a great man but I don’t want him sucking at my ear lobes.’
‘Oh, stop being so defensive! Everybody can’t be like you!’
‘I know. That’s their problem.’
‘Your greatest strength,’ said Sarah, ‘is that you fear everything.’
‘I wish I had said that.’
Paul walked back with his drink. It looked good. There was even a bit of lime in there and he stirred it with a little glass stick. A swizzle. Real class.
‘Paul,’ I asked, ‘is there anything else to drink in there?’
‘Ewe, sorry,’ he said, ‘please do help yourself!’
I charged into the kitchen right upon the heels of Sarah.There were bottles everywhere. While we were deciding, I cracked a beer.
‘We better lay off the hard stuff,’ suggested my good lady. ‘You know how you get when you’re drinking that.’
‘Right. Let’s go with the wine.’
I found a corkscrew and got a bottle of fine-looking red.
We each had a good hit. Then we refilled our glasses and walked out. At one time I used to refer to Sarah and me as Zelda and Scott, but that bothered her because she didn’t like the way Zelda had ended up. And I didn’t like what Scott had typed. So, we had abandoned our sense of humor there.
Paul Renoir was at the large picture window checking out the Pacific.
‘Jon is late,’ he said to the picture window and the ocean, ‘but he told me to tell you that he will be right along and to please stay.’
‘O.K., baby …’
Sarah and I sat down with our drinks. We faced the rabbit cheeks. He faced the sea. He appeared to be musing.
‘Chinaski,’ he said, ‘I have read much of your work. It is wild shit. You are very good …’
‘Thank you. But we know who is really the best. You’re the best.’
‘Ewe,’ he said as he continued to face the sea, ‘it is very very nice of you to … realize that …’
The door opened and a young girl with long black hair walked in without knocking. Next thing we knew she was stretched out up on the back of the sofa, lengthwise, like a cat.
‘I’m Popppy,’ she said, ‘with 4 “p”s.’
I had a relapse: ‘We’re Scott and Zelda.’
‘Cut the shit!’ said Sarah.
I gave our proper names.
Paul turned from the sea.
‘Popppy is one of the backers of your screenplay.’
‘I haven’t written a word,’ I said.
‘ You will …’
‘Would you, please?’ I looked at Sarah and held up my empty glass.
Sarah was a good girl. She left with the glass. She knew that if I went in there I would start in on sundry bottles and then start in on my way to being nasty.
I would learn later that another name for Popppy was ‘The Princess from Brazil’. And for starters she had kicked in ten grand. Not much. But it paid for some of the rent and some of the drinks.
The Princess looked at me from her cat-like position on the back of the couch.
‘I’ve read your stuff. You’re very funny.’
‘Thank you.’
Then I looked over at Paul. ‘Hey, baby, did you hear that? I’m funny!’
‘You deserve,’ he said, ‘a certain place …’
He flashed toward the kitchen again as Sarah passed him with our refills. She sat down next to me and I had a hit.
The thought then occurred to me that I could just bluff the screenplay and sit around Marina del Rey for months sucking up drinks. Before I could really savor that thought, the door burst open and there was Jon Pinchot.
‘Ah, you came by!’
‘Ewe,’ I said.
‘I think I have a backer! All you have to do is write it.’
‘It might take a few months.’
‘But, of course …’
Then Paul was back. He had a strange pink-looking drink for the Princess.
Pinchot flashed toward the kitchen for one of his own.
It was the first of many meetings which would simply dissolve into bouts of heavy drinking, especially on my part. I found it to be a needed build-up for my confidence as I was really only interested in the poem and the short story. Writing a screenplay seemed to me an ultimately stupid thing to do. But better
‘Oh, stop being so defensive! Everybody can’t be like you!’
‘I know. That’s their problem.’
‘Your greatest strength,’ said Sarah, ‘is that you fear everything.’
‘I wish I had said that.’
Paul walked back with his drink. It looked good. There was even a bit of lime in there and he stirred it with a little glass stick. A swizzle. Real class.
‘Paul,’ I asked, ‘is there anything else to drink in there?’
‘Ewe, sorry,’ he said, ‘please do help yourself!’
I charged into the kitchen right upon the heels of Sarah.There were bottles everywhere. While we were deciding, I cracked a beer.
‘We better lay off the hard stuff,’ suggested my good lady. ‘You know how you get when you’re drinking that.’
‘Right. Let’s go with the wine.’
I found a corkscrew and got a bottle of fine-looking red.
We each had a good hit. Then we refilled our glasses and walked out. At one time I used to refer to Sarah and me as Zelda and Scott, but that bothered her because she didn’t like the way Zelda had ended up. And I didn’t like what Scott had typed. So, we had abandoned our sense of humor there.
Paul Renoir was at the large picture window checking out the Pacific.
‘Jon is late,’ he said to the picture window and the ocean, ‘but he told me to tell you that he will be right along and to please stay.’
‘O.K., baby …’
Sarah and I sat down with our drinks. We faced the rabbit cheeks. He faced the sea. He appeared to be musing.
‘Chinaski,’ he said, ‘I have read much of your work. It is wild shit. You are very good …’
‘Thank you. But we know who is really the best. You’re the best.’
‘Ewe,’ he said as he continued to face the sea, ‘it is very very nice of you to … realize that …’
The door opened and a young girl with long black hair walked in without knocking. Next thing we knew she was stretched out up on the back of the sofa, lengthwise, like a cat.
‘I’m Popppy,’ she said, ‘with 4 “p”s.’
I had a relapse: ‘We’re Scott and Zelda.’
‘Cut the shit!’ said Sarah.
I gave our proper names.
Paul turned from the sea.
‘Popppy is one of the backers of your screenplay.’
‘I haven’t written a word,’ I said.
‘ You will …’
‘Would you, please?’ I looked at Sarah and held up my empty glass.
Sarah was a good girl. She left with the glass. She knew that if I went in there I would start in on sundry bottles and then start in on my way to being nasty.
I would learn later that another name for Popppy was ‘The Princess from Brazil’. And for starters she had kicked in ten grand. Not much. But it paid for some of the rent and some of the drinks.
The Princess looked at me from her cat-like position on the back of the couch.
‘I’ve read your stuff. You’re very funny.’
‘Thank you.’
Then I looked over at Paul. ‘Hey, baby, did you hear that? I’m funny!’
‘You deserve,’ he said, ‘a certain place …’
He flashed toward the kitchen again as Sarah passed him with our refills. She sat down next to me and I had a hit.
The thought then occurred to me that I could just bluff the screenplay and sit around Marina del Rey for months sucking up drinks. Before I could really savor that thought, the door burst open and there was Jon Pinchot.
‘Ah, you came by!’
‘Ewe,’ I said.
‘I think I have a backer! All you have to do is write it.’
‘It might take a few months.’
‘But, of course …’
Then Paul was back. He had a strange pink-looking drink for the Princess.
Pinchot flashed toward the kitchen for one of his own.
It was the first of many meetings which would simply dissolve into bouts of heavy drinking, especially on my part. I found it to be a needed build-up for my confidence as I was really only interested in the poem and the short story. Writing a screenplay seemed to me an ultimately stupid thing to do. But better
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