Hollywood (9 page)

Jon got busy. Copies of the screenplay were made, mailed to producers, agents, actors. I went back to fiddling with the poem. I also came up with a new system for the racetrack. The racetrack was important to me because it allowed me to forget that I was supposed to be a writer. Writing was strange. I needed to write, it was like a disease, a drug, a heavy compulsion, yet I didn’t like to think of myself as a writer. Maybe I had met too many writers. They took more time disparaging each other than they did doing their work. They were fidgets, gossips, old maids; they bitched and knifed and they were full of vanity. Were these our creators? Was it always thus? Probably so. Maybe writing was a form of bitching. Some just bitched better than others.

Anyhow, the screenplay went around and there weren’t any takers. Some said it was interesting but the main complaint was that there wouldn’t be an audience for that type of film. It was all right to show how a person who had once been great or unusual was destroyed by drink. But just to focus on a bum drinking or a bunch of bums drinking, that didn’t make sense. Who cared? Who cared how they lived or died?

But I did get a phone call from Jon: “Listen, Mack Austin got hold of the screenplay and he likes it. He wants to direct it and he wants the same guy I want to play the lead.”

“Who’s that?”

“Tom Pell.”

“Yeah, he’d make a good drunk...”

“Pell is crazy for the screenplay. He’s crazy about your writing, he’s read all your stuff. He’s so crazy about the screenplay he says he’ll do the acting for a dollar.”

“Jesus...”

“Only he
insists
that Mack Austin directs. I do not like this Mack Austin. He is my enemy.”

“Why?”

“Oh, we’ve had some problems.”

“Why don’t you guys kiss and make up?”

“NEVER! MACK AUSTIN WILL NEVER DIRECT MY FILM!”

“All right, Jon, then let’s forget it.”

“No, wait, I want to arrange a meeting at your house between Mack Austin, Tom Pell and myself. And you, of course. Maybe you can get Tom Pell to change his mind and do the film without Austin. He’s a great actor, you know.”

“I know. So have them come over. Is he going to bring Ramona?”

“No.”

Tom had married Ramona, the famed pop singer.

“Well, when would be a good time?”

“They’ve agreed to tomorrow night at 8:30 if it’s all right with you.”

“You move fast.”

“In this game you move fast or you die.”

“It’s not like chess?”

“More like a checker game between idiots.”

“One idiot wins?”

“And one idiot loses.”

I found out a little more about the Jon Pinchot and Mack Austin affair. Although Jon had made most of his films in Europe, and Austin’s films were American, the film crowd hung out in the same places in Hollywood. Jon and Mack Austin were in the same fancy eatery. I am not quite sure who was drinking and who wasn’t but it seems that some bickering started between these two directors from tables not too close together. Shoptalk, you know. Technique. Background. Training. Insight, etc.

It went back and forth between the tables before a goodly audience of people in the “industry.”

Finally, Mack rose and shouted at Jon:

“YOU CALL YOURSELF A DIRECTOR? YOU CANT DIRECT TRAFFIC!”

Well, I don’t know. Directing traffic is a job that takes great skill.

Anyway, some other people had once accused Mack in public of not being able to direct traffic. Now he was passing on the compliment. All’s fair in hate and Hollywood.

I later heard some other half-documented accounts of run-ins between Mack and Jon.

Anyhow, the meeting was on...

INTERIOR. WRITER’S HOME. 8:15 p.m.

Jon had arrived a little early.

“Wait until you see this Austin,” he said. “He’s off drugs and booze. He’s like a flat tire, an empty stocking...”

“I think it’s great,” said Sarah, “that he has gotten himself cleaned up. That takes courage.”

“O.K.,” said Jon.

They arrived about 8:35 p.m. Tom in leather jacket. Mack in a calfskin jacket with a leather fringe. He had on a half dozen gold chains. Introductions over, I poured Tom a wine. We hunkered around the coffee table.

