NORTH NORTH HOLLYWOOD - Chapter 31 -by Peter Nolan Smith

THIRTY-ONE

Sean was a new man after a shower and a shave, yet none of the film crew thanked him for his work, wished him luck or even bid him good-bye. Since these woman treated all men with the same collective disdain, he could live with the snub, though Sean Tempo had enough with being the only man on Earth and couldn't wait to get back to the real world with some men in it.
The ride in the Skylark to LA took less time than the drive up in the van and Sean kept expecting to hear a CHiP siren wailing behind them at any moment, since Sherri pushed the car way over the speed limit, but no one obeyed the 65mph speed limit anymore.
When they stopped at Olancha for gas, Sean called Vic Granollers from a pay phone. After the second ring his friend unexpectedly answered and asked, "Where are you?"
"Coming down from the Sierras."
"What were you doing up there?"
"Making a movie."
"Making a movie. What? You finally broke down and wrote a script."
"No, I was the lead."
"An actor. What___no, don't tell me anything, you can explain it all tonight at dinner. You free or do you have to play the Hollywood game?"
The only game Sean knew out here was HOLLYWOOD SQUARES, but her remembered Sherri's last words and said, "I think I can do what I want."
"Good,” Vic suggested meeting him at a restaurant in Beverly Hills some time after eight. Any chance for any further small talk was curtailed by Sherri's blowing the horn and the station owner asked, "What's her hurry?"
"Fire," was all Sean could say before he ran back to the car. The frown he received upon getting back into the car indicated Sherri would have been driven off without him before she beeped the horn again.
Back on the highway Sherri nearly rear-ended several semi-trailers, though each time the car veered away at the last moment and passed the big trucks easily. Sean suspected she was playing 'chicken' to get the young actress' attention, except Lena was filing her nails in an Academy Award performance of ignoring Sherri.
Without a doubt, he was the cause of the breach between them, so Sean watched the rainy darkness close around the highway rather than reopen a wound not yet healed and mentally checked off his prerequisites for leaving LA.
Get $3000 from Sherri. Sign the release. Send in a few months' rent for his apartment. Mail the wallets to a safe address as insurance for the future. Have dinner with Vic Granollers and buy a ticket for Panama City, for the quicker he left town the better, but it had been that way ever since he had come to LA, only he really hadn't a chance to leave until now.
The temperature over the mountain pass at Escondido Summit fell below the freezing mark and the traffic slowed to rubberneck at the wreckage of a jack-knifed trailer truck in the icy northbound lane. Once past the accident site, the cars sped up again, convinced a similar fate was impossible for any of the southbound drivers. Entering the flat pan of the San Fernando Valley, the rain became a drizzle and Sean asked, "Can you drive me a ride over to Beverly Hills?"
Turning off the 170, Sherri brusquely told her passenger, "I'd give you a lift further, but I want to get the film to the lab for processing. The best I can do is leave you at a bus stop."
"Thanks." It was better than he probably deserved, considering the circumstances.
"Where are you going?"
"Crescent Drive."
"Beverly Hills?"
"Yes, to have dinner with an old friend."
Sherri couldn't have cared less and said, "Take the 420 to Santa Monica, then the 4. The driver will tell you where to get off. You have a set of keys, right?
"Yes, I do."
"Then we'll see you later.” Sherri steered the Skylark to the curb at Vinland.
"Yeah, right," Sean said, glad to be getting away from the strained atmosphere between Sherri and Lena.
The Skylark pulled away from the street corner, leaving him standing with his bag in hand. Everything he possessed was in it; clothes, passport, the wallets, a book of Ezra Pound's poetry, and the stack of phony money. If he had been paid the $3000 they owed him, he would have left town straight after his dinner with Vic, but he was destined to see the women one last time.
Dropping his bag, he looked at the all the cars and houses. After the last weeks in the desert they seemed to be everywhere. His eyes watered from the sting of car exhaust and his nostrils caught whiff of a thousand different odors, most of them not pleasant.
Thankfully the 420 bus downtown appeared on time and Sean climbed abroad, paying his fare. The driver gave him a transfer and he found a spot in the back and buried his face in Pound's Cantos. When the bus lurched left on Santa Monica, Sean squeezed by a homeless person manhandling a shopping cart up the steps onto the sidewalk. There was not a single honest citizen on the street and the cruising motorists were barely above suspicion either. Crossing the busy boulevard, he searched for a taxi to escape the swirl of drag queens, carless gangbangers, crackheads, hustlers, and psychotic hoboes lurking around the bus stop. If this was the sixth ring of hell, then the seventh was lurking up the alley past the donut shop.
