The Hollywood Guy

by Jack Baran

  Pete had no outdoor skills but figured he was handy and could learn. First night, he had trouble setting up the tent and was prohibited from building a campfire because it was too dry that year. So they ate trail mix and slept under the stars - pretty amazing. In the morning, Samantha didn’t like squatting in the woods and needed to take a shower. They packed up and moved on, intending to find a motel, but Pete, determined to prove that he could get it right, insisted they camp again.

  This time he successfully set up the tent. After a baloney sandwich on enriched white bread, Samantha wasn’t in the mood when Pete became amorous. They hadn’t spoken all day and making love was his way to solve a problem without dealing with it. Persistence in sexual matters was a technique Pete had mastered in his youth when no often meant maybe. Samantha, defeated by her own horniness, threw her long legs over his shoulders and they went at it hard. Finally, she rolled on top and really let loose. That’s when the storm hit and the poorly secured tent blew apart leaving them pumping away unprotected from the elements. Lightening crackled, thunder crashed and the rain poured down on their naked bodies.

  Some might have found the storm exciting, not Samantha. Safe in the Travel All, Pete held her trembling in his arms.

  The next day they pulled into the reservation town of Browning looking for a motel. The potholed streets were crowded with Indians gathering for the annual Sioux Nation Powwow; tribes from all over were camped around the Fairgrounds. It was rodeo day and a buzz of excitement was in the air.

  The Blackfeet had the Holiday Inn franchise, but motel management was not their forte. Pete and Samantha, wired from lack of sleep, checked in and went to the rodeo. They sat in the grandstand drinking beer, broiling in the sun. Mosquitoes big as crabapples ignored Sam’s bug spray and feasted on her fair English skin while bareback riders fought to stay astride bucking mustangs, ropers wrestled ornery steers and bulls threw Indians all over the arena.

  By evening they were back at the motel sweltering because the air conditioning didn’t work, neither did the TV. Samantha was lobster red. Pete gently applied Noxzema to her burning skin wondering if he could pick up where they left off during the thunderstorm.

  “Are you crazy?” she shouted. “My skin is raw and you want to fuck me?”

  “If you’re not up for it, maybe you could….”

  “A blow job? I can’t believe your insensitivity. Satisfy your own needs.”

  Jerk off! That hurt. Usually she loved when he came in her mouth. Without another word, Pete left the room.

  “Get them to fix the TV,” she yelled which she rarely did, “and the air conditioner.”

  The only light at the fairgrounds came from a huge bonfire in the center of the rodeo ring. Old men and young braves beat on a giant drum. Buckskin dancers snaked around the leaping flames. Pete, an unwelcome outsider, was drawn to the blaze. The Indians ignored him as he gave himself up to the drumming. Finally he joined the painted faces dancing.

  “Hay, hay, hoka hay, this is my grandfather’s land, the land of my people, hay, hay, hoka hay, this is where we hunt and fish, this is our land, hay, hay, hoka hay.” Burning embers singed his clothes.

  Pete awoke next morning on a dung heap behind the stables, his expensive hiking boots gone. A dog bounded up to him as he walked barefoot back to the motel. Pete scratched the pooch’s neck. The street was empty except for an Indian sitting on the hood of a beat up Lincoln Continental smoking a cigarette. “Hoka hay,” Pete said in passing. The Indian laughed and returned the greeting.

  Samantha was up in bed reading. “You smell like shit.”

  He closed the door. “The consequence of where you sleep.”

  “I’m on an evening flight from Great Falls to New York. It takes three to four hours to drive down there.”

  “And me?”

  “You’ll figure it out.”

  “Maybe I won’t.”

  “Take a shower, you might get lucky.”

  Pete didn’t want to wash away the smell of dung mixed with wood smoke. He didn’t want to lose the faces dancing in the firelight, the drums, the chanting. He stripped off his clothes and lay down beside her. She could take it or leave it.