Tom started it off.

“I’ve seen the screenplay. I love it. I want to sink my bicuspids into the fucker. I can taste it already. It’s my kind of part.”

“Thank you, my man. Yours is the only nibble we’ve gotten.”

“Tom and I even have a backer. We’re ready to roll,” said Mack.

“You sure you don’t want a drink, Mack?” I asked.

“No, thanks.”

“I’ll get you a soda,” said Sarah. “Or would you rather have tea?”

“A soda would be fine.”

Sarah went off to get Mack something to make him comfortable. We had health food sodas. The best.

I drank my drink right off, poured another. I was beginning to sense a futility about any sort of compromise or agreement.

“I need Mack for a director. I know his work. I trust him,” Tom said.

“You don’t trust me?” asked Jon.

“It’s not that. It’s only that I feel that I could work closer with Mack.”

“I am the only one who will direct this movie,” said Jon.

“Listen,” said Tom, “I know this movie means a lot to you. We can create a position for you. You’ll be paid well and you’ll be allowed plenty of control. Please accept this. I want this thing to roll. Please try to understand.”

Sarah was back with Mack’s soda.

“I know that I can work well with Tom,” said Mack.

“You can’t,” Jon began...

“...direct traffic,” Mack finished it.

The discussion went on and on. For hours. Sarah, Jon and I kept drinking. Tom kept drinking. And Mack kept working on the health food sodas.

“You’re all bullheads,” said Sarah. “Surely something can be worked out.”

But everything was just as it was in the beginning. Nobody gave way. And I had no ideas. I couldn’t break the deadlock.

We even began talking about other things. We told various funny stories in turn. The drinks went round and round.

Toward the end, I don’t remember who was telling the story, but it got to Mack Austin. It struck him, health food sodas and all. He fell backwards laughing loudly. His gold chains bounced up and down.

Then he pulled himself together.

Soon after that, it was time to part. Tom and Mack had to leave. We said our goodbyes. After their car backed down the drive Jon looked at me:

“Did you hear that fake laugh? Did you see how those fucking gold chains bounced up and down on his neck? What was he laughing about? Did you see all those fucking gold chains?”

“Yeah, I saw them,” I said.

“He was nervous,” said Sarah. “He was the only one who wasn’t drinking. Have you ever been in a roomful of drunks when you aren’t drinking?”

“No,” I said.

“Listen,” Jon asked me, “can I use your phone?”

“Sure...”

“I must phone Paris! Now!”

“What?”

“Don’t worry, I will call collect. I want to talk to my lawyer. It’s about an addition to my will...”

“Go ahead.”

Jon walked to the phone and began making arrangements for a connection. I walked over and refilled his glass. Then I came back.

“It’s awful,” said Sarah, “there goes the movie.”

“Well, almost something is better than nothing.”

“Is it?”

“Come to think of it, I’m not so sure...”

Then Jon had his connection. He’d had more than a few drinks and was excited. He was easily heard:

“PAUL! YES, IT’S JON PINCHOT! YES, IT IS URGENT! I WANT AN ADDITION TO MY WILL! ARE YOU READY? YES, I’LL WAIT!”

Jon looked over at us.

“This is very important...”

Then:

“YES, PAUL! THERE IS THIS MOVIE. I HAVE CONTROL. IT IS CALLED
THE DANCE OF JIM BEAM
, WRITTEN BY HENRY CHINASKI! VERY WELL, GET THIS DOWN! IN CASE OF MY DEATH THIS MOVIE IS NEVER TO BE DIRECTED BY MACK AUSTIN! THIS MOVIE CAN BE DIRECTED BY ANYBODY ON THIS EARTH EXCEPT MACK AUSTIN! DO YOU HAVE THAT, PAUL? YES, THANK YOU VERY MUCH, PAUL. YES, I AM WELL. HOW IS YOUR HEALTH? ALL RIGHT, ANYBODY BUT MACK AUSTIN! THANK YOU SO MUCH, PAUL! GOODNIGHT, GOODNIGHT!”

