The Twilight Zone (1959) s02e04 Episode Script
A Thing About Machines
You're traveling through another dimension- a dimension not only of sight and sound, but of mind.
A journey into a wondrous land whose boundaries are that of imagination.
That's the signpost up ahead.
Your next stop, the twilight zone.
How are you today, mr.
Finchley? I'll answer that burning question after you tell me what's wrong with that miracle of modern science, and also exactly how much this current larceny is going to cost me.
Well, there's two hours labor, broken set of tubes, new oscillator and a new filter.
How very technical, and how very convincing.
I presume i'm to be dunned once again for three times the worth of the blasted thing.
Last time i was over here, you'd kicked your foot through the screen.
Remember? I have a vivid recollection, thank you.
The set was not working properly.
I tried to get it to do so in a perfectly normal fashion.
By kicking your foot through the screen? Why didn't you just horsewhip it, mr.
Finchley? That'd show it who's boss.
Supposing we stop this moronic small talk, shall we, and get down to some serious larceny? You may read me off the damages.
Although i sometimes wonder what exactly is the purpose of the better business bureau when it allows itinerant extortionists like you to come back week after week, move wires around, busily probe with ham-like hands, and achieve nothing but the financial ruin of every customer.
We're not a gyp outfit, mr.
Finchley.
We're legitimate repairmen.
But i'll tell you something about yourself.
That tv set doesn't work because, obviously, you got in back of it, and you yanked out a lot of wires, and i don't know what else.
Now, a month ago, you called me over here to fix your portable radio because you threw it downstairs.
That did not work properly either.
Well, that's the point, mr.
Finchley.
Why don't they work properly? Offhand, i'd say it's because you don't treat them properly.
I assume there'll be an extra charge for that analysis? What does go wrong with these things, mr.
Finchley? Have you got any idea? Aside from being a rather incompetent clod, you're a very unreceptive man.
I have already explained to you, the television set simply did not work properly.
And, as for that marconi original operating under the guise of a modern radio, that gave nothing but static.
Are you sure that's all that was wrong with them? All right, mr.
Finchley, i'll send you a bill.
Of that i have no doubt.
Finchley, what is it with you and machines? I shall file that idiotic question in my memorabilia to be referred to at some future date when i write my memoirs.
You, my good friend, will fill one entire chapter entitled, "the most forgettable person i ever met.
" It just so happens that every machine in this house is all right.
That will be enough of that.
Do you hear me? I said that will be enough of that! Stop! Stop! This is mr.
Bartlett finchley, age 48, a practicing sophisticate who writes very special and very precious things for gourmet magazines and the like.
He's a bachelor and a recluse with few friends, only devotees and adherents to the cause of tart sophistry.
He has no interests save whatever current annoyances he can put his mind to.
He has no purpose to his life except the formulation of day-to-day opportunities to vent his wrath on mechanical contrivances of an age he abhors.
In short, mr.
Bartlett finchley is a malcontent, born either too late or too early in the century, and who, in just a moment, will enter a realm where muscles and the will to fight back are not limited to human beings.
Next stop for mr.
Bartlett finchley- the twilight zone.
Miss rogers.
Is this all you've done? That's all i've done.
That's 30 pages in three hours and a half.
That's the best i can do, mr.
Finchley.
It's that idiotic machine- that typewriter of yours.
Thomas jefferson wrote the entire declaration of independence with a feather quill, and it took him only half a day.
Why don't you hire mr.
Jefferson? Miss rogers, did i ever tell you with what degree of distaste i view insubordination? Often and endlessly.
I'll tell you what, mr.
Finchley.
You get yourself another girl- one with three arms, and with roughly the same sensitivity as an alligator.
Then you can work together till death do you part.
As for me i've had it.
And you are going where? Anyplace where i can be away from the highly articulate, oh, so sophisticated, bon vivant of america's winers and diners- a mr.
Bartlett finchley.
You even got me talking like you.
Miss rogers, please.
Don't leave.
I beg your pardon? I do wish you'd i wish you'd stay for a bit.
