April 1991
As usual, Ethan arrived at Build Industries Inc. about twenty minutes early and went to the cafeteria to eat his dinner and browse the classifieds. The sub tasted great, as always, and really hit the spot. His thoughts drifted to Pedro. Why would someone want him dead? The list was probably long, from guns to drugs. Jesse likely was involved too—Ethan doubted there was much the brothers didn’t do together—and worried for his own life. Ethan understood there was another side to the brothers that he knew nothing about—a side Jesse revealed in a momentary lapse behind the counter. Still, they did make awesome sandwiches. Ethan shoved the last bite into his mouth, poured himself a cup of the barely drinkable coffee, and headed to his desk.
After leaving the cafeteria, he meandered through the maze of office desks at Build, thinking about his agent. Sure, Steve Cushman was a friend of Robbie’s, but was he working with Ethan’s best interests in mind? Cushman rarely called, and half of the acting work Ethan had done since coming to California, he’d found without his agent’s help. He made a mental note to call Cushman later. Something had to change. His Persist or Die screensaver was scrolling across his monitor as he plopped down in his office chair.
Robbie had helped get Ethan the job at Build, which was a subcontractor to J. Gordon Engineering, the firm where Robbie worked. Build Industries had required a senior engineer with pressure vessel design experience—perfect for Ethan—and so began his association with a new employer. He’d planned to stay at the Holiday Inn Express until he found his own place, but Robbie would have none of it, and so they shared Robbie’s apartment.
Time seemed to merge the events for Ethan, from his kissing Beth good-bye at Uplands Airport to landing at LAX and meeting Robbie. Even the time he spent at Robbie’s apartment before Build Industries’ relocation service found him his small bachelor apartment was a blur, but it didn’t matter. He was living the dream.
Three drawing projects awaited his attention when he sat down at his desk. He had to complete them all before he left, but none would take more than a couple of hours. The engineering activity was more demanding than had been explained during his interviews; he was up to the task but preferred to work evenings when the office was quiet. It also allowed him the freedom to focus on the work at hand or on upcoming auditions if he wasn’t busy. At seven thirty, he had finished the engineering calculations for his design and was about to start the second project when his phone rang.
“Ethan, how are you?” It was Steve Cushman, for once beating Ethan to the punch. “Where’ve you been? I’ve been trying to get you since yesterday.”
“That’s funny. I didn’t have any messages on my machine,” Ethan replied sardonically.
“How was the party?” Steve asked, ignoring the comment.
“Wild but disappointing. Different than I expected.”
“I know how you feel. Seems like most of life is like that.”
“So what’s up?” Ethan asked.
Robbie had introduced Steve Cushman to Ethan somewhat by accident a few weeks after Ethan arrived in California.
“Fuck, Steve, at least give him a shot,” Ethan had overhead Robbie saying to someone Ethan hadn’t seen before. They were in a bar just around the corner from Robbie’s apartment.
Before Ethan could interject, the other guy replied, “I need another wannabe actor like I need a bullet hole in my head.”
Ethan then stepped in to let his presence be known. “Hey, Robbie, what’s going on?” Ethan said, moving up to the bar beside his friend.
“I’m trying hard to get you an agent,” Robbie replied, leaning his head in Steve’s direction. “Ethan, meet agent extraordinaire Steve Cushman.”
Ethan shook Steve’s hand and thus started the awkward beginning of their relationship. Steve explained that his clientele were serious actors, trying to make a living. Most were waiting tables or selling consumer electronics to make ends meet, not “white-collar professionals who fancy becoming movie stars because they look like James Dean.” It was that comment that gave Ethan a new purpose to his quest: to prove Steve Cushman wrong.
Now, Steve said, “I’ve got a line on some work, but it’s a night job. You’ll have to read for it, but that’s your forté. You up for it?”
“You better believe it!” Ethan shot back. “No problem. When and where?”
