INT. TRAVIS' APARTMENT
He lies on his mattress at the ceiling. He is fully clothed and appears deep in thought.
Near his mattress rest several medications: A large bottle of vitamin pills, two smaller bottles of pills, a bottle of peach-flavored brandy.
TRAVIS (V.O.): All my life needed was a sense of direction, a sense of someplace to go. I do not believe one should devote his life to morbid self-attention, but should become a person like other people.
ANOTHER DAY - LATE AFTERNOON
Travis' taxi is driving down Broadway with the "Off Duty" sign on.
POV TRACKING SHOT down Broadway. CAMERA stops at Palantine Campaign Headquarters. A few WORKERS remain in the office. Betsy's desk is vacant.
FIFTH AVENUE - THE SAME AFTERNOON
CAMERA TRACKS with crowded mass of MANHATTANITES as they ooze through the sidewalks toward their various destination. Individuals are indiscernible: It is simply a congested mass.
TRAVIS (V.O.): I first saw her at Palantine Campaign Headquarters at 58th and Broadway. She was wearing a yellow dress, answering the phone at her desk.
Suddenly: Cut of the congested human mass, IN SLOWING MOTION, appears the slender figure of BETSY in a stylish yellow dress. The crowd parts like the Red Sea, and there she is: Walking all alone, untouched by the crowd, suspended in space and time.
TRAVIS (V.O.)(CONTD): She appeared like an angel out of this open sewer. Out of this filthy mass. She is alone: They cannot touch her.
INT. TRAVIS' APARTMENT
He is at the table, writing in his diary.
CLOSEUP - His stubby pencil rests on the word "her".
CUT TO:
It is 3:30 IN THE MORNING in a bacon-shaped all night WEST SIDE REATAURANT. The thick smell hangs in the air - fried grease, smoke, sweat, regurgitated wine.
Whatever doesn't flush away in New York at night turns up in places like this. A burly grease-stained COOK stands over the grill. A JUNKIE shuffles from one side of the door to another. Slouched over the small four-person formica tables are several WELL-DRESSED BLACKS (too well-dressed for this time and place), a cluster of STREET PEOPLE and a lost OLD COOT who hangs onto his cup of coffee as if it were his last possession.
The restaurant, brightly lit, perfectly conveys the image urban plasticity - without the slightest hint of an accompanying cleanliness.
Toward the rear of the restaurant sit three cabbies: WIZARD, a worn man about fifty, DOUGH-BOY, younger family man, CHARLIE T., fourtyish Black.
Wizard is telling Dough-Boy a story. Charlie T., his elbows popped against table top, is not listening. He stares silently down at a plate of cold scrambled eggs and a Racing Forum. His eyes may not be open.
WIZARD: First she did her make-up. You know, I hate it when they do that. I mean she does the whole works, the mascara, the eye-shadow, the lipstick, the rouge...
DOUGH-BOY: Not rouge. Blush-On, they call it.
WIZARD: The kind with a brush.
Travis appears at the door. He has to push aside the JUNKIES to enter without making physical contact - something Travis would not relish. He may be repulsed with these people and this place, but he is too much a part of this to let his feelings rise to the surface.
Wizard gives Travis a perfunctory wave.
WIZARD: Travis.
TRAVIS: Hey Wizard.
Travis straddles a seat at the table. Dough-Boy gives Travis something between a wink and an eye-twitch saying:
DOUGH-BOY: Yeah, that's Blush-On. My wife uses it.
WIZARD (ironic): Ask Travis. He's the ladies man.
Travis shrugs and motions for a cup of coffee.
WIZARD (continuing): Well, whatever the fuck it is, she used it. And then the spray perfume. You know, the real sweat kind - and, on top of that, get this, right when we're crossing the Tri-boro bridge - she changes her pantyhose!
DOUGH-BOY: No.
Travis turns his head. He appears not to be interested, but is.
WIZARD: Yeah.
DOUGH-BOY: Could you see anything?
WIZARD: Well, she was trying to keep her skirt down, sort of, you know. But it was pretty obvious what she was doing. I mean, Christ, it was rush hour and the traffic's practically standing still.
DOUGH-BOY: What did you do?