Oh, i don't mean for work or anything.
All that can wait.
I was just thinking that we could have dinner or something.
The theater perhaps? How very sweet, mr.
Finchley.
Thank you.
But no thank you.
Good-bye, mr.
Finchley.
Before you go, miss rogers before you go yes? I'd like very much i'd like very much not to be alone for a while.
Are you ill? Bad news or something? No.
What's your trouble? Does there have to be trouble just because i?! I'm desperately tired.
I haven't slept for four nights.
Quite frankly, the thought of being alone just now is intolerable, miss rogers.
Things have been happening very odd things.
Go on.
That television machine in there it goes on late at night and wakes me up.
Just goes on all by itself.
That radio i kept in the bedroom- that went on and off, too, just when i was going to sleep.
There's a conspiracy in this house, miss rogers.
Conspiracy? That's exactly what it is.
A conspiracy! The television set, the radio, the clock even that miserable car i drive.
Last night, i drove it into the driveway- just drove it into the driveway, mind you- very carefully, very slowly.
The steering wheel turned in my hand- it twisted itself in my hand.
The car deliberately hit the side of the garage.
It smashed a headlight.
It cost $140.
That clock over the mantelpiece.
Oh, uh i threw it away.
What i'm getting at, miss rogers, is that, for as long as i have lived, i have never been able to operate machines.
Mr.
Finchley, i think you ought to see a doctor.
A doctor? The universal panacea of the dreamless 20th-century idiot.
If you're depressed, see a doctor.
If you're happy, see a doctor.
If the salary is too low and the mortgage is too high, see a doctor.
You, miss rogers yousee a doctor.
I am a logical, rational, intelligent man.
I know what i see.
I know what i hear.
And for the past three months, i've been seeing and hearing a collection of mechanical frankensteinian monsters whose whole purpose is to destroy me.
Now, what do you think of that, miss rogers? I think you're terribly ill and you need medical attention.
I also think that you're suffering from a bad case of nerves due to lack of sleep and that way down deep you yourself realize that these are nothing more than delusions.
I will not be intimidated by machines.
So it follows that no empty-headed little female with a mechanical face can do anything to me either.
Mr.
Finchley, in this conspiracy you speak of, this mortal combat between you and the appliances, i hope you lose.
Get out! "Get out of here, finchley.
" Getoutof here, finchley! Who are you to tell me to get out of here? No, no, this is absurd.
It's a typewriter a device an inanimate, senseless machine.
Get out of here, finchley.
Whydon'tyou get out of here, finchley? All right.
All right, you machines.
You're not going to intimidate me.
Do you hear me? You are not going to intimidate me.
You you machines! Miss moore, please.
Oh, agatha.
Bartlett finchley here.
How are you, my dear? Yes, it has been a long time- too long- which, indeed, prompts this call.
How about dinner tonight? Oh.
I see.
Yes, well, of course, it is short notice, but i hmm.
Of course.
All right, i'll, uh i'll call you again my dear.
Mrs.
Donnelly, please.
Oh, pauline, is this you? And how is my favorite, attractive young widow? Bartlett.
Bartlett finchley.
Yes, i was just wondering if oh.
Oh, i see.
Well, i'm delighted, i'm simply delighted.
I'll send you a wedding present.
Of course.
Good night.
Telephones.
Just like the rest.
Exactly like all the rest.
Their whole existence dedicated to embarrassing me or irritating me or making my life miserable.
Well, who needs you? Who needs any of you? Whydon'tyou get out of here, finchley? Whydon't you get out of here, finchley? Whydon'tyou get out of here, finchley? Get out of here, finchley! Get out of here, finchley! She rolled down the driveway, almost hit a kid on a bike.
You ought to check that emergency brake, mister.
The emergency brake was on.
Oh, no, it wasn't.
Or if it was, it isn't working properly.
She rolled down the driveway and right out into the street.
You're lucky it didn't hit anyone.
Monster.
You got the keys? Yes.
Oh, they're in the house.
