I worry about my novel. It's about a detective. But I keep getting him into these almost impossible situations and then I have to work him out. I sometimes think about how to get him out while I'm at the racetrack. And I know that my editor-publisher is curious. Maybe he thinks the work isn't literary. I say that anything I do is literary even if I try not to make it literary. He should trust me by now. Well, if he doesn't want it, I'll unload it elsewhere. It will sell as well as anything I've written, not because it's better but because it's just as good and my crazy readers are ready for it.
Look, maybe a good night's sleep tonight and I'll wake up in the morning without this fat lip. Can you imagine me leaning toward the teller with this big lip and saying, "20 win on the 6 horse?“ Sure. I know. He wouldn't have even noticed. My wife asked me, "Didn't you always have that?“
Jesus Christ.
Do you know that cats sleep 20 hours out of 24? No wonder they look better than I.
8/28/92 12:40 AM
There are thousands of traps in life and most of us fall into many of them. The idea though, is to stay out of as many of them as possible. Doing so helps you remain as alive as you might until you die...
The letter arrived from the offices of one of the network television stations. It was quite simple, stating that this fellow, let's call him Joe Singer, wants to come by. To talk about certain possibilities. On page 1 of the letter were stuck 2 one hundred dollar bills. On page 2 there was another hundred. I was on the way to the racetrack. I found that the hundred dollar bills peeled off of the pages nicely without damage. There was a phone number. I decided to call Joe Singer that night after the races.
Which I did. Joe was casual, easy. The idea, he said, was to create a series for tv based on a writer like myself. An old guy who was still writing, drinking, playing the horses.
"Why don't we get together and talk about it?“ he asked.
"You'll have to come here,“ I said, "at night.“
"O.k.,“ he said, "when?“
"Night after next.“
"Fine. You know who I want to get to play you?“
"Who?“
He mentioned an actor, let's call him Harry Dane. I always liked Harry Dane.
"Great,“ I said, "and thanks for the 300.“
"We wanted to get your attention.“
"You did.“
Well, the night came around and there was Joe Singer. He seemed likeable enough, intelligent, easy. We drank and talked, about horses and various things. Not much about the television series. Linda, my wife, was with us.
"But tell us more about the series,“ she said.
"It's all right, Linda,“ I said, "we're just relaxing...“
I felt Joe Singer had more or less come by to see if I was crazy or not.
"All right,“ he said reaching into his briefcase, "here's a rough idea...“
He handed me 4 or 5 sheets of paper. It was mostly a description of the main character and I thought they had gotten me down fairly well. The old writer lived with this young girl just out of college, she did all his dirty work, lined up his readings and stuff like that.
"The station wanted this young girl in there, you know,“ said Joe.
"Yeah,“ I said.
Linda didn't say anything.
"Well,“ said Joe, "you look this over again. There are also some ideas, plot ideas, each episode will have a diferent slant, you know, but it will all be based on your character.“
"Yeah,“ I said. But I was beginning to get a bit apprehensive. We drank another couple of hours. I don't remember much about the conversation. Small talk. And the night ended...
The next day after the track I turned to the page about the episode ideas.
1. Hank's craving for a lobster dinner is thwarted by animal rights activists.
2. Secretary ruins Hank's chances with a poetry groupie.
3. To honor Hemingway, Hank bangs a broad named Millie whose husband, a jockey, wants to pay Hank to keep banging. There must be a catch.
4. Hank allows a young male artist to paint his portrait and is painted into a corner into revealing his own homosexual experience.
5. A friend of Hank's wants him to invest in his latest scheme. An industrial use for recycled vomit.
I got Joe on the phone.
"Jesus, man, what's about a homosexual experience? I haven't had any.“
"Well, we don't have to use that one.“
"Let's not. Listen, I'll talk to you later, Joe.“
I hung up. Things were getting strange.
I phoned Harry Dane, the actor. He'd been over to the place two or three times. He had this great weatherbeaten face and he talked straight. He had few affectations. I liked him.
