| excerpt from a script (sex, alcohol and the post office adapted from stories by charles bukowski) |
| A word about writing screenplays. If you live someplace like Cleveland—or Buffalo—and you tell people you/re writing a script its considered an interesting project. In LA its considered feeble behavior. Its done differently in LA. In LA you write a treatment and pitch the treatment and get some money to begin the script and get more money to continue work on the script and get the last of the money to finish the script and then negotiate a new deal for re-writes. The movie is never made and the process is repeated with a new project. Thats the story. The post office script was begun years ago in the 70’s when I first started reading Bukowski. He wasnt Bukowski then. He was just another suffering writing bastard like the rest of us. He was publishing the books and there was even a documentary but he wasnt yet the household name he was soon to become. I was running a business at the time and not writing but the idea was always there, as it tends to be, nagging. Business has its cycles and there were these periods with nothing going on and I would fart with a story or essay or— in this case—the Bukowski script. I worked at it off and on for a few years. Time passed. Its 1994 and I packed it in business-wise and took a year off to consider my next move. I began to write, having nothing else to do, a few of the essay/story type things. I returned to the Bukowski script. Buk was dead, too bad, but the Bukowski legend was beginning to roll—with a vengeance. He was all over the place. The idea of writing a script to go with the 2 movies that had already been made--plus the documentary--seemed a pointless act—more than usual even. But I had time invested in this script and decided to knock it off. I knocked it off and then did a smart thing. I didnt send it on the usual miserable rounds of agents and producers. I assigned it to the bottom of the desk along with all the other wretched scribblings where it remains to this day. Too bad. But I still like it and now it turns out we have the internet at our disposal and sparkling websites like bflowriter.com to resurrect these neglected works. The film is a love story. The woman is Linda. There were 2 loves in Bukowskis life: Linda and Betty. Betty drank, Linda was cuckoo. She once picked up a washing machine and threw it down a flight of stairs. The scene that follows describes the first meeting. |
charles bukowski
painting by james burkhart
painting by james burkhart
| An apartment. Small pad of the type known as furnished Hollywood front court. There are some people, dozen or so, of limited social appeal, standing around drinking and jabbering away breaking each other up. There is music--classical from the radio. There is Chinaski, standing in the middle of the room chewing on a stogie while sucking a beer while lending a sympathetic ear to a guest. GUEST: --and he dies and leaves me 15 grand. All of a sudden she wants to get married and quit her job. All right--why not? We get married and take off for Spain. I have this idea for a play. We get to Spain and its great. Im writing up a storm and doing some social drinking and fucking some of the whores. Then this guy in London calls up who has heard about my play and wants to put it on. So I split for London. I come back and find out she has been fucking the mayor and my best friend who are two different people. I get drunk and say: YOU LOUSY WHORE YOU BEEN FUCKING THE MAYOR AND MY BEST FRIEND I AM GOING TO KILL YOU AND I WILL ONLY GET TWO YEARS BECAUSE YOU ADULTERATED ME! Proceeding to take the butcher knife which I raise over my head and she is standing there showing no fear and says: Go ahead cocksucker. CHINASKI: Guts GUEST: Yeah. I couldnt do it. She had too much class on me. A guy and woman join him. She is 28/30 with flaming red hair and built--a fine low ass and a great face that suggests a low bullshit threshold. JOE: For a guy who doesnt like parties you sure throw a lot of them. CHINASKI: I dont throw parties. People come over. Tonite I am sitting here sucking a beer enjoying a quiet evening reading the metaphysical poets when Marvin the rabbi decides to pay a visit. Then Howard the undertaker shows up. He has a woman--a living one--so I let him in. Then Joe the anarchist from Beverly Hills falls by. He lays a couple stogies on me. And then this one calls up and wants to come over and then that one calls up and wants to come over and then you call up and want to come over. It isnt a party. JOE: I heard you were pretty good the other nite. CHINASKI: Yeah--Im becoming a rock star. JOE: I want you to write a column for the paper. CHINASKI: A column--like Walter Lippman? JOE: I already got a title: Notes of a Dirty Old Man. CHINASKI (CHEWS THIS OVER): I like it. JOE: Its a winner. Im real excited. CHINASKI: What am I supposed to write about? JOE: Anything you want. You write it--I print it. CHINASKI: Carte Blanche, Joe--right? JOE: Thats right. I think youre a fabulous writer. CHINASKI: You might not think Im so fabulous once the advertisers start canceling. JOE: Dont worry about it. What did I start this paper for--to print shit? Ill take care of the advertisers. All you got to worry about is the column. When I say every week I mean every week. CHINASKI: What about bread? JOE: You can have all the bread you want. But I cant give you any money. CHINASKI: Eat this. JOE: Today is Wednesday. Write something Thursday. Give it to me Friday. And read it in balls on Monday. CHINASKI (CHEWS THIS OVER): Anything I want--you putz? JOE: Thats right. CHINASKI: Youre on. Now whos this? JOE: This is Linda. Lindas a fan of yours. LINDA: I think you have a repulsive attitude towards woman. CHINASKI: It goes back to my childhood. I didnt get any love. Now Im trying to make up for it. LINDA: Have you ever seen a psychiatrist? CHINASKI: No. I almost went once. But while I was thinking about going I analyzed myself and saved the bread. They look at each other. LINDA: What about this music. You like this? CHINASKI: I like it. LINDA: I like rock and roll. They look at each other. LINDA: I was at the reading. Youre very good up there. CHINASKI: Thanks. Its a trick. The trick is to let them do it for you. They are there mainly to see me eat my shit. On the other hand you cant kiss their ass. Drunk and wasted and fucked up as they are they paid to get in and all it takes is one false word and they/ll run you right into the ocean. Someone at the door. Smashing at it with psychotic force. Chinaski opens the door. MAN: Hello Hank. Im Morse Jenkins. You dont answer my letters so I came in person. I brought ya some wine. This is Sadie. She works as a nurse. She supports me. I sparred with Clay before he became Ali Hank. He was good but I gave him a workout. CHINASKI: Come on in Morse. Later. The party has thinned out. Its down to Chinaski and one other— student type. Chinaski is horizontal on the floor, belly up, puffing on a stogie. His guest squats nearby, studying him intently. Chinaski has his eye on a large jar on the floor filled with fluid and what appears to be a human heart. CHINASKI: Who are you man--and what the fuck is that heart doing here? WILBERT: Im Wilbert. Im a med student. Im going to be your personal physician. CHINASKI: Wilbert--get that fucking heart out of here! WILBERT: The heart stays. Roll over. CHINASKI: Why? WILBERT: Im giving you a physical. First--the old finger wave. He sticks up a finger, unrolls a small condum over it. CHINAKSI: Wilbert--that isnt one of my problems. WILBERT: Roll over! CHINASKI: Wilbert--Doc--my only physical ailment is the need for a good piece of ass. WILBERT: Your backbone is out of place in 14 areas Chinaski! That breeds tension, hostility, impotence and madness! Chinaski gets to his feet, takes a long drain from a bottle of wine and with eyes driven shut howls into the night: WHERE IS THAT FINE-ASSED REDHEADED BITCH! |