The Hollywood Guy

by Jack Baran

  On the Trailways bus into the city, Pete catches up on baseball in the newspaper. The Yankees clinched the American League East title and the hated Red Sox, the wild card team, are playing the Angels in the Division Series. Perfect, the Yanks match up great against the Twins, the Central Division winners.

  Traffic builds on Route 17, four lanes with a concrete divider, malls, box stores, car dealerships on either side of the road. Pete likes to assess the economy on a road like this. What franchises are faltering? Plenty of new cars in the parking lots, plenty of shoppers, but most are probably killing time and not spending any money.

  Pete contemplates the Bergman notes, a thirteen episode arc culminating in the mayor and chief sneaking off to his Bear Mountain hideaway and finally getting it on while Bobby’s investment banker character skips bail, all cross-cut with a terrorist cell planning an attack, the cliff hanger for next season.

  The bus rounds the big curve down to the Lincoln Tunnel. Across the river, Manhattan skyscrapers reach for the wild blue yonder.

  The original indigenous people called the island Manhatta; game was plentiful and fresh water streams flowed all year round. The temperate climate produced a diverse ecosystem that easily sustained three thousand natives – 1.6 million live on the island today.

  The cacophony of the city hits Pete like a club as he emerges onto Ninth Avenue in midtown. Disoriented, he checks his watch, but it stopped. Slow to switch to city mode, he is assed out of two cabs for not being aggressive enough. On the third try he steps in front of an older woman with a white cane.

  “Cocksucker,” the woman screams, “you stole a cab from a blind person!”

  “The cane is a prop,” he yells feeling the city’s energy flowing in his veins. “You’re not blind, you’re bogus.”

  “Wait till you get macular, scumbag!”

  “Drive,” he orders the cabby, who has a kinky black beard and payus hanging from his yarmulke.

  “Nice move, she’s a phony.”

  Pete reads the name off the hack license, Shlomo Bienstock, probably Ortho from Williamsburg. “The Standard Hotel, Shlomo, straight down Ninth.”

  “You think I’m a moron?”

  “No. I was just saying.”

  Shlomo, a bad driver, gets caught at every light, stares at Pete in the rear view mirror. “Jewish?”

  Always the same question, “Why do you ask?”

  “You look Jewish.”

  “My mother was an atheist.”

  “If your mother was born Jewish, you’re Jewish. Why fight it?”

  “A rabbi told me the same thing. Religion is too violent for me.”

  “You may feel safe now, secure because this is New York City but things go bad and the recession becomes a depression, who do they blame? The bankers, the Jews, don’t turn away from your people.”

  “I refuse to live according to your paranoid assumptions.”

  “People hate the Jews, but as long as we have the bomb, nobody is going to fuck with us, none of the Arab bastards, or the Iranian sons-of-bitches. One day soon the Israelis are going to take out their nuclear facilities.”

  “Is that your roadmap for peace?”

  “Until they recognize our right to exist, there is no map.”

  “And the Palestinians? Don’t they deserve a homeland, a right to exist?”

  The cab pulls over. “Get out of my car. I don’t take anti-Semites.”

  “All I’m saying is they have rights too.”

  “You’re not Jewish.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Get out of my car.”

  “I have an appointment, I’ll be late.”

  “Walk, you bastard.”

  Pete pays the driver, tipping him automatically.

  “The worst anti-Semite is a Jewish one. Keep your tip.”

  “The worst Jew is a racist,” Pete shouts back. He hustles downtown, unable to shrug off the encounter with Shlomo. Maybe it’s true, he is anti-Semitic on his father’s side, but what about Ingrid, she had a Jewish accountant. He passes two conga drummers jamming outside a bodega, stops to listen, so what if he’s late. At the corner, a Sabrett’s hot dog cart beckons. After being careful with his diet for years, Pete can’t resist buying New York’s most dubious street food. He slavers mustard on the long thin dog, loads up with sauerkraut and relish, stuffs his face. Delicious.

