by Carol Grace
”Yeah, I’ll leave now.”
”The only one on Sunset.”
”Yeah.”
”Curson.”
”Okay.”
I hung up and went to my car, wondering why I had a lunatic for a boss. I got in the Hyundai and started driving west. “Hollywood” Syd Ross was expecting me to promote him as a comedy act. But I’d seen his act, and it was terrible. He just bungled old Jewish jokes he learned from Jackie Mason. I cut over to Sunset and forgot the street I was supposed to be looking for. Eventually I got to Crescent Heights and realized I had gone way too far. It took ten minutes just to turn left to go down to Santa Monica, where I figured I would double back and find it.
But Santa Monica was a parking lot full of morons going home from work. So I sat in traffic. I thought about telling Syd to write some of his own jokes, but I realized that his act would stink no matter what he did. After twenty minutes of frustration, traffic started moving. Finally I got to Curson and remembered to turn left.
Then there was the mystery of how Syd had enough money to pay me a living wage in the first place. I got up the hill to the Kinko’s but I couldn’t tell if there was parking for customers or not so I had to find street parking way up the hill. Finally I got to the goddamn Kinko’s and I could see “Hollywood” Syd Ross (originally Rosenberg), through the window.
There he was. All fifty-three years of him. He was wearing tiny yellow running shorts and a T-shirt that said “Arnold for Governor.” He was pacing frantically, his hunched frame and mass of curly grey hair unmistakable. I got in the door.
”Andrew! Where were you, what took you so long? Come here, look at this!” He showed me a young bottle blonde with bright lipstick, a pink tank-top and tight ass-hugging pre-faded jeans sitting at a computer, looking confused.
”Isn’t she gorgeous? She’s beautiful, right?”
”Yes,” I lied.
”Tell her, tell her!” he admonished me.
”You’re very beautiful.”
She was totally frustrated, trying to print some document on a Mac. Syd tried to calm her.
”I brought my assistant. He’ll fix everything, Jessica.”
”I’m Sofia,” she said. Her Australian accent was thick.
”I brought my assistant, Sofia. Andrew will help you. HELP HER! HELP HER!” He pushed me towards the computer. She got out of the way and I looked at the computer. She was trying to print something off a CD ROM and had obviously never used complicated machinery before. I fiddled around, trying to open the document.
”This was due three hours ago,” Sofia wailed. “I’m going to freak out!” She put her head in her hands. “Fix it! Can you fix it?” Syd shouted. “Calm down, Sofia! Calm down Sofia! It’ll be okay, Sofia. I promise. Andrew will fix everything.”
”I’m not going to get the job.”
I was dealing with a pair of monkeys. They must have been here for 45 minutes, why hadn’t they asked the clerks to help them?
”Can’t you do something?” Syd asked me.
”I don’t know. I’m not familiar with Macs.”
Just then her credit card popped out of the machine and her time was up. The computer screen went black. Sofia stood up violently.
”Oh-my-God-this-is-not-happening. I just want to print my resume. I can’t believe how FUCKING COMPLICATED THIS IS!” Heads began to turn towards us as Syd frantically tried to calm her down.
”Sofia, no! Sofia, it’ll be okay.”
”I’m freaking out, what’s wrong with my credit card?”
”You can use mine!” Syd ripped out his card and shoved it into the machine. Nothing happened.
”We need some help,” Sofia said.
”Help! We need help here!” Syd ran to get an employee.
”Someone help this woman,” he chastised the staff which consisted of several black guys. Finally a guy came over and helped her. Syd and I watched.
”She’s beautiful,” Syd said.
”Yeah.”
”She’s gorgeous, I mean this is ridiculous.”
”I know.”
”This is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”
”Uh-huh.”
”She’s completely amazing, don’t you think?”
”Yeah, totally.” I noticed a copy of the Time article under his arm. He had been mentioned briefly in an article about Will Ferrell.
”You made copies of the article?”
