by Colin Sims
TRUE MAGIC
By Colin Sims
Copyright © 2017 Colin Sims
All rights reserved.
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please go and buy your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to real persons, events, or places are purely coincidental; any references to actual places, people, or brands are fictitious.
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Contents
Prologue—A Quick Note Before I Begin
Chapter One—The Vampettes of Mulholland
Chapter Two—Bigger Than You Thought
Chapter Three—Dinner and a Carnival
Chapter Four—Everyday Objects
Chapter Five—This Is How You Dance
Chapter Six—You’re a Wizard
Chapter Seven—Desperate Spells
Chapter Eight—You Like Me
Chapter Nine—The Great Man’s Cathedral
Chapter Ten—Godzilla
Chapter Eleven—Bond, James Bond
About the Author
Prologue
A Quick Note Before I Begin
Okay, here’s the deal: I’m new to this whole “writing” thing, so forgive me if this sucks. Lucky for you, though, I’ve just thumbed through Creative Writing For Dummies and picked up some useful tips. One of them—which is apparently very important—is to show and not tell. So instead of writing a sentence like, “Bob is a jerk,” you write one saying, “Bob is a forty-year-old man who enjoys throwing rocks at pigeons.” See the difference?
Anyway, I only mention this because I’m about to break some writing rules and tell you a few things. First off, my name is François Lemieux and I am not from France. I’m from Palo Alto. My parents emigrated from France and gave me a French first name to go with their French last name because they weren’t thinking about the future cruelty of third grade classmates. (Hey, it’s the snail-eater! Let’s get him!) Secondly, I’m a sophomore at UCLA and up until very recently, I was the most average guy you’ve ever met. Medium height, slender build, non-athlete, sandy hair, a 2.9 grade point average, a few friends but not too many, a puke-brown Prius (which the brochure called “Toasted Walnut Pearl”), and last but not least, I was hedging my Film Studies major with a second one in Finance. Technically, I hated Finance. I hated math. Yet deep in the heart of every pragmatist is the knowledge that destiny is a cubicle—not a director’s chair.
The one thing in my life that wasn’t average was my girlfriend, Meagan. To say that she was ridiculously smoking hot would be a massive understatement. The girl put Victoria’s Secret models to shame. (Kind of.) She stood a few inches shorter than me, had long blonde hair, crystal blue eyes, high cheekbones, a smile that could melt your heart and—okay fine—a very, very nice body.
We met freshman year in the dorms. She lived on the same floor as me, and one day when I was studying in the courtyard, she marched over, gave me a brief, appraising look, stuck her hand out and announced, “Hi! I’m Meagan.”
The next thing I knew, I had a girlfriend.
No one understood it. Especially not me. Why this girl—who could’ve gone out with anyone—chose me was an enigma on par with other great mysteries such as: Where did the universe come from? What happens when we die? How did Donald Trump win the presidency?
Still, I wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. If Meagan wanted to sleep over on Friday nights, I wasn’t going to argue with her. She smelled nice and liked to light lots of candles. It was heaven. Or at least, so I thought. Sometimes a girl’s charms can blind you to other aspects of her character that are not so pleasant. But more on that later. I don’t want to get ahead of myself. The point is Meagan and I were only a day away from our one and a half-year anniversary on the night my life changed forever.
What follows now is a true story. Every single thing, down to the smallest detail is one hundred percent the truth as it actually happened—including the part about the zombie skeleton cop who nearly killed me on Hollywood Boulevard.
Chapter One
The Vampettes of Mulholland
Sometimes the great urban sprawl of Los Angeles thinks as one. It says to itself, “Even though it’s Thursday night … screw it. It’s Friday.”
Tonight was just such a night. It was early spring, the air was warm, and a certain electricity danced between the city’s inhabitants. This was a night for partying and everyone knew it.
As for me, I was staying in. An open copy of Robert Schrader’s Nail the Interview: Get the Job and Change Your Life sat in front of me as I forced myself to read the chapter on internships. The first sentence stated that they were the gateway to every professional’s future, and as such, needed to be accorded the utmost attention and seriousness.