Well, you better pull it back up into the garage.
And you ought to check that emergency brake the first chance you get, understand, mister? All right, dear friends.
You may remain on my property goggling at this astonishing sight for another three and a half minutes.
If, when i return with my car keys, you are not off my property, i shall enlist the aid of this underpaidgendarme to forcibly eject you.
Idiots.
"Get out of here, finchley.
" No.
Get out of here, finchley.
Why don't you get out of here, finchley? Whydon'tyou get out of here, finchley? Get out of here, finchley! Get out of here.
Get out of here, finchley.
No, i won't! I won't! Get out of here! You pulled the body out? Yeah.
It's funny, they usually float.
What do you mean, usually? He was on the bottom.
He hadn't come up.
He wasn't weighted either.
There was nothing to hold him down.
His eyes were open, he looked scared like something had been chasing him or something.
The neighbors said that he'd been shouting and running around last night.
I wonder what it was that could have scared him? Whatever it was, it's a little item he took along with him.
Yeah.
Maybe he was drunk- imagining things? Maybe.
Could be he had a heart attack or something.
Could be.
It could just be.
Yes, it could just be.
It could just be that mr.
Bartlett finchley succumbed from a heart attack and a set of delusions.
It could just be that he was tormented by an imagination as sharp as his wit and as pointed as his dislikes.
But as perceived by those attending, this is one explanation that has left the premises with the deceased.
Look for it filed under "m" for machines in the twilight zone.
Captioned by media access group at wgbh access.
Wgbh.
Org rod serling, the creator oftwilight zone, will tell you about next week's story after this word from our alternate sponsor.
And now, mr.
Serling.
Down this hall is a very strange individual locked in a room.
He's known by various names and by various forms, and next week onthe twilight zone, you'll be close to the elbow of the people who let him out.
Our story is called "the howling man," by mr.
Charles bowman.
It's designed for the young in heart but the strong of nerve.
I hope we'll see you next week, along with "the howling man.
" Thank you, and good night.
Come to the aid of your party.
? don't pass the buck, but give your bucks? ? to the party of your choice.
?
A journey into a wondrous land whose boundaries are that of imagination.
That's the signpost up ahead.
Your next stop, the twilight zone.
How are you today, mr.
Finchley? I'll answer that burning question after you tell me what's wrong with that miracle of modern science, and also exactly how much this current larceny is going to cost me.
Well, there's two hours labor, broken set of tubes, new oscillator and a new filter.
How very technical, and how very convincing.
I presume i'm to be dunned once again for three times the worth of the blasted thing.
Last time i was over here, you'd kicked your foot through the screen.
Remember? I have a vivid recollection, thank you.
The set was not working properly.
I tried to get it to do so in a perfectly normal fashion.
By kicking your foot through the screen? Why didn't you just horsewhip it, mr.
Finchley? That'd show it who's boss.
Supposing we stop this moronic small talk, shall we, and get down to some serious larceny? You may read me off the damages.
Although i sometimes wonder what exactly is the purpose of the better business bureau when it allows itinerant extortionists like you to come back week after week, move wires around, busily probe with ham-like hands, and achieve nothing but the financial ruin of every customer.
We're not a gyp outfit, mr.
Finchley.
We're legitimate repairmen.
But i'll tell you something about yourself.
That tv set doesn't work because, obviously, you got in back of it, and you yanked out a lot of wires, and i don't know what else.
Now, a month ago, you called me over here to fix your portable radio because you threw it downstairs.
That did not work properly either.
Well, that's the point, mr.
Finchley.
Why don't they work properly? Offhand, i'd say it's because you don't treat them properly.
I assume there'll be an extra charge for that analysis? What does go wrong with these things, mr.
Finchley? Have you got any idea? Aside from being a rather incompetent clod, you're a very unreceptive man.
I have already explained to you, the television set simply did not work properly.
And, as for that marconi original operating under the guise of a modern radio, that gave nothing but static.
Are you sure that's all that was wrong with them? All right, mr.
