Hollywood

by Charles Bukowski

  “You’d do all this to get money to produce a movie?”

  “More than that!”

  “Would you kill?”

  “Please don’t ask me that. Anyway, I sent letter after letter, gradually turning them into love letters.”

  “I didn’t know you knew Russian,” said Sarah.

  “I wrote the letters in French. The lady had an interpreter. The lady responded in Russian and then my interpreter put them into the French.”

  “They wouldn’t use that even in a cheap TV thriller,” I said.

  “I know. But I thought about her $80 million in that Swiss account and my letters to her got better and better. Love letters. Red hot.”

  “Have some more wine,” I said refilling Jon’s glass.

  “Well, she finally asked me to come see her. And suddenly like that, I was in the snows of Moscow...”

  “The snows of Moscow...”

  “I got a room that I think was bugged by the KGB. I think they even had the toilet bugged. They could hear my shit dropping.”

  “I think I hear it dropping too...”

  “No, no, listen to me...I finally made an appointment to see the lady. I went to her place, I knocked. The door opened and there stood this beautiful girl! Never have I seen such a beautiful girl!”

  “Ah, god, Jon, please...”

  “Only it wasn’t the lady, it was the interpreter!”

  “Jon,” Sarah asked, “what are you drinking beside this wine?”

  “Nothing! Nothing! It’s true! I walked into the room and there was an old hag sitting there dressed in black. She had no teeth but many warts. I walked forward, bent down, took her hand, closed my eyes and kissed it. The interpreter sat in a chair and watched us. I turned to the interpreter.

  “ ‘I’d like to be alone with you,’ I said.

  “She spoke to the old woman. Then she turned to me and said, ‘Metra desires to be alone with you. But in a church. Metra is very religious.’

  “ ‘I believe that I am in love with you,’ I told the interpreter.

  “She spoke to the old woman. The old woman spoke back to her. Then the interpreter spoke to me: ‘Metra says that love is possible but first she wants you to go to church with her.’

  “I nodded yes and the old lady got up slowly from her chair, and we left the room together, leaving the beautiful young girl behind...”

  “This fucking thing could win an Academy Award,” I said.

  “Please. Remember, I am trying to get the money for your future screenplay.”

  “Yes, please go on, Jon. Tell me the rest...”

  “All right, we got to the church. We kneeled in the pews. I am not religious. We kneeled for some time in silence. Then she tugged at me. We rose and went forward to an altar full of candles. Some were lit. Many weren’t. She started lighting many of the unlit candles. It excited her. Her mouth trembled and little streams of saliva came down out of each corner of her mouth. It ran down and disappeared into her wrinkles. Please believe me, I have nothing, nothing against old age! But why is it that some people age so much worse than others?”

  “I dunno,” I said, “but I have an idea that people who don’t think too much tend to look young longer.”

  “I don’t think this one thought too much...anyhow, after lighting many candles she became excited again. She took my hand and squeezed it. She was strong, a strong old lady. She pulled me over to a statue of Christ...”

  “Yes...”

  “She let go of me and kneeled and started kissing the feet of this Christ. She went at it. The toes were wet with her saliva. She was in a grand passion. She was quivering. Then she stood up, took my hand, pointed to the feet. I smiled. She pointed again. I smiled again.

  Then she grabbed me and started pushing me down to the feet. Shit, I thought, and then I thought of $80 million and I kneeled down and kissed the feet. You know, they don’t clean those feet well in Russia. Metra’s saliva...and the dust...it was only with great will that I was able to kiss. Then I stood up. Metra led me back to the pew. We knelt again. Suddenly she grabbed me and her mouth was on mine. Please understand, I have nothing against the old, the aged, but it was like kissing a sewer hole. I pulled away. Something turned in my stomach and I went to the confessional booth, pulled back the curtains, entered, kneeled and puked. Then I rose and we left the church together. I left her at her doorway. Then I got a bottle of vodka and went back to my room.