I didn’t disagree. Tomorrow was a big deal. At eleven a.m., I had an interview for a summer internship with Goodman, Sachs & Morgenstern, a prestigious wealth management firm downtown. (See? I was putting my Finance classes to good use.) As such, my plan for the evening was this:
1.) Study Nail the Interview until ten.
2.) Lay out freshly dry-cleaned suit.
3.) Drink glass of milk. (Possibly chocolate.)
4.) Be in bed by eleven.
5.) Get long, peaceful night’s sleep.
That was my plan.
Unfortunately, there’s an old saying—which I believe guys in the military like to use—that goes, “no plan survives contact with the enemy.”
In my case, the “enemy” was a house party in the Hollywood Hills. One of my roommates had just scored an invite from some friend of a friend, and now all three were in the kitchen doing sake bombs. I could hear each of their voices distinctly. First there was Nate Buckner—my best friend from the dorms last year. He was a tall, skinny aspiring actor who hailed from Texas and had the accent to prove it. He was also the only one of my friends who knew how to talk to girls. Next, there was Brian Kim, who was about five feet nothing and knew more about hip-hop than anyone on the planet. Lastly, there was Vikram Singh. I actually didn’t know him that well. He went by Vick.
Anyway, it sounded like they were having a great time out there. The music was blaring and I’d counted three “KANPAI’s” so far.
I, on the other hand, was quiet as a church mouse with my door securely locked and my overhead light switched off. My aim was to create the impression that I wasn’t home. I’d already gotten three missed calls and eighteen text messages demanding to know where I was, so for the time being, my ruse seemed to be working. If I held out another twenty minutes, they’d leave for the party and I’d be home free. Glass of milk and an early bedtime—here I come.
Then I casually leaned back in my chair, and apparently a screw had come loose, so the back fell off and I flipped over, kicking my feet up and knocking the desk over sideways.
Nuclear explosions have made less noise.
The next thing I knew, I was peaking bleary-eyed through an open crack in my door, explaining myself.
“I was, uh, sleeping,” I said, rubbing my head. There was already a nice-sized bump that was going to need some ice.
“Dude you were, uh, jerking off!” Brian laughed and shoved open the door. All three poured into the room and the rap music from the kitchen followed. Brian found the light switch. “Jesus Christ! You were really going for it, weren’t you Lemieux?”
My room looked like the aftermath of a hurricane. My chair lay in three pieces, my desk wa
s overturned, my reading lamp was shattered, and a sheaf of papers littered every surface like fallen snow.
“Don’t hate me,” I said, “but I was on Facebook and saw this picture of your mom. One thing led to another and—”
Brian was about to cut me off, but Buckner interrupted him first. “Be that as it may,” he said. “You’re coming out tonight, Lemieux. We ain’t taking no for an answer.”
“You guys go ahead,” I said as casually as possible. “I’ve gotta do something tomorrow.”
This was dangerous ground. Under no circumstance could I tell any of them about my interview. They would all strongly object to the idea—especially once they learned where I was interviewing.
“Tomorrow?” Brian asked. He looked flummoxed. “I’ll tell you what’s happening tonight. We’re hitting the wrap party for a modeling shoot. A modeling party! Don’t you understand?”
“Why would I want to go there?” I said. “I have a girlfriend. And secondly, why would you?”
“Dude, what are you talking about? They’re models.”
“Every one of them is gonna be a foot and a half taller than you.”
Vick laughed and put a hand on my shoulder. “Bro, that’s why you gotta come! We gotta hoist the little guy on our shoulders.”
“Look, Brian,” I said. “You don’t have to go on anyone’s shoulders. That’s embarrassing. Just wear roller skates. Like that girl in Boogie Nights.”
Like all guys under six feet, Brian’s height was something of a sore spot. As such, he clearly wasn’t appreciating the Heather Graham reference. “Dude you’re not tall either! What are you like 5’8”?”
“5’9”,” I said.