Finchley, i'll send you a bill.
Of that i have no doubt.
Finchley, what is it with you and machines? I shall file that idiotic question in my memorabilia to be referred to at some future date when i write my memoirs.
You, my good friend, will fill one entire chapter entitled, "the most forgettable person i ever met.
" It just so happens that every machine in this house is all right.
That will be enough of that.
Do you hear me? I said that will be enough of that! Stop! Stop! This is mr.
Bartlett finchley, age 48, a practicing sophisticate who writes very special and very precious things for gourmet magazines and the like.
He's a bachelor and a recluse with few friends, only devotees and adherents to the cause of tart sophistry.
He has no interests save whatever current annoyances he can put his mind to.
He has no purpose to his life except the formulation of day-to-day opportunities to vent his wrath on mechanical contrivances of an age he abhors.
In short, mr.
Bartlett finchley is a malcontent, born either too late or too early in the century, and who, in just a moment, will enter a realm where muscles and the will to fight back are not limited to human beings.
Next stop for mr.
Bartlett finchley- the twilight zone.
Miss rogers.
Is this all you've done? That's all i've done.
That's 30 pages in three hours and a half.
That's the best i can do, mr.
Finchley.
It's that idiotic machine- that typewriter of yours.
Thomas jefferson wrote the entire declaration of independence with a feather quill, and it took him only half a day.
Why don't you hire mr.
Jefferson? Miss rogers, did i ever tell you with what degree of distaste i view insubordination? Often and endlessly.
I'll tell you what, mr.
Finchley.
You get yourself another girl- one with three arms, and with roughly the same sensitivity as an alligator.
Then you can work together till death do you part.
As for me i've had it.
And you are going where? Anyplace where i can be away from the highly articulate, oh, so sophisticated, bon vivant of america's winers and diners- a mr.
Bartlett finchley.
You even got me talking like you.
Miss rogers, please.
Don't leave.
I beg your pardon? I do wish you'd i wish you'd stay for a bit.
Oh, i don't mean for work or anything.
All that can wait.
I was just thinking that we could have dinner or something.
The theater perhaps? How very sweet, mr.
Finchley.
Thank you.
But no thank you.
Good-bye, mr.
Finchley.
Before you go, miss rogers before you go yes? I'd like very much i'd like very much not to be alone for a while.
Are you ill? Bad news or something? No.
What's your trouble? Does there have to be trouble just because i?! I'm desperately tired.
I haven't slept for four nights.
Quite frankly, the thought of being alone just now is intolerable, miss rogers.
Things have been happening very odd things.
Go on.
That television machine in there it goes on late at night and wakes me up.
Just goes on all by itself.
That radio i kept in the bedroom- that went on and off, too, just when i was going to sleep.
There's a conspiracy in this house, miss rogers.
Conspiracy? That's exactly what it is.
A conspiracy! The television set, the radio, the clock even that miserable car i drive.
Last night, i drove it into the driveway- just drove it into the driveway, mind you- very carefully, very slowly.
The steering wheel turned in my hand- it twisted itself in my hand.
The car deliberately hit the side of the garage.
It smashed a headlight.
It cost $140.
That clock over the mantelpiece.
Oh, uh i threw it away.
What i'm getting at, miss rogers, is that, for as long as i have lived, i have never been able to operate machines.
Mr.
Finchley, i think you ought to see a doctor.
A doctor? The universal panacea of the dreamless 20th-century idiot.
If you're depressed, see a doctor.
If you're happy, see a doctor.
If the salary is too low and the mortgage is too high, see a doctor.
You, miss rogers yousee a doctor.
I am a logical, rational, intelligent man.
I know what i see.
I know what i hear.
And for the past three months, i've been seeing and hearing a collection of mechanical frankensteinian monsters whose whole purpose is to destroy me.
Now, what do you think of that, miss rogers? I think you're terribly ill and you need medical attention.
I also think that you're suffering from a bad case of nerves due to lack of sleep and that way down deep you yourself realize that these are nothing more than delusions.