Sean might have been out of the city for two weeks, nevertheless he naturally re-assumed his defensive posture and made no eye contact with those around him. The #4 bus to Santa Monica arrived before a taxi and luckily the ride to Beverly Hills was short.
Stepping from the dank bus, Sean smelled the night jasmine lingering on haunting murk. Somewhere nearby the bells chimed out the half-hour. The traffic on the boulevard was light and he almost jaywalked to the other side of the street, except a black and white BHPD cruiser pulled up to the intersection. Remembering the other officer's warning, he waited until ‘WALK' flashed and the cruiser drove away, its occupant content to have protected and served the community, since the shopping district of Beverly Hills was a ghost town after dark.
The stores were closed and the high-class shoppers had been replaced by several scruffy transients under a realtor's awning. After a few steps he spotted the restaurant that Vic had chosen for them to meet and, as Sean walked to the velvet ropes, the paparazzi lurking in the nearby alcove focused their cameras, in case the worm-haired Wasta doorman gave them the Hi sign that he might be someone worth photographing, however the doorman searched his memory banks without being able to tag this middle-aged blonde man as being anybody and said, "There's a private party tonight, so try and come back tomorrow?"
Assured the unknown stranger was a bum, the paparazzi lowered their cameras, but Sean had heard the doorman's bullshit line before and reached into his jacket. The doorman stiffened, fearing this transient to pull out a gun or start a conversation, except Sean duked him with a $100 bill, saying, "I'm a guest of Mr. Franklin."
"Of course, you are.” Some people would have thrown the bill back in his face, but Sean had read the man's price right. The ropes opened and the doorman shook the knotted dreads out of his face to say, "Have a good evening, sir."
Sean entered the violet-hued restaurant and checked his bag before making his way to the curved metal bar overlooking the sunken dining area. He signaled for the barman and surveyed the gathering of the rich and famous at the white-clothed tables. Everybody was somebody and the only extras were the serving staff and Sean.
The crew-cut barman coldshouldered Sean, until the doorman whispered in his co-worker's ear. The barman came over with a smile, evidently fishing for his piece of the pie. Sean didn't disappoint him and after being served his first Absolut and tonic of the year, he produced a crisp, but phony, $100 bill and said like a big shot, "Keep the change, my man."
The barman was now Sean's new best friend and hoped the blonde man might be an extravagant producer, who could rescue him from the wear and tear of night work. He gently probed for vital stats, but Sean fielded the questions with grunts and shrugs, so the bartender left him alone, as the icy drink's 80-proof vodka spread a buzz, which allowed him to fully appreciate the Vietnamese rock songs on the sound system.
"Excuse me, sir,” an obsequious male voice snapped him from his daze.
"Yes?” Sean swiveled his head to the right.
"Are you waiting for a table?” The rumor of Sean's largesse had already crawled up the pecking order to the maitre de, a neatly coifed blonde man in a beautifully tailored suit.
Sean waved his hand desultorily and said, "No, only a friend."
"Aha." The pony-tailed man in a white dinner jacket said under his breath. "We are somewhat overbooked tonight, but I can manage a table for you. My name is Paulo."
"Thanks, Paulo. I'm okay for now, but if I need your help, you'll be the first to know.” Sean did not baksheesh the maitre de, but winked to let him know he would be getting his. The maitre de signaled for the bartender to refresh the stranger's drink and Sean smiled at how easy people are to fool, when greed comes into play.
Fifteen minutes later Vic entered the restaurant, his gray eyes blinking after the sidewalk gauntlet of paparazzo's strobes. Once his vision cleared, he waved to several tables, shook hands with the maitre de, and searched the room for Sean, though it took him about thirty seconds to recognize the blonde man at the bar. "That you?"
"None other." Sean raised his glass.
"What's with the hair?" He slapped Sean on the shoulder. "And what's with those bruises?"
"It's a long story.” Sean shook Vic's hand.
"Thought you gave up long stories.” Vic motioned for the bartender to bring two more of whatever Sean was drinking.
