Hollywood

by Charles Bukowski

  The premiere of my first and only movie and I couldn’t make anything out of it.

  I was later to find out that there was another theatre right next door showing our movie at exactly the same time and that it was only half-full.

  “Jon didn’t plan this very well,” Sarah suggested.

  “Well, we’ll see it on video cassette someday,” I told her.

  “Yeah,” she said.

  And we lifted our bottles in unison.

  The girls watched us in total fascination and disgust.

  The oversized heads with big foreheads kept moving around on the screen.

  And the heads spoke loudly to each other.

  “FLAM FLAM WOOL WO, TAKA BRAK VO SO...”

  “YA DOL YA, TEK TA TAM, YA VO DO...”

  “PREEBERS...”

  “BRAKA DAM...”

  “They fucked over my dialogue, Sarah.”

  “Uh...yeah...”

  But it was best when the big tall foreheads went for the very tall thin drinks, the drink filled half the screen, and then the drink went somewhere in, under the forehead, and then it was gone, and then there were just undulating empty glasses, changing shape, stretching and contracting, glistening empty glasses from hades. What hangovers those foreheads would have.

  Finally, Sarah and I stopped watching the screen and just worked on our wine bottles.

  And, with time, the movie ended.

  There was some applause and then we waited for the audience to file out. We waited for a good while. Then we got up and went out.

  There were more flashbulbs in the lobby. Handshakes. We ducked that.

  We needed the restrooms.

  “See you by the potted plant across from the ladies room,” I told Sarah.

  I made it to the men’s room. In the urinal next to me was a swaying drunk. He looked over.

  “Hey, you’re Henry Chinaski, aren’t ya?”

  “No, I’m his brother, Donny.”

  The drunk swayed some more, pissing away.

  “Chinaski never wrote about no brother.”

  “He hates me, that’s why.”

  “How come?”

  “Because I’ve kicked his ass about 60 or 70 times.”

  The drunk didn’t know what to think about that. He just kept pissing and swaying. I went over, washed up, got out of there.

  I waited by the potted plant. The chauffeur stepped out from behind it.

  “I’ve been instructed to take you to the celebration party.”

  “Great, “I said, “as soon as Sarah...”

  And there was Sarah. “You know, baby, most chauffeurs wait outside but our man, Frank, he came inside and found us. But he took off his cap so as not to look like a chauffeur.”

  “It’s been a strange night,” she said.

  We followed Frank through the mall. He was about two steps ahead.

  “You didn’t drink our wine, did you, Frank?”

  “No, sir...”

  “Frank, isn’t the first rule for a chauffeur never to leave his limo? Suppose somebody stole the limo, for instance?”

  “Sir, nobody would ever steal that piece of crap.”

  “You’re right.”

  As soon as we stepped outside of the mall, Frank put his cap back on. The limo was parked right at the curb.

  He helped us into the back seat and we were off.

  45

  The post-premiere party was at Copperfield’s on La Brea Avenue. Frank pulled up in front, let us out and we moved toward the entrance to more flashbulbs. I got the idea that they didn’t know who they were photographing. As long as you got out of a limo you qualified.

  We were recognized at the entrance and were let inside to a crowd of people, closely packed in and all holding glasses of red wine in their hands. They stood in groups of 3 or 4 or more, talking or not talking. There was no air conditioning and although it was cool outside, it was hot in there, very hot. There were just too many people sucking in the oxygen.

  Sarah and I got our wine and stood there, trying to get it down. The wine was very abrasive. There is nothing worse than cheap red wine unless it’s cheap white wine that has been allowed to get warm.

  “Who are all these people, Sarah? What do they want here?”

  “Some are in the business, some are on the edge of the business and some are just here because they can’t think of anyplace else to be.”

  “What are they doing?”

  “Some are trying to make contacts, others are trying to stay in contact. Some go to every function like this that they are able to. Also there’s a smattering of the press.”