  Pete arrives fifteen minutes late at the trendy Standard Hotel, a postmodern 18-story tower arching over the newly opened High Line. His mustard stained silk shirt is drenched with sweat and he’s suffering from terrible indigestion. Not to worry, Marcus Bergman is on a conference call.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” The twang from last night’s telephone call belongs to a leggy Vietnamese in her twenties.

  “I could use a foot massage.” Pete winks jokingly.

  The assistant doesn’t get it, gives him a withering look. “I was summa cum laude at Vassar and a graduate fellow at the American Film Institute. I don’t do massage.”

  “Just kidding.”

  “Racial profiling isn’t funny.”

  “Perrier?”

  “I see you met my assistant, Cayenne. Don’t fuck with her, she’s smarter than both of us.” Marcus Bergman, 47, tight-beard, short hair and tennis-tan, impeccably dressed in a custom-made, light gray Italian suit, glides into the room on bare feet and an easy smile, shakes hands limply with Pete. “Marcus Bergman.”

  Pete catches a reflection of himself in the mirror: he looks like a street person. “Any relation to Ingmar?” Always cracking wise.

  “A distant cousin on my grandfather’s side, I own the remake rights to Wild Strawberries. What’s your take on that movie?”

  So far Pete’s smartass comments have resulted in insulting the hot assistant and going off on a tangent with the producer. “I’d have to see the film again.”

  “Cayenne, make sure Petur gets a copy of Strawberries - that’s what I want to call it. So you’re from Iceland?”

  “Ever do standup?”

  “As a matter of fact I did, but I was no Seinfeld.”

  “So you became a producer.”

  “Tell me about Iceland, I have Scandinavian roots.”

  “I grew up in the Bronx, lived in the Village, then briefly Soho before moving to LA. Now I live in Woodstock.”

  “I’m a true Angelino, from the flats between Olympic and Pico, graduated Fairfax High. I bleed Dodger blue.”

  Archenemy from Brooklyn, they abandoned their fans and bandbox ballpark for the easy life on the West Coast. The weird thing about all the years in LA was rooting against the home team, but he could never trade Yankee pinstripes for Dodger blue. Cayenne hands him a glass of the city’s famous tap water, Pete’s stomach rumbles as he sits down.

  Bergman settles himself on the couch opposite. “I loved what you did with my pilot. It went from good to off the charts.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Sure the concept is mine, but your elevator scene points the way for the first season. David D is on board, the network is fast tracking the show. They ordered thirteen episodes, unheard of. I need you buddy to lead my creative team.”

  “You want me to write the bible for the first season?”

  “You have an ending?”

  “In fact I do. The mayor and the chief get it on while Bobby skips bail and a terrorist cell plots an attack next season.”

  “You are truly amazing.”

  Is Bergman in actual awe or is this an act? “I want shared created by credit.”

  Bergman stops smiling; his voice drops. “Here’s the way I see it, you’ve done great work… in the past. I also know that you had a gambling jones that followed a sex jones that left you with a reputation for unreliability.”

  “So why hire me?”

  “Because this project is made for you.”

  He’s right, it is. “What’s the catch?”

  “Is working in LA a catch?”

  Pete stands and stretch
es. Does he really want this job? He takes in the commanding view out the window. “I read in the paper that hotel guests stand up here flashing the High Line.” He drinks his water. “How long would I be needed on the project?”

  “Six months exclusive.”

  “Expenses?”

  “Negotiable. Remember, this is a cable deal, so the money isn’t huge to start but the series takes off, I don’t have to tell you what that’s worth.”

  Pete watches a Staten Island ferry pass the Statue of Liberty, considers how much he would make by doing the deal instead of co-writing a novel on spec with a partner who has a dual personality.

  Marcus smiles again, warming to Pete’s style. “See Cayenne, this man plays serious poker, you can learn something from him besides how to insult people.”

  “I can’t say I’m not interested,” Pete murmurs.

  The phone rings. Cayenne takes the call. “Jeff at Warners.”

  “Tell him I’m finishing a meeting.” He puts his hand on Pete’s shoulder. “Why don’t I have a conversation with David. But understand one thing, signing on means a commitment.” He studies Pete closely. “This series will be bigger than Nasty.”