WIZARD: Threw on the emergency, jumped the seat and fucked her brains out - What do you think! (they laugh) What do I have to do? Draw you a picture?
DOUGH-BOY: Yeah.
WIZARD: What was I supposed to do? I was watching in the rear view. You know, just checkin' traffic. (to Travis) So howsit?
TRAVIS (w/o inflection): Some fleet driver for Bell just cut up. Just heard it on the radio.
DOUGH-BOY: Stick up?
A WAITRESS brings Travis' coffee and a glass of water. He asks for a cheeseburger.
WIZARD: Sure. What do you think? She wanted to get out of the cab. I said "Look, you're in the middle of the fucking bridge..."
DOUGH-BOY: You said that?
WIZARD: Well, I said, "Lady, please, we're on a bridge..."
DOUGH-BOY: And what happened?
Travis awaits Wizard's answer.
WIZARD: She stayed in the cab, what's she gonna do? But she stiffed me. A real skunk.
DOUGH-BOY: A real skunk.
Wizard realizes Travis and Dough-Boy may not have met.
WIZARD (paternal): Travis, you know Dough-Boy, Charlie T.?
Charlie T. nods sleepily. Travis indicates he knows Dough-Boy.
DOUGH-BOY: Yeah. We went to Harvard together. (laughs)
WIZARD: We call him Dough-Boy cause he likes the dollars. He'll chase a buck straight into Jersey.
DOUGH-BOY: Look who's talking? (gestures around table) Who else would stay up all night to catch the morning rush hour?
Travis sips his coffee. Charlie T.'s eyelids slip shut.
WIZARD (to Travis): So howsit?
TRAVIS (w/o inflection): Some fleet driver for Bell just got cut up. Just heard it on the radio.
DOUGH-BOY: Stick up?
TRAVIS: No, just some crazy fucker. Cut half his ear off.
DOUGH-BOY: Where.
TRAVIS: In the jungle. 122nd.
Travis' eyes turn toward the restaurant's other patrons.
POV: THREE STREET PEOPLE sitting at a table. One GUY, stoned, stares straight ahead. A raggedly attractive GIRL rest her head on the shoulder of the other, a heavily bearded YOUNG MAN with a headband. They kiss and tease each other, momentarily lost in their separate world.
Travis watches the hippie couple closely, his feeling sharply divided between cultural contempt and morose jealousy. Why should these people enjoy the love and intimacy that has always eluded him? He must enjoy these schizoid emotions, because his eyes dwell on the couple.
DOUGH-BOY (changing the subject): You run all over town, don't you, Travis?
WIZARD (referring to 122nd St.): Fuckin' Mau Mau land, that's what it is.
Travis turns back to his companions.
TRAVIS: Huh?
DOUGH-BOY: I mean, you handle some pretty rough traffic, huh?
TRAVIS (catching on): I have.
DOUGH-BOY: You carry a piece? You need one?
TRAVIS: Nah. (a beat) I suppose not.
Waitress slaps down smudge-marked glass of water, and a cheeseburger plate that looks more like a shrunken head on a serving platter.
DOUGH-BOY: Well, you ever need one, I know a feller that kin getcha a real nice deal. Lotsa shit around.
WIZARD: The cops and company raise hell they find out.
Travis drops two Alka-Seltzer into his glass of water.
DOUGH-BOY: Truck drivers bring up Harlem Specials that blow up in your hand. But this guy don't deal no shit. Just quality. If you ever need anything, I can put you in touch.
WIZARD: For a fee.
DOUGH-BOY: For a fee.
WIZARD: I never use mine. But it's a good thing to have. Just as a threat.
DOUGH-BOY (getting up): Well, if there's this many hackies inside, there must be lots of hares outside. And I'm gonna hustle 'em.
WIZARD: What ya gonna do with all that money, Dough-Boy?
DOUGH-BOY: Support my kids. Can you dig it? (pause) Nice to meet ya, Travis. So long, Wizard. Say hello to Malcolm X for me. (nods to Charlie T.)
Charlie T. remains unmoved: He is sleeping.
Dough-Boy exits. Travis smiles perfunctorily, then looks back at Wizard. They really don't have much to talk about, and the Wizard doesn't care to manufacture any more conversations.
Travis scans the greasy spoon: The scene is unchanged.
