Selling Nostalgia

by Mathew Klickstein

  “Deborah Goldflab, our contact for the Boston event?”

  “Ohhhkay.…”

  Milt cleared his throat. “She’s worried about Tad Willoughby hosting and doing the Q&A with you.”

  “What? Wh-wh-why?”

  “Uh…she said some people saw some of the stuff he’s been tweeting lately, and—”

  “Tell those people over there I don’t give a fuck about that and that Tad Willoughby is a f-f-f-f-fucking p-p-p-p-p-prof-f-f-f-fesional wh-wh-who’s been at this longer th-th-than most of them have been alive. I g-g-g-g-gotta go. T-t-ell th-th-them to g-g-g-go f-f-f-fuck th-th-themselves.”

  Conversation over.

  Frankly widened his almond eyes, his eyebrows rising cartoonishly. “Hmmm??”

  Milt called Deborah back, told her that Gil said Tad Willoughby was a “pro” and wouldn’t need to be worried about. He made sure to leave out the last part of Gil’s message and hung up after Deborah nervously acquiesced that it was going to be an amazing event and that everyone was really looking forward to it.

  Milt placed his phone back in his pocket, stood up, drank the rest of his latte, and left the crumb of breakfast sandwich on his plate. “Let’s go.”

  Before they were even away from the table, Milt’s phone vibrated in his pocket again, and he answered.

  “Wh-wh-what’s this f-f-f-f-fucking shit with where they’re p-p-p-putting m-m-m-e up in Boston, b-b-b-by th-th-the w-w-w-way?” the disembodied voice of Gil Gladly bellowed into Milt’s ear.

  “Gil, we went over this a few times already,” Milt said calmly, walking side by side with Frankly up the sidewalk where they saw a few store owners and service people readying up their storefronts, opening their metal screen doors, flipping over their OPEN/CLOSED signs.

  Milt knew that Gil had certain…exigencies that required minding. Milt had known that Gil needed a particular kind of hotel and a particular kind of hotel room to be comfortable or else, well, he’d call ranting and raving at Milt about it.

  Which was why he had worked with Gil and Gil’s personal assistant to find the right place in Boston for him to stay. That was four months ago. Milt had even worked it so that the art center there would actually pay for Gil’s trip from the screening at CineRanchero in Chicago two nights previous to the Boston screening.

  And Deborah had agreed! Nervously, of course…but still.

  “I looked this place up on Yelp, and it’s got the worst fucking reviews!” Gil hollered, so livid he wasn’t even stutter-ing anymore.

  Not good.

  Frankly and Milt kept walking forward as though Milt wasn’t being upbraided loudly over the phone by an aging eighties icon. An absolutely stunning woman jogged by them, tight ponytail bouncing up and down against her neck, her tan, glistening belly out for all to see under her black sports bra and above her tight black yoga pants, capped by her highlighter pink running shoes with black laces.

  Frankly turned his head, watching her go around them. Milt’s eyes stayed locked on the sidewalk pathway ahead of him, determined.

  “Gil, we went over this months ago, man,” Milt pleaded. “I can’t ask them to change it now. The cancellation fee would be horrendous and so would the difference of getting a new room so close to the date. Don’t forget, they’re one of the only places paying for everything.”

  “Th-th-they’re paying for everything?”

  “Everything, Gil. Come on, we gotta cut them some slack, okay? The hotel they’re putting you up in is fine,” Milt said. “Laney and I were going to put my dad and my stepmom up there when they were going to visit a few months ago before their plans changed. My dad wouldn’t stay at a shithole any more than you would.”

  “Your d-d-d-dad, huh?”

  “Yeah,” Milt said. Frankly caught up with him and gave him one of his Frankly looks: The fuck is going on NOW?

  They passed a used bookstore opening its doors to their left. Then they turned and Milt froze, staring up at the concrete wall to his left. Frankly saw this and stopped as well, confused. Milt stood still, gazing upward, mesmerized.

  “All right,” Gil relented. “I’ll tell you wh-wh-what. You’re r-r-r-right: I d-d-d-on’t want to bug Dana or whatever her n-n-n-name is over there in Boston. I’ll j-j-j-ust get a different h-h-h-hotel myself.”