"I did too, but you know how it is?” Neither of them seemed to have aged between their last meeting, though there was no mistaking Vic for anything other than a movie star. His blonde hair was still the same color it had been twenty years ago, his teeth, while uneven, were an unearthly white, his eyes were alive, and his body was trim from daily yoga exercises, which suited the imported suit he was wearing. He nodded to a passing movie actress and said to Sean, "No, I don't, but long as you didn't kill anyone, it's okay by me."
"Thank you for being so understanding. I'll tell you all the gory details during dinner. You hungry?"
"Yeah, but there aren't any open table."
"I think I can solve that problem." Sean snapped his fingers and slipped a $100 bill to Paulo in exchange a table surrounded by plenty of high-stakes players.
"Was that real?” Vic asked.
"Depends on the lighting.” Sean told Vic the truth, because the movie star never lied to him.
"You haven't changed much."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"You remember the first time we met?"
"A long time ago."
"Over twenty years."
"Yeah, we were busboys at an uptown restaurant,” Sean said.
Vic grimaced, for he had only lasted a month at picking up plates before getting a spot in a theater group which had gave him his start in show business. "Yeah, you were dealing coke on the side."
"Small time.” Sean sometimes had to fine-tune his friend's telling the tale.
"Anyway we were at CBGBs."
"Still a great place.” Sean’s hanging out at the punk rock haunt on the Bowery in the late-Seventies seemed only like yesterday, mostly because the club was the same landmark dump now it was then.
"You took me into the bathroom and calmly chopped up some cocaine, while everyone pounded on the toilet door. You acted like nothing was wrong and I thought we were going to get arrested."
"I was a little out of control back then."
"A little?"
"Okay, okay, I was crazy, when being crazy meant something,” Sean misquoted Charles Manson, slightly vexed by his inability to outdistance the stories of his past, but there was little reason for people's opinion of him to change. He was living in the same apartment, drove the same motorcycle, had almost no money in the bank, and the only social security in his future was a park bench, while Vic had become a face known around the world. "That was a long time ago."
"If you say so.” Vic regarded his friend's recent wounds and Sean touched his left eye. The swelling had come down, but black and blue lingered under the skin. He smiled and then the two of them laughed, immediately leaping over the chasm of the years between them. Neither of them expected more from other than the other was capable of giving, whether that be a phone call or a drink together.
"So tell me about this movie. What's with the hair? And how you'd lose that baby fat?” Vic asked, sparking Sean's recounting the last two weeks' events. He skipped the flight from New York, the attempted murder, and his almost being killed. Vic sensed Sean was hiding some of the story and dug deeper. "How did you land the lead role in this film."
"What film?” A blonde man in a Savile Row suit asked, as he sat down uninvited.
Vic introduced Maulwin Morrow III as the producer of his last film ALL THE WAY and said, "This is Sean Tempo. He was going to be the world's most famous writer, but he walked into Barnes and Nobles bookstore on Fifth Avenue and realized enough books had been written without his having to add to them."
"I think you made the right decision,” the producer answered without any real interest, since he viewed writers, failed or successful as deadweight. "And now you're in the movies. Anything I would know about?"
"It's a small film."
"Everyone can't start off being Steven Spielberg, although none of us would mind. So what's this story about?"
"It's the end of the world,” Sean started and neither Maulwin's nor Vic's eyes glazed over during his telling of ADAM AND TWO EVES. When Sean finished, the producer turned to Vic. "So what do you think?"
"It has all the elements; unknowns, low budget, good story."
"So who are the two actresses involved?" Maulwin signaled the barman to bring over another round.
"Sherri Conti and Lena de Gama." Sean replied, thinking no one in Hollywood would have heard of them, however the hip producer leaned closer and exclaimed in a whisper, "God, they're my two favorites. You're not talking about a porno film, are you?"
"Not at all, though there is some nudity.” Sean prayed the hard-core action filmed in the cabin would end up on the cutting room floor.
"Who are they?” Vic asked.
"Where you been hiding? Lena de Gama is a myth, who stars in the films Sherri Conti, the last hard-core film legend, directs. They're the hottest team in porno," Maulwin gushed shamelessly, further exposing himself to be a porno connoisseur by an in-depth critique of Sherri's films capturing Lena's unphotogenic beauty with mythic eroticism. "It's an honor to meet the first man to appear in a film with Lena."
"It was just a luck."