  “You know, if I wrote a screenplay like that they’d run me out of town.”

  “I know. But wait. This thing is not over. Drinking the vodka, I thought it all over. No need to back off. The old lady was evidently crazy. One doesn’t kiss in church, does one? Maybe at a wedding. So there I was...”

  “Kiss and get married, huh?” I asked.

  “Well, I wanted to be sure of the $80 million. After finishing the vodka, I began a long love letter to Metra, only all the time I was thinking of the interpreter. It was some love letter. And in between the love talk I explained to her that I wanted to make a film about the two of us and that I had heard of her money in Switzerland, only that had nothing to do with my being there, except that I was without funds and I wanted dearly to bring our love story to the screen and to the public and to the lovers of Christ.”

  “All this to get money to produce a screenplay that Hank didn’t even know about and hadn’t written?” asked Sarah.

  “Absolutely,” said Jon.

  “You’re crazy,” I suggested.

  “Maybe. Anyhow, the old lady got my love letter and I believed she had agreed to go to Switzerland with me to pick up the money. We made arrangements. Meanwhile there were two more trips, to kiss the feet of Christ and to light many candles plus some of the other kiss-kiss bit. Then...I got a call from my source. The woman who had the $80 million in Switzerland had the same exact name, was the same age of my old woman, but had been born in a different city of different parents. It was a stupid coincidence and it was over for me. I had been tricked. I’d have to get the money elsewhere...”

  “That’s one of the saddest fucking stories I’ve ever heard,” I said.

  “I’m sorry,” said Jon, “But it’s true.”

  “Why do you suffer like this just for the business of making movies?” asked Sarah.

  “Because I love it,” answered Jon.

  14

  A couple of days later we were back down at Danny Server’s studio in Venice.

  “Another guy has written a movie about skid row and drinking,” said Jon, “so why don’t you check it out?”

  So we went there, Jon, Sarah and I. The people were already in their seats. But the bar was closed.

  “The bar is closed,” I said to Jon.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Listen, we’ve got to get something to drink...”

  “There’s a liquor store about a block away, toward the water, on the other side of the street.”

  “We’ll be right back...”

  We made it down there, got 2 bottles of red and a corkscrew. On the way back we were stopped twice for handouts. Then we were outside the studio. I pushed the door open and we entered. It was dark. The movie was rolling.

  “Shit,” I said, “I can’t see! I can’t see a fucking thing!”

  Somebody hissed at me.

  “Same to you,” I said.

  “Will you please be quiet!” a woman said.

  “Let’s try the first row of seats,” said Sarah, “I think I see a couple of seats but I’m not sure.”

  We worked our way down front. I tripped over some feet.

  “You bastard,” I heard a man say softly.

  “Blow it,” I told him.

  We finally located 2 seats and sat down. Sarah got out the cigarettes and the lighter while I corkscrewed open a bottle. We had no drinking glasses, so I took a pull and passed the bottle to Sarah. She took a pull and handed it back. Then she lit up 2 cigarettes for us.

  The man who had written the movie, Back Fro
m Hades, had once had a series running on TV, one of those family shows. Pat Sellers. Well, the series had gone on and on but Pat lost the battle with the bottle and soon the series was doomed. Divorce. Loss of family, home. Pat was on skid row. Now Pat was making a comeback. Made this movie. He’s dry. And on the lecture tour, helping others.

  I took another hit of the wine, passed it to Sarah.

  I watched the movie. They were down on skid row. It was night and they had built a little fire. The men and women looked fairly well-dressed for skid row. They really didn’t look like bums. They looked like people who worked in Hollywood films, they looked like TV actors. And they each had a shopping cart in which they stored their earthly possessions. Only the shopping carts were brand new. They sparkled in the firelight. I had never seen shopping carts that new in any supermarket. Evidently they had been purchased for the movie itself.

  “Gimme the bottle,” I said to Sarah.

  I lifted it high and took a good hit. I heard the hissing sound again, followed by another hissing sound.

