Hollywood (3 page)

That night, sitting at the typer, I poured two drinks, I drank two drinks, I smoked 3 cigarettes and listened to Brahms’ Third on the radio, and then I realized that I needed something to help me get into the screenplay. I punched Pinchot’s number. He was in.

“Allo?”

“Jon, it’s Hank.”

“Hank, how are you?”

“Fine. Listen, I’ll take the ten.”

“But you said it might hinder your creative process to take it in advance.”

“I’ve changed my mind. There hasn’t been a creative process.”

“You mean...?”

“I mean, I’ve worked it out in my mind but there is nothing yet on paper.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“It’s about a drunk. He just sits on this barstool night and day.”

“Do you think the people would care about such a man?”

“Listen, Jon, if I worried about what the people cared about I’d never write anything.”

“All right. Should I bring the check over to you?”

“No. Just put it in the mail. Tonight. Thank you.”

“Thank you,” said Jon.

I walked over to the typewriter and sat down. It worked right away. I typed:

THE DRUNK WITH THE BLUE AND YELLOW SOUL

EXTERIOR/INTERIOR—DANDY’S BAR—DAY

The CAMERA PANS DOWN FROM ABOVE; IT MOVES SLOWLY through the bar entrance and INTO THE INTERIOR BAR.

A YOUNG MAN sits on a barstool as if he had been there for eternity. He lifts his glass...

I was into it. All you needed was the first line, then everything followed. It was always there, it only needed something to set it running.

That bar came back to me. I remembered how you could smell the urinal from wherever you sat. You needed a drink right off to counteract that. And before you went back to that urinal you needed 4 or 5. And the people of that bar, their bodies and faces and voices came back to me. I was there again. I saw the draft beer again in that thin glass flared at the top, the white foam looking at you, bubbling just a bit. The beer was green and after the first gulp, about a fourth of the glass, you inhaled, held your breath, and you were started. The morning bartender was a good man. The dialogue came and took care of itself. I typed on and on...

Then, the phone rang. It was long distance. It was my agent and translator from Germany, Karl Vossner. Karl loved to talk the way he thought hip Americans talked.

“Hey, motherfucker, how ya doin’?”

“All right, Karl, you still riding your joystick?”

“Yeah, my ceiling is riddled with flakes of dry sperm.”

“Good man.”

“Thanks, baby. I learn all the good things from you. But, baby, I got good news. You wanna hear, motherfucker?”

“Oh, yeah, yeah, baby!”

“Well, besides whistling ‘Dixie’ out of my asshole, I’ve translated 3 of your books: poems,
The Lice of Doom
; short stories,
Cesspool Dreams
; and your novel,
Central Station Arson
.”

“I owe you my left ball, Karl.”

“O.K., send it airmail. But, baby, there’s more...”

“Tell me, tell me...”

“Well, we had a book fair here last month and I met with the 6 biggest publishers in Germany and let me tell you, they are hot for your body!”

“My body?”

“Your body of work, you know. Dig?”

“I dig, baby.”

“I got these 6 big publishers in a hotel room, I laid out the beer and the wine and the cheese and the nuts. Then I told them it would be open bidding for the advance on the 3 books. They just laughed and got into the booze. I had those assholes playing right into our hand. You are a hot number and they know it. I told a few jokes to get them loose, then the bidding started. Well, to get to the short-hairs, Krumph made the largest bid. I had the motherfucker sign a contract. Then we all hung one on together. All us assholes got stinko, Krumph especially. So, we scored. We’re in like Flynn!”

“You’re one cool dude, Karl. What’s my cut?”

“Baby, it should amount to around 35 grand. I’ll wire it to you within a week.”

“Man oh man, that’s really
rowdy
!”

“It beats blowing glass, motherfucker.”

“And how, baby. Hey, Karl, ever heard this one? What’s the difference between a chicken’s asshole and a rabbit’s asshole?”

“‘No, what’s the difference?”

“Ask little Dick.”

“I got it! Far out!”

With that, our conversation was over.