“Here's to more luck." The producer raised his glass, but Sean's glass was empty, so Maulwin put his down and said, "I'd really like to see the film. It's an independent, right?"
"Sure.” Sean was taken aback by the producer's interest, but mostly because he had no intention of sticking around town.
"Do they have any distribution package signed?" Maulwin was sincerely interested.
Sean's face went blank, for he was way out over his head. "I don't know."
Vic smiled at his friend's ignorance on Hollywood wheeling and dealing. "Sean's a rookie, so take it slow with him."
"I'd really like to talk with them." Maulwin proved the point by ordering a bottle of vintage champagne and for the next hour the night became a dream, for sitting next to a successful producer like Maulwin was Hollywood's version of rubbing a rabbit's foot, as writers, actors, actresses, cinematographers, producers, directors, set designers, and musicians gravitated to their table like a parade of film credits. All of them were cursed with not being able to look you in the eye, because they were peeking over your shoulder to see if something better was coming along, though the only exception was Vic and it would have been very easy to be jealous of Vic's success, except Sean was content to eat, drink, and be merry as well as thank God that one of them had struck it big.
A stunning and famous actress sat at the table and played the three men like a roulette ball searching the highest playing slot on the wheel. When she left, Sean leaned over and said, "I think she likes you."
"Ha, let me tell you about the way it is here with woman. Actresses I mean," Vic whispered in Sean's ear. "At Eight they'll go for a producer, at Nine a director, and at Ten a leading man."
"What about writers?"
"A good-looking busboy stands a better chance. Sorry, but that's just the way it is,"
"Oh."
"But they're not really your type, are they?"
Sean was always put off by people's assuming his wants and desires, but Vic was too good a friend to say anything, so he opted for regaling the table with ribald tales from his past, none of them lies, but each tainted with amusing embellishments and spurred on by the stellar audience's laughter, he plugged on, until Vic dragged him away from the table and into the tiled men's room.
"What's up, Vic? I say something stupid?" Sean asked, straining to recall his last words at the table.
"Worst."
"No one was saying anything interesting."
"I've been coming out here for years and haven't heard a single joke or a good real-life story."
"What?"
"Nobody tells them, cause they think they'll be ripped off for a script."
Sean remembered GET SHORTY. "I'd be honored, if they ripped me off for a story."
"Not that last one." Vic handed him a paper towel to dry his face.
"Why not?"
"You remember what you were just telling everyone?"
"To tell you the truth, no.” Having lost fifteen pounds over the past two weeks and not drinking since New Year's, his body was having trouble processing alcohol. He cupped his hands together and sucked down several mouthfuls of water. "I'm sorry, if I embarrassed you."
"You didn't embarrass me, but that last story was a little too incriminating."
"What story was that?" Sean had a bad feeling about this.
"The one about a New York conman forced into a contract hit in Vegas by these cops. How he fakes the murder, but the cops take him into the desert to kill him. He escapes and is picked up by these feminists making a film...."
"Stop, stop, I've heard the story before." Sean gulped nervously, as the shock of adrenaline sobered him up. "I mention any names?'
"No."
Sean was somewhat relieved, but Vic's expression told him not to be. "Anyone buy it?"
"I don't think so, but I'd keep my mouth shut around these people."
"Thanks for the warning." No wonder the CIA had not recruited him after university. Given a few beers, he would have given Goldfinger the combination to Fort Knox.
"That's what friends are for."
Sean splashed some more water in his face and took a towel from Vic. "Did you believe me?"
"Sean, I know you too many years to doubt you, but sometimes I prayed you're lying for your own sake."
"Me too."
"You okay now."
"Yeah, just give me a couple of minutes, then I'll catch a pumpkin back to the Valley."
After Vic left the bathroom, Sean kicked the solid wood wall, almost breaking his toe. All he was to these people was a mild diversion from their lives of the filthy rich and terribly famous. He didn't belong here or with these people. After drying his face, he told himself that he would go outside, thank everyone for a nice time, and leave. It would be best for everyone, him most of all.
No one really paid him any mind, when he returned to the table. Vic was deep in a conversation with the exquisite blonde touching up her make-up and Maulwin was speaking excitedly with several other men. Looking at the bright faces around him, Sean felt more out of place than before and rubbed his face, realizing how tired he was. Someone asked him a question, which he didn't hear, so he demanded, "What?"
