by Nick Cole
In fact, upon consideration, the Red-Jacket Bartender did not even inquire. Instead he assured, or more to the point, inspired the Great Director to give the simple, cool nod that will send the warm amber scotch careening down the wet rocks inside the tumbler. To do anything but this, indicates the look the Red-Jacket Bartender gives the Great Director, would be an affront to good times for all.
The Great Director nods, and the scotch flows.
He has never nodded for a drink in his life. He turns to face the Red-Jacket Bartender. Now that they have shared this camaraderie, he feels he should give him more attention. It’s only polite. But the Red-Jacket Bartender is gone, filling up a champagne bucket of ice at the other end of the bar. The Great Director is left alone with his scotch. He hopes for a brief second none of the crew will bother him. He does not want to be interrupted in his reverie.
The piano player starts with “The Very Thought of You.”
The Great Director listens to the melody and quietly studies the bar of the Moon Room. The many bottles are a dizzying array of shapes and sizes, liquids and colors—a collection of nobles holding court across the backlit iridescent blue of the mirrored wall. The domed ceiling is flecked with star-like glitter. A fat, smiling papier-mâché moon dominates a far corner. Pear-shaped and red-netted hurricane lamps stand guard, flickering at every table.
The drummer has started, chasing and enhancing “The Very Thought of You,” bringing up the tempo. The piano and drums dash through the melancholy song, turning it swiftly gay. They make it fun. After two or three passages, in which once again, unbeknownst to the Great Director, his drink has been drained and refilled, the saxophonist jumps in and bashes out the tune enthusiastically. And after a moment, the saxophonist begins to pontificate on the theme.
The Great Director grabs some salted nuts with one hand and tosses them easily into his mouth, reserving a few in his clutched fist. He eats them the way Robert Mitchum would have: easy and unconcerned.
He drinks more scotch. When he holds his glass up and rattles the cubes, Tony Giantone steps out of the shadows and sings, and the band gives way to their leader.
The Great Director drinks his scotch. Sometimes nursing, sometimes gulping. Always the Red-Jacket Bartender is there to pour. The Great Director eats nuts and listens to Tony Giantone and the SmoothTones dance their way through jazz standard after jazz standard. The Great Director listens, and after a while he thinks.
He thinks about life. He thinks about work. He thinks about failure and success. He thinks about escape. Here in this lounge listening to jazz among the dreams of the early nineteen sixties, he has a sudden moment of clarity. He has made movies his entire life. Movies of life not actually as it is, but how he would like it to be. And somehow, in his photographic moviemaking little baby brain all those years ago, at the moment of birth and in the hours afterward, this place was stamped onto the tiny camera of his mind. Except he didn’t know it was there. As the years got weirder and his mind tried to understand these images, he began to create a story to make sense of them all.
A story about escape.
A story about alien simulations.
That was never real. It was his mind trying to put a puzzle together. That was all.
The Great Director stood, placed his napkin over his drink, and walked out into the lobby. He crossed the wide circle of a room to the desk. Eldon looked up at his hard-soled approach. The Great Director rubbed his lips, wiping away the salt and scotch.
“I was wondering if you could show me where I was born.”
Eldon looked at him for a brief moment. Then, with a small, mole-like movement, he retrieved a key from under the desk. He motioned for the Great Director to follow him to the end of the long counter, and with a brief duck of his head, Eldon was underneath the desk and on the Great Director’s side of the lobby.
“Your mother came into the lobby and sat down on the couch. I remember it frightened me. The couch made her dizzy, so I led her back to this little room we kept made up for the bartender. We usually had to keep him here until the late night crowd showed up. He would sleep back here. But that night when your mother came in, he was still making drinks for the last of the early diners, and I gave him a key for another room. Later, I had to go out into the snow and wake him up when Mr. Sinatra arrived.”
Eldon stopped in front of a nondescript portion of the wall and reached into a black seam. The Great Director’s eyes widened at the trick. Eldon found the keyhole and tugged at the seam; a thick chunk of the wall slid out and aside.
Within was a room stacked full of cardboard boxes. Ancient brochures for the Astro Lodge had spilled out of one of them. Eldon bent over and scooped them up.
“We don’t have a late night crowd anymore. Most nights the bartender is done by nine. On weekend nights like tonight, not much more past eleven thirty.” He pulled a chain, igniting an overhead bulb. It flickered once or twice and then advanced cautiously into life.
“Sorry,” said Eldon, apologizing for the state of the room.
“No, it’s fine. I just wanted to see it.”
“It was real nice back then, warm in the winter of course. It had a small bed and blankets. I think your mom was just happy to lie down. You slept here your first night.”
Through the wall, the Great Director could hear voices in the lounge and the restaurant beyond. He could smell smoky char-grilling steak and feel the deep thrumming melody of the upright bass and the sharp power of the saxophone coming through the walls. Tony Giantone crooned through “Fly Me to the Moon.”
The Great Director thanked Eldon absently and returned to the bar, where his drink was waiting. The band continued on, and the Great Director slugged back the rest of his drink. He raised his glass, jingling the cubes to receive more.
