Hollywood by Charles Bukowski Page B

said.
    Then I had to piss, asked directions to the crapper.
    I went back there, opened the door, went in, did my bit.
    Then I turned to the sink to wash my hands.
    What the fuck was that?
    Pushed down in the sink was this white towel. One end of it was stuffed into the drain and the remainder of it hung out over the sink and dropped to the floor. It didn’t look good. And it was soaking wet, just soaked through. What was it for? What did it mean? Left over after some orgy? It didn’t make sense to me. I knew it must mean something. I was just an old guy. Was the world passing me by? I’d lived through some shitty nights and days, plenty of them full of anti-meaning, yet I couldn’t figure out that giant soaking white towel.
    And worse, Jack knew that I was coming by. Why would he leave that thing in there like that? Was it a message?
    I walked back out.
    Now, if I had been a New Yorker I would have said, “Hey, what’s that fucking white dripping towel doing in that fucking sink, huh?”
    But I was a California boy. I just walked out and sat down, saying nothing, figuring that what they did was up to them and I didn’t want any part of it.
    Jon was back with more beer and there was an open can where I was sitting. I went for it. Life was good again.
    “I want Francine Bowers for the female lead,” said Jack. “I think I can get her.”
    “I know Francine,” said Jon, “I think I can get her too.”
    “Why don’t you both work on it?” Sarah asked.
    Lenny went for more beer. He looked like a beer-o. My kind of guy.
    “Hey, you think there’s a part for me in this movie?” he asked.
    I looked at Jon.
    “I like Lenny in my flicks,” said Jack.
    “I think there’s a part for you. I promise,” said Jon, “we’ll work you in.”
    “I read the script,” said Lenny, “I think I could play the part of the bartender.”
    “Come on,” I said, “you wouldn’t want to beat up your buddy Jack here, would you?”
    “No problem,” said Lenny.
    “Yeah,” said Jack, “he already did it once. Knocked one of my teeth out.”
    “Really?” Sarah asked.
    “And how,” said Jack.
    We drank the beer. Mostly it was small talk, about the many exploits of Lenny. He’d not only paid his dues, he could recollect them.
    When the beer was about gone, I figured it was about time to leave. I made one more bathroom run, then Sarah and I were at the door. Jon was evidently staying behind to talk over something or other.
    Then at the door, something strange happened. I asked Jack, “Hey, man, what the fuck is that big sopping wet dripping-ass towel doing hanging out of your bathroom sink?”
    “What big sopping wet dripping-ass towel?” Jack asked.
    And that was the end of that particular night.

20

    3 or 4 weeks went by.
    The phone rang one night. It was Jon.
    “How are you? How is Sarah?”
    “We’re all right. Are you alive?”
    “Yes. And so is The Dance of Jim Beam . Francine Bowers read the script and loved it. She even took a cut from her usual salary to do it. Jack did too, but don’t tell anybody.”
    “No, but why these cuts?”
    “We’re dealing with Firepower Productions, Harry Friedman and Nate Fischman. They cut a hard deal but everything’s signed. There was a snag because Jack’s agent demanded a ‘Play or pay’ clause in the contract.”
    “What’s that?”
    “That means Jack must get paid whether the film is made or not. Most big stars have ‘Play or pay’ in their contracts.”
    “It’s hard to believe there’s going to be a movie.”
    “Tom Pell had a lot to do with it when he offered to do the thing for a dollar. It gave the project some credibility.”
    “I wish we had Tom...”
    “Well, he helped. When Jack heard Tom wanted to do it for a dollar, then he got interested. Firepower got interested. We got lucky.”
    “You know what Lippy Leo Durocher said?”
    “Who’s that?”
    “An old-time baseball player. He said, Td rather be lucky than good.’ “
    “I think