On the other hand, my biggest bet was $20 win. Excessive greed can create errors because very heavy outlays affect your thinking processes. Two more things. Never bet the horse with the highest speed rating off his last race and never bet a big closer.
My day out there was pleasant enough but as always I resented that 30 minute wait between races. It was too long. You can feel your life being pounded to a pulp by the useless waste of time. I mean, you just sit in your chair and hear all the voices talking about who should win and why. It’s really sickening. Sometimes you think that you’re in a madhouse. And in a way, you are. Each of those jerk-offs thinks he knows more than the other jerk-offs and there they were all together in one place. And there I was, sitting there with them.
I liked the actual action, that time when all your calculations came out correctly at the wire and life had some sense, some rhythm and meaning. But the wait between races was a real horror: sitting with a mumbling, bumbling humanity that would never learn or get better, would only get worse with time. I often threatened my good wife Sarah that I would stay home from the track during the days and write dozens and dozens of immortal poems.
So I managed to get through the afternoon out there and headed back home, winner of a little over $100. Drove back with the working crowd. What a gang they were. Pissed and vicious and broke. In a hurry to get home to fuck if possible, to look at TV, to get to sleep early in order to do the same thing next day all over again.
I pulled into the driveway and Sarah was watering the garden. She was a great gardener. And she put up with my insanities. She fed me healthy food, cut my hair and toenails and generally kept me going in many ways.
I parked the car and went out to the garden, gave her a hello kiss.
“Did you win?” she asked.
“Yeah. Sure. A little.”
“No phone calls,” she said.
“Too bad, all this...” I said. “You know, after Jon threatened to cut off his finger and all that. I really feel sorry for him.”
“Maybe you should have asked him over tonight.”
“I did, but he was tied up.”
“S & M?”
“I don’t know. A couple of lesbians. Some sort of relief for him.”
“Did you notice the roses?”
“Yes, they look great. Those reds and whites and yellows. Yellow is my favorite color. I feel like eating yellow.”
Sarah walked with the hose over to the faucet, shut off the water and we walked into the house together. Life was not too bad, sometimes.
35
Then, just like that, the movie was on again. Like most of the news it came over the phone via Jon. “Yes,” he told me, “we begin production again tomorrow.”
“I don’t understand. I thought the movie was dead.”
“Firepower sold some assets. A film library and some hotels they owned in Europe. On top of that they managed to swing a big loan from an Italian group. It’s said that this Italian money is a bit tainted but. . . it’s money. Anyhow, I’d like you and Sarah to come to the shooting tomorrow.”
“I don’t know...”
“It’s tomorrow night...”
“O.K., fine...When and where?”
Sarah and I sat in a booth. It was Friday night and there was a good feel in the air. We were sitting there when Rick Talbot walked in and sat down with us. There he was in our booth. He only wanted a coffee. I had seen him many times on TV reviewing movies with his counterpart, Kirby Hudson. They were very good at what they did and often got emotional about it all. They gave entertaining evaluations and although others had attempted to copy their format, they were far superior to their competitors.
Rick Talbot looked much younger than he did on TV. Also, he appeared to be more withdrawn, almost shy.
“We watch you often,” Sarah said.
“Thank you...”
“Listen,” I asked him, “what bothers you most about Kirby Hudson?”
“It’s his finger...When he points his finger.”
Then Francine Bowers walked in. She slid into the booth. We greeted her. She knew Rick Talbot. Francine had a little note pad.
“Listen, Hank, I want to know some more about Jane. Indian, right?”
“Half-Indian, half-Irish.”
“Why did she drink?”
“It was a place to hide and also a slow form of suicide.”
“Did you ever take her any place besides a bar?”
“I took her to a baseball game once. To Wrigley Field, back when the L.A. Angels played in the Pacific Coast League.”
“What happened?”
“We both got quite drunk. She got mad at me and ran out of the park. I drove for hours looking for her. When I got back to the room, there she was passed out on the bed.”
“How did she speak? Was she loud?”
“She would be quiet for hours. Then all at once she would go crazy and start yelling, cursing and throwing things. I wouldn’t react at first. Then she’d get to me. I’d walk up and down, up and down, yelling and cursing back. This would go on for maybe about 20 minutes, then we’d quiet down, drink some more and begin again. We were continually being evicted. We were thrown out of so many places that we couldn’t remember them all. Once, looking for a new place, we knocked on a door. It opened and there stood a landlady who had just gotten rid of us. She saw us, turned white, screamed and slammed the door...”
“Is Jane dead now?” asked Rick Talbot.
“Long time dead. They’re all dead. All those I drank with.”
“What keeps you going?”
“I like to type. It gives me a thrill.”
“And I’ve got him on vitamins and a low-fat, non-red-meat diet,” Sarah told her.
“Do you still drink?” Rick asked.
“Mostly when I type or when people come around. I’m not happy around people and after I drink enough they seem to vanish.”
“Tell me some more about Jane,” Francine asked.
“Well, she slept with a rosary under her pillow...”
“Did she go to church?”