“Tomorrow night at Bronson and Main,” Steve added. “It’s an old converted church. They’ll give you the script there. Knock ’em dead, kid.”
“I’ll wait,” Ethan said, smiling. “If they choose someone else, then I’ll kill ’em.”
“Yeah, I hear you. Let me know how it goes.” Steve then paused before adding, “Be there early. You’re on at seven. They don’t wait. Miss your place, you’re history.”
Ethan hung up. In his excitement he had risen to his feet. He wanted to go now. The second project no longer held any interest. Steve had said little about the role, so Ethan started imagining the possibilities. It would be great if he could land a few small parts and get more experience.
Pacing around his desk, he stopped and closed his eyes. With his hands on the back of his chair, he steadied himself and took several deep breaths, expelling the air slowly to relax his muscles. The projects had to be completed. He’d be here all night if he didn’t get focused. Opening his eyes, he sat down and began adding line after line to his design on the screen.
Fifty minutes later, he was still fiddling with the same drawing. He was overdue for a break—his mind was full of everything but the task at hand.
Returning to the cafeteria, he bought a Coke and a bag of Fritos from the vending machine. The sports section of the LA Times was open on one of the tables. Standing, he flipped through the sports scores, but nothing held his interest for any length of time. He refolded the paper and left it where he’d found it. He headed back to his desk. His time in the office already seemed too long.
At eleven thirty, he plotted his last drawing. As the drawing printed, his trained eyes caught a duplicated dimension. Dimensioning parts—describing the length, width, and height—was always a nightmare for him. Designing was an act of creativity, exciting with its chance at discovering value with new function, but describing the parts that went into the design—dimension after dimension—was painstaking drudgery. No matter how closely he scrutinized his work on the screen, there was always something incorrect or missing. A mistake here cost production dearly. He hated to make mistakes. He shut the plot down, made the correction, and then rechecked the rest of the drawing on his screen before resending it to the plotter. Collecting the three projects, he placed them on his manager’s desk with a note about the morning’s production run. Then he tidied up and left. It was midnight.
On his walk back to the apartment, he thought of the message Beth had left on his answering machine. He thought of her often. If she was here, he’d take her back out of sheer loneliness. His remedy to block her from his thoughts had failed, as all it took was a phone call, a name, or a face to trigger her back again. His feelings for her were stronger than he liked to admit. His previous night’s actions had been more a result of missing her than anything else. Now he felt guilty. Her call played with his heartstrings. At times, he had little power to fight it. It was like the pull of nicotine—despite an awareness of its harm, that didn’t stop the intake.
And she knows it, he reminded himself.
On entering the apartment, he grabbed the cordless phone and flopped on his chair. He would call her. But for the moment, he closed his eyes to think, quickly drifted off to sleep, and dreamed.
Chapter 17
Real Time
February 1984
Men in white coats surrounded the bed. Beth was at his side, dressed in a navy tailored suit, ready for work. He was glad to see her.
“Beth,” he said, “why am I here?”
“Because you need to get bette
r.”
“Better? I’m not sick.” He felt fine.
“Where are you, Ethan?” a person in one of the white coats asked.
Ethan heard the question but paused, sensing a trick. He was in California but couldn’t figure how Beth could be there—or why he was in a bed surrounded by people in lab coats. “California?” he replied, attempting a confident response but realizing that it sounded like a question. Then, looking at Beth, he added, “When did you get here?”
Beth shook her head and looked away.
He wondered what he’d said to cause her to react that way. She bent down and kissed his cheek. “What? What’s wrong?” he asked but nothing came out. “Beth! Beth!” he screamed, trying to move, but his arms were held tight, restricted in some way. “What the fuck is going on!” He tried to kick his legs free from their bindings.
An alarm sounded—a loud alarm.
He squeezed his eyes closed and then opened them.
