CUT TO: SEVERAL WEEKS LATER.
The face of TRAVIS' apartment has changed. The long, blank wall behind the table is now covered with tacked-up charts, pictures, newspaper-clippings, maps. CAMERA does not come close enough to discern the exact contents of these clippings.
Travis is in C.U. in the middle of the floor doing push-ups. He is bareback, wearing only his jeans. There is a long scar across his left side.
TRAVIS (V.O.): May 29, 1972. I must get in shape. Too much sitting has ruined my body. Twenty-five push-ups each morning, one hundred sit-ups, one hundred knee-bends. I have quit smoking.
Travis, still bareback, passes his stiff arm through the flame of a gas burner without flinching a muscle.
TRAVIS (V.O.): Total organization is necessary. Every muscle must be tight.
INT. FIRING RANGE
The CRACKING SOUND of rapid-fire pistol shots fills the musty air of the firing range. The walls are heavily soundproofed, and sawdust is spread over the floor.
Travis stands rock solid, firing the .44 Magnum at an arm's length. With each blasting discharge from the Magnum, Travis' body shudders and shakes, his arm as if each recoil from the giant gun was a direct attack on his masculinity.
Travis fires the Magnum as quickly as he can re-set, re-aim and re-fire. The Magnum is empty, he sets it down, picks up the .38 Special and begins firing as soon as he can aim. After the .38, comes the .25: It is as if he were in a contest to see how quickly he can fire the pistols. After all the guns are discharged, he begins reloading them without a moment's hesitation.
Downrange, the red and white targets have the black outline of a human figure drawn over them. The contour-man convulses under the steady barrage of Travis' rapid-fire shots.
INT. APARTMENT
TRAVIS, now wearing an unfastened green plaid western shirt, sits at the table writing in his diary. The vial of bennies is on the table.
TRAVIS (V.O.): My body fights me always. It won't work, it won't sleep, it won't shit, it won't eat.
LATER.
TRAVIS, his shirt still revealing his bare chest, sits on his straight-backed chair watching the TV. The .44 Magnum rests on his lap.
The TV is Broadcasting ROCK TIME, a late afternoon local teenage dance and rock show. On screen YOUNG TEENYBOPPERS are dancing, and the TV CAMERAMAN, as any devotee of the genre knows, is relentlessly ZOOMING-IN on their firm young breasts, fannies and crotches -- a sensibility which reflects TRAVIS' own. These supper-hour rock dance shows are the most unabashedly voyeuristic form of broadcasting the medium has yet developed.
The HARD ROCK NUMBER ends, and the TV CAMERA CUTS TO the local DISC JOCKEY, a hirsute plastic-looking man about 35. FIVE scrumptious TEENYBOPPERS are literally hanging on his shoulders and arms, their faces turned up to him in droolish awe. Out of his mouth comes an incessant stream of disc jockey blather. He is the complete asshole; I don't know who is currently performing this function in New York, but in Los Angeles his name is Real Don Steele.
TV DISC JOCKEY: Freshingly, fantastic, freaked-out dance time. Can you dig it? Dig on it. You got it, flaunt it.
TRAVIS watches the show, his face hard and unmoving. He is, as the Scriptures would say, pondering all these things in his heart. Why is it the assholes get all the beautiful young chicks? He takes a swig of peach brandy.
CUT TO: EARLY EVENING, about 6:30 p.m.
TRAVIS' taxi, with 'Off Duty' light on, sits near the curb somewhere in midtown Manhattan.
TRAVIS runs his hand down the left side of his jacket, attempting to smooth out the bulge underneath.
TRAVIS opens his jacket partially, checking underneath. There rests the nickel-plated .38 Special in its holster.
P.O.V. down the street where TRAVIS' taxi is parked: Several blocks ahead the red, white and blue campaign headquarters of CHARLES PALANTINE are visible.
TRAVIS' eyes resume their watch.
TRAVIS starts the car and drives toward the PALANTINE HEADQUARTERS.
TRACKING P.O.V. shot of row of storefronts leading up to Palantine Headquarters. P.O.V. passes headquarters: it is half-empty. A few stalwart SUPPORTERS continue to work toward the rear of the office. BETSY'S desk ----
Sign in window reads: "Only 4 More Days Until Arrival of CHARLES PALANTINE."
TRAVIS' "Off Duty" light goes off as he speeds up and heads toward a prospective fare.
LATER THAT NIGHT, about 9:30.
UPTOWN -- 128th and Amsterdam.
The Jungle. TRAVIS' taxi pulls up to an address, lets off YOUNG BLACK MAN.
TRAVIS receives fare and tip, takes off.
P.O.V. as TRAVIS works his way through Harlem back down Seventh Ave. Cluster of YOUNG BLACK STREET PUNKS pretend to hail cab -- we ignore them. One throws wine bottle which crashes in our path -- taxi swerves to avoid it.
CAMERA TRACKS through sidewalk CROWDS with the roving, suspicious, antagonistic eye of a taxi-driver.
LATER THAT NIGHT, about 12:30.
TRAVIS is on the LOWER EAST SIDE, somewhere on B Street, east of Tompkins Square.
The sidewalks are populated with the remains of what once was the hippie movement: TEENAGE STREET-WALKERS, JUNKIES, THUGS, emaciated LONERS on the prowl.
TRAVIS' taxi pulls over, letting out a fare.
TRAVIS pockets his fare, but the rear right door doesn't slam -- instead there is the SOUND of another person jumping into the cab.
TRAVIS checks the back seat in the rear-view mirror: there sits a pale HIPPIE PROSTITUTE.
The GIRL is, at best, 14 or 15, although she has been made up to look older. She wears floppy, Janis Joplin clothes. Her face is pallid. She wears large blue-tinted sunglasses and multi-colored leg stockings.
Her name, as we shall learn later, is IRIS.
TRAVIS hesitates, looking at her in the mirror.
IRIS: Come on, mister, let's get outta here -- quick.
TRAVIS moves to activate the meter, when the rear door opens. IRIS is helped out of the cab by a MAN TRAVIS cannot see.
SPORT (to IRIS): Come on, baby, let's go. This is all a real drag.
IRIS lets herself be taken out of the cab. The rear door closes. Sport leans partially in the front window, throwing something on the front seat. TRAVIS looks: it is a crumpled $20 bill.
SPORT: Just forget all about this, cabbie. It's nothing.
TRAVIS cannot see the Sport's face lime green completely, but notices he is wearing a jacket. The voice is that of a man in his early twenties.
TRAVIS turns to catch a glimpse of Sport as he walks off with Iris. TRAVIS shrugs and turns around. TRAVIS' taxi pulls away.