  Cayenne accompanies Pete to the door, hands him a copy of Wild Strawberries accompanied by a reappraising smile. “I have a certificate in Reflexology.” She winks, hands him her card. “Text me when you come out.”

  CHAPTER 14

  The High Line was an elevated freight spur that ran down the west side of Manhattan to the old meat packing district below 14th Street centered around the cobblestone triangle where Gansvoort, Little West 12th and Greenwich converge.

  Three stories above ground, bovine carcasses were off-loaded from boxcars into adjoining warehouses, emerging as sides of beef hung on spikes to be muscled on to waiting trucks for distribution to butchers all over the city. The stench of fat and blood fouled the air, but the meatpackers didn’t notice. Back then, no tourist ventured into this chaotic warren of streets. During the day the district was impassible to traffic; at night it was the domain of stray cats prowling the gutters and alleyways looking for food scraps. These thriving felines kept the rat population down.

  Pete and Samantha found the neighborhood romantic. After dinner, they walked over from their apartment on Grove Street, pretending to be in a French movie. Over time, the neighborhood morphed into a gay trysting ground where Village cowboys had anonymous sex with closeted queers from New Jersey.

  In the 80’s the meat market gradually shut down; the freight trains stopped running and the cowboys died of AIDS. Warehouse walls became frescos of graffiti; the elevated structure began to rust and seed drifted across the river from Jersey wetlands taking root between the derelict tracks of the defunct High Line. When the last butchers’ were forced out, the meatpacking district became prime real estate. Devoid of beef, there was no smell, just a nice breeze blowing off the Hudson.

  Developers started to replace the warehouses along the river with glass and steel apartment buildings. When the forces of demolition collided with Village locals over the fate of the elevated tracks, the mayor surprised everyone by supporting the will of the people. The High Line would be reborn as a new kind of urban park featuring a fresh perspective of the ever-changing cityscape.

  Pete climbs the stairway. The panorama that greets him is startling. A variety of flowering vegetation has been planted alongside the native grasses that blew in from the wetlands. Sections of track remain, taking on a sculptural aura. Wooden benches peel-up from the concrete plank walkway, providing a place to read or sunbathe while watching the world go by against a backdrop of architecture ranging from early 20th Century factories to Post Modern Frank Gehry.

  Arty New Yorkers from Chelsea promenade alongside tourists speaking in tongues, young people, old people, men and women schmoozing and taking photographs.

  Pete stares up at the Standard, imagines Cayenne naked in a ceiling to floor window. Did he say, bigger than Nasty? Best not to contemplate, let the mind clear. He checks his watch, plenty of time to catch the five-thirty bus and arrive home by eight for dinner. He drifts with the crowd enjoying the unfamiliar terrain.

  Pete had always been fascinated by the city and never tired of exploring it. When he first got together with Samantha, he delighted in taking her to his secret places. The subway transported them to tiny Poe Cottage on the Grand Concourse in the Bronx where you could still feel the poet’s madness lingering in the cramped quarters. He took her to Flushing and kissed her under the derelict World’s Fair Unisphere, rode the D train out to Coney Island for a Nathan’s hot dog and a tour of Luna Park. Terrified, he rode in the first car of the Cyclone Roller Coaster because Sam wanted to. The things we do for love. They visited the auto salvage yards and body shops across from Shea Stadium, neighborhoods where only Spanish was spoken or Russian or Chinese. Sometimes it felt dangerous but that was part of the excitement. And always, wherever they went, the food was amazing.

  Pete stops to catch his breath, his gaze settling on a large woman artfully sheathed in layers of expensive fabric, sporting over-size European sunglasses, gazing sadly at the river. She seems vaguely familiar, but that often happens when he scrutinizes people on the street searching for a familiar face rendered unrecognizable by the erosion of time. “Samantha,” he exclaims in wonder.

  The large woman stares at him. “Pete?”