”Yes! Because I’m in Time magaziiiiiiine” he sang, dancing around while “Lucille” played over the stereo. Customers looked over with blank faces, trying not to react. Syd looked over at the black guy helping Sofia.
”Derrick!” he shouted, running over to them. Derrick turned around.
”Derrick, you need a tip.” Syd pulled out a five dollar bill and handed it to Derrick.
”Hollywood, I can’t take that.”
”Take it, take it, take it, just take it, I tell you what, I tell you what: America is a racist country and guys like you work hard. You know? It’s hard enough to be black in America and I’ll bet I’m the first guy who tipped you all day.”
”Yeah that’s true.”
”Take the tip Derrick, that’s for you. Just tell ‘em it came from HOLLYWOOD SYD ROSS!” he bellowed, then began to dance again, waving the article in the air. “I’m in Time magaziiiiine, I’m in Time magaziiiiiiine.”
Then he went over to Sofia, still in a state of aggravation, and said “Jesus Christ, Sofia! You DON’T KNOW how gorgeous you are. Can I have your number?”
”No.”
”Do you want to go out?”
”No.”
”Here. I’ll give you my card.” He gave her a card, then pulled me aside.
”See Andrew, she probably won’t go out with me. But it’s worth a try. You know? That’s what I’m trying to teach you. Everything is worth a shot. Even if you get discouraged. Don’t EVER give up. In life. Just don’t give up. For your acting career, too. Same advice. It applies to everything. Do you hear me?”
”Yeah.”
”Do you understand?
”Sure.”
”You get it?”
”Uh-huh.”
”Don’t EVER give up. Have you had dinner?”
”No.”
”I’ll buy you a burger. I have to get home in time for Britney Spears on Dateline. You like Britney Spears?”
”Yeah, she’s alright.”
”Can you drive me home?”
Oh my God.
”Sure, Syd.”
As we left Syd said goodbye to Sofia, who didn’t respond. As we walked, Syd had to jog to keep up with my long strides.
”This Time article is great. Do you know how many people read this magazine? I mean, this is the biggest thing that has ever happened to me. It’s a mitzvah. I want to be famous so fucking bad, Andrew. I’m on the verge.”
”Yeah, this could be it, Syd.”
”Sofia probably won’t call me. What a schaunder. Oh well. See if you can get the number to Rolling Stone Magazine, maybe I can get an interview. And Spin Magazine, the E! Cable Network, the Daily Show with Jon Stewart. Call them and tell them about the article. I can do segments on the Daily Show. I can do anything! Tell them that. Tell them, tell them—remember this— ‘When you fly air Hollywood, you fly first class.’ It’ll be a catch phrase. Hahaha, that’s good. Air Hollywood, first class.”
”Yeah, that’s funny.”
We got to the car.
”We can do this, Andrew. I’ll take you straight to the top. You’ll write my jokes.”
We drove to the In-N-Out on Sunset and parked. Inside there was a huge group of USC kids in Trojan Marching Band jackets milling around waiting for burgers. Immediately Syd whipped out a copy of the article and waved it around, announcing “Hollywood Syd Ross here!! I’m in Time magaziiiiiiine!”
The marching band kids all looked over at Syd, laughing. Relishing the attention, Syd announced, “My assistant Andrew Culver, a USC gradu
ate! I love the Trojans!”
I went over to order our burgers. Waiting in line, I looked over and saw Syd surrounded by a Mexican family. He was handing out copies of the article, speaking fluent Spanish.
All I could make out was “No soy Latino, pero hablo Espanol. Tengo amor para la gente hispanica.” Pretty soon the marching band members, Mexican families, skate-boarders from Hollywood High, hoboes, and guys from some punk band were surrounding Syd and reading copies of the article. He was in heaven.
After the burgers we started driving towards his place. As we drove he pointed out Hollywood landmarks.
