Dreams from Bunker Hill (10 page)

Like a homing bird I flew to Bunker Hill, to my old hotel, to the kindest woman I had ever known. I parked the car in front of the hotel, pulled out two suitcases, and carried them inside. The lobby was vacant. I stood there a moment, breathing the fragrance of the place, the tender reminiscent scent of Helen Brownell’s incense. I looked around lovingly. What solidarity. What permanence. It was as if that lobby would last forever, as if always waiting for me. I crossed to the desk, set down my suitcases, and rang the bell. The door behind the desk opened cautiously and I saw her peering at me uncertainly, as if not quite seeing.

“Hello, Helen,” I smiled.

She kept looking at me. Then she closed the door. I waited a moment. When she did not reappear I rang the bell again. The door opened. She looked at me sternly. I noticed her hair. It was pure white now, white as lamb’s wool.

“Helen,” I said, and moved around to her side of the desk. “Oh, Helen, I’m so glad to see you again.” I put my hands on her shoulders and bent to kiss her.

“Don’t,” she said. “Please don’t.”

“I love you.”

She turned her back to me. “Go away,” she implored. “I don’t want you here. I can’t do it any more.”

“Please let me stay. Let me have my old room back.”

“Impossible. It’s rented. Please leave.”

“Let’s talk awhile,” I coaxed. “Make me a cup of coffee, please.”

“Why are you so stubborn? Can’t you see that I don’t
want you here?” She spun around and hurried to the door behind the desk. “Go away, Arturo. Find somebody your own age. I’m not for you. I never was.” She closed the door.

It hurt very much. I sat down on a divan and tried to think it out. How could I entice her back? What could I say to her? Suddenly I was very tired. What had I done to her? Why couldn’t we carry on as usual? We had had a little tiff, that was all. Why couldn’t we be friends, just talking to one another, sitting on the veranda in the evening, watching the city light up below, and talking like old friends? Why was she cutting me off? I didn’t care that she was so much older. I would love her forever. When she was ninety I would still love her, like the woman in Yeats’s poem:

I found a room on Temple Street, above a Filipino restaurant. It was two dollars a week without towels, sheets, or pillow cases. I took it, sat on the bed and brooded about my life on the earth. Why was I here? What now? Who did I know? Not even myself. I looked at my hands. They were soft writer’s hands, the hands of a writer peasant, not suited for hard work, not equal to making phrases. What could I do? I looked around the room, the wine-stained walls, the carpetless floor, the little window looking out on Figueroa Street. I smelled the cooking from the Filipino restaurant below. Was this the end of Arturo Bandini? Would this be the place where I was to die, on this gray mattress? I could lie here for weeks before anyone discovered me. I got to my knees and prayed:

“What have I done to you, Lord? Why do you punish me? All I ask is the chance to write, to have a friend or two, to cease my running. Bring me peace, oh Lord. Shape me into something worthwhile. Make the typewriter sing. Find the song within me. Be good to me, for I am lonely.”

It seemed to hearten me. I went to the typewriter and sat before it. A gray wall loomed up. I pushed back my chair and walked down into the street. I got into my car and drove around.

I had trouble sleeping in the little room, even though I bought sheets and blankets. The trouble was, the misery of the day, the fruitlessness of working remained in the room during the night. In the morning it was still there, and I
went to the street again. Then I remembered one of Edgington’s axioms: “When stuck, hit the road.” At sunset I wheeled my car out of the parking lot and hit the streets. Hour after hour I drove around. The city was like a tremendous park, from the foothills ot the sea, beautiful in the night, the lamps glowing like white balloons, the streets wide and plentiful and moving off in all directions. It did not matter which way you went, the road always stretched ahead, and you found yourself in strange little towns and neighborhoods, and it was soothing and refreshing, but it did not bring story ideas. Moving with the traffic, I wondered how many like myself took to the road merely to escape the city. Day and night the city teemed with traffic and it was impossible to believe that all those people had any rhyme or reason for driving.

In February Liberty Films released Velda van der Zee’s picture,
Sin City
. I caught it at the Wiltern, on Wilshire, the early evening show. I went prepared to loathe it, and I was pleased to find the theater less than half full. I bought a sack of popcorn and found a seat in the loges. I sat there pleased that my name had been scrubbed from the film, and as the lights darkened, I felt very pleased and relieved that my name would not be among the credits. I laughed loudly when Velda’s name appeared, and as the picture unreeled and the stagecoach bounded over the terrain, I laughed again loudly. A hand touched my shoulder. I turned to see a woman frowning.

