The Hollywood Guy

by Jack Baran

  “Me?”

  “The other thing.”

  “What other thing?”

  “The kid’s problem.”

  “It’s not going away.”

  “You said the court would throw the case out.”

  “I said could.”

  “You said would.”

  “I’ve done what I can.”

  “Should I find another lawyer?”

  “I was never your lawyer.”

  “Mr. Van Dusan, we had an understanding, my speech for your influence.”

  “Your dumb speech destroyed a relationship that I had carefully nurtured over fifteen years.” He hangs up.

  Doesn’t roast mean you have carte blanch to insult the guest of honor or is that only in Los Angeles? Pete lights a joint, programs some music to set the mood, female voices, Lucinda Williams, Ricky Lee Jones, girl groups, starts writing.

  “Marshalltown, a neat farming community in central Iowa, was settled by Scandinavian Lutherans in the late 19th century. These self-reliant, industrious, optimistic, hard working people thank God every day for leading them to the promised land. Camille and Amber, twin sisters, shared a Kodachrome childhood in a modest house with a wide veranda. Marshalltown was the perfect place to raise a family.

  In broad strokes he outlines the story, tracking Cleo’s path from cheerleading white bread virgin to porn queen Desirée including an interlude with a decadent Venetian family and initiation as a Mayan priestess before her boyfriend, a drug lord, is gunned down by the CIA and dies in her arms.

  It’s dark out when the phone rings again, Bobby. He picks up.

  “Petey!”

  Why does his friend persist in calling him that? “I thought you were never going to speak to me again.”

  “My best friend?”

  “I fought against Marcus firing you.”

  “I know, I know.”

  “I even passed on the series.”

  “That was stupid.”

  “Did you call to insult me?”

  “You haven’t responded to my email.”

  “My life is suddenly very complicated, I haven’t been online in days.”

  “It’s an invitation to my daughter’s wedding.”

  “What daughter?”

  “The daughter who found me two years ago. The mother was local hair on a MOW I did, good part. She was married, her husband shot blanks and I was a sperm donor only she didn’t tell me at the time. Beautiful people, you’re going to love them.”

  “Very trendy.”

  “My daughter’s name is Priscilla and she’s getting married next weekend in Boca Raton, Florida. She invited me and I’m inviting you.”

  “Kind of last minute.”

  “We were estranged, remember? Look, Pete, I need your support on this, amigo. I can’t do it alone. You are still my best friend.”

  “A week from Saturday?”

  “At sunset, doesn’t that sound romantic?”

  “This is crazy, you can’t imagine what’s going on here.”

  “Bring ‘what’s going on’ to the wedding. Petey, this is very important to me. Twenty four hours down and back, is that asking too much?”

  Pete has an inability to say no. Professionally, he said yes to everything, which led to double booking causing him to farm jobs out and that was unethical. Nor did he say no to available women and that led to lying to cover his tracks, forever disappointing his family whom he actually loved. His inclination to say yes probably came from insecurity about his own worth. Turning down Bergman’s TV series was a sign of growth, but Bobby was his best friend. “Book me a room.”

  “I already did.”

  Pete shuts down the computer and turns on the television, zoning out from his chaotic personal life, focusing instead on another Yankee game.

  A stitched cowhide sphere hurled at an incredible velocity rockets through space on a collision course with a hardwood bat. There is a sharp crack when they meet head on. The crowd roars as the ball takes flight, sailing deep into the outer reaches of center field. Here comes Curtis Granderson the outfielder on a direct route, diving flat out, glove outstretched to make an acrobatic catch and rob the batter of an extra base hit. Yes, the Grandyman can.

  Pete manages to watch the entire game because Cleo, not wanting to disturb Pete, went to the movies with Jamie. It’s a good one, extra innings. Mark Teixeira hits a walk off home run in the eleventh, and the Yanks go up two games to zero in the DCS, just like he knew they would.