Within an hour I was 45 thousand dollars richer. 30 years of starvation and rejection were starting to kick in.

I walked back to the typer, poured a good tall drink, belted that, poured another. I found 3/4’s of a stale cigar, lit it. Shostakovich’s Fifth was on the radio. I hit the typer:

The Bartender, Luke, leans forward over bar, eyeing the young man.

LUKE

Listen, you’re in this place night and day. All you do is sit and suck up the booze.

YOUNG MAN

Yep.

LUKE

O.K., look, I don’t mean to hurt your feelings or nothing but like maybe this shit don’t lead nowhere.

YOUNG MAN

That’s all right, Luke, don’t worry about me. Just keep them coming.

LUKE

Sure, kid. But ain’t there another part of you somewhere?

YOUNG MAN

Hey, Luke, you ever heard this one? What’s the difference between a chicken’s asshole and a rabbit’s asshole?

LUKE

I don’t want to hear no jokes, man. I want to know: Isn’t there another part of you somewhere?

YOUNG MAN

Well, shit. I was in the 6th grade, I think. The teacher asked us to write something about our most moving experience. And I don’t mean like moving to Denver.

LUKE

Yeah.

YOUNG MAN

Anyhow, I wrote about this frog I found in the garden. He had one of his legs caught in a wire fence. He couldn’t get away. I got his leg out of the wire fence but he still wouldn’t move.

LUKE
(yawning)

Yeah?

YOUNG MAN

So I held him in my lap and talked to him. I told him that I was trapped, that my life was caught in something too. I talked to him for a long time. At last he hopped out of my lap and hopped across the lawn and vanished into some brush. And I said to myself that he was the first thing that I had ever missed in my life.

LUKE

Yeah?

YOUNG MAN

The teacher read it to the class. Everybody cried.

LUKE

Yeah. So?

YOUNG MAN

Well, I thought that someday I might be a writer.

LUKE
(leaning forward)

Kid, you’re nuts!

I decided that was enough screenplay writing for one night. I just sat by the typer and listened to the music on the radio. I didn’t remember going to bed. But in the morning, I was there.

Vin Marbad came highly recommended by Michael Huntington, my official photographer. Michael snapped me constantly, but so far there had been no large call for these efforts.

Marbad was a tax consultant. He arrived one night with his briefcase, a dark little man. I had been drinking quietly for some hours, sitting with Sarah while watching a movie on my old black-and-white TV.

He knocked with a rapid dignity and I let him in, introduced him to Sarah, poured him a wine.

“Thank you,” he said, taking a sip. “You know, that here in America, if you don’t spend money they are going to take it away.”

“Yeah? What you want me to do?”

“Put a payment down on a house.”

“Huh?”

“Mortgage payments are tax deductible.”

“Yeah, what else?”

“Buy a car. Tax deductible.”

“All of it?”

“No, just some. Let me handle that. What we have to do is build you some tax shelters. Look here—”

Vin Marbad opened his briefcase and slipped out many sheets of paper. He stood up and came toward me with the papers.

“Real estate. Here, I’ve bought some land in Oregon. This is a tax write-off. There are some acres still available. You can get in now. We look for a 23% appreciation each year. In other words, after four years your money is doubled...”

“No, no, please sit back down.”

“What’s the matter?”

“I don’t want to buy anything that I can’t see, I don’t want to buy anything that I can’t reach out and touch.”

“You mean, you don’t trust me?”

“I just met you.”

“I have world-wide recommendations!”

“I always go by my instincts.”

Vin Marbad spun back toward the couch where he had left his coat; he slipped into it and then with briefcase he rushed to the door, opened it, was out, closed it.

“You’ve hurt his feelings,” said Sarah. “He’s just trying to show you some ways to save money.”

“I have two rules. One is, never trust a man who smokes a pipe. The other is, never trust a man with shiny shoes.”

“He wasn’t smoking a pipe.”

“Well, he looks like a pipe smoker.”

“You hurt his feelings.”

“Don’t worry, he’ll be back...”

The door flung open and there was Vin Marbad. He rushed across the room to his original place on the couch, took off his coat again, placed the briefcase at his feet. He looked at me.