“Bullshit. And even if—”
“Hold up a second.” Bucker held up a hand. “I see what’s goin’ on here. Lemieux’s bein’ cagey. This is a Meagan issue, ain’t it?”
Crap.
“Who?” I said.
“Who? God almighty. Now I know it’s about her.” Buckner looked to Brian and Vick. “You two give us a sec. This is serious. I gotta talk to my boy here a minute.”
They both left laughing at me. Brian said something about my “labia getting in the way,” but I wasn’t sure what he meant by that.
The door closed behind them and now it was just me and Buckner. He bent down to put my chair upright and pointed at it. “Alright,” he said solemnly. “Take a seat.”
I did. Not really because he told me to, but because the bump on my head was throbbing like crazy.
“Buck, you’re wasting your time,” I told him. “I can’t go to the—”
“Shut up for a second,” he said, and then stabbed a finger at me. “I’m gonna ask you a series of yes or no questions, and by God if you say something other than yes or no, you’re gonna regret it. Understand?”
I raised my hand in a salute.
“Good. First question—and tell the truth. Is this a Meagan thing? Is she draggin’ you to some kinda nonsense tomorrow?”
Technically, the answer to that question was “sort of,” but I elected to lie and say, “Meagan? No.”
“Then let me ask you this,” he said. “Do you think you’re a bitch?”
“What?”
“I ain’t tryin’ to be mean. I’m just tryin’ to make a point. Remember that movie Swingers you made me watch? ‘You’re so money and you don’t even know it?’ That’s you. And Meagan? Shoot. She just don’t fit in that equation.”
I still wasn’t understanding, so I just stared back blankly. I mean, I already knew my friends hated Meagan—they told me every chance they got—but I wasn’t making the connection. Why were we talking about my girlfriend all of a sudden? What did she have to do with any of this?
Buckner’s eyes dropped and he suddenly looked a little bashful. “Look,” he said. “I get it. She’s a real looker. You think you’re batting out of your league, and you’re the luckiest guy on Earth, right? But you gotta trust me on this. That girl is a one-way ticket to Shitsville.”
“Okay,” I said. “So what happened to the yes or no questions?”
“We’re past that now. The point is you gotta let loose. I can tell by the look on your face that whatever you got goin’ tomorrow, that woman’s playin’ some kinda part in it.”
“Dude, it’s not like I’m marrying her. She’s just my girlfriend. And tomorrow’s got nothing to do with her.”
“Then what’s so dang important you can’t have a little fun tonight?”
My face scrunched heavily and involuntarily. The same exact thing happened whenever I got dealt a bad hand in poker. It was a weakness. “I, uh, can’t say …?” I offered.
“See?” he said. “This has Meagan written all over it. Now listen for a second. She’s a beautiful girl, and when she wants to be, she’s almost charming. But I’m telling you, girls like her are Future Monsters.”
“They’re what?”
“They’ve got it all mapped out, amigo—their future career, their future husband, their future kids. I hate to say it, but at this very moment your name is probably written in a little pink notebook somewhere with a checkmark next to it. Is that all you want to be? I’ve been your pal for two years and I promise you, you could do better. Don’t get trapped in some girl’s plans. Make your own—starting with right now and coming to this party tonight. Or at least, come have a beer—or two—and then see what you think about things.”
I mulled this over a moment. On the one hand, Nate Buckner could’ve written a book on how to effectively peer pressure someone. He was definitely pressing all the right buttons. On the other, he was dead wrong about Meagan. She was cool. She’d never mentioned anything to me about future husbands and kids. And she hated the color pink. Maybe the guy was just jealous.
Nevertheless, the thing about “making my own plans” nagged at me. Technically speaking, the internship at Goodman, Sachs & Morgenstern was Meagan’s idea. I mean, she told me it was just a suggestion and I didn’t have to do it or anything, but still …
Did I want to spend the whole summer getting coffee for stockbrokers?
