Taxi Driver: The Idea

CUT TO: EARLY MORNING, 6:00 a.m. Quitting time -- TRAVIS pulls into TAXI GARAGE. INT. GARAGE TRAVIS pulls into his stall. TRAVIS sits in driver's seat, thinking a moment. He looks to his right: the crumpled $20 bill still lies there, untouched since it was thrown there six hours previously. TRAVIS reluctantly picks up the $20 bill and stuffs it into his jacket pocket as he gets out of the cab. He gathers up his time report and heads toward book-in table. A SHORT WHILE LATER, TRAVIS is walking down the sidewalk near the taxi garage. His hands are in his jacket pockets, obscuring the slight bulge on his left side TRAVIS turns into the box offfice of PORNO THEATER. He reaches into jacket pocket for money to purchase ticket and pulls out crumpled $20 bill. Seeing the $20 bill, he decides not to use it, and pays for ticket out of his wallet instead. TRAVIS walks past concession stand en route to the darkened theater auditorium. A YOUNG MAN is now sitting listlessly behind the concessions counter. INT. PORNO THEATER AUDITORIUM TRAVIS slouches down into his seat, his face glowing in the reflected light from the screen. FEMALE MOVIE VOICE (O.S.): Oh, come on, now, down, lick it, come on… (a beat) Mmm, that's good. Ahh, ahh, more ... TRAVIS averts his eyes as the action on screen becomes too graphic. Placing his stiffened right hand beside his eyes, TRAVIS can, by turning it inward, shut off or open up his field of vision by small degrees. MOVIE VOICE DIMINISHES, replaced by SOUND of TRAVIS' voice over. TRAVIS (V.O.): The idea had been growing in my brain ... CUT TO: TRACKING SHOT to wall of TRAVIS' APARTMENT. CAMERA MOVES slowly across wall covered with clippings, notes, maps, pictures. We now see their contents clearly: The wall is covered with CHARLES PALANTINE political paraphernalia; there are pictures of him, newspaper articles, leaflets, bumper stickers. As the CAMERA MOVES along it discovers a sketch of Plaza Hotel, Kennedy Airport and cut-up sections of city maps with notations written in. There is lengthy N.Y. Times clipping detailing the increased Secret Security Protection during the primaries. A section pertaining to PALANTINE is underlined. Further along there is a sheet reading "traveling schedule" and a calendar for June with finely written notations written over the dates. TRAVIS (V.O.)(CONTD): ... for some time. True Force. All the king's men cannot put it back together again. As the CAMERA reaches the end of its track, it finds TRAVIS, standing, his shirt open, but the mattress. He is wearing the empty holster, and the .44 is in his hand. In the SHOTS that follow TRAVIS gives the audience a lesson in gunmanship: TRAVIS practices fast-drawing the .38 Special from his holster and firing it. He hooks the .44 into his pants behind his back and practices withdrawing it. He holds the .44 firmly at an arm's length, tightening his forearm muscles. He has worked out a system of metal gliders taped to his inner forearm, whereby the Colt .25 can rest hidden behind the upper forearm until a spring near the elbow is activated, sending the .25 flying down the gliders into his palm. He has cut open his shirt to accommodate the gun mechanism and now checks in the mirror to see how well the gun is hidden. He straps an Army combat knife to his calf and cuts a slit in his jeans where the knife can be pulled out quickly. He now tries on various combinations of shirts, sweater and jacket in front of the mirror to see how well he can hide all the handguns he wishes to carry. Finally, wearing two western shirts, a sweater and jacket, he manages to obscure the location of all three guns, although he resembles a hunter bundled up against the Arctic winter. He sits at the table dum-dumming the .44 bullets -- cutting "x's" across the bullet heads. P.O.V.: he scans the objects of his room through the scope of the .38. TRAVIS stands in the middle of his apartment, staring at his PALANTINE wall. His eyes are glazed with introspection; he sees nothing but himself. TRAVIS (V.O.)(CONTD): Listen you screwheads: Here is a man ... TRAVIS lies on his mattress, all bundled up in his shirts, sweater, jacket and guns. His face is turned toward the ceiling, but his eyes are closed. Although the room is flooded with light, he is finally catching some sleep. The big furry animal drifts into his own world. TRAVIS (V.O.)(CONTD): ... who wouldn't take it any more, a man who stood up against the scum, the cunts, the dogs, the filth. Here is … (voice trails off) C.U. of diary: entry ends with words "Here is" followed by erratic series of dots.