“I’ll take a steak, if you can get me one,” he said. The Red-Jacket Bartender nodded. The Great Director leaned back against the bar, considering the moment.
So what, he thought, if this little madness of “escape” seems ridiculous. But how many people even take the time to try and escape instead of spending their whole lives buried? Probably not many, he answered himself. And how many people know where they started and what that means to them? Trying to wonder why lavender makes them happy, or the Beatles make them want to cry.
Now I know why I’ve felt crazy, like there were aliens just beyond the known… a space age universe on the other side of a seam. It was all because of the room I was born in. That’s it. How many people are comforted by the sound of washing machines simply because their mother used to place them on top of one during the spin cycle to calm them down? Who knows? But at least I know my unknowables.
Or at least one of them.
I don’t know what it all means, but I know that somehow the fear and doubt and tension started here. If I could just figure out what “here” means. If I just had the time I could figure this all out.
This is life. The life you see around you is the life you’re living.
I like my life… at this moment.
But you’re in a bar, drinking more scotch than you’ve ever drunk in your life.
That’s true, but I like scotch, and might I add, I’ve been eating these nuts, and a big thick steak is on its way. Also, I now realize that this is my life. No one is going to “get me” or even rescue me from it. There are no aliens. My homework is truly due on Monday and I will pay taxes and die, so to speak.
But you don’t want to do your homework; you never did. All you ever wanted to do was make movies, and now they are your homework, and believe me pal, your homework is very due. Very due, very shortly.
Aha, not so. Just because I’ve had these realizations, don’t believe for one second I perceive them all negatively. Yes, my perspective has been rocked. This life raft I’ve been waiting for my entire life, escaping from Hollywood, is never going to arrive. But I feel free, fre
e knowing the score.
That’s just the scotch.
True.
And in the morning I’ll ask you if you feel so free when you have to get up and shoot this movie—a movie, I might add, you’ve been going to great lengths to wreck.
I am still going to wreck this movie, believe me you.
You are?
Yes… I am. I have a new plan.
What is it?
All right, first I’m going to drink more scotch.
Good idea!
The Great Director jiggled his empty glass. The Red-Jacket Bartender refilled it and then disappeared into the kitchen to get the food he’d ordered for the Great Director.
All right, his mind continued. You’ve got more scotch, what’s next?
What?
Your plan for destroying the movie. Tell me.
Oh, yes. Do I have the scotch? Yes I do. Hooorayyy for scotch!
Okay, tell me the plan.
Right. First I am going get up in the morning—oh, yayyy, the steak is here. Mmmmm… I love steak!
Quick, tell me the plan.
Right, okay. I’m going to shoot this movie into the ground for the next four days. I’m going to make sure nothing is acceptable. I’m really going to mess with the actors, make ’em hate me and stuff. I am going—I love this steak! Have you tasted it?
Yes, I’m tasting it now.
Is this the best steak you’ve ever had?
I haven’t honestly ever had better.
Ohhhhhhhh, and the potatoes, they’ve got like bacon and cheddar cheese, some sour cream and shallots, and then they’ve been stuffed back into the potato and topped with parmesan cheese and baked to a golden crust. Are you seeing this?
Yes I am. I see everything you do. I’m your brain.
Great, have a bite of the steak again, then more scotch.
Sure, no problemo.
I love hanging out with you, Brain. We should do this more often.
I know, we really don’t do it enough, and I want to tell you something. I love you, man. No, I really mean it, I’m not just saying this ’cause I’ve been drinking, but I really, really love you.
Thanks, Brain. I’m turning over a new leaf. No more… all that other stuff. From now on, just me and you, Brain. I even have an idea!
Really?
Yes. This steak is so good! More scotch?
Please. Excellent.
All right, here’s my plan: I’m gonna buy this hotel.
Really?
Yes. I love it!
I knew you would. What are we gonna do with it?
Own it.
That’s it?
Yep.
Why?
Well, do you want to do anything else?
Nope.
Are you having fun? I mean, scotch, jazz, this steak. How much fun is this?
A lot!
I agree. So, I’ll shoot the next few days, being as obnoxious as possible. Then, I’ll buy this hotel, and when I return to Hollywood I’ll pack my bags and run back up here.
But they’ll make you come back.
I won’t.
You won’t?
I won’t. If I own this hotel, I won’t come back. I can throw them off the property. Not answer the phone. Lock the doors. And besides, this’ll be my business, I’ll have to run it.
Will we drink scotch?
Every night.
And listen to jazz?
You betcha.
I bet Chef Leon cooks other things that are just as good as this steak.
I wouldn’t believe it. Nothing is as good as this steak.
***
Later, when the music was over and the band was packing up, the Great Director sucked on the remaining ice cubes that were all that was left of his last drink. His brain had long ago passed out. He was back to just himself. The Red-Jacket Bartender came over. He’d been closing the bar for some time. The Great Director placed his credit card receipt back onto the bar and pushed it toward the Red-Jacket Bartender.