“At strange times she went to what she called ‘the alka seltzer mass.’ I believe it began at 8:30 a.m. and ran about an hour. She hated the ten o’clock mass which often ran over two hours.”
“Did she go to Confession?”
“I didn’t ask. . .”
“Can you tell me anything about her which would explain her character?”
“Only that in spite of all the seemingly terrible things she did, the cursing, the madness, the love of the bottle, she always did things with a certain style. I’d like to think that I learned a few things about style from her...”
“I want to thank you for these things, I think they might help.”
“You’re welcome,”
Then Francine and her note pad were gone.
“I don’t think I’ve ever had such a good time on a set,” said Rick Talbot.
“What do you mean, Rick?” Sarah asked.
“It’s a feel in the air. Sometimes with low budget films you get that feel, that carnival feel. It’s here. But I feel it more here than I ever have...”
He meant it. His eyes sparkled, he smiled with real joy.
I called for another round of drinks.
“Just coffee for me,” he said.
The new round came and then Rick said, “Look! There’s Sesteenov!”
“Who?” I asked.
“He did that marvelous film on Pet Cemeteries! Hey, Sesteenov!”
Sesteenov came over.
“Please sit down,” I asked.
Sesteenov slid into the booth.
“Care for anything to drink?” I asked.
“Oh, no...”
“Look,” said Rick Talbot, “there’s Illiantovitch!”
I knew Illiantovitch. He had made some crazy dark movies, the main theme being the violence in life overcome by the courage of people. But he did it well, roaring out of the blackness.
He was a v
ery tall man with a crooked neck and crazy eyes. The crazy eyes kept looking at you, looking at you. It was a bit embarrassing.
We slid over to let him in. The booth was full.
“Care for a drink?” I asked him.
“Double vodka,” he said.
I liked that, waved to the barkeep.
“Double vodka,” he told the barkeep while fixing him with his crazy eyes. The barkeep ran off to do his duty.
“This is a great night,” said Rick.
I loved Rick’s lack of sophistication. That took guts, when you were on top, to say that you enjoyed what you did, that you were having fun while you did it.
Illiantovitch got his double vodka, slammed it down.
Rick Talbot was asking questions of everybody, including Sarah. There was no feeling of competition or envy in that booth. I felt totally comfortable.
Then Jon Pinchot walked in. He came up to the booth, gave a little bow, grinning, “We’re going to shoot soon, I hope. I will come get everybody then...”
“Thank you, Jon...”
Then he moved off.
“He’s a good director,” said Rick Talbot, “but I’d like to know why you chose him.”
“He chose me...”
“Really?”
“Yes...and I can tell you a story about him that will explain why he is a good director and why I like him. But it’s off the record...”
“Let me hear it,” said Rick.
“Off the record?”
“Of course...”
I leaned forward into the booth and told the story about Jon and the electric chainsaw and his little finger.
“That really happen?” Rick asked.
“Yes. Off the record.”
“Of course...”
(I knew: nothing is off the record once you tell it.)
Meanwhile, Illiantovitch had finished 2 double vodkas and was sitting looking at another. He kept staring at me. Then he took out his wallet and pulled out a greasy business card. He handed it to me. All 4 corners were worn away and it was limp and dark with grime. It had given up being a business card. Illiantovitch looked like a soiled genius. I admired him for it. He was hardly weighed down by pretense. He grabbed the double vodka and tossed it down his throat.
Then he looked at me, heavily. I stared back. But his dark eyes were entirely too much. I had to look away. I motioned in the barkeep for a refill. Then I looked back at Illiantovitch.
“You’re the best man,” I said. “After you there is nothing.”
“No, not so,” he said, “YOU are the best! I give you my card! On card is time of SCREENING OF MY NEW MOVIE! YOU MUST BE THERE!”
“Sure, baby,” I said and I took out my wallet and carefully placed the card in there.
“This is a hell of a night,” said Rick Talbot.
There was some more small talk, then Jon Pinchot walked in.
“We’re about ready to shoot. Will you please come outside now so that we can find places for you?”
We all got up to follow Jon, except Illiantovitch. He sank into the booth.
“Fuck it! I am going to have more double vodkas! You people go!”
That bastard had stolen a page or two from me. He waved to the barkeep, took out a bent cigarette, stuck it between his lips, flicked his lighter and burnt part of his nose.
That bastard.
We walked out into the night.
36
They were set up to shoot in the alley. There was to be an alley fight between the bartender and the barfly. It was cold out there. Almost everything was ready. There was to be a double in the fight scene for both the bartender and Jack Bledsoe. The closeups were to show the faces of Bledsoe and the bartender but the real fight scenes were to be with the doubles.
Bledsoe saw me. “Hey, Hank, come here!”
I walked over.
“Let them see your fighting style.”
I circled about, shooting out weak left jabs, then now and then I rushed forward throwing lefts and rights. Then I stopped. I explained those fights of long ago.