"Harry,“ I said, "there's this tv outfit, channel – they want to do a series based on me and they want you to play me. You heard from them?“
"No.“
"I thought I might get you and this guy together and see what happens.“
"Channel what?“
I told him the channel.
"But that's commercial tv, censorship, commercials, laugh tracks.“
"This guy Joe Singer claims they have a lot of freedom with what they can do.“
"It's censorship, you can't offend the advertisers.“
"What I like most is that he wanted you for the lead. Why don't you come to my place and meet him?“
"I like your writing, Hank, if we could get, say, HBO maybe we could do it right.“
"Well, yeah. But why don't you come over, see what he has to say? I haven't seen you for a while.“
"That's right. Well, I'll come but it will mainly to see you and Linda.“
"Fine. How about the night after next? I'll set it up.“
"O.k.,“ he said.
I phoned Joe Singer.
"Joe. Night after next, 9 p.m. I've got Harry Dane coming over.“
"O.k., great. We can send a limo for him.“
"Would he be alone in the limo?“
"Maybe. Or maybe some of our people would be in it.“
"Well, I don't know. Let me call you back...“
"Harry, they are trying to suck you in, they want to send a limo for you.“
"Would it be just for me?“
"He wasn't sure.“
"Can I have his phone number?“
"Sure.“
And that was it.
When I came in after the track the next day Linda said, "Harry Dane phoned. We talked about the tv thing. He asked if we needed money. I told him we didn't.“
"Is he still coming by?“
"Yes.“
I came in a little early from the track the following day.
I decided to hit the Jacuzzi. Linda was out, probably buying libations for the meeting. I, myself, was getting a little scared about the tv series. They could really fuck me over. Old writer does this. Old writer does that. Laugh track. Old writer gets drunk, misses poetry meeting. Well, that wouldn't be so bad. But I wouldn't want to write he crap, so writing wouldn't be that good. Here I had written for decades in small rooms, sleeping on park benches, sitting in bars, working all the stupid jobs, meanwhile writing exactly as I wanted to and felt I had to. My work was finally getting recognized. And I was still writing the way I wanted to and felt that I had to. I was still writing to keep from going crazy, I was still writing, trying to explain this god-damned life to myself. And here I was being talked into a tv series on commecial tv. All I had fought so hard for could be laughed off the boards by some sitcom series with a laugh track. Jesus, Jesus.
I got undressed and stepped outside to the Jacuzzi. I was thinking about the tv series, my past life, now and everything else. I wasn't too aware. I stepped into the Jacuzzi at the wrong end.
I realized it the moment I stepped in. There weren't any steps at that end. It happened quickly. There was a small platform further in built to sit on. My right foot caught that, slipped off, and I was thrown off balance.
You're going to hit your head against
the edge of the Jacuzzi, went through my mind.
I concetrated on pushing my head forward as I fell, letting all the rest go to hell. My right leg took the brunt of the fall, I twisted it but managed to keep my head from hitting the edge. Then I just floated in the bubbling water feeling the shots of pain in my right leg. I'd ben having leg pains there anyhow, now it was really torn up. I felt foolish about it all. I could have knocked myself out. I could have drowned. Linda would have come back to find me floating and dead.
FAMOUS WRITER, FORMER SKID ROW POET AND DRUNK
FOUND DEAD IN HIS JACUZZI. HE HAD JUST SIGNED
CONTRACT FOR A SITCOM BASED UPON HIS LIFE.
That's not even a ignoble ending. That is just being shit on entirely by the gods.
I managed to get out of Jacuzzi and make my way into the house. I could barely walk. Each step on the right leg brought a mighty pain up the let from the ankle to the knee. I hobbled toward the refrigerator and pulled out a beer...
Harry Dane arrived first. He had come in his own car. We brought out the wine and I began pouring them. By the time Joe Singer arrived, we'd had a few. I made the introductions. Joe laid out the general format for the proposed series for Harry. Harry was smoking, and drinking his wine pretty fast.
