuff for a while.

DON:

I may never touch it while I'm there.

Not a drop. What you don't understand,

all of you, is that I've got to know

it's around. That I can have it if I

need it. I can't be cut off

completely. That's the devil. That's

what drives you crazy.

NAT:

Yeah. I know a lot of guys like that.

They take a bottle and put it on the

shelf. All they want is just to look

at it. They won't even carry a cork-

screw along, just to be sure. Only

all of a sudden they grab the bottle

and bite off the neck.

DON:

Nat, one more reproving word and I

shall consult our lawyer about a

divorce.

He points to the empty glass for Nat to fill it. Nat pours

another jigger.

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