“It really didn’t look very good. At first, there was much circling. Around and around. And then the crowd would get on us and somebody would rush in. I believe that in spite of the drinking the exchanges were very hard and brutal. Then we would back off, size up the situation and charge again, fists pumping. It finally became a matter of outgutting the other guy. Only one could win. And a fight was never over until a man was unconscious. It was a good show and it was free...”
It got close to shooting time. We backed out of the alley and took positions out of the way. Just then Harry Friedman strolled in with a Hollywood babe with a wig, false eyelashes, excessive makeup. Her lips were done over to twice the size and her breasts too. Also strolling in was the great director, Manz Loeb, who had directed such films as The Rat Man and Pencilhead. Along with him was the famous actress Rosalind Bonelli. So we had to go over and be introduced. Loeb and Bonelli smiled nicely and were polite but I got the terrible feeling that they felt superior to us. But that was all right because I felt superior to them. That was just the way it worked.
Then we went back to our vantage points and the big fight began. It looked brutal enough, right from the start. Except in our fights the brutality came near the end when one fighter was helpless (usually me) and the other man would not quit.
Another thing about those fights. If you didn’t belong to the Bartender’s “Club,” and you lost, you were left out there with the garbage cans and the rats. There were attendant memories. One morning I was awakened by the blaring of a horn and truck headlights shining upon me. It was the garbage truck.
“HEY, MAN, GET THE FUCK OUT OF THE WAY! WE ALMOST RAN YOU OVER!”
“Ohh, oh, I’m sorry...”
To get up then, dizzy, sick, beaten, leaning toward the suicide dream with those nice healthy black men only interested in staying on schedule and getting the garbage out of there.
Or it would be a black woman’s head coming out of a window: “HEY, WHITE TRASH, GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM MY BACKDOOR!”
“Yes, ma’am, I’m sorry, ma’am...”
And the worst, upon first regaining consciousness, down between the garbage cans, aching too bad to move but knowing you are going to have to, the worst of all was the thought, I’ll bet my wallet is gone again...
You play a game. You try to feel the wallet pressing against your ass without reaching for it. It feels vacant back there. You really don’t want to reach with your hand but you do. And the wallet is never there. Then you manage to stand up and then you look through all your pockets: no wallet, ever. I became more and more discouraged with humanity.
Anyhow, then the fight scene was over and Jon Pinchot came over and asked, “Well?”
“Not quite right.”
“Why?”
“Well, in our fights, the gladiators were more like clowns, they played to the crowd. One guy would land and almost blast the other guy off his feet, then turn to the crowd and say, ‘Hey, how’d you like that one?’ “
“They hammed it up?”
“Yes...”
Jon went over to the doubles and spoke to them. They listened. Good old Jon, probably one of the first directors to ever listen directly to the writer. I felt honored. My life had hardly been lucky, now it seemed to be getting so. I could take a little of that.
They shot the fight scene again.
I watched and I have to tell you that I grew weak watching that old dream. I wanted to be one of them, going at it again. Stupid or not, I felt like punching the alley wall. Born to die.
Then it was over. Jon walked over.
“Well?” he asked.
“I liked it...”
“Me too,” he said.
Then that was it.
Sarah and I walked back to the booth in the bar.
Illiantovitch was gone. The bar had probably run out of vodka.
Sarah and I ordered and Rick went for another coffee.
“Thi
s is one of the best nights I ever had,” said Rick.
“Listen, Rick, you’ve got to be playing with me. Where have you beea spending your nights?”
He just smiled into his coffee cup. He was a wonderful and innocent man.
Then Francine Bowers was back with her notebook.
“How did Jane die?”
“Well, I was with somebody else by that time. We had been split for 2 years and I came by to visit her just before Christmas. She was a maid at this hotel and very popular. Everybody in the hotel had given her a bottle of wine. And there in her room was this little wooden shelf that ran along the wall just below the ceiling and on this shelf there must have been 18 or 19 bottles.
“ ‘If you drink all that liquor, and you will, it will kill you! Don’t these people understand that?’ I asked her.
“Jane just looked at me.
“ ‘I’m going to take all of these fucking bottles out of here. These people are trying to murder you!’
“Again, she just looked at me. I stayed with her that night and drank 3 of the bottles myself, which brought it down to 15 or 16. In the morning when I left I told her, ‘Please, don’t drink all of them...’ I came back a week and a half later. Her door was open. There was a large blood stain in the bed. There were no bottles in the room. I located her at the L.A. County Hospital. She was in an alcoholic coma. I sat with her for a long time, just looking at her, wetting her lips with water, brushing the hair out of her eyes. The nurses left us alone. Then, all at once, she opened her eyes and said, ‘I knew it would be you.’ Three hours later she was dead.”
“She never had a real chance,” said Francine Bowers.
“She didn’t want one. She was the only person I’ve ever met who had the same contempt for the human race as I did.”
Francine folded up her notebook.
“I’m sure all this is going to help me...”
Then she was gone.
And Rick said, “Pardon me, but I have been studying you all evening and you don’t seem to be a vicious man.”
“And neither do you, Rick,” I said.
Hollywood Page 16