After that, we had one more drink together. Then Jon had to go. He stopped at the door.

“Did you hear that fake laugh? Did you see those gold chains bounce?”

“Yes, Jon. . .”

Then he was gone and that night was over. We went out to call the cats. We had 5 cats and we couldn’t sleep until all 5 cats were in the house.

The neighbors heard us calling those cats late each night or early in the morning. We had nice neighbors. And those 5 cats each took their damned time coming in.

3 or 4 days later Jon was on the phone.

“Jack Bledsoe has read the screenplay and he likes it, he wants to act in it. I’ve been trying to get him to come see you but he claims he doesn’t want to be overwhelmed by you. He says you must come see him.”

“Will that overwhelm him less?”

“I guess that’s what he thinks.”

“You think he can play the part?”

“Oh yes, he’s from the
streets
! He once sold chestnuts in the streets! He’s from New York!”

“I’ve seen some of his films...”

“Well, what do you think?”

“Maybe...Listen, he’s got to stop
smiling
all the time when he doesn’t know what else to do. And he’s got to stop beating refrigerators with his fists. And he’s got to stop that New York strut where they walk like they’ve got a banana up their ass.”

“He used to be a boxer, this Jack Bledsoe...”

“Shit, we all used to be boxers...”

“He can do the part, trust me...”

“Jon, he can’t be
New York
. This main character is a California boy. California boys are laid back, in the woodwork. They don’t come rushing out, they cool it and figure their next move. Less panic. And under all this, they have the ability to kill. But they don’t blow a lot of smoke first.”

“You tell him this...”

“All right, when and where?

It was 8 p.m. in North Hollywood. We were about 5 minutes late. We were walking up various dark paths looking for the apartment.

“I hope he has something to drink. We should have brought something.”

“I’m sure he’ll have something,” Sarah said.

It was hard to make out the numbers. Then there was Jon standing on a balcony.

“Up here...”

I went up the stairway and followed Jon. It was one of Jack’s little hideaways.

Jon pushed the door open and we walked in. They were sitting on an old couch. Jack Bledsoe and his buddy Lenny Fidelo. Fidelo acted bit parts. Jack Bledsoe looked exactly like Jack Bledsoe. Lenny was a big guy, wide, a little too heavy. He was marked by life, he’d been rubbed in it. I liked him. Big sad eyes. Large hands. Looked tired, lonely, O.K.

Introductions went around.

“Who’s this guy?” I asked Jack, nodding at Lenny. “Your bodyguard?”

“Yeah,” said Jack.

Jon just stood there smiling as if the thing was a meeting of great souls. But, you never knew.

“Got anything to drink?” I asked.

“All we’ve got is beer. Beer all right?”

“All right,” I said.

Lenny went off into another room for the beer. I was sorry for Sarah, she wasn’t nutty for beer.

There were boxing posters all over the wall. I walked around looking at them. Great. Some of them went way back. I began to feel macho just looking at them.

There were springs sticking out of the sofa and there were pillows on the floor, shoes, magazines, paper bags.

“This is a real male hangout,” Sarah laughed.

“Yeah, yeah, I like it,” I said. “I’ve lived in some real wrecked places but never anything like this.”

“We like it,” said Jack.

Lenny was back with the beer. Cans. We cracked them and sat there having a hit or two.

“So, you read the script?” I asked Jack.

“Yeah. Was that guy you?”

“Me, long ago.”

“You got your ass kicked,” said Lenny.

“Mostly.”

“You really ran errands for sandwiches?” Jack asked.

“Mostly.”

The beer was good. There was a silence.

“Well, what do you think?” Jon asked.

“You mean Jack?”

“Yes.”

“He’ll do. We may have to beat him up a bit.”

“Lemme see your fighting style,” said Jack.