  How long had it been, twenty years or more? The last time he saw Sam was at the funeral of their friend Patty who died one month after being diagnosed with lung cancer. Patty left behind an angry husband, a sad little boy, and a large group of friends devastated by her passing. Flying in from LA for the funeral, Pete’s externals were impressive. He was the father of a beautiful little girl, had a stable marriage, and his career was in overdrive. In reality, his relationship with Barbara was thorny and he had little time to spend with his daughter. Success had come with a price tag of enormous pressure. Samantha had remarried and traded her career in advertising for foundation work, her husband’s. That day they walked in terror toward an open casket where Patty lay. Samantha grabbed his hand as they stared down at their friend drained of life; tears could not revive her. After the funeral, sharing a sentimental drink at the boathouse in Central Park, he behaved pathetically, begging her to make love as a tribute to Patty who they both desired but never had the courage to pursue. Samantha blew his mind by confessing that she got it on with their friend a couple of times. Pete took the news hard. She took pity on him and agreed to go back to his room at the Mayflower, but no kissing. Now he was insulted but that didn’t stop him from getting hard when Samantha stepped out of her funeral clothes revealing sexy black lace underwear. Gazing down at the park, she braced her arms on the windowsill. Once she possessed the narrow waist, wide hips and round breasts of a Modigliani nude; Renoirian, she was no less desirable. He unsnapped her bra, held her breasts and squeezed her nipples the way she liked him to, then, tore off her panties, as she knew he would. Without endearments, they fucked. No tenderness passed between them. She moaned as he tried to pound her into submission. The orgasm was final.

  Today on the newly opened High Line, tourists flowing between them, Pete and Samantha stare. Is that her, could it be him? If so, she’s gained 75 pounds since their encounter at the Mayflower, while Pete is unkempt and seems down on his luck, a person best to avoid.

  “Is that you?” Samantha asks.

  “Don’t I look like me?”

  “Older.”

  “And you’re not?”

  “Am I unrecognizable?”

  “No.” They hug tentatively.

  “How long has it been?”

  “Since Patty died.”

  Each flashes a memory of that traumatic day.

  “May I walk with you?”

  Samantha nods. “I’m back in the Village near where we lived, only much bigger.”

  “Bathroom in the kitchen?”

  She laughs. “Still married?”

  “Divo
rced for the third time.”

  “I thought Barbara was the love of your life?”

  He ignores her jibe. “Remember the time we climbed up here?”

  She smiles shyly and for a second Pete glimpses the Samantha he loved. “I was terrified.”

  “But you did it anyway.” Pete wants to put his arms around her, but doesn’t. “I moved to Woodstock three years ago.”

  “How come we never went to the festival?”

  “I get claustrophobic in crowds.”

  “We went to a Be-In in the Sheep Meadow.”

  “With Patty.” They descend to the street. “How is Jonah, he must be in college?”

  “I lost touch.”

  “Weren’t you his godmother?”

  “Weren’t you his godfather?”

  “I guess we’re bad godparents.”

  “Are you a better father?”

  Pete shakes his head sadly. “Not really.”

  They walk toward the cobblestone triangle, past warehouses converted into boutiques, salons and trendy restaurants. Samantha takes his arm. “So different from when we….” her voice trails off.

  “In my mind Patty will always be young, bubbly - alive.” Pete spots a French bistro on the corner. “Buy you a drink?”

  “Can you afford it?”

  “I may look indigent but I have plenty of cash in my pocket and a big job offer.”

  Sitting at a sidewalk table they stare at the renovated building across the street. A couple they knew lived there during the neighborhood’s decline. On the way home from seeing friends, a man stepped out of the shadows and demanded their money. No way Gus, the husband, would be mugged at his front door. He pulled a knife; the assailant had a gun. When it was over, two men were dead. Another memory shared in silence.

  “Cinzano and soda,” Samantha orders.

  “Delamain, Grande Champagne.”

  The waiter leaves.

  “The priciest.”

  Pete still loves her voice, the accent. “You bring out the cognac in me.”

  “Tell me about your big job offer.”

  “A cable series.”

  “You don’t sound excited. TV made you famous.”