Maulwin Morrow III wrapped an arm around Vic and said, "We were talking about how the government views Hollywood and violence. The way they try to make a scapegoat out of us. Do you think that's fair?"
"I don't know anything about it.” Sean answered, if only to create an opening for him to say good-bye to Vic, however the producer was not through with him. "You don’t know. Just looking at you tells me that you do."
There's one in every crowd and in a restaurant like this usually more than one person thought he was better than anyone else, especially if you were judging by appearances. Knowing Sean's reaction to people like Maulwin, Vic said, "Sean isn't what you think he is."
"No, why don't we let him tell us what his opinion on violence in film." Maulwin Morrow III was not to be detoured and asked, "You must have one."
"What I think is unimportant."
"Don't be so humble. Tell us what you really think."
Sean sighed, because he knew exactly what was going to happen within the next minute. "Violence in films might be one of the causes of murder. You have people shooting at each other without ever getting bloody. Without ever really dying. In the end the actors pick themselves up, wipe off the pig's blood, and drive home to their mansion, while a kid with a gun sprays a high school thinking he'll be able to got home and watch THE SIMPSONS."
"If someone wants to stop violence on TV, they can just turn it off. If they don't like it in movies, then they don't have to go," Maulwin guffawed loudly and from the expressions of most of the other people in earshot, they appeared to agree with him, but they were wrong and Sean grabbed Maulwin's collar and held a fork an inch from the producer's eyes. "How'd you like for me to stick a fork in your eye. I mean really stick it in, so your eyeball plops out on the table. Or maybe I tear off your ear. I knew a pimp in Hamburg who could do it in one go."
To emphasize the point, Sean grabbed the producer ear and Maulwin squealed, "Let me go. Stop."
"Violence in real life doesn't have a remote control, unless it's the one TV and Hollywood use to fuck up our minds. Remember me next time you have some kill someone on screen." Seeing the doorman on the telephone, probably to the police, Sean released the producer and said, "Hey, it's been real. Maybe we can meet again and talk about the old times."
Very few people in the restaurant had noticed what had just occurred, since they were consumed by their own worlds, but the doorman escorted him outside to assure no further scene occurred.
A tentacle of fog curled across the sidewalk and the wet asphalt shone slick under the single streetlight. Sean could see his breath on the night air and smell of jasmine was stronger than before, until he caught the rotten smell of the transients huddled in the alcove of a hair-styling salon. He coughed and handed each of them a $20 bill, each of them saying, "God bless you."
Sean had always appreciated the grateful well wishes of the underclass, knowing it was only matter of inches from where he stood to where they lay. When a Bentley coupe pulled up to the curb, Sean thought it might be some millionaire cruising for some rough trade, but the window descended and Vic smiled, saying, "What's the hurry?"
"I thought it was a good time to leave before I screw up your career."
"That's guy's an asshole."
"He had plenty of company in this crowd."
"Yeah, it goes with the territory out here,” his friend stated, as if to say that he didn't belong out here either.
Sean leaned on the car, his palms immediately deciphering the texture of the paint coats to be something close to perfection. "So this is the big leagues?"
"One of the perks written into the contract of the film. I have to think of appearances."
"I'm impressed."
"What are you doing now?” Vic asked.
"I was going to go back to the Valley."
"If this was back in New York, I'd say, "Let's go out for a drink.", but out here the police love busting you for DWI."
"I understand," Sean replied, since not having to drive had been his main reasons he stayed in New York all this time.
"Why don't you come back to the house? I have a few bottles of good wine. What do you say?"
"You sure Beth won't mind?” Vic’s wife had always regarded Sean as a threat to her husband's career.
"Not at all. She'll be asleep."
"Sure, why not?” He asked himself who he was to refuse a taste of the good life.
The Bentley pulled away from the curb and sped through the purple mist of Canon Drive. The sound of the tires whirling over the smooth asphalt barely seeped through the windows and the vibration from the Bentley's engine was unfelt by neither driver nor passenger. Sean settled into the comfort of the Bentley's seat and observed, "So this is how the 1% live?"
"Every single day.” Vic put on a David Bowie's version of Iggy's CHINA GIRL, then asked in a low gravelly voice, "So you ever make it with this Lena?"
"It's a long story,” Sean replied with a smile, for while he hadn't a dime, long stories were a wealth all his own.