  The feeling in the air was not good. It was joyless. These were the survivors, the scramblers, the sharks, the cheapies. The lost souls chatted away and it was hot, hot, hot.

  Then a man in an expensive suit came up. “Aren’t you Mr. and Mrs. Chinaski?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “You don’t belong down here. You belong upstairs. Follow me.

  We followed him.

  We followed him up a stairway and to the second floor. It was not quite as crowded. The man in the expensive suit turned and faced us.

  “You mustn’t drink the wine they are serving here. I will get you your own bottle.”

  “Thanks. Make it two.”

  “Of course. I’ll be right back...”

  “Hank, what does all this mean?”

  “Accept it. It will never happen again.”

  I looked at the crowd. I got the same feeling from them as I got from the crowd downstairs.

  “I wonder who that guy is?” I asked.

  Then he was back with two bottles of good wine and a corkscrew, plus fresh wine glasses.

  “Thank you much,” I said.

  “You’re welcome,” he said. “I used to read your column in the L.A. Free Press.”

  “You don’t look that old.”

  “I’m not. My dad was a hippie. I read the paper after he was done with it.”

  “Can I ask your name?”

  “Carl Wilson. I own this place.”

  “Oh, I see. Well, thank you again for the good wine.”

  “You’re welcome. Let me know if you need more.”

  “Sure.”

  Then he was gone. I opened a bottle and poured two glasses. We gave it a try. Really good wine.

  “Now,” I asked Sarah, “who are these people up here? How are they different than the ones downstairs?”

  “They are the same. They just have more pull, better luck. Money, politics, family. Those in the industry bring in their family and friends.

  Ability and talent are secondary. I know I sound like I’m on a soapbox but that’s the way it is.”

  “It adds up. Even the so-called best movies seem very bad to me.”

  “You’d rather watch a horse race.”

  “Of course. . .”

  Then Jon Pinchot walked up.

  “My god! These people! I feel like I’ve been covered with shit!” I laughed.

  Then Francine Bowers came over. She was elated. She had made her comeback.

  “You were good, Francine,” I said.

  “Yes,” said Jon.

  “You let your hair down,” said Sarah.

  “Maybe too much?”

  “Not at all,” I said.

  “Hey,” said Francine, “what’s that wine you’re drinking? It looks like good stuff.”

  “Have some,” I tilted the bottle into her glass.

  “Me too,” said Jon.

  “How come you get his good stuff?” Francine asked.

  “The owner’s father was a hippie. They both read the L.A. Free Press. I used to write a column, ‘Notes of a Neanderthal Man.’ “

  Then we all stood there not saying anything. There was nothing more to say. The movie was finished.

  “Where’s Jack Bledsoe?” I asked.

  “Oh,” said Jon, “he doesn’t come to these things.”

  “Well, I do,” said Francine.

&
nbsp; “We do too,” Sarah admitted.

  Then there was some beckoning from another group.

  “A magazine wants to interview you, Francine. Movie Mirror.”

  “Of course,” said Francine. “Forgive me,” she said to us.

  “Sure.”

  She walked over, stately and proud. I felt good for her. I felt good for anybody who made a comeback after being relegated to the hinterlands.

  “You go over there with her, Jon,” said Sarah. “She’ll feel better...”

  “Should I go too, Sarah?”

  “No, Hank, you’ll only try to hog the interview. And remember, you charge $1,000 now.”

  “That’s right...”

  “All right,” said Jon, “I’ll go over there.”

  Then he was gone, over there.

  A young man walked up with a tape recorder. “I’m from the Herald Examiner. I do the ‘Talk and Tell’ column. How did you like the way the movie came out?”

  “Do you have a thousand dollars?” Sarah asked.

  “Sarah, this is just chit-chat, it’s all right.”

  “Well, how did you like the way the movie turned out?”

  “It’s a better than average movie. Long after this year’s Academy Award movies are forgotten, The Dance of Jim Beam will be showing up now and then in the Art houses. And it will pop up on TV from time to time, if the world lasts.”

