Drinks too much coffee and laughs to his own jokes.
We never understood his jokes, but we liked him.
He was lecturing and I was giggling, unable to control my laughter.
My friends wanted to know. I showed them. They didnt like.
I was reading script of the movie, "The Apartment" by Billy Wilder.
Love you, Billy.
THE APARTMENT by Billy Wilder and I.A.L. Diamond A DESK COMPUTER A man's hand is punching out a series of figures on the keyboard. BUD (V.O.) On November first, 1959, the population of New York City was 8,042,783. if you laid all these people end to end, figuring an average height of five feet six and a half inches, they would reach from Times Square to the outskirts of Karachi, Pakistan. I know facts like this because I work for an insurance company -- THE INSURANCE BUILDING - A WET, FALL DAY It's a big mother, covering a square block in lower Manhattan, all glass and aluminum, jutting into the leaden sky. BUD (V.O.) -- Consolidated Life of New York. We are one of the top five companies in the country -- last year we wrote nine-point-three billion dollars worth of policies. Our home office has 31,259 employees -- which is more than the entire population of Natchez, Mississippi, of Gallup, New Mexico. INT. NINETEENTH FLOOR Acres of gray steel desk, gray steel filing cabinets, and steel-gray faces under indirect light. One wall is lined with glass-enclosed cubicles for the supervisory personnel. It is all very neat, antiseptic, impersonal. The only human tough is supplied by a bank of IBM machines, clacking away cheerfully in the background. BUD (V.O.) I work on the nineteenth floor -- Ordinary Policy Department - Premium Accounting Division - Section W -- desk number 861. DESK 861 Like every other desk, it has a small name plate attached to the side. This one reads C.C. BAXTER. BUD (V.O.) My name is C.C. Baxter - C. for Calvin, C. for Clifford -- however, most people call me Bud. I've been with Consolidated Life for three years and ten months. I started in the branch office in Cincinnati, then transferred to New York. My take-home pay is $94.70 a week, and there are the usual fringe benefits. BAXTER is about thirty, serious, hard-working, unobtrusive. He wears a Brooks Brothers type suit, which he bought somewhere on Seventh Avenue, upstairs. There is a stack of perforated premium cards in front of him, and he is totaling them on the computing machine. He looks off. ELECTRIC WALL CLOCK It shows 5:19. With a click, the minute hand jumps to 5:20, and a piercing bell goes off. BUD (V.O.) The hours in our department are 8:50 to 5:20 -- FULL SHOT - OFFICE Instantly all work stops. Papers are being put away, typewriters and computing machines are covered, and everybody starts clearing out. Within ten seconds, the place is empty -- except for Bud Baxter, still bent over his work, marooned in a sea of abandoned desks. BUD (V.O.) -- they're staggered by floors, so that sixteen elevators can handle the 31,259 employees without a serious traffic jam. As for myself, I very often stay on at the office and work for an extra hour or two -- especially when the weather is bad. It's not that I'm overly ambitious -- it's just a way of killing time, until it's all right for me to go home. You see, I have this little problem with my apartment -- DISSOLVE TO:
Read the script here.... 