  “Gil, you sure? I can ask Deborah if you want,” Milt said, playing child psychologist now.

  “No, no. It’s f-f-f-fine. They’re b-b-being very nice, but I c-c-c-can’t stay at a place like that. I’m a h-h-hotel snob, I’ll admit it.”

  Milt emitted a faux laugh, still gazing up transfixed at the wall. “Cool, well just let me know where you decide to go so I can get everything arranged with picking you up and what-ever, okay?”

  “Sure thing, fook-fah-shay,” Gil said, hanging up.

  “Jesus,” Frankly said. “It’s like working for Howard Hughes from The Aviator.”

  “I wish Gil had that kind of money,” Milt said.

  “Huh, yeah.”

  “Seriously, though, this is a lot of what we talk about in the documentary. I mean, Gil’s stuff with his stuttering and whatever may have been as big a part of why he was successful as Howard Hughes’ OCD and anxiety stuff,” Milt said.

  “Yeah, I know what you mean, like in that Malcolm Gladwell book talking about producers and lawyers with dyslexia and how they had to force themselves to be better when they were younger in order to overcome their shit, right? Their fucked-up shit forced them to figure out special ways to become awesome, and then they did.”

  “Right,” Milt said. “I don’t know if it’s always a good idea to quote Malcolm Gladwell, but yeah. Gil had to push himself in a way that most people wouldn’t have in order to get to where he is today. Or where he was. He really does get into this a bunch in the film. It’s one of my favorite parts of what we did.”

  “I look forward to finally seeing it,” Frankly said, sounding far less sarcastic than usual.

  “It’s part of why we made the doc,” Milt said, drifting off into a reverie at the thought, supplemented by his wonder at what he was looking at on the wall. “Not only with his stuttering, but also just everything else he had to overcome. He’s a fucking survivor, and I really admire that. No matter what other bullshit might go on.”

  They both stood there gazing at the mural on the wall before them.

  “Mmm, well, you ready to go back to Gabe’s?”

  “Yeah,” Milt said. “But this is just crazy.”

  “What, the mural? It’s Bukowski.”

  “Right, but that quote…” Milt stepped back to take in the full mural of Charles Bukowski and the cursive quote beneath it emblazoned against the wall…just at it had been emblazoned across the top of Devlin’s crack two nights earlier: What matters most is how well you walk through the fire.

  “What about it?”

  “I’m not kidding. It was what was scrawled across that stripper girl’s ass at the club,” Milt said, with a hint of whimsy in his voice. “I never heard or read it before and thought she came up with it herself. But here it is! And it’s Bukowski! That’s fucking nuts! It’s like…” Milt raised his arms triumphantly, purposely histrionic, “…like…a gift from the universe! Look how magical it is! It’s here just for us, just for me right now. What are the chances? It’s miraculous!”

  “Hmm, that’s kinda fucking lofty for a chick grinding her bald vag up against your leg for nine-hundred and ten dollars, dontcha think?”

  “Well, she was surprisingly well-read and mature for a twenty-year-old stripper,” Milt reminisced fondly.

  They turned around and started walking back to Gabe’s.

  “I don’t know. All the stuff I keep worrying about—the money, Laney, the deadline on the new book, and all the bullshit with everyone and everything else…This makes me feel like it’s going to be okay.”

  “More reason to get back to Gabe’s so we can start getting all our shit together,” Frankly said, totally unimpressed by Milt’s epiphany. “
You’ve got a movie premiere tomorrow afternoon, young man!”

  “Don’t forget we have that meeting in the morning,” Milt said.

  “Who’s this one again?”

  “That dude Gil set me up with for one of the series we’ve been developing together.”

  They passed by the homeless people who were still asleep. Their dog was licking himself. “Gil and you are doing a lot together lately, huh?”

  “The other day,” Milt said, “we were on a podcast interview and he referred to me as basically being his adopted son.”

  “Sounds like you guys have gotten really close after all this nonsense,” Frankly said, eyes forward, walking around another white plastic table and red plastic vintage chairs being set up outside another coffee shop on the way back to Gabe’s apartment. “Is your…actual dad coming tomorrow?”