  “You really think so?”

  “Yes. And as it’s viewed again and again special meanings will be found in the lines and scenes that weren’t intended by anyone. Overpraise and underpraise is the norm in our society.”

  “Do barflies talk like that?”

  “Some of them do until somebody kills them.”

  “You seem to rate this movie pretty high.”

  “It’s not that good. It’s only that the others are so bad.”

  “What do you consider to be the greatest movie that you have ever seen?”

  “Eraserhead.”

  “Eraserhead?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what’s next on your list?”

  “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?”

  Then Carl Wilson was back. “Chinaski, there’s a guy downstairs who claims he knows you. He wants to come up. One John Gait.”

  “Let him up here, please.”

  “Well, thank you, Chinaski,” said the Herald-Examiner man.

  “You’re welcome.”

  I uncorked the second bottle and poured us a couple more. Sarah held her booze remarkably well. She only became talkative when we were alone together. And then she talked good sense, mostly.

  Then, there he was John Gait. Big John Gait. He walked up.

  “Hank and I never shake hands,” he smiled. “Hello, Sarah,” he said, “got this guy under control?”

  “Yes, John.”

  Damn, I thought, I know so many guys named John.

  The biblical names hung on. John, Mark, Peter, Paul.

  Big John Gait looked good. His eyes had gotten kinder. Kindness came finally to the better ones. There was less self-interest. Less fear. Less competitive gamesmanship.

  “You’re looking good, baby,” I told him.

  “You look better now than you did 25 years ago,” he said.

  “Better booze, John.”

  “It’s the vitamins and health foods,” said Sarah. “No red meat, no salt, no sugar.”

  “If this ever gets out my book sales are going to plummet, John.”

  “Your stuff will always sell, Hank. A child can read it.”

  Big John Gait. God damn, what a life-saver he had been. Working for the post office, I had gone over to his place instead of eating or sleeping or doing all the other things. Big John was always there. A lady supported him. The ladies always supported Big John. “Hank, when I work, I’m not happy. I want to be happy,” he would say.

  There was always this big bowl of speed sitting on the coffeetable between us. It was usually filled to the brim with pills and capsules. “Have some.”

  I would dip in and eat them like candy. “John, this shit is going to destroy your brain.”

  “Each man is different, Hank, what destroys one doesn’t affect another.”

  Marvelous nights of bullshit. I brought my own beer and popped the pills. John was the best-read man I had ever met, but not pedantic. But he was odd. Maybe it was the speed.

  Sometimes at 3 or 4 a.m. he’d get the urge to raid garbage cans and backyards. I’d go with him. “I want this.”

  “Shit, John, it’s just an old left boot somebody threw away.”

  “I want it.”

  His whole house was filled with trash. Piles of it everywhere. When you wanted to sit on the couch you’d have to push a mound of trash to one side. And his walls were pasted over with mottos and odd newspaper headlines. All the stuff was way off key. Like the last words of the earth’s last maniac. In the cellar of his house were thousands of books stacked up and they were swollen and wet and rotted with the damp. He had read them all and come away quite well. All he needed to survive was a shoestring and you’d better not get in a chess game with him, or a struggle to the death. He was a marvel. I do suppose in those days I had a fair amount of self-pity and he made me aware of that. Mainly, those times and those hours were entertaining. I fed off of Big John Gait when there was nothing else around. He was a writer too. And later I got lucky with the word and he didn’t. He could write a very powerful poem but in between times there were spaces where he just seemed vacant. He explained it to me, “I don’t want to be famous, I just want to feel good.” He was one of the best readers of poetry, his or anybody else’s, that I had ever heard. He was a beautiful man. And later, after my luck, when I’d mention Big John Gait here and there, I’d get the same feedback, “I don’t see what Chinaski sees in that old blow-hard.” Those who had accepted me and my work wouldn’t accept him and his work and I wondered if maybe my writing was made for fools? Which I couldn’t help. A bird flies, a snake crawls, I change typewriter ribbons.

