Run With the Hunted (33 page)

“Randall, dear,” she said, “it isn't the
place
that does the writing, it's
you
. I think we might get Randall a job teaching three days a week.”

“I can't teach.”

“Darling, you can teach them
everything.
”

“Shit,” he said.

“They're thinking of doing a movie of Randall's book. We've seen the script. It's a very fine script.”

“A movie?” I asked.

“There's not much chance,” said Harris.

“Darling, it's in the works. Have a little faith.”

I had another glass of wine with them, then left. Sandra was a beautiful girl.

I wasn't given Randall's West L.A. address and didn't make any attempt to find him. It was over a year later when I read the review of the movie
Flower Up the Tail of Hell
. It had been taken from his novel. It was a fine review and Harris even had an acting bit in the film.

I went to see it. They'd done a good job on the book. Harris looked a little more austere than when I had last seen him. I decided to find him. After a bit of detective work I knocked on the door of his cabin in Malibu one night about 9:00 p.m. Randall answered the door.

“Chinaski, you old dog,” he said. “Come on in.”

A beautiful girl sat on the couch. She appeared to be about 19, she simply radiated natural beauty. “This is Karilla,” he said. They were drinking a bottle of expensive French wine. I sat down with them and had a glass. I had several glasses. Another bottle came out and we talked quietly. Harris didn't get drunk and nasty and didn't appear to smoke as much.

“I'm working on a play for Broadway,” he told me. “They say the theatre is dying but I have something for them. One of the leading producers is interested. I'm getting the last act in shape now. It's a good medium. I was always splendid on conversation, you know.”

“Yes,” I said.

I left about 11:30 that night. The conversation had been pleasant … Harris had begun to show a distinguished grey about the temples and he didn't say “shit” more than four or five times.

The play
Shoot Your Father, Shoot Your God, Shoot Away the Disentanglement
was a success. It had one of the longest runs in Broadway history. It had everything: something for the revolutionaries, something for the reactionaries, something for lovers of comedy, something for lovers of drama, even something for the intellectuals, and it still made sense. Randall Harris moved from Malibu to a large place high in the Hollywood Hills. You read about him now in the syndicated gossip columns.

I went to work and found the location of his Hollywood Hills place, a three-story mansion which overlooked the lights of Los Angeles and Hollywood.

I parked, got out of the car, and walked up the path to the front door. It was around 8:30 p.m., cool, almost cold; there was a full moon and the air was fresh and clear.

I rang the bell. It seemed a very long wait. Finally the door opened. It was the butler. “Yes, sir?” he asked me.

“Henry Chinaski to see Randall Harris,” I said.

“Just a moment, sir.” He closed the door quietly and I waited. Again a long time. Then the butler was back. “I'm sorry, sir, but Mr. Harris can't be disturbed at this time.”

“Oh, all right.”

“Would you care to leave a message, sir?”

“A message?”

“Yes, a message.”

“Yes, tell him ‘congratulations.'”

“‘Congratulations'? Is that all?”

“Yes, that's all.”

“Goodnight, sir.”

“Goodnight.”

I went back to my car, got in. It started and I began the long drive down out of the hills. I had that early copy of
Mad Fly
with me that I had wanted him to sign. It was the copy with ten of Randall Harris' poems in it. He probably was busy. Maybe, I thought, if I mail the magazine to him with a stamped return envelope, he'll sign.

It was only about 9:00 p.m. There was time for me to go somewhere else.

—
S
OUTH OF
N
O
N
ORTH

Sunday. I am eating a

grapefruit, church is over at the Russian

Orthodox to the

west.

she is dark

of Eastern descent,

large brown eyes look up from the Bible

then down, a small red and black

Bible, and as she reads

her legs keep moving, moving,

she is doing a slow rhythmic dance

reading the Bible …

long gold earrings;

2 gold bracelets on each arm,

and it's a mini-
suit
, I suppose,

the cloth hugs her body,

the lightest of tans is that cloth,

she twists this way and that,

long young legs warm in the sun …

there is no escaping her being

there is no desire to …

my radio is playing symphonic music

that she cannot hear

but her movements coincide
exactly

to the rhythms of the

symphony …

she is dark, she is dark

she is reading about God.

lam Cod.

wooden butterfly

baking soda smile

sawdust fly—

I love my belly

and the liquor store man

calls me,

“Mr. Schlitz.”

the cashiers at the race track

scream,

‘THE POET KNOWS!”

when I cash my tickets.

the ladies

in and out of bed

say they love me

as I walk by with wet

white feet.

