“So where we going?” queried the driver. He was wearing a white dress shirt with a button-down collar.
“Bank Street in Redondo Beach,” Ethan answered. “It’s an apartment building.”
“Yeah, most are, in that area. What brings you way out here in the late afternoon?” The driver, like most Ethan had experienced, was not short on conversation. It seemed to go with the territory.
“Well,” Ethan said, wary of getting too familiar too quickly, “a little misdirection and a lot of indiscretion.”
“That sounds kind of heavy, man. Rest assured, Randy’s at your service with his crew of superheroes to make your trip safe and worthwhile.”
The driver turned his shaved head sideways and proffered his right hand. Ethan shook it, surprised by the man’s firm handshake. He was expecting a somewhat limp exchange, considering the plastic company in their midst.
“Good to meet you, Randy,” he replied. “Ethan Jones.” He sat back in the seat and absorbed the full interior. There were figures and pictures placed everywhere—a shrine to comic-book heroes. It was weird but comfortable.
“I’m an animation artist,” Randy announced. “Welcome to the office.”
Ethan was still guilt-ridden by his actions of the night before. What was his next move? Would there even be one? Did he believe in himself, or was he just blowing smoke? Maybe he should just pack his bags.
Don’t be an asshole, Ethan, came the all-too-familiar voice that had brought him here in the first place. He pushed his doubt aside.
“So what’s your gig, man?” Randy asked, shifting himself on the worn black-vinyl seat.
Ethan replied with the same answer he’d used since coming to California. “I used to be an engineer.”
“Yeah? Cool. Chemical? Computer?”
“Mechanical.”
“A gear-head,” Randy stated and went quiet. The rush of passing air around the car became noticeable. He changed lanes, maneuvered the cab around a slow-moving Ford Econoline, and sped up. His confidence behind the wheel in city traffic was evident. Heavily veined hands spun the steering wheel with ease without jostling his passenger. A miniature Superman was mounted on the dash to Randy’s right, with his cape outstretched toward the windshield, as if a fierce wind was blowing from somewhere inside the cab.
“Superman’s your favorite character, I see,” Ethan surmised.
“You got that right, my man,” Randy replied, a big grin stretching across his face. “Superman’s the leader, mentor, and most powerful of all superheroes.”
Ethan smiled too.
A red Ferrari appeared one lane over to their right. “Take a look at that,” Randy said breathlessly, pointing to a 308 GTB. Randy moved in beside the exotic machine. “That car beats all. Mark my words—I’m going to have me one of those fine pieces of machinery one day.”
Ethan smiled. There’s about as much chance of this guy owning a Ferrari as there is of his dating Farrah Fawcett.
Randy glared at Ethan. “I know what you’re thinking, man, and that’s where you’re wrong. Mark my words … as sure as I’m spinning this steering wheel, I’ll have a red 308.”
Ethan couldn’t deny Randy’s zeal. There was definitely something different about this guy, and quite suddenly, Ethan’s doubt vanished.
Randy glanced at Ethan. “So,” he said as the Ferrari zipped away, “you spoke in past tense. You’re not working as an engineer now?”
“I’m down here to become a movie star,” he blurted. It was the first time he had stated his intentions so directly. He cringed, anticipating the driver’s smirk. For a few minutes, they sat in silence, except for Bobby Darin singing “Mack the Knife” on the radio. Ethan was unprepared for Randy’s response.
“That’s awesome, man. Bets are, you will be too.”
“Thanks,” Ethan said, not knowing what else to say. He was dumbfounded by the man’s optimism.
“I’m serious.” Randy’s dark eyebrows dropped, nearly touching the bridge of his nose. “If it means anything to you, I get this sixth sense about people. People think I’m crazy, but I get this feeling.”
Ethan smiled, not caring where the feeling came from. The man’s words were miles from rejection, and that’s all he cared about. He felt like he’d been given a shot of Demerol and settled back into the seat to stare at Batman, his favorite superhero. Randy’s words were just what he needed. “You know, I’ve had a pretty shitty twenty-four hours,” he started, retracing as much as he could of the previous night. “I met a woman—”
“Fucking always starts with a woman,” Randy agreed, nodding his head while he rolled up his sleeves like a workman.
