Run With the Hunted (60 page)

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.

—
H
OLLYWOOD

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.

—
H
OLLYWOOD

as the

spirit

wanes