albatross with drunken eyes

Popeye'es dirt-stained shorts

bedbugs of Paris,

I have cleared the barricades

have mastered the

automobile

the hangover

the tears

but I know

the final doom

like any schoolboy viewing

the cat being crushed

by passing traffic.

my skull has an inch and a

half crack right at the

dome.

most of my teeth are

in front. I get

dizzy spells in supermarkets

spit blood when I drink

whiskey

and become saddened to

the point of

grief

when I think of all the

good women I have known

who have

dissolved

vanished

over trivialities:

trips to Pasadena,

children's picnics,

toothpaste caps down

the drain.

there is nothing to do

but drink

play the horse

bet on the poem

as the young girls

become women

and the machineguns

point toward me

crouched

behind walls thinner

than eyelids.

there's no defense

except all the errors

made.

meanwhile

I take showers

answer the phone

boil eggs

study motion and waste

and feel as good

as the next while

walking in the sun.

 

Fay was all right with the pregnancy. For an old gal, she was all right. We waited around at our place. Finally the time came.

“It won't be long,” she said. “I don't want to get there too early.”

I went out and checked the car. Came back.

“Oooh, oh,” she said. “No, wait.”

Maybe she
could
save the world. I was proud of her calm. I forgave her for the dirty dishes and
The New Yorker
and her writers' workshop. The old gal was only another lonely creature in a world that didn't care.

“We better go now,” I said.

“No,” said Fay, “I don't want to make you wait too long. I know you haven't been feeling well.”

“To hell with me. Let's make it.”

“No, please, Hank.”

She just sat there.

“What can I do for you?” I asked.

“Nothing.”

She sat there ten minutes. I went into the kitchen for a glass of water. When I came out she said, “You ready to drive?”

“Sure.”

“You know where the hospital is?”

“Of course.”

I helped her into the car. I had made two practice runs the week earlier. But when we got there I had no idea where to park. Fay pointed up a runway.

“Go in there. Park in there. We'll go in from there.”

“Yes, ma'am,” I said …

She was in bed in a back room overlooking the street. Her face grimaced. “Hold my hand,” she said.

I did.

“Is it really going to happen?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“You make it seem so easy,” I said.

“You're so very nice. It helps.”

“I'd like to
be
nice. It's that god damned post office …”

“I know. I know.”

We were looking out the back window.

I said, “Look at those people down there. They have no idea what is going on up here. They just walk on the sidewalk. Yet, it's funny … they were once born themselves, each one of them.”

“Yes, it is funny.”

I could feel the movements of her body through her hand.

“Hold tighter,” she said.

“Yes.”

“I'll hate it when you go.”

“Where's the doctor? Where is everybody? What the hell!”

“They'll be here.”

Just then a nurse walked in. It was a Catholic hospital and she was a very handsome nurse, dark, Spanish or Portuguese.

“You … must go … now,” she told me.

I gave Fay crossed fingers and a twisted smile. I don't think she saw. I took the elevator downstairs.

My German doctor walked up. The one who had given me the blood tests.

“Congratulations,” he said, shaking my hand, “it's a girl. Nine pounds, three ounces.”

“And the mother?”

“The mother will be all right. She was no trouble at all.”

“When can I see them?”

“They'll let you know. Just sit there and they'll call you.” Then he was gone.

I looked through the glass. The nurse pointed down at my child. The child's face was very red and it was screaming louder than any of the other children. The room was full of screaming babies. So many births! The nurse seemed very proud of my baby. At least, I hoped it was mine. She picked the girl up so I could see it better. I smiled through the glass, I didn't know how to act. The girl just screamed at me. Poor thing, I thought, poor little damned thing. I didn't know then that she would be a beautiful girl someday who would look just like me, hahaha.

I motioned the nurse to put the child down, then waved goodbye to both of them. She was a nice nurse. Good legs, good hips. Fair breasts.

Fay had a spot of blood on the left side of her mouth and I took a wet cloth and wiped it off. Women were meant to suffer; no wonder they asked for constant declarations of love.

“I wish they'd give me my baby,” said Fay, “it's not right to separate us like this.”

“I know. But I guess there's some medical reason.”

“Yes, but it doesn't seem right.

“No, it doesn't. But the child looked fine. I'll do what I can to make them send up the child as soon as possible. There must have been 40 babies down there. They're making all the mothers wait. I guess it's to let them get their strength back. Our baby looked
very
strong, I assure you. Please don't worry.”

“I'd be so happy with my baby.”

“I know, I know. It won't be long.”

“Sir,” a fat Mexican nurse walked up, “I'll have to ask you to leave now.”