I got up and sparred.

“Quick hands,” said Sarah.

I sat down again. “I could take a punch fine. But I lacked a certain desire. I wasn’t sure what I was doing. You got another beer?”

“Oh sure,” said Lenny, then he got up to get one for me.

It was known in Hollywood that Jack Bledsoe didn’t like Tom Pell. He liked to lay it on Tom in almost all his interviews: “Tom comes from Malibu. I come from the streets.” It didn’t matter to me where an actor came from as long as he could act. Both of them could act. And there was no need for either of them to act the way writers acted.

Lenny was back with the beer.

“It’s the last beer,” he said.

“Oh shit, no,” I said.

“I’ll be right back,” Jon said.

Then he was out the door. Beer-run. I liked Jon.

“You like this Jon Pinchot as a director?” Jack asked.

“You ever seen his documentary on Lido Mamin?”

“No.”

“Pinchot has no fear. He loves fucking with death.”

“He’s got a hard-on for death, huh?”

“Seems so. But he’s done other stuff besides the Mamin film. I trust him as a director all the way. He hasn’t been diluted by Hollywood, although some day he might be.”

“How about you?”

“How about me, what?”

“Will Hollywood get your balls?”

“No way.”

“Famous last words?”

“No,, famous first words.”

“Hank hates movies,” said Sarah. “The last movie he liked was
The Lost Weekend
and you know how many years ago that was.”

“Ray Milland’s only bit of acting. But it was aces,” I said.

Then I had to piss, asked directions to the crapper.

I went back there, opened the door, went in, did my bit.

Then I turned to the sink to wash my hands.

What the fuck was that?

Pushed down in the sink was this white towel. One end of it was stuffed into the drain and the remainder of it hung out over the sink and dropped to the floor. It didn’t look good. And it was soaking wet, just soaked through. What was it for? What did it mean? Left over after some orgy? It didn’t make sense to me. I knew it must mean something. I was just an old guy. Was the world passing me by? I’d lived through some shitty nights and days, plenty of them full of anti-meaning, yet I couldn’t figure out that giant soaking white towel.

And worse, Jack knew that I was coming by. Why would he leave that thing in there like that? Was it a message?

I walked back out.

Now, if I had been a New Yorker I would have said, “Hey, what’s that fucking white dripping towel doing in that fucking sink, huh?”

But I was a California boy. I just walked out and sat down, saying nothing, figuring that what they did was up to them and I didn’t want any part of it.

Jon was back with more beer and there was an open can where I was sitting. I went for it. Life was good again.

“I want Francine Bowers for the female lead,” said Jack. “I think I can get her.”

“I know Francine,” said Jon, “I think I can get her too.”

“Why don’t you both work on it?” Sarah asked.

Lenny went for more beer. He looked like a beer-o. My kind of guy.

“Hey, you think there’s a part for me in this movie?” he asked.

I looked at Jon.

“I like Lenny in my flicks,” said Jack.

“I think there’s a part for you. I promise,” said Jon, “we’ll work you in.”

“I read the script,” said Lenny, “I think I could play the part of the bartender.”

“Come on,” I said, “you wouldn’t want to beat up your buddy Jack here, would you?”

“No problem,” said Lenny.

“Yeah,” said Jack, “he already did it once. Knocked one of my teeth out.”

“Really?” Sarah asked.

“And how,” said Jack.

We drank the beer. Mostly it was small talk, about the many exploits of Lenny. He’d not only paid his dues, he could recollect them.

When the beer was about gone, I figured it was about time to leave. I made one more bathroom run, then Sarah and I were at the door. Jon was evidently staying behind to talk over something or other.

Then at the door, something strange happened. I asked Jack, “Hey, man, what the fuck is that big sopping wet dripping-ass towel doing hanging out of your bathroom sink?”

“What big sopping wet dripping-ass towel?” Jack asked.

And that was the end of that particular night.