STREET IN THE WEST SIXTIES - EVENING
Bud, wearing a weather-beaten Ivy League raincoat and a
narrow-brimmed brown hat, comes walking slowly down the
street skirting the puddles on the sidewalk. He stops in
front of a converted brownstone, looks up.
I live in the West Sixties - just
half a block from Central Park. My
rent is $84 a month. It used to be
eighty until last July when Mrs.
Lieberman, the landlady, put in a
second-hand air conditioning unit.
The windows on the second floor are lit, but the shades are
drawn. From inside drifts the sound of cha cha music.
It's a real nice apartment -
nothing fancy -- but kind of
cozy -- just right for a bachelor.
The only problem is - I can't
always get in when I want to.
INT. THE APARTMENT - EVENING
What used to be the upstairs parlor of a one-family house in
the early 1900's has been chopped up into living room,
bedroom, bathroom and kitchen. The wallpaper is faded, the
carpets are threadbare, and the upholstered furniture could
stand shampooing. There are lots of books, a record player,
stacks of records, a television set (21 inches and 24
payments), unframed prints from the Museum of Modern Art
(Picasso, Braque, Klee) tacked up on the walls.
Only one lamp is lit, for mood, and a cha cha record is
spinning around on the phonograph. On the coffee table in
front of the couch are a couple of cocktail glasses, a
pitcher with some martini dregs, an almost empty bottle of
vodka, a soup bowl with a few melting ice cubes at the
bottom, some potato chips, an ashtray filled with cigar
stubs and lipstick-stained cigarette butts, and a woman's