In Their Own Words: The Tuskegee Airmen Page #3

And I won't have to sign any more books,

and maybe I'll think of something

more interesting to say.

Wanna go?

Lead the way.

Come on.

- Shut up.

- I have to rest my voice.

It gets really dry when I read,

and I have a whole other section.

Don't bullshit me.

I'm not.

It's okay. I already know

everything about you anyway.

Oh, really?

Everything?

Everything.

What do you know?

I know you hate tomatoes.

I know

Miles Davis' Kind of Blue

is your favorite jazz recording.

I know you love to watch Cheers reruns.

And I know you took Latin

for seven years

and cheated on every single test.

Wait a minute.

How do you know that?

Esquire, you said it yourself.

Ugh.

I've got to start reading my interviews.

So...

what else do you know?

I know that you've been with your wife

since your freshman year of college.

I know that you go to every single

Yankees home game,

and I know that you,

Clayton Hammond, are a genius.

Shows how much you know.

Why's that?

I missed two Yankee games last year.

Oh, sorry.

And, uh, my wife and I are...

separated.

I actually did know that,

but you're wearing a ring.

Yeah.

So, uh, Daniella,

how did you get backstage tonight?

I'm a grad student at Columbia, and I

begged my professor for his ticket.

I won the Elman Fellowship,

just like you.

Mr. Hammond, they're ready for you.

Yes, Mr. Hammond,

we're ready for you.

This is the second and, uh,

final selection of the evening.

"It was a crisp and clear autumn morning.

The old man was dressed

exactly as the day before."

Can I hail you a cab?

I'm gonna take the bus, thanks.

You're welcome.

Go to Central Park? Great.

How you doing today?

I'm okay. How are you?

You know what I mean?

Sure.

What's that book you're reading?

Ask the Dust, John Fante.

How did you find him?

Nobody knows him.

You read Fante?

Read him? I knew him.

You knew John Fante.

Met him in Los Angeles.

Must have been 1958.

He should have been someone

that everybody knows.

Yeah.

What happened?

Life.

So how does it feel?

How does what feel?

To be somebody everybody knows?

You know,

I don't really think about it.

Come on.

Don't bullshit an old bullshitter.

It feels good, right?

Feels good to have your work

recognized, yeah.

Yeah, I'm sure it does, yeah.

Bet you get good tables

in restaurants now.

I do.

Life was kind to you.

Gods smiled when you were born.

They looked down and they said,

"Look there, that one is a writer.

His words will be celebrated."

I don't know if it's that grandiose.

I just got lucky.

I wrote a book,

people happened to like it.

I mean, I don't know how things happen.

I mean, I wrote two books

that wouldn't have gotten published

if that one never did.

Well, I'll bet they'll publish them now.

I read your book.

I liked it very, very much.

Thank you. I appreciate that.

And now forgive an old fan

for a moment.

Just indulge me.

You wrote about Paris

right after the war.

And when I read your stories,

I was right there.

I tasted that wine,

the sweetness of that wine.

I...

made love to the girl.

I sat in the cafe that morning

wondering what the future held for me.

Or if it held anything at all for me.

I heard...

that child cry in the night.

And I felt the longing

for my home so far away.

You are some writer, my friend.

Thank you.

Thank you.

I really do appreciate that.

I have to go.

My wife...

I know, I know.

Artists always feel uncomfortable

talking about their work.

No, no, no.

I wonder if there's just one thing

you'd do for me.

Sure. Ahem.

I wondered if you'd autograph

my copy of your book.

Ah, of course.

Do you have a pen?

A writer without a pen.

Well...

Well, today's a reading day.

Yes.

Well, I have a pen.

So...

I do have a story.

A very good story.

Now, I know you get this line all the

time, but I think you'll like the story.

If I was to tell you the story

and you wrote it,

well, then, maybe

you could give me a little credit?

Well, that wouldn't be fair, would it?

Have a good day.

It's about a man who wrote a book

and then lost it

and the pissant kid who found it.

You still here?

Do you want to hear my story?

Or don't you have the time?

So...

it's 1944, and there's

this 18-year-old kid,

a soldier in the army,

never saw any action.

He was sent to Paris

right at the end of the war.

There he is,

a dumb kid with a

dumbass grin on his face.

There he is in Paris.

To him, it might as well have been

the other side of the goddamned world.

It was a joke that his unit was

constantly drawing the worst details.

Most of the time,

they were relaying sewage pipes

blown apart by the Germans

during the occupation.

It was god-awful work.

Street smell.

I miss Utah.

Somehow the kid was happy,

like a pig in sh*t.

The guys in his unit,

most of them were different

from anybody he'd known

in his neighborhood.

They were from all over,

little towns he'd never even heard of.

Poor kid probably hit a mine.

Let's get the body to the morgue.

That was the only dead body

he saw his whole time in the Army.

There was this one guy in his

unit real different to him,

an intellectual, real bookworm,

and over time,

he became the boy's best friend.

He lent him some books to read,

the first books

the kid had ever read about anything.

For the first time

he saw a world that was bigger

than the one he'd been born into.

And he wanted more.

He wanted to be something more.

A writer.

Yeah,

but he had no idea what

the word really meant.

Certainly didn't have a clue

about how to go about it.

You grew up in Philadelphia?

Grew up in Philly, but born in London.

London?

What did she just say?

What did she say?

My French is a little weak,

but I'm pretty sure

she said she loves you.

Go talk to her.

No.

Go.

That's not funny.

Go talk to her.

Come on, if you don't, I will.

He found out some time later

"Pay your check

and get the hell out of here."

But who was he to question fate?

He'd picked up one word of French.

Oui.

And she knew one word of English.

Yes.

It was the perfect relationship.

What is ice cream?

What?

What?

It's cold in my head.

Cold in your head?

Yeah, pain.

Go like this.

Take your finger like this.

Under your tongue. It's a little trick.

It'll make it go away, okay?

It doesn't wanna go.

Give it a second, okay?

Now?

It's gone.

Told you.

Okay, one more.

What happened?

He got discharged from the Army.

But what once was his

whole world suddenly seemed...

small.

Nothing had changed

since he'd been away.

Except him.

He had changed.

For the first time in his life,

he tried to write.

Tried to write about Paris,

about what he'd seen

and how he'd felt.

But the words just wouldn't come.

He knew the life he wanted.

He knew what he had to do to get it.

The young man began

his apprenticeship as a writer.

He got a job as a journalist

for a small English-language weekly.

There were a lot of them

springing up for all the expats,

Rate this script:0.0 / 0 votes