The John Fante Reader by John Fante
Frank nudged me. “Guess who’s here,” he said.
I turned and studied the man and his two feminine companions.
“Who’s he?” I whispered, as the trio moved past and entered the dining room.
“Sinclair Lewis,” Frank said.
Startled, I coughed in my drink.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“Sure I’m sure.” He beckoned to Chasen, who joined us again. “Who was the guy with the two women?” Frank asked.
“Sinclair Lewis,” Chasen said.
“Good God,” I said, “the greatest writer in America!” I leaped off the bar stool and crossed to the curtained door leading to the dining room. Pulling the curtain aside, I saw a waiter ushering Lewis and his friends into a booth.
I couldn’t stop myself. All at once I was threading my way between tables toward the greatest author in America. It was a blind, crazy impulse. Suddenly I stood before Lewis’s booth. Absorbed in conversation with the women, he did not see me. I smiled at his thinning red hair, his rather freckled face, and his long delicate hands.
“Sinclair Lewis,” I said.
He and his friends looked up at me.
“You’re the greatest novelist this country ever produced,” I spluttered. “All I want is to shake your hand. My name is Arturo Bandini. I write for H.L. Muller, your best friend.” I thrust out my hand. “I’m glad to know you, Mr. Lewis.”
He fixed me with a bewildered stare, his eyes blue and cold. My hand was out there across the table between us. He did not take it. He only stared, and the women stared too. Slowly I drew my hand away.
“It’s nice to know you, Mr. Lewis. Sorry I bothered you.” I turned in horror, my guts falling out, as I hurried between the tables and back to the bar, and joined Frank Edgington. I was raging, sick, mortified, humiliated. I snatched Frank’s scotch and soda and gulped it down. The bartender and Frank exchanged glances.
“Give me a pencil and paper, please.”
The bartender put a notepad and a pencil before me. Breathing hard, the pencil trembling, I wrote:
Dear Sinclair Lewis:
You were once a god, but now you are a swine. I once reverenced you, admired you, and now you are nothing. I came to shake your hand in adoration, you, Lewis, a giant among American writers, and you rejected it. I swear I shall never read another line of yours again. You are an ill-mannered boor. You have betrayed me. I shall tell H.L. Muller about you, and how you have shamed me. I shall tell the world.
Arturo Bandini
P.S. I hope you choke on your steak.
I folded the paper and signaled a waiter. He walked over. I handed him the note.
“Would you please give this to Sinclair Lewis.”
He took it and I gave him some money. He entered the dining room. I stood in the doorway watching him approach Lewis’s table. He handed Lewis the note. Lewis held it before him for some moments, then leaped to his feet, looking around, calling the waiter back. He stepped out of the booth and the waiter pointed in my direction. Carrying his napkin, Lewis took big strides as he came toward me. I shot out of there, out the front door, and down the street to the parking lot, to Frank’s Cadillac, and leaped into the back seat. I could see the street from where I sat, and in a moment Lewis appeared nervously on the sidewalk, still clutching his napkin. He glanced about, agitated.
“Bandini,” he called. “Where are you? I’m Sinclair Lewis. Where are you, Bandini?”
I sat motionless. A few moments, and he walked back toward the restaurant. I sat back, exhausted, bewildered, not knowing myself, or my capabilities. I sat with doubts, with shame, with torment, with regret. I lit a cigarette and sucked it greedily. In a little while Frank Edgington walked out of the restaurant and came to the car. He leaned inside and looked at me.
“You okay?”
“Okay,” I said.
“What happened?”
“I don’t know.”
“What was that note you wrote?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re crazy. You want to eat?”
“Not here. Let’s go someplace else.”
“It’s up to you.” He got behind the wheel and started the engine.
—Dreams from Bunker Hill
THE BEST THING ABOUT MY COLLABORATION with Velda was the money. After fifteen weeks, a three-hundred-dollar check each week, she telephoned. She had finished the script. She was sending it special delivery. It should arrive the next day. She was very proud of her work. She knew I would like it, that we had achieved a masterpiece.
“Did you change it much?” I asked.