  Samantha chewed on her lip, something she did when she was angry. She was naked, her skin warm but no longer on fire. “Be gentle.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Guilt motivated Annabeth’s visit to Woodstock. It was the least she could do for an expensive airline ticket and some additional cash. In truth she missed her dad a lot, but pretended she didn’t. Instead of spending the day with him, she hung out with a local boy she just met, making out rather than having sex, until Jackson realized he was late for rehearsal. She should go back to the motel and make it up with her father, but wants to hear Jackson play so bad.

  Rattling down Zena Road along the Sawkill, Annabeth looks out the passenger window amazed by the autumn landscape so different from California where the hillsides are dry and ready to ignite. Fire season in LA, apple harvest time in upstate New York.

  Late afternoon sun streaks through the trees lighting up the old Downing farmhouse. Annabeth sneezes. “My sinuses aren’t familiar with your environment.”

  Jackson smiles at her. “Fresh air takes getting used to.”

  “I never saw colors like these. Everything is brown where I come from.”

  Sam and Jim, bearded brothers who play banjo and fiddle, mandolin and trombone, live in the old barn and take care of the property. They were a Bluegrass duo until Jackson convinced them to go electric and join the Sidewinders, his band. He introduces Annabeth, but the brothers are uptight because he brought a girl to rehearsal.

  Not used to being ignored, she stays outside when they go in and start to play. Her personal taste in music these days trends toward Electronica, another reason she wants to go to Paris and Prague. Banjos and fiddles are below her radar. Sitting on a bench outside, she lights the giant spliff Jackson rolled for her and texts her girls back in the Palisades, poetically describing her feelings about where she is, leaving the cute boy out of the story for the time being. Aiming her phone, Annabeth captures an image of the mysterious farmhouse silhouetted against a purple sky. A resonating guitar breaks her reverie.

  Inside, the Sidewinders work on a tune. Jackson plays bottleneck slide, a lick so old it sounds new, alongside Jim wailing on electric fiddle, Sam picking an amplified banjo, Do-Rag playing a popping Fender bass and Quinn accentuating the beat on drums.

  The raw energy of the music grabs hold of Annabeth, her superior LA attitude that she wears like a fashionable scarf fades away. Amps humming, speakers hissing, the Sidewinders find a comfortable groove. Jackson sings to her. The song has something to do with being loud and letting your colors show. She can’t decipher all the words but gets the meaning about being proud of your true self. Feeling it, she dances closer, flashing a wide California girl smile at the skinny guitar boy with the long hair and hippie bandana.

  Back at the Streamside, Pete prepares dinner, Pollo Especial, his premier dish, simple but delicious. Marinate the breasts, legs and thighs with tamari, garnish with pepper, sage and garlic, broil for eight minutes on each side. Sounds like nothing, but Barbara and Bethy loved his creation, so popular it became the annual Super Bowl plato del dia. He’s trying not to expect his daughter home for dinner because he doesn’t want to be disappointed if she doesn’t show. All he knows is that her rental car is still parked outside. Today was not the first time he watched Annabeth run out of the house. At fifteen, after being warned repeatedly about breaking curfew, they grounded her. When he tried to confiscate her cell phone, she fled. Pete wanted to call the police, but Barbara defended her daughter like she always did, a big bone of contention between them. Less than an hour later her friend’s mother called, she only ran as far as Beverly Hills.

  “Smells good,” says Cleo returning from the liquor store, a bottle of wine under her arm and Dicey in tow.

  “Pollo Especial. There’s also killer applesauce f
or desert, a new crop of Honeycrisps. I make it English style with lemon zest, cinnamon and raisins.” He sounds like a househusband.

  “I’ll set the table.” Playing the wife home from work, Cleo finds a stack of miss-matched dishes. “How come we haven’t actually written anything yet?”

  “We’re still figuring out the story.” Pete sounds defensive.

  “You know as much as you need to start.” She sounds irritated.

  “ I don’t.” His voice rises.

  “I told you the beginning, the end and most of the middle.” Her voice rises.

  “This is my process.” He glares at her.

  “We’re a team.” She glares back at him.

  “My way or no way.” He says this louder than intended.

  “Don’t take out your anger at Annabeth on me.”