“Michael tells me you play the horses.”

“Well, yeah...”

“My first job when I came here from India was at Hollywood Park. I was a janitor there. You know the brooms they use to sweep up the discarded tickets?”

“Yeah.”

“Ever notice how wide they are?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, that was my idea. Those brooms used to be regular size. I designed the new broom. I went to Operations with it and they put it to use. I moved up into Operations and I’ve been moving up ever since.”

I poured him another wine. He took a sip.

“Listen, do you drink when you write?”

“Yes, quite a bit.”

“That’s part of your inspiration. I’ll make that tax deductible.”

“Can you do that?”

“Of course. You know, I was the one who began making deductions for gasoline use in the automobile. That was my idea.”

“Son of a bitch,” I said.

“Very interesting,” said Sarah.

“I’ll fix it so you won’t have to pay any taxes at all and it will all be legal.”

“Sounds nice.”

“Michael Huntington doesn’t pay taxes. Ask him.”

“I believe you. Let’s not pay taxes.”

“All right, but you must do what I tell you. First, you put a down payment on a house, then on a car. Get started. Get a good car. Get a new BMW.”

“All right.”

“What do you type on? A manual?”

“Yes.”

“Get an electric. It’s tax deductible.”

“I don’t know if I can write on an electric.”

“You can pick it up in a couple of days.”

“I mean, I don’t know if I can
create
on an electric.”

“You mean, you’re afraid to change?”

“Yes, he is,” said Sarah. “Take the writers of past centuries, they used quill pens. Back then, he would have held on to that quill pen, he would have fought any change.”

“I worry too much about my god damned soul.”

“You change your brands of booze, don’t you?” asked Vin.

“Yeah...”

“O.K., then...”

Vin lifted his glass, drained it.

I poured the wine around.

“What we want to do is to make you a Corporation, so you get all the tax breaks.”

“It sounds awful.”

“I told you, if you don’t want to pay taxes you must do as I say.”

“AH I want to do is type, I don’t want to carry around a big load.”

“All you do is to appoint a Board of Directors, a Secretary, Treasurer, so forth...It’s easy.”

“It sounds horrible. Listen, all this sounds like pure shit. Maybe I’d be better off just paying taxes. I just don’t want anybody bothering me. I don’t want a tax man knocking on my door at midnight. I’ll even pay extra just to make sure they leave me alone.”

“That’s stupid,” said Vin, “nobody should ever pay taxes.”

“Why don’t you give Vin a chance? He’s just trying to help you,” said Sarah.

“Look, I’ll mail you the Corporation papers. Just read them over and then sign them. You’ll see that there’s nothing to fear.”

“All this stuff, you see, it gets in the way. I’m working on this screenplay and I need a clear mind.”

“A screenplay, huh? What’s it about?”

“A drunk.”

“Ah, you, huh?”

“Well, there are others.”

“I’ve got him drinking wine now,” said Sarah. “He was about dead when I met him. Scotch, beer, vodka, gin, ale...”

“I’ve been a consultant for Darby Evans for some years now. You heard of him, he’s a screenwriter.”

“I don’t go to movies.”

“He wrote
The Bunny That Hopped Into Heaven
;
Waffles with Lulu
;
Terror in the Zoo
. He’s easily into six figures. And, he’s a Corporation.”

I didn’t answer.

“He hasn’t paid a dime in taxes. And, it’s all legal...”

“Give Vin a chance,” said Sarah.

I lifted my glass.

“All right. Shit. Here’s to it!”

“Atta boy,” said Vin.

I drained my glass and got up and found another bottle. I got the cork out and poured all around.

I let my mind go along with it: you’re a wheeler dealer. You’re slick. Why pay for bombs that mangle helpless children? Drive a BMW. Have a view of the harbor. Vote Republican.

Then another thought came to my mind: Are you becoming what you’ve always hated? And then the answer came:

Shit, you don’t have any real money anyhow. Why not play around with this thing for laughs? We went on drinking, celebrating something.