Hollywood by Charles Bukowski Page A

Apparently they couldn’t understand or read the eviction notices and they tore them up, but I did see them studying the daily L. A. papers. They were stoic and durable because compared to where they had come from, things were now easy.
    Well, no matter. My tax consultant had suggested I purchase a house, and so for me it wasn’t really a matter of “white flight.” Although, who knows? I had noticed that each time I had moved in Los Angeles over the years, each move had always been to the North and to the West.
    Finally, after a few weeks of house hunting, we found the one. After the down payment the monthly payments came to $789.81. There was a huge hedge in front on the street and the yard was also in front so the house sat way back on the lot. It looked like a damned good place to hide. There was even a stairway, an upstairs with a bedroom, bathroom and what was to become my typing room. And there was an old desk left in there, a huge ugly old thing. Now, after decades, I was a writer with a desk. Yes, I felt the fear, the fear of becoming like them. Worse, I had an assignment to write a screenplay. Was I doomed and damned, was I about to be sucked dry? I didn’t feel it would be that way. But does anybody, ever?
    Sarah and I moved our few possessions in.
    The big moment came. I sat the typewriter down on the desk and I put a piece of paper in there and I hit the keys. The typewriter still worked. And there was plenty of room for an ashtray, the radio and the bottle. Don’t let anybody tell you different. Life begins at 65.

13

    Down at the Marina del Rey times were getting hard. For transportation Jon Pinchot was driving a green 1968 Pontiac convertible and François Racine drove a brown 1958 Ford. They also had two Kawasaki motorcycles, a 750 and a 1000.
    Wenner Zergog had borrowed the 1958 Ford and by driving the car without putting water in the radiator had cracked the engine block.
    “He’s a genius,” Jon told me. “He doesn’t know about such things.”
    The motorcycles were the first to go. The 1958 was used for shorter trips.
    Then François Racine packed off for France. Jon sold the 1958 Ford.
    And then, of course, the day came when the phone rang and there was Jon.
    “I’ve got to move. They are going to tear this place down and build a hotel or something. Shit, I don’t know where to go. I’d like to stay in town and work out a deal for your screenplay. How’s that thing coming along?”
    “Oh, it’s coming...”
    “I’m close to a deal. And if it falls through I’ve got a guy in Canada. But I’ve got to move. The bulldozers are on the way.”
    “Listen, Jon, you can stay at our place. We’ve got a downstairs bedroom.”
    “You mean that?”
    “Sure...”
    “I’ll be out most of the time. You won’t know I’m there.”
    “You still have that 1968 Pontiac?”
    “Yes...”
    “Then put your stuff in and come on over...”
    I walked downstairs and told Sarah. “Jon is moving in for a while.”
    “What?”
    “Jon Pinchot. They’re going to bulldoze his place. He’ll be staying here a while.”
    “Hank, you know you can’t stand living with people. It will drive you crazy.”
    “It will just be for a little while...”
    “You’ll be upstairs typing and he’ll be downstairs listening. It won’t work.”
    “I’ll make it work. Jon has paid me money to write this thing.”
    “Good luck,” she said, then turned and walked into the kitchen.

    The first two nights weren’t bad: Jon and Sarah and I just drank and talked. Jon told some stories, mostly about problems with actors and what he had had to do to get them to perform. There was one fellow, halfway through a shooting, who suddenly refused to talk. He would rehearse the scenes but he wouldn’t speak. He was demanding that a certain scene be shot as he wished. They were in the middle of a jungle somewhere and running out of time and money. Finally Jon told the actor, “Shit, have it your way!” And the actor acted