“Well, this was no different,” Ethan continued. “I left the crazy bitch earlier today, but don’t ask me when. Only thing I know for sure is I won’t be seeing her again. Not in this lifetime.” He continued with his story of waking up with this woman and his head exploding with a brutal hangover. At this point, a few more things came back to him from the evening. He’d met the woman at an industry party for some producer named Logan. He didn’t know Logan but was eager to go to the party, with a chance to make some connections. Then he’d messed up in finding the location. The rest was a blur. “And that’s pretty much how I became the shit you’re talking to,” Ethan wrapped up.
The end of his story coincided with the taxi’s pulling up in front of his apartment building. Ethan’s heart sank when he read the meter: twenty-eight bucks. He had the ten in his pocket that the kind lady had given him but was sure he’d left his wallet at the woman’s house. “Shit!” he hissed. “I’ve got ten bucks.”
Randy stared at him, his expression becoming hard. “Come on, man,” he said. “You’re shittin’ me.”
“Listen,” Ethan replied, scrambling for a solution, “my apartment’s upstairs. Give me five minutes to get the money in my room.”
Randy’s eyes locked on Ethan’s as if trying to confirm a trust between them. “I’ll wait, but you’d better not be fuckin’ with me.”
Randy’s hard-ass response didn’t sit well with Ethan. The common ground they’d reached was quickly dissipating. “Give me your business card.” Ethan took the card and wrote his name and telephone number on the back. “Take this. If I don’t come back, call the cops and tell them I stiffed you on the fare.” Opening the passenger door, he handed Randy the ten. “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” he said, looking into Randy’s eyes and holding his hand out to shake. “Count on it.”
He ran up to his third-floor apartment, grabbed money from a drawer, and ran back down to the street. Randy was leaning against the side of his idling yellow cab with his arms crossed when Ethan came out the glass entrance doors of the apartment building’s front foyer. There was a rolled comic book in Randy’s hand.
“You are for real!” Randy exclaimed as Ethan walked up to the parked car. A tight grin bent his lips as Ethan approached. “Sorry to be rude. You can’t imagine how many people I never see again after they split to get money.” He pulled a card from his shirt pocket. “Any time you need a lift, you know who to call.”
The card he handed him was different from the one on which Ethan had written his name and address. A figure with the physique of a superhero was pictured on the front. Randy unrolled the comic book in his hand. Pictured on the front cover was the same muscular figure on his card. Ethan didn’t recognize the character but marveled at the artwork. Randy handed him the comic.
“He’s mine,” Randy said proudly as Ethan paged through it. “The name hasn’t stuck yet, and I’m still working on the title. But I’m this close”—Randy held up his hand, showing a space between his thumb and index finger—“to a deal with an animation house.”
“This is yours?” Ethan exclaimed, impressed with the colorful graphics. The guy had talent far beyond steering a car through traffic in LA. “This is amazing.” Ethan motioned to g
ive it back.
Randy shook his head. “It’s yours. Don’t lose it. It’ll be worth a fortune someday.” He stuck out his hand. “Gotta go, man. Got rent to pay, like every other sucker. Give me a call sometime. We’ll go for a beer.”
“I’d like that,” Ethan said, locking hands.
Ethan headed back up to his apartment and browsed through Randy’s comic book. The artwork was incredible—vibrant colors and immaculate detail. He might not know much about art but he knew what he liked—and he liked this. He could tell that Randy’s days of driving a taxi were numbered.
Ethan paced around the apartment as if for the first time. The living room was white and connected the kitchen, bedroom, bathroom, and balcony. Sliding glass doors separated the balcony from the living room. It was a nice place to sit, late at night when he couldn’t sleep, and dream about the movies. He couldn’t, however, remember having done so.
