The Apartment Page #2

MR. KIRKEBY, a dapper, middle-aged man, stands in front of

the mirror above the fake fireplace, buttoning up his vest.

He does not notice that the buttons are out of alignment.

KIRKEBY:

(calling off)

Come on, Sylvia. It's getting late.

SYLVIA, a first baseman of a dame, redheaded and saftig,

comes cha cha-ing into the room, trying to fasten a necklace

as she hums along with the music. She dances amorously up

to Kirkeby.

KIRKEBY:

Cut it out, Sylvia. We got to get

out of here.

He helps her with the necklace, then turns off the phonograph.

SYLVIA:

What's the panic? I'm going to

have another martooni.

She crosses to the coffee table, starts to pour the remnants

of the vodka into the pitcher.

KIRKEBY:

Please, Sylvia! It's a quarter to

nine!

SYLVIA:

(dropping slivers of

ice into the pitcher)

First you can't wait to get me up

here, and now -- rush, rush, rush!

Makes a person feel cheap.

KIRKEBY:

Sylvia -- sweetie -- it's not

that -- but I promised the guy I'd

be out of here by eight o'clock,

positively.

SYLVIA:

(pouring martini)

What guy? Whose apartment is this,

anyway?

KIRKEBY:

(exasperated)

What's the difference? Some

schnook that works in the office.

EXT. BROWNSTONE HOUSE - EVENING

Bud is pacing back and forth, throwing an occasional glance

at the lit windows of his apartment. A middle-aged woman

with a dog on a leash approaches along the sidewalk.

She is MRS. LIEBERMAN, the dog is a Scottie, and they are

both wearing raincoats. Seeing them, Bud leans casually

against the stoop.

MRS. LIEBERMAN

Good evening, Mr. Baxter.

BUD:

Good evening, Mrs. Lieberman.

MRS. LIEBERMAN

Some weather we're having. Must be

from all the meshugass at Cape

Canaveral.

(she is half-way up

the steps)

You locked out of your apartment?

BUD:

No, no. Just waiting for a friend.

Good night, Mrs. Lieberman.

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