by Jack Baran
“Manager around?”
“That’s me.”
“Any vacancies?”
“A few.”
“What does a room go for?”
Pete likes to pick out accents, but hers is unidentifiable, yet something about her is vaguely familiar, or maybe, at sixty-three on the edge of geezerhood, everyone reminds him of someone. “I have a deluxe with a Jacuzzi and a deck overlooking the stream.”
“That’s some stream.”
“A couple of days it will settle down.”
“How much?”
“Two-fifty, Sunday through Thursday, three hundred, Friday/Saturday.”
“What about those up there?” She points to the smaller units across the parking lot on the upper tier.
“Cheaper, one-fifty, two hundred.”
“And for a week?”
“Five times one-fifty plus two times….”
“Two hundred is one thousand one hundred and fifty dollars. I can multiply. How about seven hundred flat?”
“Those units have small kitchens.”
“I don’t need a kitchen.”
Pete’s former self liked to haggle, it was part of the way things worked. Pete’s present incarnation doesn’t waste time making deals.
“I really can’t afford more.” She sounds like she means it.
Pete, the softie, hands her a pen. “Sign in. Complimentary coffee and home made muffins every morning. One small thing, if you would refrain from wearing that Red Sox cap during your stay, it would be much appreciated.”
“That would be an abrogation of my right to free speech, don’t you think?” Cleo Johnson from Marshalltown, Iowa, registers and pays cash for a week in advance. He puts her in Unit 15, adjacent to the main house. She’s traveling light with a small canvas bag and a laptop.
Once upon a time, when Pete met a woman, he had a tendency to rate their attributes on a scale from one to ten - tits, legs, ass, smile and personality, Samantha had been a nine, Heidi, wife number two was an eight, Barbara, who he was married to for twenty-two years, would have been a ten but she discouraged this crude form of Bronx objectivism, so he dropped the behavior thus refraining from rating Unit 15.
Pete is a creature of habit and routine and where he eats is how he orients himself. In NYC there were hero places, pizza stands, delis and cafeterias, all substantial fare. In LA he had an endless array of salads to choose from in the hip bistros and cafés he frequented. In Woodstock everything is home made. He loves the Cuban pressed panini at O9, where he tries to read his newspaper but occasionally ends up sharing a table with Edith Evans, the vivacious realtor that handled the Streamside sale. At Maria’s, where the denizens go, he feasts on inexpensive garlicky vegetables and homemade pesto ravioli. He often stops for a fresh fruit shake at Sunfrost, taking the time to listen to the bearded counterperson’s latest poem.
Today he drives down the hill to where he feels the most kinship, Lori’s, located among a string of commercial spaces fronting Rt. 212 that includes the Walk-in Doctor, a hair salon, copy shop and wooden kazoo maker. Lori’s baked goods are a constant temptation. Pete’s cell phone rings as he pulls into a parking spot. He wouldn’t carry it, but doesn’t want to be perceived as technologically challenged or unreachable.
It’s his friend Bobby who became famous playing an LAPD detective in Nasty, a TV series that ran for seven seasons and made them both rich. Pete created the character; his friend lived it, solving crimes with a sarcastic sense of humor and a way with women. The audience loved the rascal.
“Yo, Pete.”
“Bobby. Long time.”
“I miss you man. Life isn’t the same with you gone. And you’re not even dead.”
“Bobby, you know where I live. It’s been three years, visit why don’t you?”
“I thought you’d be back by now. Don’t you miss your old buddies?”
The truth is Pete misses them all, even Barbara who finally threw him out and especially Bobby who always made him laugh. “That’s not the point.”
“Pete, listen up. I’ve been cast in a new pilot, great part, chief of detectives in a small city, maybe Seattle or Portland. I play opposite an African American woman mayor – younger – who wants to replace me. They feud, but in the end learn to work together. Problem is there’s no juice in the dialogue. My character is way too bland.”
