underskirt. She rushed to stop me, and we struggled, pushing and pulling, but I was the stronger, and broke her grasp, and flung her things through the window. With a smile I said, “I’ll go now.”
“And don’t come back,” she panted. I walked down the hall to my room, put on a robe and slippers and moved down to a door at the rear of the hotel, which opened on the yard area. As I scrambled up the hillside to my clothes I saw Mrs. Brownell making her way down the hillside. We glared at one another and began gathering our things. I had to climb the tree to reach my pants. When I dropped to the ground she was crawling back toward the hotel front. At my feet was one of her shoes. I picked it up and threw it. The shoe hit her in the ass. Enraged, she picked it up and hurled it down at me. It sailed over my head.
I was very sad when I got back to my room. Women! I knew nothing about women. There was no understanding them. I opened a suitcase and dumped my things intoit. The room spoke to me, and implored me to stay—the Maxfield Parrish picture on the wall, the typewriter on the table, my bed, my marvellous bed, the window overlooking the hill, the source of so many dreams, so many thoughts, so many words, a part of myself, the echo of myself pleading with me to stay. I didn’t want to go but there was no denying it, I had somehow blundered and kicked myself out, and there was no turning back. Goodbye to Bunker Hill.
Chapter Twelve
When Frank Edgington learned that I was homeless he invited me to his house in the hills above Beechwood Drive. It was a two-bedroom place in a thicket of eucalyptus. He showed me to my bedroom, and I put my suitcase on the bare floor. There was no bed in the room—except for a double mattress pushed against the wall.
Living with Edgington was a strange experience. His style emerged out of his childhood, and the games we played in his office were as nothing compared to the games scattered about in his living room. We plunged into the glamorous, romantic, enthralling life in Hollywood, beginning with a game of ping pong in the garage. Then we moved to the kitchen and filled our tumblers with table wine. On to the living room, throwing ourselves on the parquet floor, and thrilling to a game of tiddlywinks. The more we drank the wilder we played. We battled one another at the dart board. Sometimes we fell asleep playing bingo. It was pure and it was clean and when it rained and water thundered on the roof we turned on the gaslight in the fireplace and it was like turning back to a boyhood time beside a campfire in the mountains.
I rarely saw my boss Harry Schindler. When I ran into him in the elevator or down the hall he grabbed my arm affectionately and steered me along.
“How’s it going?”
“Okay,” I’d answer, “just fine.”
“You’re doing a hell of a job. Keep it up.”
“I’m not writing, Harry. I want to write.”
“Hang in there. Take your time. Let me worry about your writing.”
Every day the reception room we shared was full of mysterious people waiting to see him. They must have been writers, directors, production people. When I asked my secretary who they were she wouldn’t tell me. As time went by I felt like an orphan, a pariah, non-productive, unknown and exiled. The money kept me there, the absence of poverty, the fear of its return. The thought of being a busboy again made me shiver. I took out my little savings account passbook and studied the figures. I was up to $1,800, and still sending money home. I had no cause for complaint.
One morning Thelma knocked on my door and opened it.
“Harry wants to see you.”
I found Schindler lighting a fresh cigar.
“I may have something for you pretty soon,” he said. I got excited.
“You mean an assignment?”
“Maybe. We’re negotiating.”
“What is it?”
“A novel, The Genius , by Theodore Dreiser.”
“Oh my God! When will you know?”
“A couple of weeks.”
I left his office in a
“And don’t come back,” she panted. I walked down the hall to my room, put on a robe and slippers and moved down to a door at the rear of the hotel, which opened on the yard area. As I scrambled up the hillside to my clothes I saw Mrs. Brownell making her way down the hillside. We glared at one another and began gathering our things. I had to climb the tree to reach my pants. When I dropped to the ground she was crawling back toward the hotel front. At my feet was one of her shoes. I picked it up and threw it. The shoe hit her in the ass. Enraged, she picked it up and hurled it down at me. It sailed over my head.
I was very sad when I got back to my room. Women! I knew nothing about women. There was no understanding them. I opened a suitcase and dumped my things intoit. The room spoke to me, and implored me to stay—the Maxfield Parrish picture on the wall, the typewriter on the table, my bed, my marvellous bed, the window overlooking the hill, the source of so many dreams, so many thoughts, so many words, a part of myself, the echo of myself pleading with me to stay. I didn’t want to go but there was no denying it, I had somehow blundered and kicked myself out, and there was no turning back. Goodbye to Bunker Hill.
Chapter Twelve
When Frank Edgington learned that I was homeless he invited me to his house in the hills above Beechwood Drive. It was a two-bedroom place in a thicket of eucalyptus. He showed me to my bedroom, and I put my suitcase on the bare floor. There was no bed in the room—except for a double mattress pushed against the wall.
Living with Edgington was a strange experience. His style emerged out of his childhood, and the games we played in his office were as nothing compared to the games scattered about in his living room. We plunged into the glamorous, romantic, enthralling life in Hollywood, beginning with a game of ping pong in the garage. Then we moved to the kitchen and filled our tumblers with table wine. On to the living room, throwing ourselves on the parquet floor, and thrilling to a game of tiddlywinks. The more we drank the wilder we played. We battled one another at the dart board. Sometimes we fell asleep playing bingo. It was pure and it was clean and when it rained and water thundered on the roof we turned on the gaslight in the fireplace and it was like turning back to a boyhood time beside a campfire in the mountains.
I rarely saw my boss Harry Schindler. When I ran into him in the elevator or down the hall he grabbed my arm affectionately and steered me along.
“How’s it going?”
“Okay,” I’d answer, “just fine.”
“You’re doing a hell of a job. Keep it up.”
“I’m not writing, Harry. I want to write.”
“Hang in there. Take your time. Let me worry about your writing.”
Every day the reception room we shared was full of mysterious people waiting to see him. They must have been writers, directors, production people. When I asked my secretary who they were she wouldn’t tell me. As time went by I felt like an orphan, a pariah, non-productive, unknown and exiled. The money kept me there, the absence of poverty, the fear of its return. The thought of being a busboy again made me shiver. I took out my little savings account passbook and studied the figures. I was up to $1,800, and still sending money home. I had no cause for complaint.
One morning Thelma knocked on my door and opened it.
“Harry wants to see you.”
I found Schindler lighting a fresh cigar.
“I may have something for you pretty soon,” he said. I got excited.
“You mean an assignment?”
“Maybe. We’re negotiating.”
“What is it?”
“A novel, The Genius , by Theodore Dreiser.”
“Oh my God! When will you know?”
“A couple of weeks.”
I left his office in a
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