  Anyhow, it felt good seeing John Gait once again. He had a new lady with him. “This is Lisa,” he said. “She writes poetry too.” Lisa jumped right in and began talking. She talked up a storm and John just stood there. Maybe it was an off night for her but she sounded like an old time Female Libber. Which is all right, for them, except they tend to eat up the oxygen and it was already too hot in there for lack of fresh air. She went on and on, telling us everything. John and she often read together. Did I ever hear of Babs Danish? “No,” I told her. Well, Babs Danish was black and she was female and when she read she wore big earrings and she was very passionate and the earrings jumped up and down and her brother Tip provided a musical backdrop for her readings. I should hear her.

  “Hank doesn’t go to poetry readings,” Sarah said, “but I’ve heard Babs Danish and I like her very much.”

  “John and I and Babs are reading at Beyond Baroque next Wednesday night, will you come?”

  “I probably will,” said Sarah. And she probably would.

  I took a long look at John Gait then. He looked gentle and good but I saw a deep pain in his eyes that I had never seen before. For a man who had wanted to be happy he looked like a man who had lost two pawns in the early rounds of a chess match without gaining an advantage.

  Then the Herald Examiner man was back.

  “Mr. Chinaski,” he said, “I wanted to ask you another question.”

  I introduced him to John Gait and Lisa.

  “John Gait,” I said, “is the great undiscovered poet in America. This man helped me to go on when all else said stop. I want you to interview John Gait.”

  “Well, Mr. Gait?”

  “Hank and I knew each other maybe 20 years ago...”

  Sarah and I drifted off.

  “Looks like with Lisa John’s got a full nine innings on his hands,” I said.

  “Maybe it’s good for him.”

  “Maybe.”

  More people had come upstairs.
It seemed that nobody had left. What was there? Contacts? Opportunities? Was it worth it? Wasn’t it better not to be in show business? No, no. Who wants to be a gardener or a taxi driver? Who wants to be a tax accountant? Weren’t we all artists? Weren’t our minds better than that? Better to suffer this way rather than the other. At least it looks better.

  Our second bottle was almost empty.

  Then Jon Pinchot returned.

  “Jack Bledsoe is here. He wants to see you.”

  “Where is he?”

  “He’s over there, by the doorway.”

  And sure enough, there was Jack Bledsoe, just leaning in the doorway with his famous and sensitive smile.

  Sarah and I walked over. I reached out and Jack and I shook hands.

  I thought of John Gait’s saying, “Hank and I never shake hands.”

  “Good show, Jack, great acting. I’m really glad you were aboard.”

  “Did I put it over?”

  “I think you did.”

  “I didn’t want to get too much of your voice in there or too much of your slouch...”

  “You didn’t.”

  “I just wanted to come by to say hello to you.”

  That one struck me. I didn’t know how to react.

  “Well, hell, baby, we can get drunk together anytime.”

  “I don’t drink.”

  “Oh, yeah...Well, thank you, Jack, glad you came by. How about one for the road anyhow?”

  “No, I’m going...”

  Then he turned and walked down the stairway.

  He was alone. No bodyguards, no bikers. Nice kid, nice smile.

  Goodbye, Jack Bledsoe.

  I wormed another bottle out of Carl Wilson and Sarah and I stood around with the other people but actually nothing was occurring. Just people standing around. Maybe they were waiting for me to get drunk and insane and abusive like I sometimes did at parties. But I doubted that. They were just dull inside. There was nothing for them to do but stay within the self that was not quite there. That wasn’t too painful. It was a soft place to be.

  With me, my main vision for life was to avoid as many people as possible. The less people I saw the better I felt. I met one other man, once, who shared my philosophy, Sam the Whorehouse Man. He lived in the court behind mine in East Hollywood. He was on ATD.