“Any heat between you and the mayor?”
“See, you get the problem immediately. My producer, Marcus Bergman, needs someone to do a rewrite, you know bring out the potential of the concept. When I mentioned your name, he flipped. Turns out, he was a huge fan of Nasty.”
“Bobby, I don’t write for a living anymore. In fact, I don’t write period. I own a motel in Woodstock.”
“What are you doing living with hippies?”
“I’m living in the 21st century. The only tie-dye for sale in the village is in a vintage clothing store. It’s assholes like you who think the Woodstock Festival actually took place here.”
“Three days of peace and love, man.”
“It happened in Bethel and we were out on Fire Island.”
“Who was I banging then?”
“Tanya, the actress.”
“Pete, do me a solid. Marcus Bergman calls, talk to the man. He’s smart, your kind of guy.”
“Bobby, as usual you’re not listening.”
“Pete, when Barbara threw you out, who took you in? Who has always been there for you, no matter what?”
It was true, each busted marriage landed him back at Bobby’s. “If your producer calls, I’ll talk to him.”
“I love ya, man.”
Inside Lori’s, Pete orders a plate of fresh kale, roasted garbanzos with tomatoes and scallions and a huge portion of turkey meat loaf, resists the luscious cream filled cupcakes, eyeballs an oatmeal, cranberry, chocolate-chip cookie. “Save me a cookie,” he says to Patrick the dude who works behind the counter and plays bass in a ska band. He grabs a bottle of Honest Tea from the cooler and steps into the side room.
“Hey Hollywood, sit down.” Richard, a master carpenter, came to town on the crew that built the Bearsville Complex for Albert Grossman, played chess with Bob, married a local girl and never left. This thrills Pete who had been a Dylan fan since before “Blond On Blond” and still loves him. Over the years Richard has evolved into a master cabinetmaker. He’s irate. “Walkin’ my dog on the Comeau thirty-five years, now there’s talk about a registration fee for out-of-towners. Since when did Saugerties become out of town?”
Steve, a modernist plumber, plays a soulful trumpet in a funk band, smiles. “They’ll never pass that ordinance, dogs rule in Woodstock.”
Pete loves Steve’s band. “Caught your gig at the Hickory last week, a lot going on.”
“Pee Wee’s chord changes are really out there.”
“You played some Monk too.”
“That was actually an original called ‘Funk the Monk.’”
“You need a dog, Pete?” Ivan works as a house painter and welds salvaged machinery parts into quirky sculptures. Pete recently bought a trumpet playing muffler man that sits beside his front porch.
“Not particularly.”
“I got some puppies.”
“Not good around the motel. I’m in charge of landscaping not dog poop.”
“Good fertilizer.”
After almost getting creamed backing out of Lori’s parking. Pete drives to the post office at the other end of town hoping to find a fat residual check in his box, settles for a mordant Gillian Welch CD he bought online at Amazon.
Crossing the road, he climbs the hill kids sleigh ride in winter, stares up at a red tail hawk circling then walks towards a fanciful, multi-tier stage where the local theatrical company performs Shakespeare every summer. Pete never understood the Bard; his influences were pulp fiction and screwball comedy. He also had a taste for zany. When his series was shooting, he liked to sneak a couple of hits of weed in his trailer then go on set and impro
vise with different characters. The network had painstakingly approved the script and didn’t want last minute changes that were often double entendres and might not be caught by network censors, but they tolerated Pete’s antics because the audience loved the raunchy allusions. The series, costly to produce, was an early casualty of the reality revolution; the network was happy to be finished with him, labeling Pete difficult. He was ready to move on, parlaying the popularity of Nasty into a spate of sweet deals that produced lots of money but no success.
