CUT TO: NIGHT
The taxis are roaming the slick streets.
Sometimes after 2:00 a.m., TRAVIS pulls his cab to the curb near an all-night delicatessen in Spanish Harlem. The streets are relatively deserted.
TRAVIS waves to STOREKEEPER as he walks past counter:
TRAVIS: Hey 'Melio.
Spanish rhythm and blues blares from a cheap radio.
TRAVIS walks over to dairy counter in rear of store, picks out a pint of chocolate milk, goes over to the open cooler and picks through various chilled prepackaged sandwiches. He overhears a VOICE as he looks at the sandwiches.
When TRAVIS returns to the counter with the chocolate milk and a sandwich in one hand, he sees a YOUNG BLACK MAN holding a gun on 'Melio. The STICK-UP MAN is nervous, hopped-up, or both; he bounces on the balls of his cheap worn black tennis shoes -- a strung-out junkie on a desperation ride. The STICK-UP MAN, a thorough unprofessional, doesn't notice TRAVIS.
'MELIO watches the STICK-UP MAN closely, deciding what to do himself.
STICK-UP MAN (shaking gun): Come on, man. Quick, quick, quick. Hand over that bread.
It doesn't take TRAVIS long to decide what to do: without hesitation he pulls his .32 from his jacket pocket.
TRAVIS: Hey dude!
The STICK-UP MAN, surprised, turns toward TRAVIS, finding only an exploding .32. The MAN's lower jaw bursts open with blood as he reels and crashes to the floor. There is no emotion on TRAVIS' face.
As the STICK-UP MAN falls, 'MELIO leans over the counter, wielding his battered .38. He is about to fire when he realizes the MAN is already dead. 'MELIO, charged up, turns his gun toward TRAVIS, then, realizing the danger is over, lowers it again.
'MELIO: Thanks, man. Figured I'd get him on the way out.
TRAVIS sets his .32 on the counter.
TRAVIS: You're gonna have to cover me on this one, 'Melio. I can't stay for the cop show.
'MELIO: You can't do that, Travis. You're my witness.
TRAVIS: The hell I can't. It's no sweat for you. What is this for you, number five?
'MELIO smiles and holds up four fingers:
'MELIO: No, only four. (shrug) Alright, Travis, I'll do what I can.
TRAVIS: Thanks a lot.
TRAVIS exits. 'MELIO picks up the phone and starts dialing. The bloody BODY lies on the floor unmoving.
TRAVIS, still carrying his pint of chocolate milk and sandwich, walks down the empty sidewalk and enters his cab. The street is deserted.
This is the first time we have actually seen the p**no movie itself.
SEVERAL ACTORS and ACTRESSES are dallying on screen in whatever manner the ratings board deems permissible.
Whatever the action, the movie's decor is strictly Zody's -- ersatz landscape paintings, tufted bedspreads. As in most p**no films, the ACTORS look up occasionally toward the CAMERA to receive instructions. Studio grunts, groans and moans of pleasure have been dubbed in.
Action on screen begins to go into SLOW MOTION, the ACTORS and ACTRESSES gradually transforming obscenity into poetry.
CUT TO:
TRAVIS, sitting in his chair in his APARTMENT, watching afternoon soap opera. He is cleaning his .38 and eating from a jar of applesauce. Soap opera audio continues.
He watches the soap opera without expression.
SOUND TRACK of film also SLOWS DOWN, gradually mixing with and then becoming the sound track of a midafternoon TV soap opera.
A YOUNG GIRL and BOY are talking in those familiar soap opera voices and a third party, the GIRL's mother, who had tried to terminate their "relationship."
CUT TO: TELEVISION:
The BOY is visiting the GIRL in her hospital room. Both look as if they've stepped out of the Blue Chip stamp catalogue.
SOAP OPERA BOY: Is it that she just doesn't -- like me?
SOAP OPERA GIRL (hesitantly): Well, Jim, it's just that -- I don't know how to say this -- it's that she thinks your parents aren't... good enough, I guess.
TRAVIS, through cleaning his gun, begins to play a game with the television set.
He places the heel of his boot at the top of the melon crate which supports the TV. Then, slowly rocking his heel back and forth, he sees how far he can tip the melon crate without knocking it over.
The TV, still broadcasting the hospital room melodrama,
rocks back and forth.
TRAVIS pushes the TV farther and farther until finally the inevitable happens -- the crate tips backward, sending the portable TV crashing to the floor.
There is a short flash and the TV screen turns white.TRAVIS, realizing what he has done, bends over, turns the TV upright on the floor, fiddles with the knobs, slaps it, and tries to reactivate the vanished image. TRAVIS' efforts are futile; a tube has broken, and the TV will not come back to life.
TRAVIS (to himself): Damn, damn.
TRAVIS bends over in the chair and places his head in his hands, despairing of himself.