Yeah, yeah,“ he said, "but a sound track? And Hank and I would have to have total control over the material. Then, I don't know. There's censorship...“
"Censorship? What censorship?“ asked Joe.
"Sponsors, you have to please the sponsors. There's a limit on how far you can go with material.“
"We'll have total freedom,“ said Joe.
"You can't have,“ said Harry.
"Laugh tracs are awful,“ said Linda.
"Yeah,“ I said.
"Then too,“ said Harry, "I've been in a tv series. It's a drag, it takes hours and hours a day, it's worse that shooting a movie. It's a hard work.“
Joe didn't answer.
We all went on drinking. A couple of hours passed. The same thing seemed to be said over and over again. Harry saying maybe we should go to HBO. And that laugh tracks were awful. And Joe saying that everything would be all right, that there was plenty of freedom on commercial tv, that times had changed. It was really boring, really awful. Harry was really pouring down the wine. Then he got into what was wrong with the world and the main causes of it. He had a certain line he repeated quite often. It was a good line. Unfortunately, it was so good that I have forgotten it. But Harry went on.
All of a sudden Joe singer leaped up. "Well, damn it, you guys have made a lot of lousy movies! Tv has done some good things! Everything we do isn't rotten! You guys keep on turning out crappy movies!“
Then he into the bathroom.
Harry looked at me and grinned. "Hey, he got mad, didn't he?“
"Yeah, Harry.“
I poured some more wine. We sat and waited. Joe Singer stayed in the bathroom a long time. When he came out, Harry stood there talking to him. I couldn't hear what was being said. I think Harry felt sorry for him. It wasn't long after that, Singer started gathering his stuff into his briefcase. He walked to the door, then looked back at me, "I'll phone you,“ he said.
"O.k., Joe“
Then he was gone.
Linda, I and Harry kept on drinking. Harry went on with what was wrong with the world, repeating his good line which I can't remember. We didn't talk too much about the proposed tv series. When Harry left we worried about his driving. We said he could stay. He declined. He said he could make it. Luckily, he did.
Joe Singer phoned the next evening.
"Listen, we don't need that guy. He doesn't want to work. We can get somebody else.“
"But, Joe, one of the main reasons I was interested at first was because of the possibility of Harry Dane.“
"We can get somebody else. I'll write you, I'll send you a list, I'm going to work on it.“
"I don't know, Joe...“
"I'll write you. And listen, I talked to the people and they said, o.k., no laugh track. And they even said it would be o.k. to go to HBO. That surprised me because I work for them, I don't work for HBO. Anyhow, I'll send you a list of actors...
"All right, Joe...“
I was stuck in the web. Now I wanted out but I didn't quite know how to tell him. It surprised me, I was usually very good at getting rid of people. I felt guilty because he had probably put in a lot of work on the thing. And, originally, in the first flush of things, the idea of a series based mostly upon myself had probably appealed to my vanity. But now it didn't seem like a good thing. I felt crappy about the whole thing.
A couple of days later the photos of the actors arrived, a mass of them, and the preferred ones were circled. The agent's phone number was by each actor's photo. I was sickened by looking at those faces, most of them smiling. The faces were bland, empty, very Hollywood, quite quite horrifying.
Along with the photos was a short note:
"... going on a 3 week vacation. When I get back I am really going to kick this thing into gear...“
The faces did it to me. I couldn't handle it any longer. I sat down and let go at the computers.
"...I've really been thinking about your project(s) and, frankly, I can't do it. It would mean the end of my life as I have lived it and have wanted to live it. It's just too big an intrusion into my existence. It would make me very unhappy, depressed. This feeling has been gradually coming over me but I just didn't quite know how to explain it to you. When you and harry Dane had a falling out the other night, I felt great, I felt, now, it's over. But you bounce right back with a new list of actors. I want out, that sense grew stronger and stronger as things went along. Nothing against you, you are an intellingent young man who wants to pump some fresh blood into the tv scene – but let it not be mine. You may not understand my concern but, believe me, it's real, damned real. I should be honored that you want to display my life to the masses but, really, I am more than terrorized by the thought, I feel as if my very life were being threatened. I have to get out. I haven't been able to sleep nights, I haven't been able to think, I haven't been able to do anything.
