Read Online Hollywood by Charles Bukowski - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Charles Bukowski
Tags: Fiction, General, Performing Arts, Film & Video, History & Criticism, Motion picture industry, Hollywood (Los Angeles; Calif.)
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firelight with their shopping carts. There was a man talking. The others listened.
“...I’d wake up and I wouldn’t recognize the bed I was in, I wouldn’t know where I was...I’d get dressed and go out and look for my car. I never knew where my car was. Sometimes it took hours to find it...”
“Hey, that’s good,” I said to Sarah, “that’s happened to me plenty of times!”
There was another hissing sound.
“...I was in drunktank after drunktank...I often lost my wallet...I had my teeth kicked in...I was a lost soul...lost...lost. . . Then my drinking buddy, Mike, he got killed in a drunken car crash...that did it . .
Sarah took a hit.
“Now I am at peace...I sleep well...I’m beginning to feel like a functional human being again...And Christ is my high, greater than any drink the devil has put upon this earth!”
Tears were in the fellow’s eyes.
I took another hit.
Then he recited a poem:
I am found again.
I am made over by ten.
I have lost the yen.
I am brother to my kin.
I am found again.
He bowed his head and the others applauded.
Then a woman began to speak. She had, she said, begun drinking at parties. And it had gone on from there. She began to drink alone at home. The plants died because she didn’t water them. During an argument she slashed her daughter with a paring knife. Her husband began drinking also. Lost his job. Stayed at home. They drank together. Then she slashed him with a paring knife. One day she just got in her car and drove off with her suitcase and her credit cards. Drank in motels. Smoked and drank and watched TV. Vodka. She loved vodka. One night she set her bed on fire. A fire engine came to the motel. She was drunk in her nightie. One of the firemen squeezed her buttocks. She jumped into her car in just her nightie with only her purse. She drove and drove, in a daze. About noon the next day she was at 4th and Broadway. Two of the tires had gone flat as she was driving along. The tires had ripped off and she was driving on the rims, leaving deep grooves in the asphalt. A cop stopped her. She was taken in—for observation. The days went by. Her husband didn’t come by or her daughter. She was alone. She was sitting with the shrink one day and the shrink asked her, “Why do you insist upon destroying yourself?” And when he asked her this it was no longer the face of the shrink looking at her but the face of Christ. That did it...
“How did she know it was the face of Christ?” I asked aloud.
“Who is that man?” I heard somebody ask.
My bottle of wine was empty. I corkscrewed open a new one.
Then another fellow told his story. The campfire just kept on burning and burning. Nobody had to add fuel to it. And no other bums came by and bothered them. When the fellow finished his story he reached into his shopping cart and pulled out a very expensive guitar.
I took a hit and passed the red to Sarah.
The fellow tuned his guitar, then began playing it and singing. He was right in tune, voice-trained. He sang away.
The camera panned around, capturing the look on all the faces. The faces were enthralled, some of them were crying, others had gentle, beautiful smiles. Then the singer finished and there was hearty and joyful applause.
“I never saw a skidrow like that one,” I told Sarah.
The movie continued. Other actors spoke. Some others had expensive guitars. It was guitar night. Then the grand finale came. There was a shooting star. It arched high above the upturned faces. There was a small silence. Then a man began singing. Soon he was joined by a woman. Other voices joined. They all knew the words. Many guitars came out. It was an uplifting chorus of hope and unity. Then it was over. The movie was finished. The lights came on. There was a little stage. Pat Sellers mounted the stage. There was applause.
Pat Sellers looked awful. He looked sleepy, lifeless, dead. His eyes were blank. He began to speak.
“I have not had a drink in five hundred and
“...I’d wake up and I wouldn’t recognize the bed I was in, I wouldn’t know where I was...I’d get dressed and go out and look for my car. I never knew where my car was. Sometimes it took hours to find it...”
“Hey, that’s good,” I said to Sarah, “that’s happened to me plenty of times!”
There was another hissing sound.
“...I was in drunktank after drunktank...I often lost my wallet...I had my teeth kicked in...I was a lost soul...lost...lost. . . Then my drinking buddy, Mike, he got killed in a drunken car crash...that did it . .
Sarah took a hit.
“Now I am at peace...I sleep well...I’m beginning to feel like a functional human being again...And Christ is my high, greater than any drink the devil has put upon this earth!”
Tears were in the fellow’s eyes.
I took another hit.
Then he recited a poem:
I am found again.
I am made over by ten.
I have lost the yen.
I am brother to my kin.
I am found again.
He bowed his head and the others applauded.
Then a woman began to speak. She had, she said, begun drinking at parties. And it had gone on from there. She began to drink alone at home. The plants died because she didn’t water them. During an argument she slashed her daughter with a paring knife. Her husband began drinking also. Lost his job. Stayed at home. They drank together. Then she slashed him with a paring knife. One day she just got in her car and drove off with her suitcase and her credit cards. Drank in motels. Smoked and drank and watched TV. Vodka. She loved vodka. One night she set her bed on fire. A fire engine came to the motel. She was drunk in her nightie. One of the firemen squeezed her buttocks. She jumped into her car in just her nightie with only her purse. She drove and drove, in a daze. About noon the next day she was at 4th and Broadway. Two of the tires had gone flat as she was driving along. The tires had ripped off and she was driving on the rims, leaving deep grooves in the asphalt. A cop stopped her. She was taken in—for observation. The days went by. Her husband didn’t come by or her daughter. She was alone. She was sitting with the shrink one day and the shrink asked her, “Why do you insist upon destroying yourself?” And when he asked her this it was no longer the face of the shrink looking at her but the face of Christ. That did it...
“How did she know it was the face of Christ?” I asked aloud.
“Who is that man?” I heard somebody ask.
My bottle of wine was empty. I corkscrewed open a new one.
Then another fellow told his story. The campfire just kept on burning and burning. Nobody had to add fuel to it. And no other bums came by and bothered them. When the fellow finished his story he reached into his shopping cart and pulled out a very expensive guitar.
I took a hit and passed the red to Sarah.
The fellow tuned his guitar, then began playing it and singing. He was right in tune, voice-trained. He sang away.
The camera panned around, capturing the look on all the faces. The faces were enthralled, some of them were crying, others had gentle, beautiful smiles. Then the singer finished and there was hearty and joyful applause.
“I never saw a skidrow like that one,” I told Sarah.
The movie continued. Other actors spoke. Some others had expensive guitars. It was guitar night. Then the grand finale came. There was a shooting star. It arched high above the upturned faces. There was a small silence. Then a man began singing. Soon he was joined by a woman. Other voices joined. They all knew the words. Many guitars came out. It was an uplifting chorus of hope and unity. Then it was over. The movie was finished. The lights came on. There was a little stage. Pat Sellers mounted the stage. There was applause.
Pat Sellers looked awful. He looked sleepy, lifeless, dead. His eyes were blank. He began to speak.
“I have not had a drink in five hundred and