The Comeau is a rough trail that leads down through a mixed wood of beech, ash and hemlock alongside Mill Stream. The water is up from the recent storm, crashing over slabs of rock, eddying around uprooted trees. Pete follows the path up to where it levels out and the water is calmer. On a grassy knoll, he settles into half lotus. If his LA buddies could see him meditating by a stream, they might understand why he abandoned material competitiveness, for what exactly, enlightenment? He closes his eyes, intending to empty his mind and stop thinking. Stop thinking. Stop.
Essential to staying on the spiritual path is turning off the cell phone. Pete doesn’t in case Annabeth, his daughter who he is on the outs with, should ever call. When it rings, his smart phone identifies Marcus Bergman, Bobby’s producer. In the midst of nature, in search of enlightenment, he answers the phone.
“Pete Stevens?”
“Speaking.”
“Marcus Bergman. I’m producing a new series for Showtime.”
Is the guy talking fast or Pete thinking slow?
“Bobby Fields is the co-star, plays the chief of detectives in a small city. His nemesis is the new mayor, a black woman who wants to run for Congress. Problem is there’s no snap in the dialogue. Bobby told me about you. I was a big fan of your series. What I loved was the quirky behavior of the characters, the way they talked, you know the vernacular.”
“Well, I…”
“When I asked around, I was told there was a dark cloud hanging over you.”
“I burned some bridges.”
“What do I care, everyone makes mistakes, it’s human. Right?”
“I’m human.”
“They said you were out of the business.”
“I am.”
“Where are you anyway?”
“I live in upstate New York these days.”
“So you’re available.”
“Like I said.”
“Bobby said you would build sexual tension between the chief and the mayor. I think that’s a brilliant idea. The pilot needs heat.”
“I was just spitballing with him.”
“And I want you to make both characters less predictable.”
“Slow down. You’re offering me a job?”
“I know your work, this is in your wheelhouse.”
“I live here, you’re out there.”
“You have a computer, we email.”
Why is Pete pretending to be obtuse, the Streamside is in deficit and he lost a bundle when the economy tanked, he needs positive cash flow. “You know David Stone?”
“The agent?”
“Call him. Make me an offer.”
Pete powers off the phone, begins an inner debate on the merits of trying to write again. How do you stay on the path towards enlightenment when you impetuously take a job rewriting a pilot for a television series?
Pete is on the roof of Unit 23 replacing shingles with Jose when his cell phone rings again.
“David Stone for Pete Stevens.”
“That’s me.”
“One moment please.”
“I can not believe your chutzpah. I fired you as my client three years ago.”
“David, a job is a commission. What did I do wrong?”
“In the past, you took money and failed to deliver.”
“The key words are in the past.”
“You want me to negotiate a deal in good faith on your behalf with Marcus Bergman?”
“Everyone is entitled to one nervous breakdown. I’m in a different place now, in control.”
“Why don’t I believe you?”
“David, I made a lot of money for you. Is that not a fact?”
“I’m not questioning your talent, it’s your reliability that I can no longer vouch for.”
“Don’t vouch.”
“So what you’re saying is you’ll do the job?”
“Absolutely.”
“Still playing poker?”
“Not like out there.”
“Drugs and women?”
“I’m celibate.”
“You’re still a funny guy, Pete. Okay, let me get into it.”
CHAPTER 3
A lifetime ago, Pete drove a cab three nights a week, wrote most days. Samantha worked as an office temp. When she came home there were always pages for her to read. Joined at the hip, they shared a dream, his. Was that wrong? She believed in him, at least at first.
Writing never came easy for Pete, but he was diligent and worked whether inspired or not; revised, refined, then revisited, but it was the first pass that excited him most and by the end of the process he was never satisfied. His writing didn’t measure up.
While he struggled, Samantha, having no particular career ambition, was good at everything she did. Wherever she worked, they wanted her to stay, but always she refused until a happening advertising agency, enamored with her smart British accent and short skirts, made her an account executive. Pursued at work, she was impatient to go home to her lover man.
Pete waited in anticipation for her in front of United Cigars on Sheridan Square, took Samantha in his arms when she emerged from the subway, kissed her in the twilight as assorted local characters swirled around them.