“You’re disturbing me,” she said.

“I can’t help it,” I answered. “It’s a very funny picture.”

Now the hostile band of Indians appeared, and I guffawed. Several people in the vicinity got up and scattered to different seats.

And so it went. All of my work, all of my thinking, was so remote from the picture, that it was stunning, unbelievable. In only two places did I come upon lines that I might possibly have written, that the director did not delete. The first was in an early scene when the sheriff rode into Sin City at
full gallop and brought his horse to a halt at the saloon, shouting “Whoa!” Now I remembered that line: “Whoa!” My line. A little further on the sheriff stalked out of the saloon, mounted his horse, and shouted “Giddyup!” That was my line too: “Giddyup.” Whoa and giddyup—my fulfillment as a screenwriter.

It was not a good picture, or an exciting picture, or a mature picture, and as it came to an end and the house lights went on, I saw the weary patrons half asleep in their seats, showing no pleasure at all. I was glad. It proved my integrity. I was a better man for having refused the credit, a better writer. Time would prove it. When Velda van der Zee was a forgotten name in tinsel town, the world would still reckon with Arturo Bandini. I walked out into the night, and God, I felt good and refreshed and restored! Whoa and giddyup! Here we go again. I got into my car and took off in the traffic along Wilshire Boulevard, hell bent for my hotel.

I went up to my room and fell on the bed exhausted. I had been deluding myself. There was no pleasure in seeing
Sin City
. I was really not pleased at Velda’s failure. In truth I felt sorry for her, for all writers, for the misery of the craft. I lay in that tiny room and it engulfed me like a tomb.

I got up and went down into the street. Half a block away was a Filipino saloon. I sat at the bar and ordered a glass of Filipino wine. The Filipinos around me laughed and played the dart game. I drank more wine. It was sweet and tinged with peppermint, warm in the stomach, tingling. I drank five more glasses, and stood up to leave. I felt nausea, and my stomach seemed to float into my chest. I got out on the sidewalk, leaned against the lamppost and felt the strength ooze from my knees.

Then everything vanished, and I was in a bed somewhere. It was a white room with big windows and it was daylight. There were tubes in my nose and down my throat and I felt the pain of vomiting. A nurse stood at the bedside and watched me gag and writhe until there was no more of it, only the terrible pain in my stomach and throat. The nurse removed the tubes.

“Where am I” I asked.

“Georgia Street Hospital,” she said.

“What’s the matter with me?”

“Poison,” she said. “Your friend is here.”

I looked toward the door. There stood Helen Brownell. She came quietly to the bedside and sat down. I took her hand and began to sob.

“There now,” she soothed. “Everything’s all right.”

“What’s the matter with me?” I choked. “What’s going on?”

“Don’t you remember?”

“I drank some wine—that’s all.”

“You drank too much,” she said. “You passed out, and the wine made you very ill.”

“Who brought me here?”

“The police ambulance.”

“How did you find out?”

“My address was in your wallet.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Since midnight,” she said.

“Can I leave now?”

The nurse stepped up. “Not for a while,” she said. “The doctor has to look at you first.”

Mrs. Brownell stood up and squeezed my hand. “I must go now.”

“I’ll see you at the hotel.”

She bit her lip. “Perhaps you shouldn’t.”

“Why not? I love you.”

“Don’t say that,” she answered.

“It’s true,” I insisted. “I love you more than anybody in the world. I always have. I always will.”

Without answering, she turned with a wisp of a smile, and walked out of the room. I felt my stomach heaving, and the nurse held my head as I vomited into a basin.

It was late afternoon when the doctor checked me out and permitted me to leave. When I asked about the charges for my stay he answered that they had been paid.

“By whom?” I said.

“Mrs. Brownell.”

I got dressed and walked down the hall to the front door, where I took a trolley to Hill Street. At Third I got off and rode the cablecar to the top of Bunker Hill.

A man stood behind the desk in the hotel lobby. He was thin and tall with a halo of gray hair. I asked to see Mrs. Brownell.

“She ain’t here,” he said.

