Run With the Hunted (56 page)

tickets for free car washes, “find you later,”

I told him, walked on through to waiting

area with wife, we sat on outside bench.

black fellow with a limp came up, said,

“hey, man, how's it going?”

I answered, “fine, bro, you makin' it?”

“no problem,” he said, then walked off to

dry down a Caddy.

“these people know you?” my wife asked.

“no.”

“how come they talk to you?”

“they like me, people have always liked me,

it's my cross.”

then our car was finished, fellow flipped

his rag at me, we got up, got to the

car, I slipped him a buck, we got in, I

started the engine, the foreman walked

up, big guy with dark shades, huge guy,

he smiled a big one, “good to see you,

man!”

I smiled back, “thanks, but it's your party,

man!”

I pulled out into traffic, “they know you,”

said my wife.

“sure,” I said, “I've been there.”

waiting for death

like a cat

that will jump on the

bed

I am so very sorry for

my wife

she will see this

stiff

white

body

shake it once, then

maybe

again:

“Hank!”

Hank won't

answer.

it's not my death that

worries me, it's my wife

left with this

pile of

nothing.

I want to

let her know

though

that all the nights

sleeping

beside her

even the useless

arguments

were things

ever splendid

and the hard

words

I ever feared to

say

can now be

said:

I love

you.

 

We were a little late for the party but there still weren't very many people there. Victor Norman was seated a few tables away from ours. After Sarah and I were seated the waiter came with our wine. White wine. Well, it was free.

I drained my glass and nodded the waiter over for a refill.

I noticed Victor peering at me.

People were gradually arriving. I saw the famous actor with the perpetual tan. I'd heard that he went to almost every Hollywood party, everywhere.

Then Sarah gave me the elbow. It was Jim Serry, the old drug guru of the 60s. He too went to many of the parties. He looked tired, sad, drained. I felt sorry for him. He went from table to table. Then he was at ours. Sarah gave a delighted laugh. She was a child of the 60s. I shook hands with him.

“Hi, baby,” I said.

Quickly it began to get crowded. I didn't know most of the people. I kept waving the waiter in for more wine. He then brought a full bottle, plopped it down.

“When you finish that, I'll bring another.”

“Thank you, buster …”

Sarah had wrapped a little present for Harry Friedman. I had it in my lap.

Jon arrived and sat at our table.

“I'm glad you and Sarah could make it,” he said. “Look, it's filling up, this place is full of gangsters and killers, the worst!”

Jon loved it. He had some imagination. It helped get him through the days and the nights.

Then a very important looking man walked in. I heard some applause.

I leaped up with the birthday gift. I moved toward him.

“Mr. Friedman, happy …”

Jon rushed up and grabbed me from behind. He pulled me back to the table.

“No! No! That isn't Friedman! That's Fischman!”

“Oh …”

I sat back down.

I noticed Victor Norman staring at me. I figured he would let up in a while. When I looked again, Victor was still staring. He was looking at me as if he couldn't believe his eyes.

“All right, Victor,” I said loudly, “so I shit my pants! Want to make a World War out of it?”

He glanced away.

I got up and looked for the men's room.

Coming out I got lost and went into the kitchen. There was a busboy there smoking a cigarette. I reached into my wallet and got a ten. I gave him the ten. I put it in his shirt pocket.

“I can't take this, sir.”

“Why not?”

“I just can't.”

“Everybody else gets tipped. Why not the busboy? I always wanted to be a busboy.”

I walked off, found the main room again and the table.

When I sat down Sarah leaned over and whispered, “Victor Norman came over while you were gone. He says that it's very nice of you that you haven't said anything about his writing.”

“I've been good, haven't I, Sarah?”

“Yes.”

“Haven't I been a good boy?”

“Yes.”

I looked over at Victor Norman, got his attention. I gave a little nod, winked.

Just then the real Harry Friedman walked in. Some rose to their feet and applauded. Others looked bored.

Friedman sat down at his table and the food was served. Pasta. The pasta came around Harry Friedman got his and went right in. He looked like an eater. He was wide, yes. He was in an old suit, his shoes were scuffed. He had a large head, big cheeks. He shoved that pasta into those cheeks. He had large round eyes and the eyes were sad and full of suspicion. Alas, to live in the world! There was a button missing from his wrinkled white shirt, near his belly, and the belly pushed out. He looked like a big baby who had somehow gotten loose, grown real fast, and almost turned into a man. There was charm there but it could be dangerous to believe in it—it would be used against you. No necktie. Happy birthday, Harry Friedman!

