Taxi Driver: Travis meets Sport

CUT TO: NIGHT on the LOWER EAST SIDE. TRAVIS sits parked in the dark shadows of a side street. The lone wolf waits. TRAVIS watches the SLUM GODDESSES as they work the section of the street reserved for hippie hookers. TRAVIS' P.O.V.: some of the YOUNG STREET GIRLS are arrogant, almost aggressive, others are more insecure and inexperienced. A BLACK MAN charges down the sidewalk across the street from TRAVIS. He walks at a fast, maniacal clip, looking only at the sidewalk in front of him. Out of his mouth comes a continuous stream of invective: "That-cock-sucking-crazy-no-good-asshole-bitch-when-I-get-my-fucking-fingers-on-her-nigger-tits-I'm-gonna-ring-em-and-shit-up-her-ass..." and so on. He is Out of Control. Nobody seems to notice or care. TRAVIS takes a swig of peach brandy and continues his stake- out. Finally, TRAVIS spies the object of his search: IRIS walks down the sidewalk with her GIRLFRIEND. Iris wears her large blue sunglasses. TRAVIS checks to see if his .38 is in place (it is), opens the door and exits from the cab. Flipping up the collar of his Army jacket, TRAVIS slouches over and walks toward IRIS. He sort of sidles up next to her and walks beside her: TRAVIS always looks most suspicious when he's trying to appear innocent. TRAVIS (shy): Hello. IRIS: You looking for some action? TRAVIS: Well...I guess so. IRIS (eyeing him): All right. (a beat) You see that guy over there? (nods) His name is Sport. Go talk to him. I'll wait here. Travis' eyes follow Iris' nod until they reach Sport, standing in a doorway in his lime green jacket. Travis walks toward him. Sport, a thirtiesh white greaser, has the affections of a black pimp. His hips are jiving, his fingers softly snapping. He sings to him self, "Going to the chapel, gonna get married..." His complexion is sallow; his eyes cold and venal. He could only seem romantic to a confused underaged runaway. TRAVIS: Your name Sport? Sport immediately takes Travis for an undercover cop. He extends his crosses wrists as if to be handcuffed. SPORT: Here, officer, take me in. I'm clean. I didn't do it. Got a ticket once in Jersey. That's all. Honest, officer. TRAVIS: Your name Sport? SPORT: Anything you say, officer. TRAVIS: I'm no cop. (looks back at Iris) I want some action. SPORT: I saw. $20 fifteen minutes. $30 half hour. TRAVIS: Shit. SPORT: Take it or leave it. TRAVIS digs in his pocket for money. SPORT: No, not me. There'll be an elderly gent to take the bread. TRAVIS turns to walk away. SPORT: Catch you later, Copper. TRAVIS freezes, not saying anything. He turns back toward SPORT. TRAVIS: I'm no cop. SPORT: Well, if you are, it's entrapment already. TRAVIS: I'm hip. SPORT: Funny, you don't look hip. (laughs) TRAVIS walks back to IRIS. IRIS motions for TRAVIS to follow her and he does. IRIS and TRAVIS turn the corner and walk about a block, saying nothing. IRIS turns into a darkened doorway and TRAVIS follows her. At the top of the dark stairs IRIS and TRAVIS enter a dimly lit hallway. On either side are doors with apartment numbers. IRIS turns toward the first door, No. 2. IRIS: This is my room. At the far end of the darkened corridor sits a huge OLD MAN. His face is obscured by shadow. TRAVIS is about to enter the room when the OLD MAN speaks up: OLD MAN: Hey cowboy! TRAVIS turns his head toward the OLD MAN who has stood up and is advancing toward him. OLD MAN (motioning to TRAVIS' jacket): The rod. (a beat) Gimme the rod, cowboy. TRAVIS hesitates a moment, uncertain what to do. The OLD MAN reaches in TRAVIS' jacket and pulls out the .38 Special. OLD MAN: This ain't Dodge City, cowboy. You don't need no piece. (glances at watch) I'm keepin' time. TRAVIS enters No. 2 with IRIS. TRAVIS looks around IRIS' room: although dimly lit, the room is brightly decorated. There is an orange shag carpet, deep brown walls and an old red velvet sofa. On the walls are posters of Mick Jagger, Bob Dylan and Peter Fonda. A Neil Young album is playing on a small phonograph. This is where IRIS lives: it bears the individual touch of a young girl. IRIS lights a cigarette, takes a single puff and places it in an ashtray on the bedstand. TRAVIS: Why you hang around with them greasers? IRIS: A girl needs protection. TRAVIS: Yeah. From the likes of them. IRIS (shrugs): It's your time mister. Fifteen minutes ain't long. (gestures to cigarette) That cigarette burns out, your time is up. IRIS sits on the edge of the bed and removes her hat and coat. She takes off her blue-tinted sunglasses--her last defense. Without the paraphernalia of adulthood, Iris looks like a