“When are you expecting her?”

“Can’t say. She went to San Francisco.”

There was something familiar about him. “Are you a relative?” I asked.

“I’m her brother,” he said. “Is your name Bandini?”

“That’s right.”

He lifted the desk blotter, and removed an envelope and handed it to me. My name was on it. I tore open the envelope. Inside was a statement from the Georgia Street Hospital, marked paid, a bill for twelve dollars. I looked inside the envelope for an explanation. There was none. The man watched me.

“Did she leave any message beside this?”

“That’s all.”

I took out my wallet and paid him the twelve dollars. Without thanking me he put it into the cash drawer. I nodded at the door to Mrs. Brownell’s apartment, and stared sternly.

“Are you sure she’s not in there?”

He pushed the door open and folded his arms. “See for yourself.”

I shook my head. “It’s not like her to do a thing like this.”

The old man smiled. “That’s what you think, sonny.”

I walked out into the street. The sun was tumbling into
the ocean thirty miles west, and the city was in a tumult of radiant sunset colors, shards of clouds gathering on the far horizon, a touch of rain in the air. From beneath Bunker Hill I heard the uproar of the city, the clanging of trolley bells, the roar of cars, the lower depths. Beneath my feet was the Third Street tunnel, the sudden hush of traffic entering, and the roar of traffic emerging.

What am I doing here, I asked. I hate this place, this friendless city. Why was it always thrusting me away like an unwanted orphan? Had I not paid my dues? Had I not worked hard, tried hard? What did it have against me? Was it the incessant sense of my peasantry, the old conviction that somehow I did not belong?

If not Los Angeles, then what? Where could I find welcome, where could I sit among people who loved me and cared for me and took pride in me? Then it came to me. There
was
a place, and there were people who loved me, and I would go to them. So fuck you, Los Angeles, fuck your palm trees, and your highassed women, and your fancy streets, for I am going home, back to Colorado, back to the best damned town in the USA—Boulder, Colorado.

I put my car in storage and got aboard a Greyhound bus with two suitcases. The bus pulled out of Los Angeles at seven in the evening of a very hot day. In fact, it was the last hot day I would experience for a month. The interior of the bus was even hotter than the day, the leather seats heaving with heat when one sat down, and the passengers sprawled in exhaustion and discomfort by the time we reached the city limits. They looked as if they had been aboard for days, billows of cigarette smoke filling the air.

When we crossed into Nevada, the first snowflakes began to fall. Through Nevada we drove in the gathering storm, the snow piling up, the bus slowing down in a blinding storm. When we reached Utah and made a stop the snow was above the wheels. We rushed into the depot, drank cups of revolting coffee, and got aboard again. The hours passed, the snow fell with insidious determination, as if to bury us on the plain. In Wyoming snowplows came out of Rock Springs to rescue us, and the journey was slowed to a crawl. By the time we pulled in at the Boulder depot I had to struggle to my feet as I staggered out.

The snow was terrifying, the flakes as big as dollars, wafting slowly toward earth, and lying there, not melting. I stood in front of the bus depot shivering in a light sweater, blinking at my home town. Where the hell was it? The snow played tricks with the scene. I knew there was a bridge half a block away, but now it was invisible. I knew there was a lumberyard across the street, but it had vanished. I shivered, and lit a cigarette, and pounded my feet to
keep them warm. Suddenly a figure stood before me. I thought I knew his face, but I wasn’t sure until he said:

“What are you doing here?”

That could only be my father.

“I’ve come home.”

His breath burst like steam.

“You’re cold,” he said. “Where’s your overcoat?”

“You’re wearing it,” I said. He unbuttoned the heavy sheepskin coat, and peeled it off.

“Put it on,” he said, holding it out for me.

“What about you?”

“Never mind me. Put it on.”

He helped me get into it. He was in shirtsleeves now, the snowflakes banging him.

“Let’s go,” he said. We quickly walked away. The overcoat felt warm from the heat of his body. It was all of a piece, a part of my life, like an old chair, or a worn fork, or my mother’s shawl, the things of my life, the precious worthless treasured things.

“What’d you come home for?”

“I wanted to. I had to. I got lonesome.”

“You leave your job in the pitchers?”

“For a while—until later, maybe.”