I will not be intimidated by machines.
So it follows that no empty-headed little female with a mechanical face can do anything to me either.
Mr.
Finchley, in this conspiracy you speak of, this mortal combat between you and the appliances, i hope you lose.
Get out! "Get out of here, finchley.
" Getoutof here, finchley! Who are you to tell me to get out of here? No, no, this is absurd.
It's a typewriter a device an inanimate, senseless machine.
Get out of here, finchley.
Whydon'tyou get out of here, finchley? All right.
All right, you machines.
You're not going to intimidate me.
Do you hear me? You are not going to intimidate me.
You you machines! Miss moore, please.
Oh, agatha.
Bartlett finchley here.
How are you, my dear? Yes, it has been a long time- too long- which, indeed, prompts this call.
How about dinner tonight? Oh.
I see.
Yes, well, of course, it is short notice, but i hmm.
Of course.
All right, i'll, uh i'll call you again my dear.
Mrs.
Donnelly, please.
Oh, pauline, is this you? And how is my favorite, attractive young widow? Bartlett.
Bartlett finchley.
Yes, i was just wondering if oh.
Oh, i see.
Well, i'm delighted, i'm simply delighted.
I'll send you a wedding present.
Of course.
Good night.
Telephones.
Just like the rest.
Exactly like all the rest.
Their whole existence dedicated to embarrassing me or irritating me or making my life miserable.
Well, who needs you? Who needs any of you? Whydon'tyou get out of here, finchley? Whydon't you get out of here, finchley? Whydon'tyou get out of here, finchley? Get out of here, finchley! Get out of here, finchley! She rolled down the driveway, almost hit a kid on a bike.
You ought to check that emergency brake, mister.
The emergency brake was on.
Oh, no, it wasn't.
Or if it was, it isn't working properly.
She rolled down the driveway and right out into the street.
You're lucky it didn't hit anyone.
Monster.
You got the keys? Yes.
Oh, they're in the house.
Well, you better pull it back up into the garage.
And you ought to check that emergency brake the first chance you get, understand, mister? All right, dear friends.
You may remain on my property goggling at this astonishing sight for another three and a half minutes.
If, when i return with my car keys, you are not off my property, i shall enlist the aid of this underpaidgendarme to forcibly eject you.
Idiots.
"Get out of here, finchley.
" No.
Get out of here, finchley.
Why don't you get out of here, finchley? Whydon'tyou get out of here, finchley? Get out of here, finchley! Get out of here.
Get out of here, finchley.
No, i won't! I won't! Get out of here! You pulled the body out? Yeah.
It's funny, they usually float.
What do you mean, usually? He was on the bottom.
He hadn't come up.
He wasn't weighted either.
There was nothing to hold him down.
His eyes were open, he looked scared like something had been chasing him or something.
The neighbors said that he'd been shouting and running around last night.
I wonder what it was that could have scared him? Whatever it was, it's a little item he took along with him.
Yeah.
Maybe he was drunk- imagining things? Maybe.
Could be he had a heart attack or something.
Could be.
It could just be.
Yes, it could just be.
It could just be that mr.
Bartlett finchley succumbed from a heart attack and a set of delusions.
It could just be that he was tormented by an imagination as sharp as his wit and as pointed as his dislikes.
But as perceived by those attending, this is one explanation that has left the premises with the deceased.
Look for it filed under "m" for machines in the twilight zone.
Captioned by media access group at wgbh access.
Wgbh.
Org rod serling, the creator oftwilight zone, will tell you about next week's story after this word from our alternate sponsor.
And now, mr.
Serling.
Down this hall is a very strange individual locked in a room.
He's known by various names and by various forms, and next week onthe twilight zone, you'll be close to the elbow of the people who let him out.
Our story is called "the howling man," by mr.
Charles bowman.
It's designed for the young in heart but the strong of nerve.
I hope we'll see you next week, along with "the howling man.
" Thank you, and good night.
Come to the aid of your party.
? don't pass the buck, but give your bucks? ? to the party of your choice.
?