  “That’s a good question.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I haven’t invited him yet.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Frankly and Milt climbed up the three flights of outer stairs to Gabe Martinez’s balcony, scrunched their way through the clutter of old lawn furniture and two pink plastic chairs, and opened the glass, then screen door into the apartment proper.

  Milt pulled out his phone to check his emails and saw he, unsurprisingly, had one from Jessica Chen which he ignored. There was also a text message from Silverstein which he could see was so lengthy that he deleted it before reading past the first few words—

  “DUDE, I KNOW I SAID I’D STOP, BUT I HAVE TO TELL YOU ABOUT.…”

  “Hey, man!” Gabe said, coughing up wake-and-bake smoke from one of the large glass bongs that had been strewn across the carpet otherwise covered in empty paper cups, yellowed paperback books, and other dorm-room type detritus.

  Appearing as always as a kind of executive hippie with relatively well-kempt brownish beard/mustache combo and long brownish hair tied behind his head, a gray vest, khakis and, for the morning, a silken, regal-red smoking jacket that had to have come from one of the many vintage stores up the street, Gabe stood in his beige plastic sandals to his full six-foot-two from the couch, dropped the bong on the carpet as though it wasn’t made of translucent purple glass or filled with scummy greenish water, and rushed over to Milt and Frankly.

  Frank Zappa (or maybe it was Dweezil) was blasting out of Gabe’s circa 1980s boombox, complete with cassette player, and Milt was a little worried it might be too loud for 8 a.m.-ish. Until he remembered he was in LA.

  Gabe, with his characteristic massive kid-like grin, advanced on Milt like some lumbering Hispanic Jesus on his way to the office. Gabe embraced his old friend in a bear hug that Milt for a split-second thought would turn into his being lifted up off the ground.

  Gabe let go and turned to Frankly, who was too small not to pick up from the floor in a bear hug.

  “Hey, man,” Frankly exhaled between strenuous Gabe squeezes. “Good…to…unnngh…see you.”

  “I can’t believe how much this place looks exactly like it did when I was here last,” Milt said, walking into the living room past the filthy kitchenette to his right.

  “Yeah, man,” Gabe said gleefully, walking behind him, Frankly in tow. “What’s it been, like, three years?”

  “I can’t even remember the last time I was back here,” Milt said. “I think it was when I was doing that author event at Book Soup for my travel guide about coffee shops.”

  “Oh, yeah!” Gabe said, motioning Frankly and Milt toward the other side of the apartment, opening the screen door and beckoning them to come out with him to the balcony.

  Milt and Frankly followed. Once they were outside, Gabe dashed back, closing the sliding glass door and leaving the screen door open before he turned to them to say, “Sorry, but my roommate and his girlfriend are in their room, and they’re still asleep. He’s been really sick. I don’t want us to be too loud in there. Better out here right now.”

  Milt turned around, wondering how Gabe expected to keep the place quiet when he was blaring Zappa, but that was just Gabe.

  And there LA was, what with the majestic and verdant Hollywood Hills to his right, imperial and almost phantasmagorical. Milt could just barely see the grimy white letters of the H O L L Y W O O D sign hiding in the far rocky distance beyond the yellowish-gray morning smog.

  To his left was the rest of Los Angeles, or mostly, Hollywood. The arterial streets were clogged with morning traffic, the various buildings, none too tall courtesy of earthquake safety precautions, hole-punched by innumerable glass windows. Again, veiled by a thin veneer of yellowish-gray morning smog.

  “Your roommate’s sick?” Milt turned back to Gabe to ask, growing concerned.

  “Yeah, but he’s just getting over it now, so he should be good,” Gabe said, puffing on a Camel Light.

  “I’m not really worried about him,” Milt said. “I’m assholishly worried about myself. I’m just starting a nationwide fucking tour for my film and I don’t want to get sick.”

  “Awww,” Gabe snickered adorably, “it’s all good. Like I said, he’s pretty much over it, and his girlfriend didn’t catch it. They pretty much just share joints and fuck all day, so even if you do that with him, you should be fine.”

  “I’ll make sure not to fuck him,” Milt said. “But you’re telling me he’s not contagious?”

  Gabe laughed, buckling over and coughing up cigarette smoke. “What do I look like, a doctor?”

