Jack: Hi, Lloyd. A little slow tonight, isn't it? (Jack emanates a belly laugh)
Lloyd: Yes it is, Mr. Torrance. What'll it be?
Jack: I'm awfully glad you asked me that, Lloyd. Because I just happen to have two twenties and two tens right here in my wallet. I was afraid they were gonna be there until next April. So here's what. You slip me a bottle of bourbon, a little glass, and some ice. You can do that, can't you Lloyd? You're not too busy, are ya?
Lloyd: No sir, I'm not busy at all.
Jack: Good man. You set 'em up and I'll knock 'em back, Lloyd, one by one. White man's burden, Lloyd, white man's burden. (Jack opens his wallet and finds it empty) Say Lloyd, it seems I'm temporarily light. How's my credit in this joint, anyway?
Lloyd: Your credit's fine, Mr. Torrance.
Jack: That's swell. I like ya, Lloyd. I always liked ya. You were always the best of 'em. Best god-damn bartender from Timbuktu to Portland, Maine - or Portland, Oregon for that matter.
Lloyd: Thank you for saying so.
Jack: Here's to five miserable months on the wagon and all the irreparable harm that it's caused me.
Lloyd: How are things going, Mr. Torrance?
Jack: Things could be better, Lloyd. Things could be a whole lot better.
Lloyd: I hope it's nothing serious.
Jack: No. (He taps the bar for a second drink) Nothing serious. Just a little problem with the, uh, ol' sperm bank upstairs. Nothing I can't handle, though Lloyd, thanks.
Lloyd: Women. Can't live with 'em. Can't live without 'em.
Jack: Words of wisdom, Lloyd. Words of wisdom. I never laid a hand on him, god-damn it. I didn't. I wouldn't touch one hair on his god-damned little head. I love the little son-of-a-bitch. I'd do anything for him. Any f--kin' thing for him. That bitch! As long as I live, she'll never let me forget what happened. I did hurt him once, OK? But it was an accident, completely unintentional. Could have happened to anybody. And it was three god-damned years ago. The little f--ker had thrown all my papers all over the floor. All I tried to do was pull him up - a momentary loss of muscular coordination. A few extra foot-pounds of energy per second, per second.