  “These people are ugly,” I said to Sarah. “What the hell’s wrong with them?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Back to the movie and the people in the firelight with their shopping carts. There was a man talking. The others listened.

  “...I’d wake up and I wouldn’t recognize the bed I was in, I wouldn’t know where I was...I’d get dressed and go out and look for my car. I never knew where my car was. Sometimes it took hours to find it...”

  “Hey, that’s good,” I said to Sarah, “that’s happened to me plenty of times!”

  There was another hissing sound.

  “...I was in drunktank after drunktank...I often lost my wallet...I had my teeth kicked in...I was a lost soul...lost...lost. . . Then my drinking buddy, Mike, he got killed in a drunken car crash...that did it . .

  Sarah took a hit.

  “Now I am at peace...I sleep well...I’m beginning to feel like a functional human being again...And Christ is my high, greater than any drink the devil has put upon this earth!”

  Tears were in the fellow’s eyes.

  I took another hit.

  Then he recited a poem:

  I am found again.

  I am made over by ten.

  I have lost the yen.

  I am brother to my kin.

  I am found again.

  He bowed his head and the others applauded.

  Then a woman began to speak. She had, she said, begun drinking at parties. And it had gone on from there. She began to drink alone at home. The plants died because she didn’t water them. During an argument she slashed her daughter with a paring knife. Her husband began drinking also. Lost his job. Stayed at home. They drank together. Then she slashed him with a paring knife. One day she just got in her car and drove off with her suitcase and her credit cards. Drank in motels. Smoked and drank and watched TV. Vodka. She loved vodka. One night she set her bed on fire. A fire engine came to the motel. She was drunk in her nightie. One of the firemen squeezed her buttocks. She jumped into her car in just her nightie with only her purse. She drove and drove, in a daze. About noon the next day she was at 4th and Broadway. Two of the tires had gone flat as she was driving along. The tires had ripped off and she was driving on the rims, leaving deep grooves in the asphalt. A cop stopped her. She was taken in—for observation. The days went by. Her husband didn’t come by or her daughter. She was alone. She was sitting with the shrink one day and the shrink asked her, “Why do you insist upon destroying yourself?” And when he asked her this it was no longer the face of the shrink looking at her but the face of Christ. That did it...

  “How did she know it was the face of Christ?” I asked aloud.

  “Who is that man?” I heard somebody ask.

  My bottle of wine was empty. I corkscrewed open a new one.

  Then another fellow told his story. The campfire just kept on burning and burning. Nobody had to add fuel to it. And no other bums came by and bothered them. When the fellow finished his story he reached into his shopping cart and pulled out a very expensive guitar.

  I took a hit and passed the red to Sarah.

  The fellow tuned his guitar, then began playing it and singing. He was right in tune, voice-trained. He sang away.

  The camera panned around, capturing the look on all the faces. The faces were enthralled, some of them were crying, others had gentle, beautiful smiles. Then the singer finished and there was hearty and joyful applause.

  “I never saw a skidrow like that one,” I told Sarah.

  The movie continued. Other actors spoke. Some others had expensive guitars. It was guitar night. Then the grand finale came. There was a shooting star. It arched high above the upturned faces. There was a small silence. Then a man began singing. Soon he was joined by a woman. Other voices joined. They all knew the words. Many guitars came out. It was an uplifting chorus of hope and unity. Then it was over. The movie was finished. The lights came on. There was a little stage. Pat Sellers mounted the stage. There was applause.

  Pat Sellers looked awful. He looked sleepy, lifeless, dead. His eyes were blank. He began to speak.

  “I have not had a drink in five hundred and ninety-five days...”

  There was wild applause.

  Sellers went on: “I am a recovering alcoholic...We are all recovering alcoholics...”

  “Let’s get out of here!” I said to Sarah.

  We had finished the wine. We rose and moved toward the exit. We walked to our car.

  “Son of a bitch,” I said, “where’s Jon? Why isn’t he here?”

