Read Online The Hollywood Trilogy by Don Carpenter - Free Book Online
Authors: Don Carpenter
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to Vesuvioâs and started drinking beer.
I had done comedy and theater in the service and got out of it because of the stage fright, but now everybody in North Beach seemed to be doing something great. San Francisco was full of young poets and folksingers, writers, vocalists and comedians; so me and Jim worked up a little act between us and he begged Grimaldi to let us try it out. Unfortunately, Jim got me stoned my first time, out in the alley before we went on, and by the time I was under the lights I was high and dry. I just stood there through the polite applause and then the silence and then some coughs and shifting in the seats, and then some of them thought it was funny and laughed, and then everybody laughed, and stopped and waited for me to say something. But all I could do was leer at them and try to remember where my mouth was, and they thought this was really funny and it brought down the house, applause and everything, and then they got quiet and Jim realized what had happened to me.
âWhatâs the matter with you?â he said. âSome cat got your tongue?â and sang a couple of songs, talked to me, told jokes, charmed that audience practically one by one, and finally at the end, I said to Jim, âThank you,â and they ate it up.
So Grimaldi let us do it again the next night, somewhat different but the same basic plan, and we got the laughs. Ten days later Jim put his trumpet away.
I went back to Enricoâs and drank more beer, and about seven in the evening Jim came back.
âYou feel clean enough to make a dinner party?â he asked me.
âWhatâs up?â
It seemed there was this actress.
THE DIMORRO mansion was well out Broadway in Pacific Heights, about as far west as you could go in San Francisco without crossing the fog line. While we were trying to find the bell, the door was opened by a Chinese butler, who gave us the fisheye until the hostess showed up and pulled the big door open wide and invited us in. Her name was Bianca diMorro, although it turned out she was just another longlegged San Jose girl. Her friends called her Binnie.
It was quite a nice house, and you could see that everything in it was authentic, from the paintings by Gainsborough and Picasso to the Rodin statue of Balzac shitting his pants, at least thatâs how it looked to me. I didnât even know it was Balzac until somebody told me. Most of the men in the house were dressed in dark blue suits and the women had on floor-length gowns and it was all very festive and pleasant, especially considering that Jim and I had filled in the early part of the evening with more beer-drinking at Enricoâs, and had taken certain steps to insure that we would not fall asleep over dinner, if you gather my meaning.
The party was being given for a little Italian guy who was standing in the corner of the living room near Balzac wearing a light blue sweatshirt under a brown velvet jacket and a pair of gold-rimmed glasses hiked up above his eyebrows, which were bristling out over his nose like wings. I never really caught his name, but I found out he was in America directing a movie, and his two stars, including a certain actress, were along at the dinner. How Jim got us invited I donât know, but he seemed to be on good terms with nearly everybody in the place. I wasnât. I didnât know any of these people, and that made me somewhat uncomfortable. I sat in a corner and nursed a brandy and water, while everybody else laughed and chattered and moved from group to group.
The actress Jim was after was tall and blonde and dressed to kill in what looked to be a soft grey silk gown which matched her eyes, except for the soft part. Just for fun I watched her talking to this guy and that guy, nearly all of them millionaires, you would guess, and watched Jim work his way into the group she was with and start everybody laughing; but she didnât seem to be leaning on his every word, and in
I had done comedy and theater in the service and got out of it because of the stage fright, but now everybody in North Beach seemed to be doing something great. San Francisco was full of young poets and folksingers, writers, vocalists and comedians; so me and Jim worked up a little act between us and he begged Grimaldi to let us try it out. Unfortunately, Jim got me stoned my first time, out in the alley before we went on, and by the time I was under the lights I was high and dry. I just stood there through the polite applause and then the silence and then some coughs and shifting in the seats, and then some of them thought it was funny and laughed, and then everybody laughed, and stopped and waited for me to say something. But all I could do was leer at them and try to remember where my mouth was, and they thought this was really funny and it brought down the house, applause and everything, and then they got quiet and Jim realized what had happened to me.
âWhatâs the matter with you?â he said. âSome cat got your tongue?â and sang a couple of songs, talked to me, told jokes, charmed that audience practically one by one, and finally at the end, I said to Jim, âThank you,â and they ate it up.
So Grimaldi let us do it again the next night, somewhat different but the same basic plan, and we got the laughs. Ten days later Jim put his trumpet away.
I went back to Enricoâs and drank more beer, and about seven in the evening Jim came back.
âYou feel clean enough to make a dinner party?â he asked me.
âWhatâs up?â
It seemed there was this actress.
THE DIMORRO mansion was well out Broadway in Pacific Heights, about as far west as you could go in San Francisco without crossing the fog line. While we were trying to find the bell, the door was opened by a Chinese butler, who gave us the fisheye until the hostess showed up and pulled the big door open wide and invited us in. Her name was Bianca diMorro, although it turned out she was just another longlegged San Jose girl. Her friends called her Binnie.
It was quite a nice house, and you could see that everything in it was authentic, from the paintings by Gainsborough and Picasso to the Rodin statue of Balzac shitting his pants, at least thatâs how it looked to me. I didnât even know it was Balzac until somebody told me. Most of the men in the house were dressed in dark blue suits and the women had on floor-length gowns and it was all very festive and pleasant, especially considering that Jim and I had filled in the early part of the evening with more beer-drinking at Enricoâs, and had taken certain steps to insure that we would not fall asleep over dinner, if you gather my meaning.
The party was being given for a little Italian guy who was standing in the corner of the living room near Balzac wearing a light blue sweatshirt under a brown velvet jacket and a pair of gold-rimmed glasses hiked up above his eyebrows, which were bristling out over his nose like wings. I never really caught his name, but I found out he was in America directing a movie, and his two stars, including a certain actress, were along at the dinner. How Jim got us invited I donât know, but he seemed to be on good terms with nearly everybody in the place. I wasnât. I didnât know any of these people, and that made me somewhat uncomfortable. I sat in a corner and nursed a brandy and water, while everybody else laughed and chattered and moved from group to group.
The actress Jim was after was tall and blonde and dressed to kill in what looked to be a soft grey silk gown which matched her eyes, except for the soft part. Just for fun I watched her talking to this guy and that guy, nearly all of them millionaires, you would guess, and watched Jim work his way into the group she was with and start everybody laughing; but she didnât seem to be leaning on his every word, and in
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