Please, no phone calls, no letters. Nothing can change this.
The next day on the way to the racetrack I dropped the letter into the mailbox. I felt reborn. I might still have to fight some more to get free. But I'd go to court. Anything. Somehow, I felt sorry for Joe Singer. But, damn it all, I was free again.
On the freeway I turned on the radion and lucked onto some Mozart. Life could be good at times but sometimes some of that was up to us.
8/30/92 1:30 AM
Was going down the scalator at the track after the 6th race when the waiter saw me. "You going home now?“ he asked?
"I wouldn't do that to you, amigo,“ I told him.
The poor fellow had to bring the food from the track kitchen to the upper floors, carrying huge amounts of trays. When their clients ran out on them they had to pay the tab. Some of the players sat four to a table. The waiters could work all day and still owe the track money. And the crowded days were the worst, the waiters couldn't watch everybody. And when they did get paid the horseplayers tipped badly.
I went down to the first floor and stepped outside, stood in the sun. It was great out there. Maybe I'd just come to the track and stand in the sun. I seldom thought about writing out there but I did then. I thought about something that I had recently read, that I was probably the best selling poet in America and the most influential, the most copied. How strange. Well, to hell with that. All that counted was the next time I sat down to the computer. If I could still do it, I was alive, if I coulnd't, everything that preceded meant little to me. But what was I doing, thinking about writing? I was cracking. I didn't even think about writing when I was writing. Then I heard the call to post, turned around, walked in and got back on the escalator. Going up, I passed a man who owed me money. He ducked his head down. I pretended not to see him. It didn't do any good after he'd paid me, he only borrowed it
back. And old guy had come up to me earlier that day: "Gimme 60 cents!“ That gave him enough for a two buck bet, one more chance to dream. It was a sad god-damned place but almost every place was. There was no place to go. Well, there was, you could go to your room and close the door but then your wife got depressed. Or more depressed. America was the Land of Depressed Wives. And it was the fault of the men. Sure. Who else was around? You couldn't blame the birds, the dogs, the cats, the worms, the mice, the spiders, the fish, the etc. It was the men. And the men couldn't allow themselves to get depressed or else the whole ship would go down. Well, hell.
I was back at my table. Three men had the next table and they had a little boy with them. Each table had a small tv set, only theirs was turned on LOUD. The kid had it on some sitcom and that was nice of the men to the kid look a his program. But he wasn't paying any attention to it, he wasn't listening, he was sitting there pushing around a rolled-up piece of paper. He bounced it against some cups, then he took it and tossed it into this cup and that. Some of the cups were filled with coffee. But the men just went on talking about the horses. My god, that tv was LOUD. I thought of saying something to the men, asking them to lower the tv a bit. But the men were black and they'd think I was racist. I left my table and walked out to the betting windows. I was unlucky, I got in a slow line. There was an old guy up front having trouble making his bets. He had his Form spread out across the window, along with his programm and he was very hesitant about what he wanted to do. He probably lived in an old folks home or and institution of some sort but he was out or a day at the races. Well, no law against that and no law against him being in a fog. But somehow it hurt. Jesus, I don't have to suffer this, I thought. I had memorized the back of his head, his ears, his clothing, the bent back. The horses were nearing the gate. Everybody was screaming at him. He didn't notice them. Then, painfully, we watched as he slowly reached for his wallet. Slow, slow motion. He opened it and peered into it. Then he poked his fingers in there. I don't even want to go on. He finally paid and the clerk slowly handed him back his money. Then he stood there looking at his money and his tickets, then he turned back to the clerk and said, "No, I wanted the 6-4 exacta, not this...“ Somebody yelled out an obscenity. I walked off. The horses leaped out of the gate and I walked to the men's room to piss.
The Captain Is Out to Lunch and the Sailors Have Taken Over the Ship Page 7