Run With the Hunted: A Charles Bukowski Reader

by Charles Bukowski

  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.

  —HOLLYWOOD

  this

  self-congratulatory nonsense as the

  famous gather to applaud their seeming

  greatness

  you

  wonder where

  the real ones are

  what

  giant cave

  hides them

  as

  the deathly talentless

  bow to

  accolades

  as

  the fools are

  fooled

  again

  you

  wonder where

  the real ones are

  if there are

  real ones.

  this

  self-congratulatory nonsense

  has lasted

  decades

  and

  with some exceptions

  centuries.

  this

  is so dreary

  is so absolutely pitiless

  it

  churns the gut to

  powder

  shackles hope

  it

  makes little things

  like

  pulling up a shade

  or

  putting on your shoes

  or

  walking out on the street

  more-difficult

  near

  damnable

  as

  the famous gather to

  applaud their

  seeming

  greatness

  as

  the fools are

  fooled

  again

  humanity

  you sick

  motherfucker.

  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 twenty 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 very 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.

  —HOLLYWOOD

  art

  as the

  spirit

  wanes

  the

  form

  appears.

  Then, just like that, the 32 days of shooting were over and it was time for the wrap party.

  On the first floor was a long bar, some tables and a large dance floor. There was a stairway that led to an upper floor. Essentially it was the film crew and cast, although all of them weren’t there and there were other people that I didn’t recognize. There was no live band and most of the music coming over the speakers was disco but the drinks at the bar were real. Sarah and I pushed in. There were 2 lady bartenders. I had a vodka and Sarah had red wine.

  One of the lady bartenders recognized me and brought out one of my books. I signed it.

  It was crowded and hot in there, a summer night, no air conditioning.

  “Let’s get another drink and go upstairs,” I suggested to Sarah. “It’s too hot down here.”

  “O.K.,” she said.

  We made our way up the stairway. It was cooler up there and not so many people. A few people were dancing. As a party it seemed to lack a center but most parties were that way. I started getting depressed. I finished my drink.

  “I’m going to get another drink,” I told Sarah. “You want one?”

  “No, you go ahead …”

  I walked down the stairway but before I could get to the bar a fat round fellow, lots of hair, dark shades, grabbed my hand and started shaking it.

  “Chinaski, I’ve read everything you’ve ever written, everything!”

  “Is that right?” I asked.

  He kept shaking my hand.

  “I got drunk with you one night at Barney’s Beanery! Remember me?”

  “No.”

  “You mean you don’t remember getting drunk with me at Barney’s Beanery?”

  “No.”

  He lifted his shades and perched them on top of his head.

  “Now do you remember me?”

  “No,” I said, pulled my hand away and walked toward the bar.

  “Double vodka,” I told the lady bartender.

  She brought it to me. “I have a girlfriend named Lola,” she said. “Do you know a Lola?”

  “No.”

  “She said she was married to you for two years.”

  “Not true,” I said.

  I moved from the bar, made my way toward the stairway. Here was another heavy fellow, no hair on his head but a big beard.

  “Chinaski,” he said.

  “Yes?”

  “Andre Wells … I had a bit part in the movie … I’m also a writer … I have a novel finished and ready to go. I’d like you to read it. Can I mail you a copy?”

  “All right …” I gave him my p.o. box number.

  “But don’t you have a street address?”

  “Of course, but mail it to the box number.”

  I walked to the stairway. I drank half my drink walking up the stairs. Sarah was talking to a female extra. Then I saw Jon Pinchot. He was standing alone with his drink. I walked over.

  “Hank,” he said, “I’m surprised to see you here …”

  “And I’m surprised that Firepower put up the money for this …”

  “They are charging it …”

  “Oh … Well, what’s next?”

  “We’re in the cutting room now, working on it … After that, we mix in the music … Why don’t you come up and see how it’s done?”

  “When?”

  “Anytime. We’re working twelve to fourteen hours every day.”

  “All right … Listen, whatever happened to
Poppy?”

  “Who?”

  “The one who put up the ten grand while you were living down at the beach.”

  “Oh, she’s in Brazil now. We’ll take care of her.”

  I finished my drink.

  “Aren’t you going to go down and dance?” I asked Jon.

  “Oh no, that’s nonsense …”

  Then somebody called Jon’s name.

  “Excuse me,” he said, “and don’t forget to come to the cutting room!”

  “Sure.”

  Then Jon was off across the room.

  I walked over to the railing and looked down at the bar. While I had been talking to Jon, Jack Bledsoe and his motorcycle buddies had walked in. His buddies leaned against the bar, backs to the bar, facing the crowd. They each held a beerbottle, except for Jack who had a 7-Up. They were dressed in leather jackets, scarves, leather pants, boots.

  I walked over to Sarah. “I’m going to go down and see Jack Bledsoe and his gang … You coming?”

  “Sure …”

  We went on down and Jack introduced us to each of his buddies.

  “This is Blackjack Harry …”

  “Hi, man …”

  “This is The Scourge …”

  “Hello there …”

  “This is The Nightworm …”

  “Hey, hey!”

  “This is Dogcatcher …”

  “Too much!”

  “This is Three-Ball Eddie …”

  “God damn …”

  “This is FastFart …”

  “Pleased to meet ya …”

  “And Pussykiller …”

  “Yeah …”

  That was it. They all seemed to be fine fellows but they looked a little on-stage, leaning back against the bar and holding their beerbottles.

  “Jack,” I said, “you did a great job of acting.”

  “And how!” said Sarah.

  “Thank you …” he flashed his beautiful smile.

  “Well,” I said, “we’re going back upstairs, it’s too damned hot down here … Why don’t you come up?”