  CHAPTER 17

  This morning the side effects from the blue pill are replaced by low-level anxiety about Cleo’s story as told by her dual personality. First thing he should do, carefully review all the tapes and get a better perspective on the subject before he does any serious work. At the very least he needs to establish a new writing routine. It’s been more than three years since he did any serious work; it was a lifetime ago that he actually wrote a novel. Eliminating the television series from the equation was a first step, too bad about the Van Dusan speech but that’s history. All he has to do is find a new lawyer for Jackson, book a plane ticket to Miami, produce a music demo and go to a wedding. But first, he has to meet with Murray, the accountant, a diminutive fellow in his late-sixties with a trim beard, died black hair and an earring.

  “Motel gross is not where we want it to be, Mr. Stevens.” He has a deep gravelly voice.

  “Pete.”

  “Pete, expenditures are up.” He never takes his eyes from the computer screen. “Plus your portfolio lost forty percent of its value.”

  “Residuals?”

  “Down considerably. I’d say what’s required is an infusion of cash.”

  “I have $35 K due on a re-write job and if that’s not enough, I’ll sell some stock.”

  “You’ll take a bath. I recommend a short-term loan, give your investments time to recover.”

  No need to tell Murray that he turned down a big money job. “How much?”

  “Twenty more would do the trick.”

  “No worries,” chimes in Jamie. “I’ll make an appointment at the bank. They love you there.”

  “Really?”

  “You restored the Streamside.”

  “We’re still in deficit.”

  “Everything is going to work out,” she says with confidence. “We’re having a great fall season.”

  “Why are you so optimistic?”

  “I was working two shitty jobs when you came to town, now I’m managing the Streamside and Jackson is about to record for the first time. You make things happen, Pete, you get things done.”

  He doesn’t get the job done at the bank where they don’t love him enough to make a loan. It wasn’t a definitive no. He should come back in November and they’ll re-evaluate his application.

  George is sitting outside the gallery on the Sol Leroy bench waiting for a customer to fall from the sky. Pete pulls up in the pickup. “I’m looking for a lawyer.”

  “You were right about the bench, it is an outdoor piece. Attracts people.”

  “Van Dusan played me.”

  “Not surprising.”

  “Thanks for the warning.”

  “What you want is a young guy who works in the trenches. Call my nephew, Howard, he specializes in this type of felony.” He writes a number down on a business card. “No office, only way to reach him is his cell.”

  Pete walks stiffly into the house; Annabeth and Jackson hang out watching Wild Strawberries. The kid accompanies the movie on guitar, adding another level of emotion to the story of a distinguished professor on the eve of retirement, revisiting familiar places on the way to receive a prestigious honor for his life’s work.

  “I need to relax my back.”

  Annabeth passes her father a joint. Pete hesitates before taking it, never having smoked with his daughter before, more evidence of his hypocrisy since she’s sitting next to a dealer he’s trying to keep out of prison. He lights up, remains standing, drawn to the black and white imag
es on the TV screen.

  An old man in a three-piece suit, stumbles along a path in a birch forest. Dappled sunlight slants dramatically through the trees. Emerging from the woods, he crosses an overgrown meadow. Breathing heavily, he climbs an outcropping of rock overlooking a mountain lake; sunlight sparkles off the rippling water. Down by the shore a handsome young couple enjoys the day. While the man fishes, his wife, shaded by a parasol, reads a book. When they notice the old man on the hill, they smile and wave as if to a child. His parents are young and beautiful. Tears glisten in the old man’s eyes.

  Jackson improvises a haunting melody over this moving scene.

  Pete has an epiphany. “That’s it.”

  The kids stare in amazement as he bounds up the stairs exhibiting no evidence of spinal trauma or a broken toe. “Do you think my father is a head case?”

  “Isn’t that why he moved to Woodstock?”

  In his office, Pete punches in a number on the cordless phone, switches to speaker mode.

  “Marcus Bergman.” It’s the Vietnamese assistant.

  “Pete Stevens calling.”

  “He wants you to die.”

  “Tell Marcus, Petur Stevens wants to pitch his take on Strawberries.”