  Amazing how easy for a man and a woman to get into it. Maybe that’s how the genders are designed to communicate, get the blood flowing. Jackson’s van pulls up outside. Pete smiles. “Who’s angry? The food is ready, the kids are home.” The chicken sizzles as he transfers it from the broiler to a serving plate while string beans and mushrooms simmer on the stove.

  Cleo kisses him. “I love you,” she whispers. Pete isn’t expecting that. The door opens on them embracing.

  Annabeth enters, pretends not to notice as Jackson sheepishly trails behind. “Pollo Especial!” She shouts with delight, hugging her father.

  Nothing is said about her running off, now a non-event. All is forgiven. One of Pete’s good features is he doesn’t recriminate, forgets easily. On the other hand, he rarely confronts issues. “Dinner is served.”

  “Give the kids a minute to wash up.”

  Cleo sounds like Barbara, Annabeth shares the recognition with her father.

  Steaming plates of food are brought to the table. Pete asks them all to join hands.

  Annabeth is skeptical but refrains from making her usual smart remark. Back in LA dad served himself first and started eating before anyone could get food on a plate. She receives Pete’s hand with her right, gives her left to Jackson. He reaches out to Cleo who takes Pete’s hand in turn, closing the circle. They sit in silence, listening to the stream outside, the hoot of an owl.

  “Annabeth, I’m touched by your presence in my house. Welcome.”

  “Me too,” blurts Jackson.

  “And welcome Cleo and Jackson to share our simple meal. I love you all.”

  “I’m sorry daddy,” Annabeth whispers.

  There are tears in Cleo’s eyes. “Where I grew up we always thanked the Lord for blessing our table. Tonight I feel his spirit.”

  Annabeth has been praying secretly since her month in rehab when she was seventeen. She closes her eyes, bows her head.

  Jackson grew up in Woodstock and had participated in all kinds of food prayers. “To Mother Earth who gives her bounty, to Krishna and Buddha.”

  “Amen.” Pete feels the positive energy flowing around the table. He serves, Cleo pours the wine and everyone eats heartily.

  Annabeth, blown away by rehearsal, gushes about Jackson’s music and how fantastic the Sidewinders play.

  Pete loves his daughter’s enthusiasm. When she was eleven she turned him on to a novel about how three kids abandoned by their mother, find a grandmother they never knew. Grandma is a bitter, defeated woman who the kids nurture back to life. It was his only PG film and he treasures it more than any other.

  “Dad, you should produce a Sidewinders demo.”

  “I’m a self-proclaimed musicologist, not a record producer. Anyway, I’m in a writing mode.”

  “What I heard at rehearsal today was awesome.”

  “Jackson’s gig at the Colony was awesome.”

  “You know my best friend Annie’s father is an executive at Sony Music. He’s always looking for new acts. If I had a demo, he’d listen to it. I could get the Sidewinders a deal, I know it.”

  “I bet you could.”

  “All I need is a demo.”

  Pete turns to Jackson. “How many songs do you have, kid?”

  Jackson is stunned by this crazy conversation. “Six, no, seven originals, plus we do tons of covers.”

  “Should be four good ones, right Beth?”

  “At least.”

  Any idea what a demo might cost?”

  “You’ll do it?” Annabeth is blown away.

  “I said how much?”

  “Mr. Stevens, you’ve done way too much for….”

  “One week to record and mix. Get me some numbers.”

  While the kids wash the dishes, Cleo follows Pete up to the office. “So decisive. You deserve a quickie before we start.”

  “My daughter is downstairs.”

  “Pop doesn’t want a blow job?”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  She laughs at him. “Your daughter loves you so much.”

  “Don’t you think she uses me?”

  “Big time.”

  His cell phone rings, identifying Marcus Bergman. He doesn’t have to take the call but can’t resist picking up.

  “Mr. Stevens,” a female voice with a Gulf Coast twang.

  “It’s after midnight.”

  “This is Cayenne, Marcus Bergman’s assistant. We just got in.”

  “How many hours have you been working today, Cayenne?”

  “None of your business. Mr. Bergman wants to meet tomorrow, here at the Standard.”

  “Tomorrow in the city?”

  “Noon, Mr. Bergman was very precise about that.” Cayenne hangs up.

