INT. ELEVATOR – DAY
TOM is standing in an elevator with the doors
open. He sees BILL approaching.
Bill enters and the doors close. They both
face forward. Bill seems nervous.
Huh? Oh, uh, twenty-three.
Tom pushes the button and they both wait,
occasionally looking up to see what floor
they’ve passed. Bill steps in front of
Tom and presses the emergency stop button.
Whoops! That’s the emergency stop button
there, buddy. It’s a common mistake.
I’ll fix it.
Bill sticks his hand into his coat pocket like he
has a gun.
Don’t touch that button.
Hey, what’s going on here?
Give me your wallet and shut up.
You’re holding me up on an elevator?
You don’t hold people up on an
elevator. This is New York City.
Hold me up on the street, like
Just give me your damn
wallet and be quick about it.
Tom starts handing over his wallet.
Okay. Okay. Take it easy.
Tom takes a hard look at his mugger.
Wait a minute. Bill? Bill Richardson?
Syracuse? Class of ’89?
Holy cow. Tom Dawson. Son-of-a-bitch.
How the hell are you, Bill?
What do you mean how the hell am I?
I’m holding you up on an elevator.
How the hell do you think I am?
Well, Bill, this isn’t like you.
I mean, you held some kind of
distinction in college. You were
(interrupting) Yeah, yeah, most
likely to succeed. Don’t remind me.
I’ve had that ghost chasing me around
for the past eighteen years. You’ll
never know the pressure behind being
voted most likely to succeed.
(beat) By the way, what were you voted?
(proud) Class clown.
Well, no pressure there, right Tommy
boy? I mean, class clown. What do
you have to worry about? Acting stupid
in public? The class expects it of you.
Playing the fool? Come on. It was
your destiny. But try living up to
most likely to succeed. I mean,
it’s not like I didn’t try.
I tried running an advertising agency.
Okay, my only client was some guy
who made cosmetics for animals,
but I tried. What does the class clown
have to worry about? How many pencils
he can stick up his nose?
What? You think making people laugh
is easy? Try farting on command.
Besides, didn’t you marry Jenny Lewis?
Our Homecoming Queen?
Oh, yeah, beautiful Jenny with the
gorgeous figure. She got so tired
of waiting for me to be a success,
she ran away with the fry cook from
the Waffle House.
That’s nothing. Remember Betsy Gordon?
The Class Pig?
That’s her. She’s currently
Mrs. Tom Dawson.
Get out of here. She was voted
most likely to go down on anyone.
Yeah. Anyone but me. Wait a minute.
I read somewhere, recently, that you
got some kind of citation.
Yeah. For vagrancy. The mayor issued
it to me personally. What do you do?
Me? Oh, I have a talent agency.
I found out there are a lot of
talented class clowns out there.
I book them into colleges, mostly.
Say, uh, Tom, you wouldn’t have an
opening for me, would you?
Well, what kind of talent do you
have? Do you tell jokes?
Play a musical instrument?
Not really. I can sing a little.
Well, let’s hear.
Sure. Go ahead. I’ll audition you
Bill sings a chorus of “FEELINGS” and not too
very well at that. Tom looks at him in disbelief, presses the “DOORS OPEN” button on the elevator and hands his wallet over to Bill. Bill throws it back at Tom.
I don’t need a pity wallet.
Then the hell with you.
Alright, fine, you bastard. You just
wait. Someday, you’ll be out on the
street, just like me. With nothing.
Alone. Nobody will give a damn
about you, Mr. Fancy Talent Agency.
You can go screw yourself!
Bill exits. Tom looks out.
So, will I see you at the reunion?