  He’s put on hold, listens to Eminem over the phone.

  Bergman picks up. “Why would a guy who lives under a dark cloud call me?”

  No comeback from Pete, he’s all business, launching straight in to his pitch. “I see Strawberries as a musical. A Rock and Roll Legend is being honored at the Kennedy Center. On his way to D.C. he passes through his hometown and relives crucial moments from his past, you know family, first gigs, early loves, events that shaped his life. I want to use the Legend’s songbook to tell the story.”

  “An original jukebox musical for the big screen.”

  “But so much richer because it’s based on Wild Strawberries.”

  “Brilliant, I love it, let’s do it.”

  “Make a deal with my agent.”

  “I talk to David every day. You know something Petur, we work well off one another.”

  Many people have said that to Pete unaware he was stoned when they brainstormed - but did it matter? “One small thing, I need $50 K up front as a show of good faith.”

  “Show of good faith? $50 K before a deal is negotiated? Why would I do that?”

  “Because it will buy you a first draft at a cut rate price you’ll never get from my agent. I’m offering you a major discount for cash, not an industry standard.”

  “I don’t trust you.”

  “Marcus you don’t trust the old me, the one you heard about. You’re talking to Petur Stevens, the new me who you call brilliant. Let’s say $40 K.”

  “Thirty-five.”

  “Deal, but I need the money right away and I mean immediately. Call David.” He hangs up before Marcus can change his mind and there’s Annabeth standing in the doorway with a big grin on her face.

  “Petur?”

  “My Icelandic name.”

  “I thought you don’t feature that side of your background.”

  “Turns out Icelanders are very funny people.”

  “If you say so. Ready to go to rehearsal?”

  “One more call.” He dials Howard Green. “Howard, Pete Stevens.”

  “I was expecting your call.”

  “Your uncle says you specialize in drug felonies.”

  “My partner is an ex-DA.”

  “What will it cost to get a first time offender off?”

  “Depends on the circumstances, three thousand dollars is the ballpark fee.”

  “Sounds fair. I’ll call you first thing in the morning and set up a meeting.” He hangs up.

  “Dad, are you sure you can cover all this?”

  “The Strawberries deal makes everything possible.”

  • • •

  Pete follows Jackson’s van out of town. Money, money, money, when he lived in New York he never had any, but his lifestyle with Samantha didn’t cost much. When he moved to LA, he started earning more than he ever dreamed he could. Heidi taught him how to spend it. He didn’t save a penny during the time he was with her. Barbara was not a materialist. They lived well and she invested wisely. It wasn’t until his gambling careened out of control that he started to piss money away.

  Jackson’s van turns down Zena Road, Mary Ann’s road. Pete used to drive over here once a week hoping to see a light on at the Downing Farm. As time passed the abandoned house started to depress him and he avoided coming this way. Mary Ann was dead, she was never coming home.

  An electric fiddle echoes across a field of stubble, the ghostly Downing farmhouse is dark but lights are on in the barn. Under a sickle moon the van turns up the driveway.

  The band rehearses here? Pete parks next to the barn, sits behind the wheel, transfixed, imagining Mary Ann leading Little Petey by the hand to the kitchen door. Pete climbs out of the pickup, walks over to the house and tries the door - locked.

  “Dad.” A pissed off Annabeth surprises him. “If you tell someone a story and he turns it into a song, does that make you the co-writer?”

  “Is the song in your words?”

  “Not exactly, plus he changed the ending.”

  “Some would call that appropriation.”

  “I hate you.” She runs off.

  Pete never liked being told by his daughter that she hated him. It hurt every time. Barbara, his learned wife, said he was too literal. Annabeth was actually expressing her love for him. That didn’t fly with Pete. It’s hurtful and she knows it.

  Pete enters the barn. Aside from all the band paraphernalia, it is structurally the same. He runs his hand along the hand carved wooden beams, looks out the window at the moonlit meadow and listens to the band work on the new song.