  This was all a moot point. Milt couldn’t afford to stay in a hotel, and nearly everyone else he used to know in LA had moved on years ago. The two or three aside from Gabe who had stuck it out had vanished into the mire of becoming exactly the kind of duplicitous, opportunistic jackasses that the town and industry was so well-known for sheltering.

  Milt was stuck at Gabe Martinez’s, and he could continue to irrationally write-off the terrible fiduciary fiasco at the strip club two nights earlier, knowing that at least he wouldn’t be paying for lodging while in town (or, thanks to Frankly’s good-Catholic munificence, gas and most of his food).

  Frankly was himself pulling some thin, crackly plastic sheeting from off the scattered dark wood picnic benches and chairs that crowded the balcony along with far too many different kinds of (dead) plants pendulously spilling out of all manner of broken and dingy pots.

  Gabe somehow plucked yet another bong from off the ground and fell back into one of the wooden chairs, taking a hit from what had apparently been a full and ready device.

  Milt waved him off when Gabe offered the bong, but Frankly gladly took the invitation to smoke while sitting on the edge of one of the picnic benches.

  Milt remained the only one still standing, espying the morning dew droplets moistening the furniture. He turned once more to gaze out longingly at the Hollywood Hills and H O L L Y W O O D sign, the 1950s sci-fi style Griffith Park Observatory, and anything else he could see out there that made him just a little nostalgic for his earliest days out of film school, living a few blocks from here before chucking it all for the life of a nomadic outsider in “the industry.”

  “You still smoke cigarettes?” Milt asked without turning back to Gabe.

  “Not really,” Gabe said, lighting his second of the morning. “I sort of gave that shit up.”

  “That’s cool,” Milt said. “You think I could have one?”

  “Sorry, man, this is my last one,” Gabe said, taking a drag off his cigarette before exhaling the smoke to the side.

  “It’s all good,” Milt said. “I still don’t really smoke either, but I’m in LA and, I dunno, I have this weird craving for it.”

  “I’d give you one if I had one,” Gabe said. “Maybe my roommate’s girlfriend has one. I’ll ask when they finally get up. They’re usually up around noon.”

  “Wait,” Milt leaned forward. “Every day? Not just Saturdays?”

  “Yeah, well he’s a professor or something at some school in the Valley, and she’s been working on and off on her PhD I think, so neither
one of them really has a regular schedule.”

  Gabe took the bong back from Frankly and placed it on the ground in front of him, spilling some of the water, which he dabbed up with sheets of toilet paper from a roll that was for some strange reason nearby. “Aw, fuck. Whoops. Lemme grab you another one, Milt.”

  Gabe was about to get out of his chair when Milt shook his head. “Don’t worry about it,” he told Gabe, who immediately collapsed back into his seat Lebowski style. “I probably shouldn’t be fucking with my throat on our tour anyway.”

  “Yeah, so why are you doing it this way?” Gabe asked, sitting up and appearing far more executive than hippie at this point. “Why aren’t you hitting up the festivals? Did you apply to the North Shore Film Festival or Tribeca or anything? This sounds like something that would be perfect for them.”

  “Mmmyeaahhhh, whhhhyyyy not?” Frankly practically hummed, raising his head for the first time since lowering it after his large bong pull minutes earlier.

  “It’s funny you bring up North Shore,” Milt said. “When we were traveling around during principle photography getting a lot of the stuff from Gil’s early days and whatnot, there was this chick in Montana and she and her husband completely pestered us to let them do some stuff on the shoot. I don’t even think they knew who Gil Gladly was. But they were one of those local filmmakers in the middle of fucking nowhere who hop onto any shoot that comes along.”

  “Oh, shit!” Gabe said, eyes completely shut by this point and a huge, sated, shit-eating grin on his face. “One of those people. I thought I left all them behind in Iowa!”

  “Nah, those people are everrrrrrywhere,” Frankly said, scratching his double ear before lowering his head again.

  “I just said fuck it and let her husband shoot some stuff for us, but then of course she wanted to be an associate producer—”

  “Ass pro!” Gabe laughed heartily.

  “And again I said sure, why the fuck not?” Milt said. “I gave out bullshit ‘associate producer’ credits to a bunch of people who helped us out in some small way.”