”Marilyn Monroe used to live on this block. And there used to be a studio in this parking lot. It’s called the phantom studio, nobody knows about it. They tore it down to build a parking lot. Can you believe that? See, a lot of these bungalow apartments were built in the twenties by the studios for their stars. They came from New York. Classic Hollywood bungalows. See that Chinese restaurant Wok of Fame? Over there. No, over there. Phil Spector’s record label used to be there. You know what, Andrew? I could never leave Hollywood. I love this place. There’s magic here, Andrew. There is magic in the air!”
”There’s definitely something in the air, Syd.”
I got him back to his apartment just in time for Britney Spears. He gave me my payment for the week and hurried inside. On the drive home it started to rain. And as I drove past the phantom studio I thought I understood what Syd was saying about Hollywood.
Read more of Andrew’s adventures in LaLa Land in his book Yellow Days at:
http://www.amazon.com/Yellow-Days-ebook/dp/B004BSGG9G/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1312861947&sr=1-1
Two for a Buck
Two short romantic stories from the pages of a Women's magazine.
Dangerous Game - "He gave her that teddy-bear smile and her heart stopped beating. But did he think she was just another football groupie?"
Breaking the Rules - "She suspected he was the kind of guy they'd warned her about. The kind who would take advantage of her."
http://www.amazon.com/Two-for-a-Buck-ebook/dp/B005JSYDFQ/ref=sr_1_4?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1314653030&sr=1-4
Here’s an Excerpt from
Trouble in Paradise
Chapter One
Quincy McLoud drove slowly down the narrow road that bisected the prairies of central Kansas. Ahead, as far as he could see, was the tall green grass of the land he used to own. The land he'd worked and expected to live on forever. Memories came flooding back, along with a sense of loss so strong he felt empty inside.
He stopped his truck as he approached the boundaries of the ranch. There on a hilly pasture above him, where hundreds of cattle were grazing, was a woman driving along in her truck as if she didn't have a care in the world. Very likely the woman he'd come to see. He got out of his truck and watched while she honked her horn and waved her arms.
"Hooo-eee," she yelled out the window, her voice echoing across the waves of grass. The cows came running, crowding eagerly against the truck when she stopped in their midst. They pressed so close she couldn't get out to empty the hay stacked in the flatbed. "Shoo," she yelled, but the cows didn't move.
Even from a long distance he sensed her frustration. He could tell she didn't belong on a ranch, especially not on this ranch, and that encouraged him. Maybe she'd be willing to listen to reason once she understood the situation.
Impulsively he took the hill in long strides and, without speaking, unloaded the hay from the back of the truck while four women in designer jeans climbed out and eyed him with undisguised admiration. The cows meandered away from the truck to get to the hay and the driver opened the door and jumped down to face him.
"I suppose I ought to thank you," she sputtered, pink- cheeked and breathless.
He tilted his hat back on his head and studied her face. Wide blue eyes, no makeup, just a dusting of freckles across her cheeks and a sunburned nose. "I suppose so," he drawled, "but don't bother. It was my pleasure."
"It may have been your pleasure, but it was my job," she said, placing her hands on her hips. She had hair the color of golden wheat and wore it tied carelessly back in a pony-tail. But her eyes were as stormy as a Kansas sky in August.
"Sorry, ma'am, but it's hard to do your job when you're trapped inside your truck by a herd of cows."
"I wasn't trapped," she explained tersely. "I was allowing them to move at their own pace and not become agitated. Just using a little cow psychology," she added, while the four women followed the conversation by turning their heads from side to side.
Quincy's eyebrows shot up. So they were using psychology on cows.
Noting his surprise, she took a deep breath. "Thanks again, Mr...?"
"McLoud. Quincy McLoud." He held out his hand. Might as well start out on a friendly note.
She nodded and coolly shook his hand. "Abby Lawrence."
The name rang a bell, but he had to be sure. "You're the...?"
"Owner of the ranch."
Her handshake was firm, her palm sported a callus or two. So this was Abby Lawrence, the new owner of the Bar Z.