Chapter 18
Ethan’s Timeline
April 1991
The ringing didn’t stop. Ethan’s eyes opened to his dark apartment. The cordless phone was ringing beside him on the bed. For a moment, he hesitated, trying to determine if he still was in the dream. His room looked real. He picked up the phone.
“Hello?” he said, glancing at his clock radio. It was 1:30 a.m.
“Ethan?” asked a vaguely familiar female voice.
“Yes,” he responded, wondering who would be calling him in the middle of the night.
“It’s Christa. We met last night.”
His mind was still groggy as it tried to register reality from his dream.
“We were together last …” the female continued.
“Ah, yes,” Ethan interrupted. Oh God, why is she calling me? “How you doing?” he asked cautiously.
“Oh, just fine,” she replied, her voice bright—very different from her tone when he’d left her that morning. “I was wondering whether I could meet you someplace for a coffee. I’ve got the blazer you left behind yesterday.”
Ethan wavered before answering. My blazer. Fuck. It suddenly came back to him. “Sure … I guess. Sorry, I didn’t realize I left … but I’m not surprised. As I remember, I left in a bit of a hurry.” Why am I agreeing to meet with this woman?
“I’ll meet you at Dorian’s Coffee Emporium in half an hour, okay? I really need to talk to you. Bye.” She hung up.
“Where the fuck’s Dorian’s Coffee?” he asked, speaking into the dead line. “Like I’m going to meet her at two o’clock in the morning. She’s fucking nuts!”
It likely was her boyfriend put her up to it so he could beat the living shit out of Ethan—or kill him. After hearing Jesse’s story at Gonzo’s, it seemed more than a possibility. People did things like that here; they didn’t just talk.
Ethan had never been a physical fighter, and he wasn’t about to start now, but it was his navy Hugo Boss blazer that made him reconsider their rendezvous. When he’d left for the party, he’d been wearing it. Now, he looked in his closet, even though he knew he wouldn’t find it. Fuck. The blazer had cost him a fortune. He was not comfortable, knowing what was sure to follow.
Clicking the buttons on his answering machine, he searched for her earlier message, but it was gone. “Shit, I knew it.” He dialed directory assistance.
“For what city, please?” asked the operator.
“Oh, I don’t know … Los Angeles.”
“For what name?”
“Dorian’s Coffee something or other.”
There was a short pause and then the operator came back on the line. “You’re looking for Dorian’s Coffee Emporium?”
“That’s right,” he said, his patience waning. “Where is it?”
“There are two. Do you know which one you’re looking for?”
“Where are they?”
“There’s one on Bank Street and the other is—”
“That’s the one,” Ethan interrupted and hung up the phone.
Instead of leaving, he dropped into his comfy chair and leaned his head back into its softness. He needed his Hugo Boss back, but now his thoughts turned to Beth and his disturbing dream. At the same time, he saw a statuesque figure wrapped in a tight black dress. Dreamy brown eyes looked into his. Christa had caught his eye from across the pool on the dimly lit patio …
His thought was interrupted by the insistent ringing of the cordless beside him. Disoriented again, he fumbled for the phone and glanced at his watch. Shit—he’d fallen back asleep.
“Hello?” he answered, his voice now raspy from sleeping.
“You’re standing me up?” Christa said, sounding on the verge of tears.
“Shit, I’m sorry,” he apologized. “I dozed off. I’m on my way.”
Before he realized what he was doing, he was walking down Somerset Street in front of his apartment building. He ran along Somerset until he reached Bank and swung left. He was out of breath by the time he saw the sign for Dorian’s Coffee Emporium on the other side of the street. It was written in three-inch pink neon script, one word above the other, beside the entrance door. If he’d been driving, he likely would have missed it.