A young lady came in dressed as a cop. She walked right up to Friedman's table.

“YOU ARE UNDER ARREST!” she screamed.

Harry Friedman stopped eating and smiled. His lips were wet from the pasta.

Then the lady cop took off her coat and then her blouse. She had huge breasts. She shook her breasts under Harry Friedman's nose.

“YOU ARE UNDER ARREST!” she screamed.

Everybody applauded. I don't know why they applauded.

Then Friedman motioned the lady cop to bend over. She bent close and he whispered something into her ear. Nobody knew what it was.

You take me to your place. We'll see what happens?

You forgot your club. I'll take care of that?

You come see me. I'll get you in the movies?

The lady cop put her blouse back on, her coat back on, and then she was gone.

People came up to Friedman's table and said little things to him. He looked at them as if he didn't know who they were. Soon he was finished eating and was drinking wine. He did well with the wine. I liked that.

He really went for the wine. After a while he went around from table to table, bending over, talking to people.

“Christ,” I said to Sarah, “look at that!”

“What?”

“He's got a little piece of pasta hanging out of one side of his mouth and nobody is telling him about it. It's just
hanging
there!”

“I see it! I see it!” said Jon.

Harry Friedman kept walking from table to table, bending over, talking. Nobody told him.

Finally, he got closer. He was a table or so away from ours when I stood up and walked over to him.

“Mr. Friedman,” I said.

He looked at me from that big monster baby face.

“Yes?”

“Hold still!”

I reached out, got hold of the end of the pasta and yanked. It came away.

“You been walkin' around with that danglin'. I couldn't stand it anymore.”

“Thank you,” he said.

I went back to our table.

“Well, well,” asked Jon, “what do you think of him?”

“I think he's delightful.”

“I told you. I haven't met anybody like him since Lido Mamin.”

“Anyhow,” said Sarah, “it was nice of you to clean that pasta off his face since nobody else had the nerve to. It was very nice of you.”

“Thank you, I am a very nice guy, really.”

“Oh yes? What else have you done that is nice lately?”

Our wine bottle was empty. I got the attention of the waiter. He scowled at me and moved forward with another bottle.

And I couldn't think of anything nice that I had done. Lately.

—
H
OLLYWOOD

I been readin' you for a long time now,

I just put Billy Boy to bed,

he got 7 mean ticks from somewhere,

I got 2,

my husband, Benny, he got 3.

some of us love bugs, others hate

them.

Benny writes poems.

he was in the same magazine as you

once.

Benny is the world's greatest writer

but he got this temper.

he gave a readin' once and somebody

laughed at one of his serious poems

and Benny took his thing out right

there

and pissed on stage.

he says you write good but that you

couldn't carry his balls in a paper

bag.

anyhow, I made a BIG POT OF MARMALADE

tonight,

we all just LOVE marmalade here.

Benny lost his job yesterday, he told his

boss to stick it up his ass

but I still got my job down at the

manicure shop.

you know fags come in to get their nails

done?

you aren't a fag, are you, Mr.

Chinaski?

anyhow, I just felt like writing you.

your books are read and read around

here.

Benny says you're an old fart, you

write pretty good but that you

couldn't carry his balls in a

paper sack.

do you like bugs, Mr. Chinaski?

I think the marmalade is cool enough to

eat now.

so goodbye.

Dora

we are always asked

to understand the other person's

viewpoint

no matter how

out-dated

foolish or

obnoxious.

one is asked

to view

their total error

their life-waste

with

kindliness,

especially if they are

aged.

but age is the total of

our doing.

they have aged

badly

because they have

lived

out of focus,

they have refused to

see.

not their fault?

whose fault?

mine?

I am asked to hide

my viewpoint

from them

for fear of their

fear.

age is no crime

but the shame

of a deliberately

wasted

life

among so many

deliberately

wasted

lives

is.

 

I was there at 8:50 a.m. I parked and waited for Jon. He rolled up at 8:55 a.m. I got out and walked over to Jon's car.

“Good morning, Jon …”

“Hello, Hank … How are you?”

“Fine. Listen, what happened to the hunger strike?”

“Oh, I am still on that. But more important is the cutting off of the parts.”