The Hollywood Guy

by Jack Baran

Barbara, Pete’s third wife, was a doctorate in Art History, taught at UCLA, and was curetting a show on Rothko at LACMA. When they met, Pete was writing on a series set in the world of finance; greed was the theme. An episode he wrote about a smart hooker outsmarting an investment banker, using information she acquired in the sack was nominated for an Emmy. He didn’t win but it opened a lot of doors.

  Barbara never made any judgment about the merit of his work and wasn’t awed by his success. All she wanted was for them to live a sane life and be better people. She thought he was essentially an honorable man and he tried to live up to her ideal. They were a compelling couple, arguing passionately one minute, making up conspicuously the next. Barbara loved spontaneous sex in unusual places. Pete was game to fuck anywhere: the bottom of the Grand Canyon, on the beach at Zuma, a fire tower in Yachats, Oregon, a meadow in the Pyrenees, and every vehicle they ever owned. Once they screwed in the back seat of Bobby’s ’78 Impala convertible in the parking lot of Fairfax High School because they wanted to do something they would have done as teenagers. They had one child, a daughter Annabeth, who was a handful.

  Barbara, a super mom, abandoned a successful career to go back to school and get her masters and eventually a doctorate in psychology. Her focus was adolescence. In contrast, Pete, an average dad at best, supported the family’s affluent lifestyle and Barbara’s career change. Pete loved to tease his girls; he thought they liked it.

  Barbara believed Pete was stuck in adolescence. Unfortunately he didn’t have the time needed to evolve because he was working twelve-hour days and sometimes weekends. A totally faithful husband up till then, he couldn’t resist what was available to the creator of a hit cable series. He carried on with the costume designer, a mysterious Italian dressed in black that somehow lead to a liaison with an entertainment attorney, who came on like a lesbian. After her, were occasional actresses, never series regulars, guest stars only. He rationalized that his indiscretions were meaningless encounters out of time and place from his real life as a family man. Barbara never seemed to notice his absences so focused was she on her own study and work, or maybe it was her new mentor with the beard, shaved head, and no sense of humor, who liked to discuss the difference between neuroscience and classic Freudian analysis with her.

  Around this time, Bobby, a big TV star, was living the good life in Malibu. A perennial bachelor, there were always lots of young girls hanging around his place. In fact, he was planning an orgy for his 50th birthday. Pete had never been to one.

  “You don’t want to miss out on the experience of a lifetime.”

  “Are you inviting me, or me and Barbara?”

  “Whatever works.”

  “Cause you want to fuck my wife?”

  “Don’t bring her.”

  “Her feelings will be hurt.”

  “Don’t tell her.”

  To Pete, that made sense.

  Not to Barbara, who wasn’t fooled. She would not have sex with him for many months after that and never really forgave him. Never. That was her major flaw, vindictiveness. She made him suffer and guess who Bethy sided with?

  The cancellation of the series brought an end to life in the fast lane. Pete was relieved; he wanted to get back to his marriage with Barbara, she and Annabeth were the best things in his life, he only loved them, but she was still punishing him for the orgy. As Voltaire said on being invited a second time. “Once an experience, twice, a pervert.” The bottom line, he got what he deserved. Pete had been inattentive to his wife’s needs and unavailable to his daughter. Now they froze him out.

  Filled with self–loathing, gambling replaced sex as his obsession. As a kid in the Bronx, he played poker for comics with his friends. Real money was on the table by the time he graduated high school. The summer he was a lifeguard at the El Patio Beach Club, he won five grand in a Labor Day game. Pete was a smart player who tended to push the betting when he was winning, get impatient and force the game when he was losing. This was a dangerous way to play and often resulted in more loss than gain.

  At the height of his madness, he was invited to play at the home of a well-known A-list producer. The game included two studio execs and a bankable actor. It was brutal poker where money talked and you needed balls to survive. Pete, playing under control, was up a little when he pulled four fives in a huge pot and bet all he could. He was beat by the producer who was holding four nines – 50K cash, gone. Pete felt cheated and said so, knocking over the table and sending everyone’s chips flying. Pete of the Yankees had become a pathetic loser. After that sad debacle, he confined his mania to playing with strangers in low rent poker parlors just off the 605 in El Monte. He lost there too continuing a bad streak that lasted until he left LA.

