Taxi Driver: Job Interview

Taxi Driver (1976) movie script by Paul Schrader. "The whole conviction of my life now rests upon the belief that loneliness, far from being a rare and curious phenomenon, is the central and inevitable fact of human existence." --Thomas Wolfe, "God's Lonely Man" TRAVIS BICKLE, age 26, lean, hard, the consummate loner. On the surface he appears good-looking, even handsome; he has a quiet steady look and a disarming smile which flashes from nowhere, lighting up his whole face. But behind that smile, around his dark eyes, in his gaunt cheeks, one can see the ominous stains caused by a life of private fear, emptiness and loneliness. He seems to have wandered in from a land where it is always cold, a country where the inhabitants seldom speak. The head moves, the expression changes, but the eyes remain ever-fixed, unblinking, piercing empty space. Travis is now drifting in and out of the New York City night life, a dark shadow among darker shadows. Not noticed, no reason to be noticed, Travis is one with his surroundings. He wears rider jeans, cowboy boots, a plaid western shirt and a worn beige Army jacket with a patch reading, "King Kong Company 1968-70". He has the smell of sex about him: Sick sex, repressed sex, lonely sex, but sex nonetheless. He is a raw male force, driving forward; toward what, one cannot tell. Then one looks closer and sees the evitable. The clock sprig cannot be wound continually tighter. As the earth moves toward the sun, Travis Bickle moves toward violence. FILM OPENS on EXT. of MANHATTAN CAB GARAGE. Weather-beaten sign above driveway reads, "Taxi Enter Here". Yellow cabs scuttle in and out. It is WINTER, snow is piled on the curbs, the wind is howling. INSIDE GARAGE are parked row upon row of multi-colored taxis. Echoing SOUNDS of cabs idling, cabbies talking. Steamy breath and exhaust fill the air. INT. CORRIDOR of cab company offices. Lettering on ajar door reads: PERSONAL OFFICE Marvis Cab Company Blue and White Cab Co. Acme Taxi Dependable Taxi Services JRB Cab Company Speedo Taxi Service SOUND of office busywork: shuffling, typing, arguing. PERSONAL OFFICE is a cluttered disarray. Sheets with heading "Marvis, B&W, Acme" and so forth are tacked to crumbling plaster wall: It is March. Desk is cluttered with forms, reports and an old upright Royal typewriter. Dishelved middle-aged New Yorker looks up from the desk. We CUT IN to ongoing conversation between the middle-aged personnel officer and a young man standing in front on his desk. The young man is TRAVIS BICKLE. He wears his jeans, boots and Army jacket. He takes a drag off his unfiltered cigarette. The personnel officer is beat and exhausted: he arrives at work exhausted. TRAVIS is something else again. His intense steely gaze is enough to jar even the personnel officer out of his workaday boredom. PERSONNEL OFFICER (O.S.): No trouble with the Hack Bureau? TRAVIS (O.S.): No Sir. PERSONNEL OFFICER (O.S.): Got your license? TRAVIS (O.S.): Yes. PERSONNEL OFFICER: So why do you want to be a taxi driver? TRAVIS: I can't sleep nights. PERSONNEL OFFICER: There's porno theatres for that. TRAVIS: I know. I tried that. The PERSONNEL OFFICER, though officious, is mildly probing and curious. TRAVIS is a cipher, cold and distant. He speaks as if his mind doesn't know what his mouth is saying. PERSONNEL OFFICER: So whatja do now? TRAVIS: I ride around nights mostly. Subways, buses. See things. Figur'd I might as well get paid for it. PERSONNEL OFFICER: We don't need any misfits around here, son. A thin smile cracks almost indiscernibly across TRAVIS' lips. TRAVIS: You kiddin? Who else would hack through South Bronx or Harlem at night? PERSONNEL OFFICER: You want to work uptown nights? TRAVIS: I'll work anywhere, anytime. I know I can't be choosy. PERSONNEL OFFICER (thinks a moment): How's your driving record? TRAVIS: Clean. Real clean. (pause, thin smile) As clean as my conscience. PERSONNEL OFFICER: Listen, son, you gonna get smart, you can leave right now. TRAVIS (apologetic): Sorry, sir. I didn't mean that. PERSONNEL OFFICER: Physical? Criminal? TRAVIS: Also clean. PERSONNEL OFFICER: Age? TRAVIS: Twenty-six. PERSONNEL OFFICER: Education? TRAVIS: Some. Here and there. PERSONNEL OFFICER: Military record? TRAVIS: Honorable discharge. May 1971. PERSONNEL OFFICER: You moonlightin? TRAVIS: No, I want long shifts. PERSONNEL OFFICER (casually, almost to himself): We hire a lot of moonlighters here. TRAVIS: So I hear. PERSONNEL OFFICER (looks up at Travis): Hell, we ain't that much fussy anyway. There's always opening on one fleet or another. Rummages through his drawer, collecting various pink, yellow and white forms Fill out these forms and give them to the girl at the desk, and leave your phone number. You gotta phone? TRAVIS: No. PERSONNEL OFFICER: Well then check back tomorrow. TRAVIS: Yes, Sir.