Sitting alone near the window farthest from the door was a lone woman. He stopped in his tracks, understanding why the previous evening had happened. She was the most stunning woman he’d ever seen—more beautiful than his pictured recollection. He was struck by how little familiarity he found in her features. If she had not been the lone person in the café—and had not been wearing an oversized navy blazer—he would not have known her. The blazer added a sexy nuance to her stunning beauty. His heart, already pumping hard from running, climbed into his throat as he stared at her through the window. She tucked a strand of her long chestnut-brown hair over her ears, first the left side and then the right—a nervous habit. Her hair then fell quite naturally, covering her cheeks and hiding her anxiety. Her arms dropped to her sides as she stretched them downward, straightening her posture, which in turn adjusted the blazer.
As he moved closer, she crossed her legs under the table and then bit her lower lip, as if she was preparing for an important event. As he continued to stare at her, he had not realized he still was in the street until a passing motorist honked at him. It startled Ethan and caused Christa to turn and, for the first time, see him approaching. Her face brightened as she smiled, revealing immaculate white teeth. After a quick wave, her fingers again traced her hair behind her ears, this time revealing her dangling gold earrings.
He quickly moved to the front entrance. If this was a setup, he no longer cared.
“Hello, Ethan,” she said, standing up from behind the small table.
“Hi,” Ethan replied, moving toward her across the small café. The strange sense of knowing and not knowing the woman in front of him was quickly forgotten when he saw the bruise below her left cheekbone and a small bandage her hair did a poor job of covering above her eye. Both had been hidden from his view out in the street. Her eyes were bloodshot.
“I’m sorry I look such a mess, but I had to see you.”
“It’s okay, Christa,” Ethan replied, staring at her cheek. It was the first time he could remember using her name. “What happened?”
They sat down at the small table.
“I’m sorry to call you,” she began, “but I felt dreadful about what happened this morning and how I treated you. I was out of my head, and I panicked. I didn’t want you to get hurt.” A forced smile appeared on her face as Ethan nodded. “I wanted to see you again. I wanted to meet the sober Ethan Jones. The wasted one didn’t last very long. I wanted to start over.”
He continued to listen without commenting.
“Mark found out you were there last night,” she said, dropping her head and looking down at the table. “He didn’t believe me when I told him it wasn’t what he
thought.” Then abruptly she raised her head and met his eyes. “Just so you know, nothing happened last night between us, despite what it may have looked like. You passed out in your clothes before I got to the room.”
Ethan nodded. This wasn’t the time to explain how out of character his previous night’s actions were.
She winced as she smiled and went on. “He slapped me around and called me all kinds of nasty things. Then he kicked me out. I’m not a slut or a whore, Ethan. Please believe me.” Pausing, she took a sip from the white porcelain coffee cup. Her hands were shaking.
Ethan’s emotions hardened. One thing he had zero tolerance for was a man who abused women. It was beyond his comprehension and made his blood boil.
“Everything I own ended up in the front yard,” she said.
It was then he noticed the large bag against the wall beside her.
She laughed weakly, but her eyes welled up and big tears rolled down each cheek. Her voice cracked when she spoke. “You seemed like a good person, so I called you. I need a place to stay … for a few nights … until I make other arrangements.”
“But why me? You don’t even know me. You must have a friend or family.”
“Mark is very possessive. He was jealous of anyone I got to know—girls or guys.” She paused to wipe the tears from her face. “My family’s in Canada. I wouldn’t go there anyway.”
Ethan was quiet. He couldn’t take his eyes off the bruise and bandage on her face. Those were the wounds he could see—wounds that were there because of him. A hard lump formed in his throat. Although a nagging What are you doing, bro? repeated in his head, without hesitating further, he said, “Christa, I don’t have a lot of room, but we’ll figure something out.”
Christa took another sip of coffee, trying to hide the tears rolling down her cheeks. “I was able to rescue your blazer,” she said, sitting erect and smoothing the lapel with her fingertips. “It’s very nice.” She smiled again, showing her white teeth. The tears made her eyes sparkle. She had a beautiful smile. “Thank you, Ethan.” She reached her hand forward, shaking noticeably, and touched his hand. “I won’t be any trouble. I promise.”
The Actor Page 9