  CHAPTER 4

  When Pete moved to Woodstock he stopped writing and gave up fucking in an attempt to break free of a life of self-absorption and indulgence. His intent was to simplify, eat healthy, practice yoga daily and rebuild from inside. For spiritual guidance he engages in a dialogue with a Buddhist Monk he met at the Chinese restaurant.

  He still plays poker, small game, dollar ante. Getting to know the locals, he calls it. In Woodstock Pete turned a corner, not letting the cards play him, enjoying the camaraderie of the other players. The regulars include Castellito the excavator, Phil who became his dentist, Edith Evans the realtor who got him into the game, Kurt Van Dusan a lawyer, Jules a hot-tempered sculptor and his friend George, a sardonic gallerist with excellent taste. The level of play is surprisingly good, peppered with ribald commentary especially from Edith who has had her eye on Pete since the closing on the Streamside. Tonight he’s knocked out early playing Texas Hold’Em.

  Back home, he unwinds on the porch smoking a joint, listening to the stream. Grass is another thing he hasn’t given up.

  “Excuse me. I could use a hit of creativity.”

  It’s the backpacker who haggled the special weekly rate for Unit 15. Her contacts are in, hat off, short hair brushed, and she’s barefoot in a blue stripped white boatneck, no bra. Pete passes her the joint, seemingly not registering the impression her nipples make on the cotton fabric.

  “I hope it’s not too strong. I hardly ever smoke pot, I’m just having a hard time working.”

  “Don’t worry, its cheap Mexican.”

  She inhales deeply. “I was browsing the stacks in the Library and found this book.” She holds up a hardback copy of Top Of The World by Petur Stefansson. “They said this is you.”

  “Was in another life.”

  “Librarian thought it won some kind of award.”

  “Not true.”

  “I can’t wait to read it.”

  Pete shrugs. “Your poison.”

  “I’m writing something.”

  “Good luck.”

  “Curious?”

  “Not particularly.” He stands.

  “My memoirs. Maybe you could take a look at what I have so far. I really need professional input.”

  “I don’t write anymore.” He’s lying of course, he’s supposed to be punching up Bobby’s pilot, David made the deal and they want pages immediately, but he put off starting all day. “I hope the grass works, keep the rest of the joint. Good night… Chloe.”

  “Cleo Johnson, from Marshalltown, Iowa.”

  He stares at her. “Do you know who Jean Seberg is?”

  “She’s famous where I come from. We went to the same high school. She’s my idol.”

  “Your smile reminds me of her.”

  “I’m flattered.”

  Pete climbs the stairs to his office remembering the lethal innocence of Saint Jean, his dream girl in A Bout de Souffle, Breathless. He adjusts his ergonomic chair, stares down at the swimming hole. Up here in semi-organized clutter is where Pete stores his past. There are photo albums divided by marriages, his music archive in all formats and a good sound system with excellent speakers and components to play it. There’s also a lifetime of writing packed in boxes; produced teleplays alongside unproduced
trunk items, even a copy of his novel and the screenplay he adapted from it. How can he empty his mind of all of this?

  He turns on the radio. The Yankees play the Angels on the West Coast so it’s only the fourth inning. This is how he started following his team when he was a kid, listening to the ballgame on the radio in the kitchen, often with his mother who was also a fan, rooting for their team, the Yanks. When Pete returned east, he started listening again. A baseball game is perfect for car trips, painting a unit, doing email or even writing. He loves the announcers. John Sterling calls the game in a deep resonant voice, has nicknames for everyone. Susan Waldman does the color, sympathetic to a player in a slump or agonizing over the injured, while congratulating clutch hitters and solid pitching. These two don’t miss a thing and are honest in their appraisals.