“Here and there. Small changes. But the essence of your version, the main thrust, is still there.”
“I’m glad, Velda. Frankly, I was worried.”
“You’re going to be very pleased, Arturo. There was so little for me to do. I hardly deserve any credit at all.”
Next day I sat on the porch of Edgington’s house and waited for the mailman. At noon a postal truck drove up and the driver put the large envelope in my hands. I signed the receipt, sat on the porch step, and opened the manuscript.
The title page read Sin City, screenplay by Velda van der Zee and Arturo Bandini, from a story by Harry Browne. I was down the first page halfway when my hair began to stiffen. In the middle of the second page I was forced to put the script aside and hang on to the porch banister. My breathing was uneven and there were mysterious shooting pains in my legs and across my stomach. I staggered to my feet and went inside to the kitchen and drank a glass of water. Edgington was sitting at the table eating breakfast. He saw my face and stood up.
“Good God, what’s wrong?”
I could not speak. I could only point in the direction of the manuscript. Edgington walked to the front door and looked around.
“What’s up?” he said. “Who’s out there?”
I came through the house to the porch and pointed at the manuscript. He picked it up.
“What’s this?” He looked at the title page. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Read it.”
He took it to the porch swing and sat down.
“I’ve been had,” I said. “I didn’t write it. My name’s on it, but I didn’t write it.”
He began to read. Suddenly he laughed, a short barking laugh. “It’s funny,” he said. “It’s a very funny script.”
“You mean it’s a comedy?”
“That’s what’s funny. It’s not a comedy.” He went back to the script and read in silence, another ten pages. Then, deliberately, he folded the manuscript shut and looked at me.
“Is it still funny?”
He rolled up the script and threw it into an ivy patch beyond the porch.
“It’s ghastly,” he said.
I rescued the script from the ivy bed. He had read my version more than fifteen weeks ago. He had liked it, praised it.
“What should I do?” I asked.
“How about going back to Colorado and learning to lay brick with your old man?”
“That’s no solution.”
“The only solution is to get your name off this script. Disown it. Don’t be associated with it.”
“Maybe I can save it.”
“Save it from what? It’s dead, man. It’s been murdered. Call your agent and tell him to remove your name. Either that or get out of town.” He rose and walked back into the kitchen. I opened the screenplay and started to read again. What I read was as follows:
A stagecoach rolls across the Wyoming plain pursued by band of Indians. Stagecoach brought to halt. Indians swarm over it. Two passengers: Reverend Ezra Drew and daughter Priscilla. Indian chief drags Priscilla out, throws her on his horse. Priscilla struggles. Chief mounts, rides off with her. Indians follow.
Indian village. Chief rides up with Priscilla, shoves her into teepee, then enters. Indian chief is Magua, enemy of white man. He seizes girl, handles her roughly, kissing her as she struggles.
Over the hill comes posse,
Sin City. Posse arrives, Sheriff puts Priscilla down. Posse brings up Reverend Drew. Priscilla runs into his arms. Townspeople gather. Sheriff Lawson leads Priscilla into Sin City Hotel.
That night townfolk gather at hotel. Sheriff comes out with Priscilla and Reverend Drew. Townfolk beg them to stay. Local church recently burned out by hostile Indians of Chief Magua. People urge Reverend Drew to rebuild church. He promises to consider it. Playing banjo, Reverend Drew accompanies daughter in singing of “I Love You, Jesus.” Great applause. Holding tambourine, Priscilla moves among townfolk and they drop coins into tambourine. Reverend Drew mounts hotel porch and delivers speech. He and daughter promise to remain and rebuild Sin City church. Citizens repair to big saloon. Once more the Reverend strums banjo and Priscilla sings “Lord Welcome Me.” Again she passes tambourine and makes generous collection.
Church being rebuilt. Townspeople help, carrying lumber and building material. Sheriff rides up and puts Priscilla in his buck-board. They ride off. In lovely pine grove Sheriff embraces Priscilla and they kiss.