One of the women took advantage of the lull in the conversation to step forward. "You're the first, real, honest-to-goodness cowboy we've seen today," she said in a reverent tone.
"Really," he said as he looked than over. They seemed nice enough with their crisp, clean Western shirts and stiff, new leather boots. And maybe they were. It was the other woman who worried him. The woman who had what he wanted. "That makes us even," he countered. "You're the first cowgirls I've seen today. Where are the men?"
"This is Women's Week," Abby explained.
Quincy gave her an inquisitive look. Women's Week? What did that mean?
"At the Rustic Hills Retreat, we have a different theme every week," she explained.
And a different name, Quincy thought. His eyes wandered to the vast fields of tall grass. "Nice place you've got here."
"Thank you." A proud smile lighted her face as she surveyed the vast expanse of land. "I love it," she said simply.
"Love it?" he echoed, surprised at the passion in her voice. "How long have you been here?"
She tucked a strand of golden hair behind her ear. "About a year or so. I fell in love with this place the first time I saw it. Then I had to figure out how to pay for it."
Quincy noted the determined tilt of her chin, the full lips pressed tightly together. So it was love at first sight, was it? This wasn't going to be as easy as he'd hoped. She had a faraway look in her eyes that made him wonder where she'd gone. Suddenly she was back.
"Are you from around here?" she asked.
"Yep. I knew it when it was the Bar Z. A long time ago."
"Well, it was nice meeting you. We've got to be getting back."
Quincy's pulse raced. He couldn't let her get away so fast and yet he didn't know how to make her stay. "Just one thing," he said, stuffing his hands into his back pockets. "You don't really believe in love at first sight, do you?"
"If s happened to me only once, when I saw this land."
"Uh-huh."
"You're not a cynic, are you, Mr. McLoud?"
"Not me." Why should he be cynical? His wife had sold his ranch out from under him, and sent him a check for half the amount along with a copy of the divorce papers she'd filed. Maybe this woman did love the place, but not as much as be did, or even as much as his old foreman. "Pop still here?" he asked.
"You know Pop?"
"We're old friends."
"Come back and say hello before you leave," she said.
"I'll do that." He touched the tip of his hat and nodded to the women. "Ladies," he said, and loped down the hill to his truck.
Abby stood staring after him, vaguely aware that the women had jumped back into the flatbed and were trying to decide whether the cowboy looked more like a young Clint Eastwood or the Marlboro Man. Abby couldn't say. The only thing she recognized was his attitude. The "I can do anything better than you
" attitude. She'd been married for five years to a man with an attitude just like that. It had been five years of feeling that nothing she did was ever quite good enough.
For five years she'd played the role of the perfect wife. Three years of mind-numbing office jobs while Grant finished law school, two years of being a corporate wife and all-round doormat while he rose to full partnership. And then, when he'd gotten to the top she'd found that she'd been playing her role all wrong.
As the wife of a law student, she was acceptable, but as the wife of a full partner, she didn't quite measure up. Something about the way she wore her hair, the way she
didn't play bridge or shop at the right places, or didn't get pregnant on schedule to produce an heir.
Her ex-husband's new wife, his former secretary, would do better. She already had a head start on the pregnancy part. Bitter? To say that Abby was bitter was only part of it. She was bitter, but she had also been hurt, angry and completely devastated. It had taken her months to recover. But she had recovered and she wasn't about to let herself have a relapse. So the sooner Mr. Cynical left, the better.
She got back into her truck and started the engine. She had to get back to the ranch house with these women before the day was a total loss. They'd had trouble this morning giving the cows their shots, the cattle had spooked and broken a fence and the women had panicked. And now this. She'd planned to restore their confidence by letting than unload the truck and feed the cattle and then he had come along. The kind of man she was trying to avoid. Who was trying to help by doing her work and taking away her confidence. Not on purpose, of course. The man wasn't malicious. Just devilishly attractive and overly helpful.
