„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.

We all went on drinking. A couple of hours passed. The same thing seemed to be said over and over again. Harry saying maybe we should go to HBO. And that laugh tracks were awful. And Joe saying that everything would be all right, that there was plenty of freedom on commercial tv, that times had changed. It was really boring, really awful. Harry was really pouring down the wine. Then he got into what was wrong with the world and the main causes of it. He had a certain line he repeated quite often. It was a good line. Unfortunately, it was so good that I have forgotten it. But Harry went on.

All of a sudden Joe singer leaped up. „Well, damn it, you guys have made a lot of lousy movies! Tv has done some good things! Everything we do isn't rotten! You guys keep on turning out crappy movies!“ Then he into the bathroom.

Harry looked at me and grinned. „Hey, he got mad, didn't he?“ „Yeah, Harry.“ I poured some more wine. We sat and waited. Joe Singer stayed in the bathroom a long time. When he came out, Harry stood there talking to him. I couldn't hear what was being said. I think Harry felt sorry for him. It wasn't long after that, Singer started gathering his stuff into his briefcase. He walked to the door, then looked back at me, „I'll phone you,“ he said.

„O.k., Joe“ Then he was gone.

Linda, I and Harry kept on drinking. Harry went on with what was wrong with the world, repeating his good line which I can't remember. We didn't talk too much about the proposed tv series. When Harry left we worried about his driving. We said he could stay. He declined. He said he could make it. Luckily, he did.

Joe Singer phoned the next evening.

„Listen, we don't need that guy. He doesn't want to work. We can get somebody else.“ „But, Joe, one of the main reasons I was interested at first was because of the possibility of Harry Dane.“ „We can get somebody else. I'll write you, I'll send you a list, I'm going to work on it.“ „I don't know, Joe…“ „I'll write you. And listen, I talked to the people and they said, o.k., no laugh track. And they even said it would be o.k. to go to HBO. That surprised me because I work for them, I don't work for HBO. Anyhow, I'll send you a list of actors…

„All right, Joe…“ I was stuck in the web. Now I wanted out but I didn't quite know how to tell him. It surprised me, I was usually very good at getting rid of people. I felt guilty because he had probably put in a lot of work on the thing. And, originally, in the first flush of things, the idea of a series based mostly upon myself had probably appealed to my vanity. But now it didn't seem like a good thing. I felt crappy about the whole thing.

A couple of days later the photos of the actors arrived, a mass of them, and the preferred ones were circled. The agent's phone number was by each actor's photo. I was sickened by looking at those faces, most of them smiling. The faces were bland, empty, very Hollywood, quite quite horrifying.

Along with the photos was a short note:

„… going on a 3 week vacation. When I get back I am really going to kick this thing into gear…“

The faces did it to me. I couldn't handle it any longer. I sat down and let go at the computers.

„…I've really been thinking about your project(s) and, frankly, I can't do it. It would mean the end of my life as I have lived it and have wanted to live it. It's just too big an intrusion into my existence. It would make me very unhappy, depressed. This feeling has been gradually coming over me but I just didn't quite know how to explain it to you. When you and harry Dane had a falling out the other night, I felt great, I felt, now, it's over. But you bounce right back with a new list of actors. I want out, that sense grew stronger and stronger as things went along. Nothing against you, you are an intellingetn young man who wants to pump some fresh blood into the tv scene – but let it not be mine. You may not undestand my concern but, believe me, it's real, damned real. I should be honored that you want to display my life to the masses but, really, I am more than terrorized by the thought, I feel as if my very life were being threatened. I have to get out. I haven't been able to sleep nights, I haven't been able to think, I haven't been able to do anything.

Please, no phone calls, no letters. Nothing can change this.

The next day on the way to the racetrack I dropped the letter into the mailbox. I felt reborn. I might still have to fight some more to get free. But I'd go to court. Anything. Somehow, I felt sorry for Joe Singer. But, damn it all, I was free again.

On the freeway I turned on the radion and lucked onto some Mozart. Life could be good at times but sometimes some of that was up to us.

8/30/92 1:30 AM

Was going down the scalator at the track after the 6th race when the waiter saw me. „You going home now?“ he asked?

„I wouldn't do that to you, amigo,“ I told him.

The poor fellow had to bring the food from the track kitchen to the upper floors, carrying huge amounts of trays. When their clients ran out on them they had to pay the tab. Some of the players sat four to a table. The waiters could work all day and still owe the track money. And the crowded days were the worst, the waiters couldn't watch everybody. And when they did get paid the horseplayers tipped badly.

I went down to the first floor and stepped outside, stood in the sun. It was great out there. Maybe I'd just come to the track and stand in the sun. I seldom thought about writing out there but I did then. I thought about something that I had recently read, that I was probably the best selling poet in America and the most influential, the most copied. How strange. Well, to hell with that. All that counted was the next time I sat down to the computer. If I could still do it, I was alive, if I coulnd't, everything that preceded meant little to me. But what was I doing, thinking about writing? I was cracking. I didn't even think about writing when I was writing. Then I heard the call to post, turned around, walked in and got back on the escalator. Going up, I passed a man who owed me money. He ducked his head down. I pretended not to see him. It didn't do any good after he'd paid me, he only borrowed it back. And old guy had come up to me earlier that day: „Gimme 60 cents!“ That gave him enough for a two buck bet, one more chance to dream. It was a sad god-damned place but almost every place was. There was no place to go. Well, there was, you could go to your room and close the door but then your wife got depressed. Or more depressed. America was the Land of Depressed Wives. And it was the fault of the men. Sure. Who else was around? You couldn't blame the birds, the dogs, the cats, the worms, the mice, the spiders, the fish, the etc. It was the men. And the men couldn't allow themselves to get depressed or else the whole ship would go down. Well, hell.

I was back at my table. Three men had the next table and they had a little boy with them. Each table had a small tv set, only theirs was turned on LOUD. The kid had it on some sitcom and that was nice of the men to the kid look a his program. But he wasn't paying any attention to it, he wasn't listening, he was sitting there pushing around a rolled-up piece of paper. He bounced it against some cups, then he took it and tossed it into this cup and that. Some of the cups were filled with coffee. But the men just went on talking about the horses. My god, that tv was LOUD. I thought of saying something to the men, asking them to lower the tv a bit. But the men were black and they'd think I was racist. I left my table and walked out to the betting windows. I was unlucky, I got in a slow line. There was an old guy up front having trouble making his bets. He had his Form spread out across the window, along with his programm and he was very hesitant about what he wanted to do. He probably lived in an old folks home or and institution of some sort but he was out or a day at the races. Well, no law against that and no law against him being in a fog. But somehow it hurt. Jesus, I don't have to suffer this, I thought. I had memorized the back of his head, his ears, his clothing, the bent back. The horses were nearing the gate. Everybody was screaming at him. He didn't notice them. Then, painfully, we watched as he slowly reached for his wallet. Slow, slow motion. He opened it and peered into it. Then he poked his fingers in there. I don't even want to go on. He finally paid and the clerk slowly handed him back his money. Then he stood there looking at his money and his tickets, then he turned back to the clerk and said, „No, I wanted the 6-4 exacta, not this…“ Somebody yelled out an obscenity. I walked off. The horses leaped out of the gate and I walked to the men's room to piss.