Which I did. Joe was casual, easy. The idea, he said, was to create a series for tv based on a writer like myself. An old guy who was still writing, drinking, playing the horses.
„Why don't we get together and talk about it?“ he asked.
„You'll have to come here,“ I said, „at night.“ „O.k.,“ he said, „when?“ „Night after next.“ „Fine. You know who I want to get to play you?“ „Who?“ He mentioned an actor, let's call him Harry Dane. I always liked Harry Dane.
„Great,“ I said, „and thanks for the 300.“ „We wanted to get your attention.“ „You did.“
Well, the night came around and there was Joe Singer. He seemed likeable enough, intelligent, easy. We drank and talked, about horses and various things. Not much about the television series. Linda, my wife, was with us.
„But tell us more about the series,“ she said.
„It's all right, Linda,“ I said, „we're just relaxing…“ I felt Joe Singer had more or less come by to see if I was crazy or not.
„All right,“ he said reaching into his briefcase, „here's a rough idea…“ He handed me 4 or 5 sheets of paper. It was mostly a description of the main character and I thought they had gotten me down fairly well. The old writer lived with this young girl just out of college, she did all his dirty work, lined up his readings and stuff like that.
„The station wanted this young girl in there, you know,“ said Joe.
„Yeah,“ I said.
Linda didn't say anything.
„Well,“ said Joe, „you look this over again. There are also some ideas, plot ideas, each episode will have a diferent slant, you know, but it will all be based on your character.“ „Yeah,“ I said. But I was beginning to get a bit apprehensive. We drank another couple of hours. I don't remember much abou the conversation. Small talk. And the night ended…
The next day after the track I turned to the page about the episode ideas.
1. Hank's craving for a lobster dinner is thwarted by animal rights activists. 2. Secretary ruins Hank's chances with a poetry groupie. 3. To honor Hemingway, Hank bangs a broad named Millie whose husband, a jockey, wants to pay Hank to keep banging. There must be a catch. 4. Hank allows a young male artist to paint his portrait and is painted into a corner into revealing his own homosexual experience. 5. A friend of Hank's wants him to invest in his latest scheme. An industrial use for recycled vomit.
I got Joe on the phone.
„Jesus, man, what's about a homosexual experience? I haven't had any.“ „Well, we don't have to use that one.“ „Let's not. Listen, I'll talk to you later, Joe.“ I hung up. Things were getting strange.
I phoned Harry Dane, the actor. He'd been over to the place two or three times. He had this great weatherbeaten face and he talked straight. He had few affectations. I liked him. „Harry,“ I said, „there's this tv outfit, channel – they want to do a series based on me and they want you to play me. You heard from them?“ „No.“ „I thought I might get you and this guy together and see what happens.“ „Channel what?“ I told him the channel. „But that's commercial tv, censorship, commercials, laugh tracks.“ „This guy Joe Singer claims they have a lot of freedom with what they can do.“ „It's censorship, you can't offend the advertisers.“ „What I like most is that he wanted you for the lead. Why don't you come to my place and meet him?“ „I like your writing, Hank, if we could get, say, HBO maybe we could do it right.“ „Well, yeah. But why don't you come over, see what he has to say? I haven't seen you for a while.“ „That's right. Well, I'll come but it will mainly to see you and Linda.“ „Fine. How about the night after next? I'll set it up.“ „O.k.,“ he said.
I phoned Joe Singer.
„Joe. Night after next, 9 p.m. I've got Harry Dane coming over.“ „O.k., great. We can send a limo for him.“ „Would he be alone in the limo?“ „Maybe. Or maybe some of our people would be in it.“ „Well, I don't know. Let me call you back…“
„Harry, they are trying to suck you in, they want to send a limo for you.“ „Would it be just for me?“ „He wasn't sure.“ „Can I have his phone number?“ „Sure.“ And that was it.
When I came in after the track the next day Linda said, „Harry Dane phoned. We talked about the tv thing. He asked if we needed money. I told him we didn't.“ „Is he still coming by?“ „Yes.“ I came in a little early from the track the following day. I decided to hit the Jacuzzi. Linda was out, probably buying libations for the meeting. I, myself, was getting a little scared about the tv series. They could really fuck me over. Old writer does this. Old writer does that. Laugh track. Old writer gets drunk, misses poetry meeting. Well, that wouldn't be so bad. But I wouldn't want to write he crap, so writing wouldn't be that good. Here I had written for decades in small rooms, sleeping on park benches, sitting in bars, working all the stupid jobs, meanwhile writing exactly as I wanted to and felt I had to. My work was finally getting recognized. And I was still writing the way I wanted to and felt that I had to. I was still writing to keep from going crazy, I was still writing, trying to explain this god-damned life to myself. And here I was being talked into a tv series on commecial tv. All I had fought so hard for could be laughed off the boards by some sitcom series with a laugh track. Jesus, Jesus.
I got undressed and stepped outside to the Jacuzzi. I was thinking about the tv series, my past life, now and everything else. I wasn't too aware. I stepped into the Jacuzzi at the wrong end.
I realized it the moment I stepped in. There weren't any steps at that end. It happened quickly. There was a small platform further in built to sit on. My right foot caught that, slipped off, and I was thrown off balance.
You're going to hit your head against the edge of the Jacuzzi, went through my mind.
I concetrated on pushing my head forward as I fell, letting all the rest go to hell. My right leg took the brunt of the fall, I twisted it but managed to keep my head from hitting the edge. Then I just floated in the bubbling water feeling the shots of pain in my right leg. I'd ben having leg pains there anyhow, now it was really torn up. I felt foolish about it all. I could have knocked myself out. I could have drowned. Linda would have come back to find me floating and dead.
FAMOUS WRITER, FORMER SKID ROW POET AND DRUNK FOUND DEAD IN HIS JACUZZI. HE HAD JUST SIGNED CONTRACT FOR A SITCOM BASED UPON HIS LIFE.
That's not even a ignoble ending. That is just being shit on entirely by the gods.
I managed to get out of Jacuzzi and make my way into the house. I could barely walk. Each step on the right leg brought a mighty pain up the let from the ankle to the knee. I hobbled toward the refrigerator and pulled out a beer…
Harry Dane arrived first. He had come in his own car. We brought out the wine and I began pouring them. By the time Joe Singer arrived, we'd had a few. I made the introductions. Joe laid out the general format for the proposed series for Harry. Harry was smoking, and drinking his wine pretty fast.
„Yeah, yeah,“ he said, „but a sound track? And Hank and I would have to have total control over the material. Then, I don't know. There's censorship…“ „Censorship? What censorship?“ asked Joe.
„Sponsors, you have to please the sponsors. There's a limit on how far you can go with material.“ „We'll have total freedom,“ said Joe.
„You can't have,“ said Harry.
„Laugh tracs are awful,“ said Linda.
„Yeah,“ I said.
„Then too,“ said Harry, „I've been in a tv series. It's a drag, it takes hours and hours a day, it's worse that shooting a movie. It's a hard work.“ Joe didn't answer.