little girl she is. About 14, 15. TRAVIS: What's your name? IRIS: Easy. TRAVIS: That ain't much of a name. IRIS: It's easy to remember. Easy Lay. TRAVIS: What's your real name? IRIS: I don't like my real name. TRAVIS (insistent): What's your real name? IRIS: Iris. TRAVIS: That's a nice name. IRIS: That's what you think. IRIS unbuttons her shirt, revealing her small pathetic breasts -- two young doves hiding from a winter wind. TRAVIS is unnerved by her partial nudity. TRAVIS: Don't you remember me? Button your shirt. IRIS buttons only the bottom button of her shirt. IRIS (examining him): Why? Who are you? TRAVIS: I drive a taxi. You tried to get away one night. Remember? IRIS: No. TRAVIS: You tried to run away in my taxi but your friend -- Sport -- wouldn't let you. IRIS: I don't remember. TRAVIS: It don't matter. I'm gonna get you outta here. (looks toward door) IRIS: We better make it, or Sport'll get mad. How do you want to make it? TRAVIS (pressured): I don't want to make it. I came here to get you out. IRIS: You want to make it like this? (goes for his fly) TRAVIS pushes her hand away. He sits beside her on the edge of the bed. TRAVIS (taking her by the shoulders): Can't you listen to me? Don't you want to get out of here? IRIS: Why should I want to get out of here? This is where I live. TRAVIS (exasperated): But you're the one that wanted to get away. You're the one that came into my cab. IRIS: I musta been stoned. TRAVIS: Do they drug you? IRIS (reproving): Oh, come off it, man. IRIS tries to unzip TRAVIS' fly. This only unnerves TRAVIS more: sexual contact is something he's never really confronted. TRAVIS: Listen... IRIS: Don't you want to make it? (a beat) Can't you make it? IRIS works on TRAVIS' crotch OFF CAMERA. He bats her hand away. TRAVIS (distraught): I want to help you. TRAVIS is getting increasingly panicked, but IRIS only thinks this is part of his particular thing and tries to overcome it. IRIS (catching on): You can't make it, can you? (a beat) I can help you. IRIS lowers her head to go down on TRAVIS. TRAVIS, seeing this, jumps up in panic. TRAVIS stands several feet from IRIS. His fly is still open, and the white of his underwear shows through his jeans. He is starting to come apart. TRAVIS: Fuck it! Fuck it! Fuck it! Fuck it! Fuck it! Fuck it! Fuck it! IRIS (confused): You can do it in my mouth. TRAVIS: Don't you understand anything? IRIS says nothing. After a moment, TRAVIS again sits on the bed beside IRIS. She no longer tries to make him. There is a moment of silence. IRIS puts her arm around his shoulder. IRIS: You don't have to make it, mister. TRAVIS rests a moment, collecting himself. Finally, he says: TRAVIS (slowly): Do you understand why I came here? IRIS: I think so. I tried to get into your cab one night, and now you want to come and take me away. TRAVIS: Don't you want to go? IRIS: I can leave anytime I want. TRAVIS: But that one night? IRIS: I was stoned. That's why they stopped me. When I'm not stoned, I got no place else to go. They just protect me from myself. There is a pause. TRAVIS smiles and shrugs apologetically. TRAVIS looks at Iris' cigarette. It's burning down to the butt. TRAVIS: Well, I tried. IRIS (compassionate): I understand, mister. It means something, really. TRAVIS (getting up): Can I see you again? IRIS: That's not hard to do. TRAVIS: No, I mean really. This is nothing for a person to do. IRIS: Sure. All right. We'll have breakfast. I get up about one o'clock. Tomorrow. TRAVIS (thinking): Well tomorrow noon there's a... I got a... IRIS is interfering with TRAVIS' assassination schedule. IRIS: Well, you want to or not? TRAVIS (deciding): O.K. It's a date. I'll see you here, then. TRAVIS turns; IRIS smiles. TOM: Oh, Iris? IRIS: Yes? TOM; My name's Travis. IRIS: Thank you, Travis. TRAVIS: So long, Iris. (a beat) Sweet Iris. (smiles) TRAVIS exits. TRAVIS closes the door to No. 2 and stands in the corridor for a moment. The OLD MAN slowly walks from the dark end of the hallway with TRAVIS' .38 in his hand. OLD MAN stands near TRAVIS, and checks his watch. OLD MAN (holding gun): I think this is yours, cowboy. TRAVIS reaches in his jacket pocket and pulls out the familiar crumpled $20 bill. He makes a big show of stuffing the wrinkled bill into the OLD MAN's hand. The OLD MAN doesn't understand the significance of it. TRAVIS (restrained anger): Here's the twenty bucks, old man. You better damn well spend it right. TRAVIS turns and walks away. OLD MAN says as TRAVIS walks down stairs: OLD MAN: Come back anytime you want, cowboy. But without the rod -- please. TRAVIS does not respond.