Evening. Sin City saloon. Priscilla sings “The Lord Is My Shepherd,” while saloon patrons listen and admire the lovely young woman. She passes tambourine. A drunk at bar seizes her, tries to kiss her. Sheriff Lawson intervenes, fight develops. Lawson knocks intruder down. Priscilla looks to Sheriff gratefully.
On hillside overlooking town sits the sinister Magua on his horse, watching. He dismounts and slinks to window of saloon as Priscilla addresses bar patrons in little speech. She wants townsfolk to form a church choir where hymns can be sung and offerings made for new church. Townspeople agree and applaud. Outside at window the evil Magua smirks as he listens.
Change comes over Sin City. No more liquor in town saloon. No more gambling. Group of women under Priscilla’s direction sing spirited hymns. Work on church proceeds. Day arrives when church is complete, and townfolk gather for first service. Watching from above, Magua observes the happenings below and rides off.
Evening. Women of Sin City prepare barbecue outside church. A square dance in progress, led by Reverend Drew and his banjo. Priscilla whirls to music, her partner the Sheriff. Meanwhile at Indian village Magua gathers his forces. Indians with painted bodies mount their horses and Magua leads them away.
Square dance. Sheriff leads Priscilla into woods. She lifts face for his kiss. He asks her to marry him. She consents. Suddenly the sound of pounding hoofs and Indian yells. Down the hill come Magua and his bloodthirsty Arapahoes. Riding furiously, they ring the church and townspeople with bloodcurdling shouts and thundering hoofs. Shrieking townfolk retreat to church as Indians continue to circle and fire their rifles. Sheriff and Priscilla rush to safety of new church. Round and round the Indians tighten their noose about the church. Gunfire. Cries of wounded. Indians hurl torches upon church roof. Townsfolk mount gun positions at church windows. Battle rages. Women reload rifles. Priscilla reloads her father’s rifle. At that moment he is shot. Priscilla shoots Indian who felled her father. Then she turns and gathers fallen parent in her arms and cries.
Meanwhile the treacherous Magua has dismounted and comes slithering toward church door. He enters unseen and swoops down on Priscilla, cups hand over her mouth, and drags her outside. Throwing her upon back of his horse, he mounts behind her and rides off just as Sheriff Lawson appears in doorway. Taking dead aim, Magua fires rifle at Sheriff and bullet strikes him in shoulder. Lawson staggers but does not go down. Instead he lurches toward Magua, who rides off with the struggling Priscilla.
Wounded but undaunted, Sheriff gropes to his horse, mounts, and rides in pursuit. Over hill and dale he follows fleeing Indian and girl. They come to a creek in the foothills and stop. Bleeding and weak, Lawson rides up, then falls to the ground. Eagerly Magua dismounts with menacing tomahawk. Fierce battle, men rolling and twisting, Priscilla watching in horror. They fall into creek. Magua leaps upon weakened Sheriff and tries to drown him, but Sheriff frees himself.
Too weak to resist further, Sheriff collapses in water. With yell of triumph Magua raises tomahawk to strike. Suddenly the crack of a rifle breaks the stillness. Magua falls into the water. Priscilla, smoking rifle in her hands, dismounts and rushes to Sheriff. She drags him from creek. Weakened but defiant, Sheriff throws arms around her. They rise and stagger away. In the water Magua lies dead.
Back in Sin City church siege goes on. Whites slowly gain upper hand. Launch counter attack. Hand to hand combat. Many Indians retreat. Others captured by townsfolk. A dozen savages being led to city jail. In the distance come Priscilla and Sheriff Lawson. Strapped across their horse is body of dead Magua. Great cheer from townsfolk. Priscilla runs into father’s arms.
Epilogue. Bright Sunday morning. Songfest comes from church. Inside Priscilla leads choir in “Oh Gentle Jesus.” Church packed with townsfolk listening reverently. In back pews, segregated from others, are a dozen captive Indians, penitent, heads bowed. Sheriff comes to Priscilla’s side. She looks up adoringly. Fade out.
So there it was, the whole dirty business. My screenplay, without a line of my work in it, in fact an altogether different story, impossible for me to have concocted. I laughed. It was a joke. Somebody was playing around. It was impossible. I went into the house and sat there smoking cigarettes, suddenly aware of the falling rain, the sweet sound of it on the shingle roof, the sweet smell of it coming through the front door. No question about it, Edgington was right. My only course was to have my name removed from the title. I picked up the telephone and dialed Cyril Korn.
“Yeah?” he barked.
“Hello, Korn. This is me. Have you read the story?”
“I liked it.”
“You’re crazy.”
“It’s a great western.”
“Take my name off.”
“What?”
“Remove my name from this monstrosity. You hear me? I want no part of it.”
There was a long silence before Korn spoke again. Then he said:
“Suit yourself, kid. This is good news for Velda. She’ll get a solo credit now.”
“She can have it.” I hung up.
The rain came down in sheets, whipping the leaves from the eucalyptus trees, digging little rivers across the yard and into the gutter. I drank a glass of wine. Edgington stepped out of the kitchen. He had heard my conversation with Korn.
“You did right,” he said. “It was self preservation. You had no choice. If you’d listened to me this wouldn’t have happened.”
“What do you mean?”
“You should have joined the Guild. I’ve been telling you for three months.”
The cold rainy wind swept in through the front door, chilling the room. Edgington went to the fireplace and lit the gas logs. He took a tobacco sack from his pocket.
“Here,” he said, tossing it to me.
It was marijuana. There were cigarette papers in the sack. I had smoked marijuana only once before, in Boulder, and it made me sick. It was time to get sick again. I rolled a cigarette. We sat looking at one another, drawing down the weed into our lungs. Edgington laughed. I laughed too.
“You’re a rotten no-good sonofabitchin’ English limey toad,” I said.
He nodded agreement. “And you, sir, are a miserable, disagreeable dago dog.”
We lapsed into silence, smoking the grass. I picked up the manuscript.
“Let’s do something to it,” I said.
“Let’s burn it.”
I took it to the fireplace and dropped it on the flames. The pot was taking over. I took off my shirt.
“Let’s be Indians,” I said. “Let’s burn her at the stake.”
“Great,” Edgington said, pulling off his shirt.
“Let’s take off our pants,” I said. We laughed and kicked off our pants. In a moment we were naked, dancing in a c
“Shame on you, Frank Edgington,” she screamed. “Put on some clothes before I call the police.”
Frank got to his feet and shoved his bare bottom toward her.
“That for you, Martha!”
We ran into the house. Standing before the fireplace, dripping wet, we watched the sparks from Velda’s screenplay dancing up the chimney. We looked at one another and smiled. Then we performed a fitting climax to the whole crazy ritual. We pissed on the fire.
Now a curious thing happened. I looked at Edgington’s sopping hair and rain-soaked body and I did not like him. I did not like him at all. There was something obscene about our nakedness, and the burning screenplay, and the floor wet from rain, and our bodies shivering in the cold, and the insolent smile from Edgington’s lips, and I recoiled from him, and blamed him for everything. After all, hadn’t he sent me to Cyril Korn, and hadn’t Cyril Korn brought me together with Velda van der Zee, and hadn’t Edgington sneered and scoff ed all the weeks that I had been writing the screenplay? I no longer liked this man. He disgusted me. Similar thoughts must have boiled up in his brain for I noticed the hostile sharpness of his glance. We did not speak. We stood there hating one another. We were on the verge of fighting. I picked up my clothes, walked into the bedroom and slammed the door.
—Dreams from Bunker Hill
I DROVE TO AVALON BOULEVARD and south to Wilmington. It was almost sunset as I passed over the bridge onto the big sandbar known as Terminal Island. The rain had washed the sand from the road and I drove on pavement to the little fishing settlement a mile or so from the canneries. There were six rustic bungalows, all in a row facing the channel waters a hundred yards down the beach. None of the bungalows appeared to be occupied. I drove slowly past them. Each showed a “For Rent” sign on the front porch. Then I noticed a light in the last house. Exactly like the others, the house was dark green and rainsoaked. The light shone through the open front door. I pulled to a stop and ran through the rain to the porch.