“Thank you. I had a great time.” His tongue was thick. Surprisingly, he was not as drunk as he had been or possibly could be. He’d been drinking top shelf liquor all night and his bill reflected it. The Red-Jacket Bartender glanced at the tip.
“Are you sure?” he asked the Great Director.
“I am. You deserve every penny of it, thank you. It was the best night I’ve had in…” He flailed one hand wildly. “Ever.”
The Red-Jacket Bartender reached up to the topmost shelf and pulled down an ancient bottle.
“Old Man Rockwell liked scotch too. This was his bottle. Hasn’t been poured in years. I suspect he’d want you to have some.” The Great Director watched as the Red-Jacket Bartender emptied the bottle into the Great Director’s glass. The old soldier had finally poured out its last.
The Great Director raised the glass to the Red-Jacket Bartender, then to the motel, then to Old Man Rockwell. He took a sip of the venerable scotch. It was smooth like Chinese silk. The fire it started, warm and slow in his belly, burned like dry oak on a fall day as it danced along his spine and up into his brain.
“Thank you.” Taking up the scotch, the Great Director walked out of the lounge through the lobby and into the moonlit night.
The giant moon was directly above now. The night world was a quiet picture washed in blue watercolors. Cars and stones, buildings and plants, had become statues. Someone cackled in the darkness and a night bird flew off. A few moments later, Eldon walked out the front door, and not noticing the Great Director, lit a cigarette. The Great Director swirled his scotch and approached Eldon, taking a brief nip from the glass.
“I had a really nice time tonight,” announced the Great Director.
“Did you have the steak?” asked Eldon expectantly.
“Best I’ve ever had,” confessed the Great Director.
The moon continued its slow arc across the warm night sky. Eldon dragged on his cigarette, making a low rasping noise with each inhalation. The Great Director swirled his scotch, the ice cubes rattling. He took another drink.
“If I wanted to buy this place from you, would you make me a deal?” asked the Great Director.
Saying it now in the moonlight and the dark, with his mind buzzed on the ancient scotch, unlike hours earlier when it had been screaming full tilt with too much of the highlander’s drink, didn’t sound so crazy. Like he’d suspected it might.
All Eldon would have to do was say “no.” He’d found his dream. The Great Director would have to go find another for himself. This was Eldon’s destination, and though it had taken him many long years to accept this outcome, he was glad he finally had. He loved this place. It was more familiar to him than anything he’d ever known. No, he would not sell. Not now, not ever.
But Eldon did not say that.
He lit another cigarette after crushing out the last beneath the toe of his patent leather dress shoe, and he dragged deeply, exhaling on a sigh.
“I’ve been watching those front doors for a long time.”
The Great Director thought about the Atomic Blonde.
Had she come through those doors the next morning? Paid the bill and fetched a bag of ice for her boyfriend’s throbbing skull and the ride back to Reno or LA? Had she said nothing, looking over her shoulder at the waiting car and the bleary-eyed gargantuan in the passenger seat? A tempest even now brewing beneath his thick brow as he lay slumped in agony.
Was it just moments before Eldon finished his shift? Had he waited through the long hours of the night since their dance? Had he waited and hoped? Had he waited and dared to dream that, given the right opportunity, he might say something more to her? Something bold. Something about love and chances.
Something.
Anything.
Had sh
e come into the lobby, asked for the ice, embarrassed, wearing a green sleeveless dress, dark Italian sunglasses? A green and blue paisley headscarf? Had she? Had Eldon retrieved the ice, settled the bill, and was there a moment of awkwardness when she gave him a soft, “Bye… for now”?
Had he done nothing? Frozen.
People don’t say, “Bye… for now” when they have no intention of returning. That’s what had tormented Eldon all these years. She’d said, “Bye… for now.” And since that day Eldon had weighed all the meanings of “Bye… for now.” What it meant. What it could mean. What it would change.
In the moonlight, in the dark, still warm from the scotch, the Great Director stood next to Eldon. Both of them watching the front door, weighing the meaning of words. Eldon dragged deeply on the cigarette once more.
Then…
“I’ll make you a good deal, sir.”
***
The days passed and Eldon proposed an offer. Without hesitation the Great Director accepted. What followed were the happiest days the Great Director had ever hoped he might know. They took long walks between shot setups as Eldon instructed the Great Director in the running of the Astro Lodge.
He told him about towels and maids, checkout and parking, the bar and the kitchen, suppliers for things new and old. Especially things old, because where does one find replacement materials for vintage hotel furnishings? Well, there’s a place on the outskirts of the Los Angeles airport, Eldon told him, they do great work behind windows yellowed by decades of nicotine. Watching the jumbo jets float in and out of LAX. Coming from somewhere. Going somewhere else.
So the Great Director learned each trick, nuance, and strategy. Eldon promised to stay on and help with the transition. But with each conversation, the Great Director knew there would come a day when very soon, bag in hand, Eldon would stand in the lobby for one last time. After all these years, an old man now, he would take up his trek westward once again, looking for whoever it was that had walked out those front doors so long ago with a “Bye… for now.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight