(Jerry walks along. He is still carrying the envelope of checks, and by now he’s drenched. A familiar red Ferrari pulls to a stop level with Jerry, and the window winds down.)

BRETT: (calls over) Hey Jerry!

(Jerry peers at the car and walks out into the road as he recognises Brett.)

JERRY: Oh, hi Brett.

BRETT: Haven’t you ever heard of an umbrella?

JERRY: Ah, I didn’t have enough money.

BRETT: I’m sure things’ll pick up for you.

JERRY: No, it’s not that, it’s the…

(Jerry looks down at the envelope of checks in his hands. The rain has soaked them so thoroughly that the ink of his signatures has run and become illegible.)

JERRY: Oh no, look at the checks! Hours of hard work ruined!

(Brett peers over at the mass of sodden paper in Jerry’s grip.)

BRETT: Ah, don’t worry, I can spot you the (reads) twelve cents?

JERRY: No, it’s not the money. It’s my hand. It’s crippled from writing and writing.

BRETT: Nothing’s working for you, is is?

JERRY: (bitter) Not at the moment, Brett.

BRETT: I’d give you a ride, but I got Karl Farbman here.

(Beside Brett sits a bald-headed, bearded, guy in shades.)

JERRY: (sarcastic) Thanks for stopping!

(Jerry walks away)

[Jerry's Apartment]

(Jerry is drying the checks. Dozens hang from lines around the apartment, and more sit on the table, where Jerry dabs them with a towel.)

ELAINE: Brett said you ran away from him, as if he were the boogetyman.

JERRY: Boogeyman.

ELAINE: Boogey?

JERRY: I’m quite sure. Anyway, any luck getting together on a song?