A shower was his first order of business. He stripped off his soiled clothes. The scum-like film that clung to every square inch of his body felt disgusting. Once in the shower, he winced at the possible opportunities he had squandered at Logan’s party. You’re a piece of work Ethan Jones, he said to himself as the streaming water from the showerhead began to restore his soul.
After a time, he shut off the water and dried with the only towel on the rack. Refreshed, he searched for a clean shirt. His drawer was empty, so he wrestled something he thought was clean enough from the pile of dirty laundry beside his bed.
After pulling a white T-shirt over his head, he noticed the red light flashing on his answering machine. Funny—that was always the first thing he checked when he came in, but somehow he’d missed it. A tinge of excitement kindled inside him. Messages were rare. Messages were hope. It was that kind of day.
The first message was a familiar voice he didn’t want to hear. She hoped he’d made his way home okay. Christa—that was her name—wanted to apologize for the abrupt end to their night. He cringed when she said she wanted to meet again. “I don’t think so,” he said aloud to the machine and promptly deleted the message. “Once was enough.”
The second was from Beth and brought with it a whole mixture of feelings. Beth had surprised him when she said she loved him at Uplands. After almost a year, he found it strange how little he remembered of the flight to California or even of his connection in Toronto. Her message indicated she wanted to know how he was doing. Was he getting the work he wanted? There was more, but he could only handle so much at a time. He would listen to more later … maybe.
The third message was a male voice with a thick accent, who identified himself as Sven Irons. He wanted to meet with Ethan to discuss the project they’d talked about. Ethan could feel his pulse quicken as the message concluded with Sven leaving his number. Ethan couldn’t recall meeting the guy but dialed the number anyway. Sven’s answering machine picked up on the first ring. “Sven here. Leave a message.” Ethan did so and hung up.
Things were looking up. Randy’s business card was on Ethan’s white kitchen table. As he slipped it into his pocket, he saw his lizard-skin wallet on the floor. He hadn’t left it at the crazy woman’s house after all. It must have fallen off the counter. The wallet itself reminded him of when he’d first slid it into the pocket of his shorts under the hot Yucatan sun while vacationing with Beth. It was one of the few possessions he’d kept after leaving Ottawa. The wallet signified something he didn’t want to let go of but couldn’t quite explain.
It was almost four, by the school-style clock that hung on his wall, so he had an hour before he had to be in front of his computer, drawing lines at Build Industries. It hadn’t taken him long to land the job on arriving in California. Build Industries Inc. was an engineering firm that did contract work for oil-rig builders. Ethan’s biggest adjustment was working nights. Now, as a result of his vomiting, he needed to get something in his stomach first, so he had to get moving. There was a clean pair of jeans hanging in the closet; he pulled them on, tucked in his T-shirt, and was on his way.
On route, he bought a newspaper. Entertainment and classifieds were all he read these days, looking for work—open auditions, casting calls, anything that got him closer to the movies. His last audition had been for a television commercial that hadn’t yielded as much as a call-back. It wasn’t enough, and he knew it. “Keep sharpening the saw, or the trees stop falling,” his mother was fond of saying. At the time, she was referring to his lack of piano practice, but the phrase had stuck with him and seemed applicable to so many things in life. If he didn’t stay tuned up, his chances would dwindle. The only game in town was persistence—gig after gig.
Gonzo’s Sub Shop was his next stop. More often than not, he stopped by before or after work to grab a bite. The proprietors were a couple of excitable Mexicans who had befriended him when he first arrived in California. He was a regular and enjoyed the privilege of extra toppings on his choice of submarine sandwich. They were crazy about the movies and Hollywood and always had a trivia question at the ready. When Ethan walked in, Jesse Gonzales was behind the counter in his usual white Gonzo T-shirt, black belt, and white pants. Ethan was there before the dinner crowd, so he didn’t have to contend with any lineups. The only other customer was eating at the counter.
“How’s Al Pacino today?” Jesse asked after Ethan ordered his favorite pizza sub with extra guacamole.
“He’s doing fine. Wanted some advice on how to play a mean son of a bitch,” Ethan answered, his face displaying a convincing evil grimace.