Twenty minutes later we were all packed into the Toasted Walnut Prius and heading up Sunset on our way to the Hills. Was it lame that we rolled the windows down to blast the dance party beats of Martin Solveig? Maybe. But I’d done two sake bombs and the world was making a lot more sense. The air was warm. Girls were out. Los Angeles was alive.
As for me, I was an S.T.A.R. because I was big in Japan.
• • •
If you’ve ever been to a party in the Hollywood Hills, then you’re familiar with the optical illusion of its houses. When you pull up to any driveway, all you see is a simple one-story structure that looks incredibly unimpressive. However, once inside, you realize that the house is actually five stories tall, as the back of it cascades down the hillside into a ranch-sized backyard with an infinity pool, a helicopter landing pad and a Ferris wheel.
I’d parked the Prius a little ways up the street, finding a fortunate spot nearby. The house itself was a straight up Hollywood mansion—an angular, modernist labyrinth of hard edges, gleaming white walls, Andy Warhol paintings and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking LA. Also, I noticed, the ceilings were accented with royal blue mood lighting, which reminded me of the Starship Enterprise. (The remake, not the old TV series.) Plus, the dizzying laser show and electronic DJ music added to the starship effect.
Buckner pointed out the kitchen and we pushed our way forward. A long countertop covered in half-full bottles of every liquor, liqueur and mixer known to man greeted us. Buckner immediately set to work splashing every bottle into a single cup to make what he called a “Texas Tea! Yeehaw!”
I poured myself a cranberry juice and Brian shouted into my ear that “those girls over there are so freaking hot they have to be models!” I looked where he was pointing.
“I bet they are,” I said.
He shouted back, delighted. “What?”
“Nothing,” I said.
&
nbsp; “Yeah!”
“So go talk to them. I’m sure they’ll find you adorable.”
“What?”
“Go over there!”
“What?”
And now we come to the reason why I suck at parties. The music is always too loud to talk—which is fine if you’re talking to Brian Kim because, you know, who cares? But if you want to talk with a girl, then you have to do it in the only other way available—dancing.
I don’t dance. The very concept baffles me. I mean, I understand that some guys can look cool doing it, but I’m not one of them. The last time I tried to fast dance with a girl was at my eighth grade mixer with Jen Bettencourt. I snuck up behind her, bobbing my head like a turkey until she spun around, screeched, and ran away. In retrospect, it was all my fault. I probably looked like a serial killer.
So, dancing? No thanks. I’ll take a night in with my girlfriend any day. Speaking of which …
I checked my phone and found a pair of texts.
MEAGAN: Hey! Just wanted 2 wish u luck 2moro! Daddy’s going to luv u I promise! So proud of u!
MEAGAN: P.S. If u get the internship I have a surprise for u
Yowzers.
A surprise, heh?
I suddenly pictured Meagan in a whipped cream bikini saying, “Oops! I think I need some help,” and then I approach—wearing a tool belt and a hardhat—and say, “Looks like you’ve got a problem there, little lady,” and then she says …
Alright, never mind. I don’t want to get carried away. Besides, I only got to indulge in the fantasy for a couple seconds. A large hand reached over and snatched the phone from my grip. It was Buckner. His eyes flicked over the screen and he asked, “What internship? And what’s this about her daddy loving you?”
Shit.
“It’s nothing,” I said quickly. “She just meant that—”
He ignored me and looked to Brian and Vick. “Boys, am I piecing this together right? Is François tryin’ to work for Meagan’s dad? I’ll be God damned, this is worse than I thought!”
Yeah okay. I left that part out. The “Goodman” of Goodman, Sachs & Morgenstern happened to be Robert Goodman III—Meagan’s illustrious father. He was pretty much what you’d expect from a guy who put “the third” at the end of his name. He was a tall, WASPy rich guy with a shock of blonde hair, an orangy fake tan and a politician’s smile. He also hated my guts, but only when Meagan wasn’t around. He’d say things like, “You’re a dead man, Lemieux. I’m not kidding,” and then she’d re-enter the room and he was as friendly as the Easter Bunny. She assured me that was just his off-brand sense of humor.