  “Oh, I’m sure he’d seen the movie,” said Sarah.

  “He set us up. It’s kind of funny when you think about it.”

  “Those were all A. A. members in there...”

  We got in the car and headed toward the freeway.

  My idea about the whole thing was that most people weren’t alcoholics, they only thought that they were. It was something that couldn’t be rushed. It took at least twenty years to become a bona fide alcoholic. I was on my 45th year and didn’t regret any of it.

  We got on the freeway and headed back toward reality.

  15

  I still had the screenplay to write. I was upstairs sitting in front of the IBM. Sarah was in the bedroom beyond the wall to my right. Jon was downstairs watching TV.

  I was just sitting there. A half a bottle of wine was gone. I had never had trouble before. In decades, I had never had a writer’s block. Writing had always been easy for me. The words just rolled out as I drank and listened to the radio.

  I knew that Jon was just listening for the sound of the typer. I had to type something. I began a letter to a fellow who taught English at Cal State Long Beach. We had been exchanging letters for a couple of decades.

  I began:

  Hello Harry:

  How’s it hanging? They’ve been running good. Badly hungover other day, got to track for 2nd race, gotta win on a 10-to-one-shot. I no longer use the Racing Form. I see everybody reading it and almost everybody loses. I’ve got a new system, of course, which I can’t tell you about. You know, if the writing goes to hell, I think I can make it at the track. Shit. I’ll tell you my system, why shouldn’t I? O.K. I buy a newspaper, any newspaper. I try to buy a different newspaper every day, just to shake up the gods. Then out of that newspaper I’ll choose any handicapper. Then I’ll line up his selections in order. Say there’s an 8 horse race. On my program I will mark next to each horse the order of his selection. Example:

  horse 1. 7

  horse 2. 3

  horse 3. 5

  horse 4. 1

  horse 5. 2

  horse 6. 4

  horse 7. 8

  horse 8. 6

  The system? Well, you take the horse’s odds that go off below the number of the handicapper’s selection. If more than one set of odds goes off below, then take the greatest drop. For example, horse 1, selection 7 going off at 4-to-one is better than horse 6, selec
tion 4 going off at 3-to-one. There is one exception to this system. If horse 4 goes off at below 1, that is 4/5 or below, then pass the race if there is nothing working against it. That is because plays on nothing but odds-on-favorites always show a loss.

  The way I came up with this system was that when I was in highschool I was in the R.O.T.C. and we had to read the Manual of Arms and in this fat book there was a little bit about the Artillery. Now, remember this was 1936, long before radar and all the homing-in devices. In fact, the book was probably written for World War I, although it might have been compiled some time later, I’m not sure. Anyway, the way they figured how to lob an artillery shell was to take a consensus. The Captain would ask, “O.K., Larry, how far away do you think the enemy is?”

  “625 yards, sir.”

  “Mike?”

  “400 yards, sir.”

  “Barney?”

  “100 yards, sir.”

  “Slim?”

  “800 yards, sir.”

  “Bill?”

  “300 yards.”

  Then the Captain would add up the yards and divide by the number of men asked. In this case, the answer would be 445 yards. They’d log the shell and generally blow up a large proportion of the enemy.

  Decades later I was sitting at the track one day and the Manual of Arms came back to me and I thought, why not apply the Artillery system to the horses? This system has worked for me most of the time, but the problem was and is human nature: one gets bored with the routine and sets off in another direction. I must have at least 25 systems all based on some kind of crazy logic. I like to move around.

  Now you ask, how the hell did I land on a 10-to-one shot in the 2nd race the other day. Well, it’s like this, I write down the handicapper’s selections before scratches. This horse happened to be selection #16 before scratches. When it went off at 10-to-one, curiously, it was the largest drop from the handicapper’s selections. A rarity, true, but there it was. And when such things occur, they make one feel very odd indeed. Like maybe there’s a chance sometimes. Well, I hope you’re O.K. and that your young lady students don’t give you a hard-on, or maybe I should hope that they do.