Run With the Hunted (53 page)

“I talked to Harold Pheasant.”

“The producer?”

“Yes, he's over at that corner table.”

“Oh, I
see!
”

“No, don't
look
. Don't wave. Drink your drink. I'll drink mine.”

“What the hell's wrong with you?”

“You see, he was the producer who was going to produce the screenplay that I haven't written.”

“I know.”

“While you were gone he came over to talk to me.”

“You already said.”

“He didn't even want a drink.”

“So you screwed it up and you're not even drunk.”

“Wait. He wanted to talk about a movie he had just produced.”

“How'd you screw it up?”

“I didn't screw it up.
He
screwed it up.”

“Sure. Tell me.”

I looked in the mirror. I liked myself but I didn't like myself in the mirror. I didn't look like that. I finished my drink.

“Finish your drink,” I said.

She did.

“Tell me.”

“That's twice you've said, ‘Tell me.'”

“Remarkable memory and you're not even drunk yet.”

I motioned the barkeep in, ordered again.

“Well, Pheasant came over and he told me about this movie he produced. It's about a writer who couldn't write but who got famous because he looked like a rodeo rider.”

“Who?”

“Mack Derouac.”

“And that upset you?”

“No, that didn't matter. It was fine until he told me the title of the movie.”

“Which was?”

“Please. I am trying to drive it out of my mind. It's utterly stupid.”

“Tell me.”

“All right …”

The mirror was still there.

“Tell me, tell me, tell me …”

“All right:
The Furry Flotsam Flies
.”

“I like that.”

“I didn't. I told him so. He walked off. We lost our only backer.”

“You ought to go over there and apologize.”

“No way. Horrendous title.”

“You just wanted his movie to be about
you
.”

“
That's it!
I'll write a screenplay about myself!”

“Got the title?”

“Yeah:
Flies in the Furry Flotsam
.”

“Let's get out of here.”

With that, we did.

—
H
OLLYWOOD

I see old people on pensions in the

supermarkets and they are thin and they are

proud and they are dying

they are starving on their feet and saying

nothing. long ago, among other lies,

they were taught that silence was

bravery, now, having worked a lifetime,

inflation has trapped them. they look around

steal a grape

chew on it. finally they make a tiny

purchase, a day's worth.

another lie they were taught:

thou shalt not steal.

they'd rather starve than steal

(one grape won't save them)

and in tiny rooms

while reading the market ads

they'll starve

they'll die without a sound

pulled out of roominghouses

by young blond boys with long hair

who'll slide them in

and pull away from the curb, these

boys

handsome of eye

thinking of Vegas and pussy and

victory.

it's the order of things: each one

gets a taste of honey

then the knife.

 

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.”

“All 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.

—
H
OLLYWOOD

here I'm supposed to be a great poet

and I'm sleepy in the afternoon

here I am aware of death like a giant bull

charging at me

and I'm sleepy in the afternoon

here I'm aware of wars and men fighting in the ring

and I'm aware of good food and wine and good women

and I'm sleepy in the afternoon

I'm aware of a woman's love

and I'm sleepy in the afternoon,

I lean into the sunlight behind a yellow curtain

I wonder where the summer flies have gone

I remember the most bloody death of Hemingway

and I'm sleepy in the afternoon.

some day I won't be sleepy in the afternoon

some day I'll write a poem that will bring volcanoes

to the hills out there

but right now I'm sleepy in the afternoon