  He powers on the laptop and opens the pilot. As he reads, Cleo’s nipples pressed against cotton, trigger sexual fantasies that seep into the chief’s head, an inner voice, something new. He starts writing. When the mayor presents the chief with a medal at a public function, he becomes conscious of her nipples, his inner voice riffing in graphic detail, his behavior revealing nothing. All Pete has written in three years has been promo for the Streamside web site. Tonight a torrent pours forth as he rips into the teleplay. It’s after four when he hits send to Marcus Bergman and blind copies Bobby. Relaxing in the afterglow of inspiration, the Angels come from behind to beat the Yankees in extra innings. He glances out the window; the light is still on in Unit 15.

  No matter when he goes to sleep, Pete is up by 7 AM, grinding coffee beans, drinking a small glass of OJ while it brews, reading yesterday’s NY Times, comparing the newspaper’s version of events with the over-the-top coverage on TV. Pete claims he’s not a news junkie but when an important story breaks, he quickly becomes addicted. He’s an equal opportunity viewer, wants to hear all points of view, Anderson Cooper and Wolf Blitzer on CNN, the passionate rants of Keith Olbermann and insightful commentary of Rachel Maddow on MSNBC, Brits on the BBC, the crazies at Fox, and the un-telegenic experts on PBS. The thing about the stories he follows is that they have no resolution, they go away and come back, the drug wars in Mexico, sectarian warfare in Iraq, liberation in Afghanistan, economic collapse featuring bailouts of banks and businesses too big to fail. And what about the Internet? He’s on information overload, brainwashed, not informed.

  It’s another unseasonably warm day. Pete, still puzzling over Cleo’s transformation from backpacker to sexy babe, rounds the bend approaching the Apex Gallery, a two story wooden building overlooking Tannery Brook. Today the windows are covered with brown construction paper. Pete opens the door and steps inside.

  Two rooms divide the space. To the right, exquisite hand painted photographs of flowers: hyacinths, camellias, and tulips, adorn the walls. To the left, George the owner is hanging a new show of voluptuous nude women. The photographs, printed on canvas, are lightly coated with wax then painted over adding texture and mystery.

  “You open?” Pete stands in the doorway, enjoying a preview.

  George is well dressed, carefully groomed, around fifty. He takes a lot of care in juxtaposing the images. “How did you make out last night?”

  “Lost a few.”

  “With Edith?”

  “I’m not interested in Edith.”

  “I slept with her years ago in New York before Wendy. She was hot.”

  “I’m celibate, you know that.”

  “How many times have you been married?”

  “Three times, I struck out.”

  “Me and Wendy have been together almost twenty years.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “We give each other space when we need to.”

  “Barbara wasn’t so understanding.”

  “Do yourself a favor, call Edith.”

  “Why do I come in here? Not for your personality.”

  “Lock the door and I’ll roll a joint.”

  “On my way to yoga.”

  “Any chance you can get some of your famous Hollywood friends to look at the new show online, maybe buy something?”

  “My famous Hollywood friends wrote me off when I moved here.”

  “Come on, make a phone call.”

  “George, I’m an ex-writer who owns a motel. I’ll put a flyer on the bulletin board.”

  Yoga class is held in a bright studio on polished wide board floors. Pete, in smelly sweat pants, is the only guy in a room full of skinny women. He’s been doing yoga since Barbara introduced him to the practice thirteen years ago. He was still playing basketball Sunday mornings at the Pali High schoolyard, running full court with younger, aggressive players. If he went down, they helped him up – humiliating. A stress fracture in his right heel finished him for good. His basketball days over, Barbara recruited him into her yoga circle. Every Saturday morning at 9:30, they cleared the furniture out of the living room and submitted to the teachings of Diantha, a former dancer, who had a soft touch when she made adjustments.

  In his first year of practice Pete strained various muscles every time he took class, going hard like he was playing tight defense or driving to the hoop. He didn’t get it at all until he finally gave up his no pain, no gain philosophy, stopped pushing and let his body tell him how far to go. Some postures were easy; others impossibly difficult; he did what he could, pelvic tilt, downward dog, warrior pose and sun salutations. Gradually his body regained flexibility and he lost some weight, but yoga never replaced running a fast break or hitting a three pointer from the top of the key.

  Since arriving in Woodstock Pete drifted from teacher to teacher, never finding the balance he achieved with Diantha whom he guiltily lusted after, knowing it was spiritually incorrect and anyway she wasn’t interested. Diantha was another reason why Pete became celibate.

