Free Hollywood by Charles Bukowski Page A

for me most of the time, but the problem was and is human nature: one gets bored with the routine and sets off in another direction. I must have at least 25 systems all based on some kind of crazy logic. I like to move around.
Now you ask, how the hell did I land on a 10-to-one shot in the 2nd race the other day. Well, it’s like this, I write down the handicapper’s selections before scratches. This horse happened to be selection #16 before scratches. When it went off at 10-to-one, curiously, it was the largest drop from the handicapper’s selections. A rarity, true, but there it was. And when such things occur, they make one feel very odd indeed. Like maybe there’s a chance sometimes. Well, I hope you’re O.K. and that your young lady students don’t give you a hard-on, or maybe I should hope that they do.
Listen, is it true that Celine and Hemingway died on the same day?
Hope you’re all right...
Keep ‘em crying,
yrs,
Henry Chinaski
    I took the sheet out of the typer, folded it, hand-printed the address on an envelope, stuck it inside, found a stamp, and there it was: my writing for the night. I sat there, finished the rest of the wine bottle, opened another one and walked downstairs.
    Jon had turned off the TV and was sitting there. I brought two glasses and sat down next to him. I poured them around.
    “The typer sounds hot,” Jon said.
    “Jon, I was writing a letter.”
    “A letter?”
    “Have a drink.”
    “All right.”
    We both had one.
    “Jon, you’ve paid me to write this fucking screenplay...”
    “But, of course...”
    “I can’t write it. I’m up there trying to write the thing and you’re down here listening for the sound of the typer. It’s hard...”
    “I could go some place at night.”
    “No, listen, you are going to have to move! I can’t go on this way! I’m sorry, man, I’m a dog, a heel, I’m the heel of a dog! Do dogs have heels? Anyhow, you’re going to have to find a place to live. I can’t write this way, I’m not man enough.”
    “I understand.”
    “Do you?”
    “Of course. But I was going to have to move anyhow.”
    “What?”
    “François is coming back. His business in France is done. We are going to have to find a place together. I am looking now. In fact, today I think I found a place. I just didn’t want to bother you with all this.”
    “But are you guys able to...?”
    “We have money. We are consolidating our resources.”
    “Christ, then will you forgive me for wanting to throw you into the street?”
    “There’s nothing to forgive. I was only worried about how to tell you that I had to move out.”
    “You wouldn’t bullshit an old drunk, would you?”
    “No. But have you written anything?”
    “A smidge...”
    “Can I see it?”
    “Sure, buddy.”
    I went upstairs, brought down the pages, put them on the coffee-table. Then I went back upstairs, went into the bedroom.
    “Come on, Sarah, we’re going to celebrate!”
    “Celebrate what?”
    “Jon’s moving out. I’m going to be able to write again!”
    “Did you hurt his feelings?”
    “I don’t think so. You see, François is coming back, they have to find a place together.”
    We went downstairs. Sarah got another glass. Jon was into the screenplay.
    He laughed when he saw me.
    “This stuff is fucking great! I knew that it would be!”
    “You wouldn’t bullshit an old drunk, would you?”
    “No. Never.”
    Sarah sat down and we had a quiet drink together.
    Jon spoke. “I used Wenner Zergog’s phone to call François. I found out François fucked up. He got canned. He got a few days’ pay, then got canned. Same old thing...”
    “Like what?” asked Sarah.
    “He’s a great actor but now and then he goes crazy. He’ll just forget the script and the scene he’s supposed to be doing and do his thing. It’s a sickness, I think. He must have done it again. He got canned.”
    “What does he do?” I asked.
    “It’s always the same. He does all right for a while. Then he