From the beginning they made uncomplicated love every day. Orgasms were never a problem; she came easily, wholeheartedly; they came together. Her goal was to do everything he had ever done with other women and the one thing he hadn’t. Generally if there was something you missed in the sack it wasn’t an accident. Anal never appealed to Pete, but for Samantha it became an obsession. Breaking this taboo would join them completely. He can’t say he didn’t get off, and despite the pain, so did she, but curiously from then on they made love less, causing Samantha to wonder if Pete was fucking someone else when he was supposed to be writing? In fact, he had become a head case filled with doubt, so that when he fled the apartment in the middle of the day after deciding certain allegorical elements of his novel didn’t work, he was susceptible to temptations on the street, quickies with NYU coeds he picked up in Washington Square Park. He always showered away the tell tale residue of illicit sex to be clean for his lovely bride when she came home from work.
When Samantha started to make real money at the agency, Pete, for his own self-respect, upped his taxi shifts to five a week. He needed time off from Top Of The World, his novel, essentially finished if he’d only stop tinkering.
He was a fantastic cabby, stopping only to piss or get coffee, driving more miles than any car in the garage. Occasionally, if he passed through the Village late at night, he’d visit Samantha. He would stand in the bedroom doorway breathing in her musky scent. She slept in one of his t-shirts, invitingly on her side, wet to his touch. They fucked furiously. She groaned with pleasure but never fully woke up.
Cab driving propelled Pete’s writing in a new direction. When he wasn’t behind the wheel he was churning out short pieces for an alternative weekly about the oddballs he encountered every night. These pieces led to Top Of The World finally getting published. Despite his Bronx Bomber bona fides, the book was mostly ignored and disappeared without a trace.
Pete had become a night person while Samantha was more and more enmeshed in the day. She was also fed up with Pete driving a cab and wanted him to get a real job, wanted them to start a family. Problem was that since the failure of his novel they had lost their tactile connection. No him inside her, no her inside him.
In an attempt to save the marriage, he got a job teaching English at a private hi
gh school, she stopped taking the pill and they moved into a corner loft on Wooster and Houston that she paid for. Different schedules can prolong a dysfunctional relationship and hide a multitude of infractions until Samantha met a much more sensitive man than her husband, and as Pete noted, more successful.
He flew out to LA after the breakup to stay with Bobby who lived there now. His friend encouraged Pete to write a screenplay based on his book for Bobby to star in. The script caught the attention of a producer who optioned it. The film never got made but landed Pete his first Hollywood job. Emotionally he was still fragile from the failure of his marriage, but professionally LA was the land of opportunity.
Heidi, Pete’s second wife, a successful television actress, was discovered on Nickelodeon when she was thirteen. When they met, she was an established TV star in her late twenties, her career going nowhere. What she wanted was features, not to act in, but to produce. That’s where Pete came in. He was hot off a screen adaptation of a magazine article about a sleazy lawyer. Heidi, whom he met at an industry softball game, wanted him to escort her to the Golden Globes. The TV star’s cool flirtatiousness combined nicely with Pete’s sarcastic gravitas and made them a popular couple on the social circuit. Problem was, Heidi did not get Pete at all. She knew he was supposed to be funny but could never understand his sense of humor, laughing only when cued by others, never when they were alone together.
Marrying Heidi was not about love, she was the anti-Samantha, not a nice person, and that’s what Pete wanted. Sex was served in small, icy, portions unless she was tooting up, then she fucked him pneumatically, singing, “Let’s get it on…” in a big Broadway voice. Heidi got what she wanted. By their third anniversary, she had produced a breakout indie hit based on a spec-screenplay that his friend Jason wrote and cast with bankable friends. An affair with a big time producer, twenty-five years her senior, secured the financing. Their divorce became final the same day she signed a three-picture deal at Fox.
