Hollywood

Hollywood
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By Charles Bukowski
Harper Collins Publishers
Copyright © 2003 Charles Bukowski
All right reserved.
ISBN: 0876857632
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Chapter One

A couple of days later Pinchot phoned. He said he wanted to go ahead with thescreenplay. We should come down and see him?

So we got the directions and were in the Volks and heading for Marina del Rey. Strange territory.

Then we were down at the harbor, driving past the boats. Most of them were sailboats and people were fiddling about on deck. They were dressed in their special sailing clothes, caps, dark shades. Somehow, most of them had apparently escaped the dailygrind of living. They had never been caught up in that grind and never would be. Such were the rewards of the Chosen in the land of the free. After a fashion, those people looked silly to me. And, of course, I wasn't even in their thoughts.

We turned right, down from the docks and went past streets laid out in alphabetical order, with fancy names. We found the street, turned left, found thenumber, pulled into the driveway. The sand came right up to us and the ocean was close enough to be seen and far enough away to be safe. The sand seemed cleaner than other sand and the water seemed bluer and the breeze seemed kinder.

"Look," I said to Sarah, "we have just landed upon the outpost of death. My soul is puking."

"Will you stop worrying about your soul?" Sarah responded.

No need tolock the Volks. I was the only one who could start it.

We were at the door. I knocked.

It opened to this tall slim delicate type, you smelled artistry all over him. You could see he had been born to Create, to Create grand things, totally unhindered, never bothered by such petty things as toothache, self-doubt, lousy luck. He was one of those who looked like a genius. I looked like adishwasher so these types always pissed me just a bit.

"We're here to pick up the dirty laundry," I said.


"Ignore him," Sarah interspersed. "Pinchot suggested we come by."

"Ewe," said the gentleman, "do come in ..."

We followed him and his little rabbit cheeks. He stopped then, at some special edge, he was charming, and he spoke over his left shoulder as if the entire world were listeningto his delicate proclamation:

"I go get my VOD-KA now!"

He flashed off into the kitchen.

"Jon mentioned him the other night," said Sarah. "He is Paul Renoir. He writes operas and is also working in a form known as the Opera-Movie. Very avant-garde."

"He may be a great man but I don't want him sucking at my ear lobes."

"Oh, stop being so defensive! Everybody can't be like you!"

"Iknow. That's their problem."

"Your greatest strength," said Sarah, "is that you fear everything."

"I wish I had said that."

Paul walked back with his drink. It looked good. There was even a bit of lime in there and he stirred it with a little glass stick. A swizzle. Real class.

"Paul," I asked, "is there anything else to drink in there?"

"Ewe, sorry", he said, "please do helpyourself!"

I charged into the kitchen right upon the heels of Sarah. There were bottles everywhere. While we were deciding, I cracked a beer.

"We better lay off the hard stuff," suggested my good lady. "You know how you get when you're drinking that."

"Right. Let's go with the wine."

I found a corkscrew and got a bottle of fine-looking red.

We each had a good hit. Then we refilled ourglasses and walked out. At one time I used to refer to Sarah and me as Zelda and Scott, but that bothered her because she didn't like the way Zelda had ended up. And I didn't like what Scott had typed. So, we had abandoned our sense of humor there.

Paul Renoir was at the large picture window checking out the Pacific.

"Jon is late," he said to the picture window and the ocean, "but he told me...