His anxieties always weighed less on him at the sub shop, where the brothers not only made the best submarine sandwiches around but also provided Ethan with unintentional counsel. Now, he looked forward to his first bite into a Gonzo sub, as well as what Jesse had to say.
“How about you?” Ethan asked. “Still playing by the rules?”
“Well, boss,” Jesse answered, addressing Ethan with his usual sign of respect, “of course not. It’s no fun to work that way, ’specially when the deck’s stacked against you. Gonzaleses play to win, my friend. Coke?”
Ethan nodded, his feigned grimace changing to a grin. There was something different about Jesse. His mood seemed to weigh him down. Normally, he kept talking about a star’s latest movie or his own dream of becoming a millionaire—there’d be a Gonzo’s franchise on every corner in the US of A. Like Domino’s or Denny’s, Gonzo’s would be a household name. “You’ll see,” he’d say. “Big plans.” The Gonzales brothers prided themselves on their achievements. They’d come a long way from their roots in a village north of Mexico City.
“So where’s Pedro?” Ethan asked.
Jesse halted his sandwich-making activity. His hands clutched the sides of the stainless steel counter, as if straining to keep the counter in place. His arms tensed. The prominent veins in his muscular forearms bulged. Ethan began to wonder what he’d said wrong as he watched Jesse’s face darken. Another side of the normally jovial and lighthearted man preparing food behind the counter emerged. It was the face of a man who’d witnessed horrors no human should have to see. His lips were pressed so tightly together, they were white. His eyes were dark and blank. For an instant, Ethan questioned his own safety. Then, as suddenly as the transformation appeared, it was gone, and a tear rolled down Jesse’s cheek.
“Pedro got shot out back two days ago when leaving the shop,” Jesse said between clenched teeth, his jaw locked in anger as he wrestled with his self-control. “I’ll kill them all if he dies.”
Ethan watched, frozen, as Jesse’s open palm swung down and struck the countertop. The sound reverberated through the shop like a bomb blast and scared the shit out of Ethan. That the counter remained erect was a wonder.
Shaken, Ethan was the first to speak. “Fuck, what the hell was that?”
“Sorry.” Jesse’s face became flat and expressionless.
“How bad?” Ethan asked, his heart in his throat,
realizing he’d never known anyone who’d been shot.
“He’s out,” Jesse answered. “Unconscious. He’s been like that since it happened. Doc said it don’t look good.” Jesse put Ethan’s sub together, but his hands shook noticeably. Tiny beads of sweat broke out on his forehead and upper lip, making them shiny from the reflection of the ceiling lights. “Maybe you heard the sirens. There were cops everywhere. They closed down the street.” Jesse pointed outside with one hand. “Couldn’t believe it. Police tape is still out back.”
Ethan shook his head.
“You sleep with cotton in your ears?” Jesse asked.
Ethan chuckled, expelling air through his nose. There were sirens every night. “No, I was probably working,” he replied, trying to remember where he might have been. “Where’s Pedro? Which hospital?” He checked his watch, determining whether he might manage a visit before heading to work.
Jesse shook his head as he bagged Ethan’s sub. “You can’t see him. No one but family—intensive care.” Then, after hesitating for a moment, he added, “Are you religious?”
“I believe in God. I don’t go to church,” Ethan responded.
“Yeah, me too, but could you put in a word for Pedro anyway? He needs all the help he can get. If the man upstairs is listening, I want everybody praying to him.” He inserted a couple of napkins in the bag before twisting it closed. “My friend,” he said, handing Ethan his dinner and raising his open palm to indicate it was on the house, “have a great night, and say hello to Harrison Ford. Invite him down for a Gonzo sometime. We’re always open for a bad dude with a reputation.”
“Thanks, Jesse,” Ethan said, knowing better than to do anything but accept the gift graciously. “I’ll make sure I do.”
As Ethan turned to the front door, Jesse disappeared through the back behind the counter. Parked across the street was a black Chevrolet Lumina with someone inside, trying not to be obvious.
Chapter 16
Ethan’s Timeline
The Actor Page 8