Run With the Hunted (61 page)

the

form

appears.

 

Then, just like that, the 32 days of shooting were over and it was time for the wrap party.

On the first floor was a long bar, some tables and a large dance floor. There was a stairway that led to an upper floor. Essentially it was the film crew and cast, although all of them weren't there and there were other people that I didn't recognize. There was no live band and most of the music coming over the speakers was disco but the drinks at the bar were real. Sarah and I pushed in. There were 2 lady bartenders. I had a vodka and Sarah had red wine.

One of the lady bartenders recognized me and brought out one of my books. I signed it.

It was crowded and hot in there, a summer night, no air conditioning.

“Let's get another drink and go upstairs,” I suggested to Sarah. “It's too hot down here.”

“O.K.,” she said.

We made our way up the stairway. It was cooler up there and not so many people. A few people were dancing. As a party it seemed to lack a center but most parties were that way. I started getting depressed. I finished my drink.

“I'm going to get another drink,” I told Sarah. “You want one?”

“No, you go ahead …”

I walked down the stairway but before I could get to the bar a fat round fellow, lots of hair, dark shades, grabbed my hand and started shaking it.

“Chinaski, I've read everything you've ever written, everything!”

“Is that right?” I asked.

He kept shaking my hand.

“I got drunk with you one night at Barney's Beanery! Remember me?”

“No.”

“You mean you don't remember getting drunk with me at Barney's Beanery?”

“No.”

He lifted his shades and perched them on top of his head.

“Now do you remember me?”

“No,” I said, pulled my hand away and walked toward the bar.

“Double vodka,” I told the lady bartender.

She brought it to me. “I have a girlfriend named Lola,” she said. “Do you know a Lola?”

“No.”

“She said she was married to you for two years.”

“Not true,” I said.

I moved from the bar, made my way toward the stairway. Here was another heavy fellow, no hair on his head but a big beard.

“Chinaski,” he said.

“Yes?”

“Andre Wells … I had a bit part in the movie … I'm also a writer … I have a novel finished and ready to go. I'd like you to read it. Can I mail you a copy?”

“All right …” I gave him my p.o. box number.

“But don't you have a street address?”

“Of course, but mail it to the box number.”

I walked to the stairway. I drank half my drink walking up the stairs. Sarah was talking to a female extra. Then I saw Jon Pinchot. He was standing alone with his drink. I walked over.

“Hank,” he said, “I'm surprised to see you here …”

“And I'm surprised that Firepower put up the money for this …”

“They are charging it …”

“Oh … Well, what's next?”

“We're in the cutting room now, working on it … After that, we mix in the music … Why don't you come up and see how it's done?”

“When?”

“Anytime. We're working twelve to fourteen hours every day.”

“All right … Listen, whatever happened to Poppy?”

“Who?”

“The one who put up the ten grand while you were living down at the beach.”

“Oh, she's in Brazil now. We'll take care of her.”

I finished my drink.

“Aren't you going to go down and dance?” I asked Jon.

“Oh no, that's nonsense …”

Then somebody called Jon's name.

“Excuse me,” he said, “and don't forget to come to the cutting room!”

“Sure.”

Then Jon was off across the room.

I walked over to the railing and looked down at the bar. While I had been talking to Jon, Jack Bledsoe and his motorcycle buddies had walked in. His buddies leaned against the bar, backs to the bar, facing the crowd. They each held a beerbottle, except for Jack who had a 7-Up. They were dressed in leather jackets, scarves, leather pants, boots.

I walked over to Sarah. “I'm going to go down and see Jack Bledsoe and his gang … You coming?”

“Sure …”

We went on down and Jack introduced us to each of his buddies.

“This is Blackjack Harry …”

“Hi, man …”

“This is The Scourge …”

“Hello there …”

“This is The Nightworm …”

“Hey, hey!”

“This is Dogcatcher …”

“Too much!”

“This is Three-Ball Eddie …”

“God damn …”

“This is FastFart …”

“Pleased to meet ya …”

“And Pussykiller …”

“Yeah …”

That was it. They all seemed to be fine fellows but they looked a little on-stage, leaning back against the bar and holding their beerbottles.

“Jack,” I said, “you did a great job of acting.”

“And how!” said Sarah.

“Thank you …” he flashed his beautiful smile.

“Well,” I said, “we're going back upstairs, it's too damned hot down here … Why don't you come up?”

I motioned to the barmaid for refills.

“You going to write another movie script?” Jack asked.

“I don't think so … Too much loss of privacy … I just like to sit around and stare at walls …”

“If you write one, let me see it.”

“Sure. Listen, why are your boys facing away from the bar like that? They looking for girls?”

“Naw, they've had too many girls. They are just easing up …”

“All right, see you, Jack …”

“Keep doing your good work,” Sarah said.

We went back upstairs. Soon Jack and his gang were gone.

