The Lost Weekend Page #8

He is drinking his coffee.

GLORIA:

He was supposed to come around twelve

o'clock. He's from Albany.

DON:

Another friend of the folks?

GLORIA:

More a friend of a friend of the

folks type. A fellow telephoned me

about him. Wants me to show him the

town.

NAT:

Like Grant's Tomb for instance?

GLORIA:

But def.

NAT:

Amazing, ain't it, how many guys run

down from Albany just to see Grant's

Tomb.

GLORIA:

(To Don)

Sometimes I wish you came from Albany.

DON:

Where would you take me?

GLORIA:

Oh, lots of places. The Music Hall,

and then the New Yorker Roof maybe.

DON:

There is now being presented at a

theatre on Forty-fourth Street the

uncut version of Hamlet. I see us as

setting out for that. Do you know

Hamlet?

GLORIA:

I know Forty-fourth Street.

DON:

I'd like to get your interpretation

of Hamlet's character.

GLORIA:

And I'd like to give it to you.

DON:

Dinner afterwards, I think. Nothing

before. Always see Shakespeare on an

empty stomach.

GLORIA:

Not even a pretzel?

Don shakes his head.

DON:

But afterwards, dozens of bluepoints

in the Rainbow Room. And a very light

wine. Vouvray perhaps. Do you care

for Vouvray?

GLORIA:

(Mystified)

Why, natch.

DON:

We may blindfold the orchestra so

that I can dance with abandon.

GLORIA:

Aren't you going to dance with me?

DON:

Of course, little Gloria.

A man has entered the bar, a round-faced, middle-aged man

with pince-nez. There is a Guide of New York sticking from

his pocket. He's the guy from Albany, all right.

ALBANY:

(Rather loud)

Could I have a glass of water?

NAT:

Why, sure. And what shall it be for

a chaser?

ALBANY:

(Confidentially)

Tell me:
this is Nat's Bar, isn't

it?

NAT:

That's what the man said.

ALBANY:

I'm looking for a young lady name of

Gloria.

With his thumb, Nat indicates Gloria.

ALBANY:

(Beaming)

Are you Miss Gloria?

GLORIA:

Who, me? No, I'm not. I just live

with Gloria. She's not here.

ALBANY:

She isn't?

GLORIA:

And she won't be. She's down to the

Aquarium.

ALBANY:

Aquarium?

GLORIA:

Feeding bubble-gum to the jelly fish.

ALBANY:

Beg pardon?

GLORIA:

Ruptured appendix. Middle of last

night. Went like that!

(She lets out her

breath with an

exploding noise)

Scared the life out of me.

ALBANY:

That's terrible.

GLORIA:

Goodbye.

ALBANY:

Goodbye.

He takes a couple of steps towards the door, turns.

ALBANY:

Could I have a word with you?

GLORIA:

No thanks. Thanks a lot, but no

thanks.

ALBANY:

You're welcome, I'm sure.

He walks out, bewildered.

DON:

Wasn't that rather rude, Gloria, to

send that nice man all alone to

Grant's Tomb?

GLORIA:

When I have a chance to go out with

you? Don't be ridic.

DON:

Oh, is our engagement definite?

GLORIA:

You meant it, didn't you?

DON:

Surely, surely.

He downs the jigger of rye.

GLORIA:

I'm going to get a facial, a

fingerwave, a manicure. The works.

Right now.

(With a sudden thought)

You're going to call for me, aren't

you? If you are, what time?

DON:

What time do you suggest?

GLORIA:

How about eight?

DON:

Eight's fine.

GLORIA:

I live right in the corner house.

You know where the antique shop is,

the one with the wooden Indian

outside? They've got the Indian sign

on me, I always say.

DON:

I'll be there.

GLORIA:

Second floor. Oh, Mr. Birnam, all

I've got is a semi-formal. Will that

be all right?

DON:

That'll be fine.

GLORIA:

(Happily)

Goodbye, Not.

She starts for the door, turns.

GLORIA:

You know, this show you're taking me

to. If it's too highbrow, I can just

lean back and look at the back of

your neck, can't I? Eight o'clock.

She exits.

DON:

One last one, Nat. Pour it softly,

pour it gently, and pour it to the

brim.

NAT:

Look, Mr. Birnam, there's a lot of

bars on Third Avenue. Do me a favor --

get out of here and buy it someplace

else.

DON:

What's the matter?

NAT:

I don't like you much. What was the

idea of pulling her leg? You know

you're never going to take her out.

DON:

Who says I'm not?

NAT:

I say so. You're drunk and you're

just making with your mouth.

DON:

Give me a drink, Nat.

NAT:

And that other dame -- I mean the

lady. I don't like what you're doing

to her either.

DON:

Shut up.

NAT:

You should've seen her last night,

coming in here looking for you, with

her eyes all rainy and the mascara

all washed away.

DON:

Give me a drink!

NAT:

That's an awful high class young

lady.

DON:

You bet she is.

NAT:

How the heck did she ever get mixed

up with a guy that sops it up like

you do?

DON:

It's a problem, isn't it. That nice

young man that drinks, and the high-

class young lady, and how did she

ever get mixed up with him, and why

does he drink and why doesn't he

stop. That's my novel, Nat. I wanted

to start writing it out in the

country. Morbid stuff. Nothing for

the Book-of-the Month Club. A horror

story. The confessions of a booze

addict, the log book of an alcoholic.

(Holding out the jigger)

Come on, Nat. Break down.

Nat does break down and pours a drink.

DON:

Do you know what I'm going to call

my novel? The Bottle -- that's all.

Very simply, The Bottle. I've got it

all in my mind. Let me tell you the

first chapter. It all starts one wet

afternoon about three years ago.

There was a matinee of La Traviata

at the Metropolitan --

SLOW DISSOLVE TO:

B-5 EXT. METROPOLITAN OPERA HOUSE - AN AUTUMN AFTERNOON,

HEAVY RAIN:

HIGH CAMERA, SHOOTING DOWN past the glass-and-iron marquee

towards the entrance, beside which is a billboard announcing

Verdi's LA TRAVIATA. A crowd of people is streaming into the

building. They are wearing raincoats, carrying umbrellas.

B-6 THE VESTIBULE AND CLOAKROOM WINDOW AT THE METROPOLITAN

It is doing a land-office business, checking dripping

umbrellas and apparel. Among the crowd is Don Birnam. He is

alone and wears a bowler and a straight raincoat. He takes

off his hat and shakes the rain from it, then peels off his

raincoat. In the side pocket of his suit is a pint of liquor.

It bulges and the nose projects. For a second Don considers

whether it'll pass muster, but it's a little too prominent.

With a quick gesture he transfers the bottle to the pocket

of the raincoat, rolls the raincoat up like swaddling clothes

around a precious infant. Seeing an opening in the line at

the cloak room counter, he steps into it.

There is a great confusion of hands, coats, coat checks,

customers and overworked attendants. Don hands his coat to

an attendant. His eyes linger on its pocket with a certain

tenderness, then he turns and starts towards the door of the

auditorium.

DISSOLVE TO:

B-7 A SECTION OF SEATS AT THE METROPOLITAN

Don sits about five seats from the aisle. He is under the

pleasant spell of the overture of La Traviata.

B-8 DON

He sits between an elderly daughter and her age-old mother,

and a middle-aged man and wife. He is glancing through the

program as the curtain rises (changing the light on our

group). Don looks up.

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