“There’s nothing for you here,” my father said, his breath steaming. “What are you going to do now?”

“I’ll think of something,” I said.

“You won’t listen to me,” he half groaned. “You never did listen to your father.”

“I had to do it my own way.”

He cursed. “And what’s it got you?”

The storm heaved and sighed. I looked at Arapahoe Street. The big elms seemed so much bigger in the snow light. The houses huddled like animals in the storm. A car clattered by, its chains clanging. A mile away were the first tall hills of the Rocky Mountains, but the snow hid them away in a white veil. Across the street in the Delaney yard stood old Elsie, their cow, patiently in the storm, watching us pass by.

What a wonderful street! How much of my life I had spent here, under the quiet elms, our house a block away—Christmases and baseball and first communion and Hallowe’en, and kites and sleigh rides, and ballgames and Easter and graduation and all of my life evoked by this wondrous street of old houses, with dim lights in windows, and home at the end of the block.

We reached the house, and there it was, parked in the street, my brother’s decrepit Overland touring car, the top down, the inside overflowing with new snow. No matter. It had a life of its own. Once the snow melted, it would start up and merrily chug away. My father and I mounted the porch steps and pounded the snow from our shoes before entering. Opening the door, my father shouted:

“Here he is!”

In the kitchen I saw my mother at the stove, a ladling spoon in her hand. She turned and saw me. With a cry to God, she flung out her arms and sent the ladling spoon flying, and came running toward me.

“I knew it,” she said. “I’ve been saying it all day.”

We met and embraced in the dining room, hugging and kissing, as she sobbed and her tears splashed my face. My brother Mario stood aside, embarrassed. He had grown a great deal since I last saw him, a bashful, inarticulate kid of nineteen. My sister Stella slipped into my arms. She was sixteen, very beautiful and very shy, but not ashamed of her tears. Over her shoulder I saw my little brother Tom, a seventh grader at Sacred Heart School. We embraced, and he said:

“You’re littler than I thought.”

My mother took me by the hand and led me into the kitchen.

“You think I didn’t know?” she said. “You think I’d go to all this trouble if I didn’t know you were coming?” She gestured at the cast iron baking dish on the stove. “Look!”

It was lasagne, red tomato sauce bubbling in an ocean of pasta.

“How could you know I was coming?” I asked. “I didn’t
know myself until the last minute.”

“I prayed. How else?”

My brother Tom took my hand and pulled me into the dining room, and through to the bedroom. In a whisper he asked. “Did you ever see Hedy Lamarr?”

“All the time,” I said.

“You’re a liar.” Then, “What’s she like?”

“Unbelievable. When she walks into a room the whole building shakes.”

“I wrote her a letter. She didn’t even answer it.”

“Before I leave you write her again. I’ll take it to her house.”

He grinned, and then, “You’re a liar.”

I put my hand over my heart. “I swear to God.”

We were poor, but as always we ate very well, the table overflowing with salad and homemade bread and lasagne, and my father’s dandelion wine. When we were finished it was time to talk, to question the prodigal son. They did not regard me as a failure. I was a hero, a conqueror back from distant battlefields. They even gave me a sense of my importance in the world.

“Now then,” my father said, finishing his wine, “what’d you come home for?”

“To see my family, got any objections?”

He looked right at me. “Got any money?”

“Some.”

“We need it. Give it to your mother.”

I pulled out my wallet and removed two one-hundred-dollar bills, and pushed them toward my mother. She began to cry.

“It’s too much,” she said.

My father flared. “Shut up and take it.”

My mother pushed the bills into her apron pocket.

“Arturo,” Stella said, “do you know Clark Gable?”

“Very well—a good friend of mine.”

“Is he really that nice? Is he stuck up?”

“He’s as shy as a bird.”

My father filled his glass again. “How about Tom Mix?
You ever see him?”

“At the studio every day. Him and Tony.”

My father smiled, remembering. “Tony. Great horse.”

My brother Tom looked sheepish and asked, “How tall is Hedy Lamarr?”

“A lot taller than you.”

“Smart ass,” Tom said.

My father whacked the table. “Don’t use that kind of language in this house.” There was a respectful silence. Then Mario spoke:

“You ever run into James Cagney?”

“Frequently.”

“What kind of a car does he drive?”

“Duesenberg.”

“Figures,” Mario said.