It wasn't much of a night. I kept going up and down the stairway for drinks. After 3 hours, almost everybody was gone. Sarah and I were leaning over the balcony. Then I saw Jon. I had noticed him dancing earlier. I waved him over.

“Hey, whatever happened to Francine? She didn't make the wrap party.”

“No, there's no media here tonight …”

“Got it.”

“I've got to go now,” said Jon. “Have to get up early and go to the cutting room.”

“All right …”

Then Jon was gone.

It was empty downstairs and it was cooler and so we went down to the bar. Sarah and I were the last ones there. Now there was only one lady bartender.

“We'll have one for the road,” I told her.

“I'm supposed to charge you for drinks now,” she said.

“How come?”

“Firepower only rented this place until midnight … It's ten after twelve … But I'll slip you some drinks anyhow because I like your writing so much, but please don't tell anybody that I did it.”

“My dear, nobody will ever know.”

She poured the drinks. The late disco crowd was beginning to come in. It was time to go. Yes, it was. Our 5 cats were waiting for us. Somehow, I felt sad that the shooting was over. There was something explorative about it. There had been some gamble. We finished our drinks and walked out into the street. The car was still there. I helped Sarah in and got in on the other side. We belted up. I started the car and soon we were on the Harbor Freeway going south. We were moving back toward everyday normalcy and in a way I liked it and in another way I didn't.

Sarah lit a cigarette. “We'll feed the cats and then we'll go to sleep.”

“And maybe a drink?” I suggested.

“All right,” said Sarah.

Sarah and I got along all right, sometimes.

—
H
OLLYWOOD

for the broken egg on the floor

for the 5th of July

for the fish in the tank

for the old man in room 9

for the cat on the fence

for yourself

not for fame

not for money

you've got to keep chopping

as you get older

the glamour recedes

it's easier when you're young

anybody can rise to the

heights now and then

the buzzword is

consistency

anything that keeps it

going

this life dancing in front of

Mrs. Death.

 

There it was. The film was rolling. I was being beaten up in the alley by the bartender. As I've explained before I had small hands which are a terrible disadvantage in a fist fight. This particular bartender had huge hands. To make matters worse, I took a punch very well which allowed me to absorb much more punishment. I had some luck on my side: I didn't have much fear. The fights with the bartender were a way to pass the time. After all, you just couldn't sit on your barstool all day and all night. And there wasn't much pain in the fight. The pain came the next morning and it wasn't so bad if you had made it back to your room.

And by fighting 2 or 3 times a week I was getting better at it. Or the bartender was getting worse.

But that had been over 4 decades before. Now I was sitting in a Hollywood screening room.

No need to recall the film here. Perhaps it's better to tell about a part left out. Later in the film this lady wants to take care of me. She thinks I'm a genius and wants to shield me from the streets. In the film I don't stay in the lady's house but overnight. But in actual life I stayed about 6 weeks.

The lady, Tully, lived in this large house in the Hollywood Hills. She shared it with another lady, Nadine. Both Tully and Nadine were high-powered executives. They were into the entertainment scene: music, publishing, whatever. They seemed to know everybody and there were 2 or 3 parties a week, lots of New York types. I didn't like Tully's parties and entertained myself by getting totally drunk and insulting as many people as I could.

And living with Nadine was a fellow a bit younger than I. He was a composer or a director or something, temporarily out of work. I didn't like him at first. I kept running into him around the house or out on the patio in the morning when we were both hungover. He always wore this damned scarf.

One morning about 11 a.m. we were both out on the patio sucking on beers, trying to recover from our hangovers. His name was Rich. He looked at me.

“You need another beer?”

“Sure … Thank you …”

He went into the kitchen, came back out, handed me my beer, then sat down.

Rich took a good swallow. Then he sighed heavily.

“I don't know how much longer I can fool her …”

“What?”

“I mean, I don't have any talent of any kind. It's all just bullshit.”

“Beautiful,” I said, “that's really beautiful. I admire you.”

“Thank you. How about you?” he asked.

“I type. But that's not the problem.”

“What is it?”

“My dick is rubbed raw from fucking. She can't get enough.”

“I have to eat Nadine every night.”

“Jesus …”

“Hank, we're just a couple of kept men.”

“Rich, these liberated women have our balls in a sack.”

“I think we should start in on the vodka now,” he said.

“Fine,” I said.

That evening when our ladies arrived neither of us were able to perform our duties.

Rich lasted another week, then was gone.

After that I often ran into Nadine walking about the house naked, usually when Tully was gone.

“What the hell are you doing?” I finally asked.

“This is my house and if I want to run around with my ass in the wind, that's my business.”

“Come on, Nadine, what is it really? You want some turkeyneck?”

“Not if you were the last man on earth.”

“If I were the last man on earth you'd have to stand in line.”

“You just be glad I don't tell Tully.”