  Today, he’s particularly focused in class, doing cat/cow, breathing out, head down, pelvis tucked, breathing in, back arched, head up, ass up, ten repetitions. Pete is surprisingly graceful, but grunts and sweats a lot.

  In final relaxation, when he is supposed to be emptying his mind, Pete falls asleep dreaming about the sexy black mayor getting stuck in a high-rise elevator with her irascible chief of detectives whom she loathes. Pete’s snoring blows the mood in class.

  The teacher wakes him with a sharp probe of her big toe. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but if you want to continue in my class, you’ll have to stay awake.”

  Of course Pete takes it the wrong way but before he can sound off, his cell rings; he was supposed to turn it off. It’s Bobby. He rushes outside to take the call.

  “Fucking great pages man. I love that I don’t say much, like I’m this powerful presence, but meanwhile, we see and hear all this wild shit going on in my head.”

  “Your inner voice.”

  “My inner voice. Right, yeah. You the man, Pete.”

  Pete, just chastised in yoga class, is the man, according to Bobby. Still there’s spring in his step as he passes Apex Gallery on his way back to the Streamside for more roof work with Jose. Pete climbs a ladder carrying a forty-pound bundle of shingles. A piercing cell ring announces Marcus Bergman.

  “What is this shit you emailed me? Is this what I’m paying for?”

  “You wanted a fresh take on Bobby’s character.”

  “I wanted snappy dialogue, Bobby’s character stopped talking. And where did these fantasy aspects come from?”

  “Marcus, I gave Bobby’s character weight by having him say less, like Clint in his best films, but the audience gets inside his head through the voice over. This device gives added dimension to the character, but hey, you no like, I can go in another direction, like more conventional, I can do that.”

  “Let me ask you a question, if Bobby has an inner voice, wouldn’t all the characters?”

  This never occurred to Pete. “Good question, let me think on it, meantime I have an erotic scene I want to write between the mayor and Bobby, takes place in an elevator stuck between floo
rs in a downtown hi-rise on a holiday weekend.”

  “Must be hot up there.”

  “Sizzling.”

  “Take it as far as you can go.” Bergman hangs up.

  “I thought you weren’t writing any more?”

  Pete regards Cleo, gone the sexy memoirist, returned is the funky camper.

  “Do I look like I’m writing?”

  “I’m loving your novel.” She jogs off.

  How does it end? Pete can’t remember.

  On Wednesday night, Pete eats at the local pizzeria, purveyor of his favorite food group. The pie is baked in a brick oven fueled by a wood fire producing a thin crust; add mamma’s tasty home made marinara sauce and local mozzarella, toppings like thinly sliced roasted eggplant, fresh garlic, basil, peppers and sausage, and you have a balanced meal. Pete takes two slices and a Corona into the back room where a group of pickers are jamming.

  Two classically trained Asian sisters play fiddle, Tim, a male nurse, mandolin, Rabbi Stew, washtub bass; CC, a geezer who recorded with Gram Parsons, is on banjo and Jackson Hightower, the slim young man that Pete saw playing on the piazza his first day in Woodstock, now sporting wispy facial hair, plays remarkable acoustic guitar.

  Tim sings high tenor, Jackson the middle harmony and Pete adds his deep bass on the refrain of the mournful, “Banks of the Ohio.”

  Jackson follows Pete outside after the jam. “Singing good tonight, Mr. Stevens.”

  Rabbi Stew finishes up a cell phone call. “I’ll ask him, he’s right here. Marilyn wants you for shabbat dinner. You too Jackson.”

  “Not Friday, Stew, got a gig.” Jackson gives Pete a pound. “Later Mr. Stevens.” The kid splits.

  “Very kind offer, but I have a deadline on something I’m writing.”

  “The writer who doesn’t write is on a deadline?”

  “The writer took a job.”

  “Mazel tov! I’m sure your boss doesn’t want his writer to starve.”

  “He only wants pages.”

  “Wait ’til you taste Marilyn’s potato kugel, fabulous. By the way,” he whispers, “could you get me a joint?” Pete stares at Rabbi Stew. “Marilyn likes a puff or two before we make love.”