Blacklisted Boyo

image borrowed from amazon.com

Blacklisted Boyo

Trumbo sat on his patio in Eagle Rock puffing on a fat cigar,

staring for a long time at the Angeles Crest, that jagged swath

of the Sierras that snaked its way south to Mexico, skirting the

east side of LA.

Jesus, he thought, just how many damned times had he suffered

with dysentery while living in Mexico? It was like adding layers of

hubris while struggling through the unlit labyrinth of blacklisting,

but actually his guts had never been normal after that 11 months in

1950 when he vacationed at the charming prison in Ashland, 

Kentucky--certainly no blue grass in that shit hole.

Raised in the Rockies as a kid, it seemed that mountains always

centered him, which helped a lot while acclimatizing to living at 7,000

feet elevation in Mexico City. He had enjoyed staring at those mountains

surrounding that hispanic bowl of crap that 20 million people lived in--

some exile he often reflected while his butt burned and soul simmered. 

What a joy in 1951 when Jake Garfield surprised him with a visit, staying

with them for two weeks. He didn’t look good at the time; history of heart 

trouble. It really hurt when John died so young the next year. He had 

always been a true friend, from the gravy days at Warners during the late 

30’s up through the war. 

Last year in August, Trumbo had snuck into that park on the outskirts of 

town at Teotihuacan, and using his lighter he climbed to the top of the Temple

of the Sun, and watched the meteor shower, really feeling that things

might change for the better. He had been paid well for his script ROMAN 

HOLIDAY, and hell, he still had some friends in Hollywood that might help 

him sneak back into California.

Back just three months, he and Cleo were watching the 1954 Academy

Awards when the original script for ROMAN HOLIDAY won an Oscar. It

was credited, of course, to Ian Hunter, becoming yet another silent victory. 

Puffing pale blue smoke rings, he glanced at a small ornate gift card that

read, “Give ‘em hell, Jimmy.”  It was signed with regards, DeForest, which

was Bogart’s middle name. He was in the middle of filming The Caine

Mutiny, and had sent the note by studio courier. One thing was for sure,

Bogie had big balls. 

Cleo was loving those roses that came weekly from Mannie, who had

helped them with the physical move during the holidays. Old Edward G.

was doing some television roles this spring. He, too, had visited them

in Mexico, coming down to look for art, and to plot their return. 

He could hear Danny the parrot raising hell in the house, that

bird that Kirk had given them--after teaching it several curse 

words. It liked to perch on his shoulder as Trumbo sat in the bath 

tub in the hot afternoons cranking out scripts. Kirk was doing 

some silly Jules Verne picture over at Disney. He kept telling

Trumbo that one of these days they would “make those bastards

pay.”  Sure, sure, we will do that soon.

Jesus, to have had to accept being in “contempt of Congress”,

to have sweated it out for years while those federal idiots finally

decided to incarcerate him, to have spent that terrifying year in 

prison, to have fled to Mexico with Ring and Al, their families

in tow, and to have just heard that fag asshole McCarthy

got away with kneeing Drew Pearson in the nuts in a Washington

club cloakroom--yeah, those sumbitches had a lot to answer for.

His father never liked the idea that Trumbo wanted to be a writer,

and those early 88 short stories and 6 novels that were all rejected

for publication seemed to substantiate his displeasure. But somehow

he ended up being a reader in the story department at Warner 

Brothers and the good times did roll there for a while--until his radical

and liberal views came under scrutiny and the scapegoat badge

was pinned on his collar. 

Now that he was back, he was sad though about his good friend Will 

being pissed off at him after he turned down the offer to join that 

progressive group of blacklisted artists who were working on THE 

SALT OF THE EARTH. He told Geer that he felt SALT would be a 

movie no one would ever get to see in an American theater. 

“Well, fuck it,” Trumbo said, “It’s tub time.”

He needed to write a full scene for THEY WERE SO YOUNG.

He had heard yesterday that they had signed Raymond Burr

for the picture. It was just what the Eisenhower Era needed,

a lusty and epic tale of the sex trade in South America. He had

already decided to use Felix Lutzkendorf as his pen name. 

Glenn Buttkus

June 2012

Posted over on "href="http://dversepoets.com/2012/06/16/re-joycing-in-poetics-and-exile/"> dVerse Poets--Poetics

Would you like to hear the author read this short story to you? there is a funny glitch at the end.