  “Hollywood calling? You have no intention of writing with me. Admit it, all you want to do is fuck.”

  “Not true, I’m totally committed to our project.”

  “So why are you going to meet some Hollywood producer in the city?”

  “Marcus Bergman is an important man. I’m being diplomatic for once. Passing on the job has to be done a certain way. When I get back we’ll start writing, I promise.”

  “Actual writing.”

  “Actual.” He kisses her.

  Downstairs, Annabeth and Jackson sit on the front porch steps.

  “It’s not right for your father to pay for a demo.”

  “He wants to.”

  “You believe we’re good enough?”

  She nods. “Let’s go to my room.”

  “Your father and Cleo are upstairs.”

  “In the Palisades, my boyfriends slept over starting when I was sixteen.”

  “I’m not good with that.”

  “Let’s go to your place.”

  He shakes his head. “I live with my mother.”

  “You don’t want me?”

  “I want you plenty.”

  Cleo comes out of the house, sails by. “Night kids.”

  From the upstairs office window, Pete watches Jackson and Annabeth kiss in the parking lot. Is this good, he wonders? She’s cable surfing when he goes downstairs. “Got a meeting in the city tomorrow.”

  “That’s cool. I’m staying for awhile if that’s okay?”

  “Delighted.”

  “Are you excited to be writing again?”

  “I really don’t know.”

  “Why are you working with that woman?”

  “Cleo has an amazing story to tell.”

  “Dad, be honest, don’t rationalize.” She finds True Blood on demand and settles in for some vampire time.

  “I’m going to bed.”

  “Thanks for making my room all nice, daddy.”

  He kisses her on the forehead, “Night, Bethy. Thanks for coming, I want you to stay as long as you like.”

  “Dinner will be waiting when you get home tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Pete opens his eyes at first light, no alarm necessary. Since this thing with Cleo started he’s been off his usual routine, sinfully sleeping in after late sessions with her, not doing Yoga as rigorously. Last night, before going to sleep he opened his laptop, wrote and printed out a couple of page
s of notes for the Bergman meeting today. Why prepare when he allegedly doesn’t want the job? Why is he so excited?

  Downstairs, all Pete has to do is turn on the coffee maker, Annabeth ground the beans for him. She learned to do that when she was eight. He pours a small glass of orange juice and steps outside. Two crows on a low hanging branch discuss world news while a group of blue jays, squirrels and chipmunks devour the last of the birdseed. Back inside, he unrolls his yoga mat and settles on to his back to begin his morning practice.

  Eyes closed he focuses on his breathing, slowing it down, in and out, bringing awareness to the perineum, in and out, moving to the crescent between the navel and the pubic bone, in and out, to the solar plexus, but instead of finding the six pointed star in the center of his chest, Pete revisits a history of bad decisions. There were jobs he should have passed on, bad bluffs on losing poker hands, and finally lying to Barbara. While doing pelvic tilt, his mind swings to Cleo. Does she love him? She said so. Does he love her? Is it even possible for a geezer and a young babe to be happy together? But, take age and sex out of the equation, and you have two souls on the same wavelength, sharing an ironic world view. With growing excitement he imagines how they will shape her lurid story into a page turning tale of survival and growth. “I’m in love,” he mutters to himself.

  Pete finishes his forty-five minute set with warrior pose, definitively deciding to reject Marcus Bergman’s job offer. Life does not have to be a TV series with traumatic deadlines, no matter how lucrative. The Streamside is on the edge of profitability and he’s in love, starting his second novel. What’s more, his daughter is cooking dinner tonight and don’t forget he’s producing Jackson’s demo. Pretty busy guy.

  After showering and shaving, Pete assesses his presentation in a full length mirror. He brushes his long hair straight back, ties it in a short ponytail. His black leather shoes are scuffed, but his jeans are clean, and the custom silk shirt is missing just one button. Certainly his expensive watch will make an impression, but why make one if he’s passing on the job?

  Annabeth sleeps with the door open, lights on. She seems settled in, computer ready, external speakers connected. He wonders what she’ll make for dinner?