  Jim plays an infectious melody on fiddle. Sam adds an off-center vamp on banjo. Jackson plays a Memphis shuffle on rhythm guitar. Do-Rag fills the low end. Quinn rides the backbeat. Jackson sings about a boy unable to hook up with a girl who is never where she is supposed to be. She either just left or never arrives. The only contact the two make is by texting. The song has a surprising sense of humor. Pete likes it immediately.

  “I wrote it with Anna B.” Jackson grins.

  Annabeth stands in the doorway feeling a rush of excitement and pride. Her version had the boy and girl finally meet and not like one another. This is much better but what is more important, he acknowledges her as co-writer.

  Pete dances to the funky beat. He gestures to his daughter; she knows his moves well, falls in step.

  “Long time since we cut a rug.”

  “Not since ‘Spirit In The Sky’ at my Bat Mitzvah.”

  “Way too long.”

  Over the next several hours Jackson and the Sidewinders run down their repertoire for Pete. Sometimes he sits with his eyes closed, nodding his head, listening intensely. Occasionally he dances with his daughter; all the while, the ghost of his mother does a jigsaw puzzle at the kitchen table.

  CHAPTER 18

  The Streamside is sold out and a check for the rewrite has been deposited taking immediate pressure off the advance for Strawberries, the musical. Pete lies on the couch illuminated by the TV, flipping between another Yankees/Twins playoff game and Saturday Night Fever on TCM. He has a yellow legal pad ready in case he has any ideas. To ordinary people Pete might seem to be tubing out. What they don’t understand is that thanks to OCD a writer’s subconscious works 24/7.

  The Twins, down two games in the five game series, can be eliminated tonight. They hold a slim 1-0 lead after six, but in the seventh, A-Rod and Posada hit back-to-back dingers to go ahead. Pete hops gingerly around the living room.

  Pettitte is on the mound in the bottom of the seventh when the phone rings, identifying David. He mutes the TV.

  “Why do you call me your agent when we have no papers?”

  “You discovered me.”

  “I can’t believe Bergman still wants to work with you.”<
br />
  “He owns the rights to Wild Strawberries and I have a fantastic take on the material.”

  “He told me - a jukebox musical for the big screen.”

  “A Rock and Roll musical about a living legend revisiting his past on his way to being honored at the Kennedy Center. Marcus loves it, he agreed to give me $35 K up front for a first draft.”

  “That’s chump change.”

  “I need the cash.”

  “I thought you stopped gambling.”

  “I have serious business interests that I’m struggling to keep afloat.”

  “You own a fucking motel Pete.”

  “I’m producing a band’s demo on the side.”

  “The music business is in the toilet.”

  “David, the country is in the toilet, but life goes on. Get me the advance.”

  “Whatever you’re smoking, send me some.”

  “If you weren’t fucking my wife, we might still be friends.”

  “Ex-wife. A pleasure talking to you, my man, I have a back end to negotiate.”

  Pettitte shuts down the Twins in the bottom of the seventh, Pete flips channels.

  Saturday Night Fever, strobe lights flash to a pulsating Disco beat. Unbelievably young John Travolta in an ice cream suit struts across a glowing dance floor, dramatically raising his right arm like a bullfighter entering the arena.

  Pete’s mind wanders to Strawberries. Chuck Berry could be the legend. Bob would never do it but Neil might, or Paul Simon and what about Sir Paul? All are fantastic choices. He imagines the legend revisiting his first love who can’t deal with his inflated ego, musicians he used and discarded, the manager he fired, wives and lovers he abandoned, not a nice guy, but they call him a genius. At the end of the movie when the legend receives his medal and stands on the pedestal acknowledging the applause of the crowd, what are his feelings exactly? To be continued. Pete jots down his ideas, embryonic at best, flips back to the game as Phil Hughes takes the mound, his job to protect the 2-1 lead for the Yanks in the eighth and turn the game over to their great closer Mariano Rivera in the ninth. Nick Punto hits a lead off double. Here come the Twins.

  The front door opens, it’s Cleo in her Smokey the Bear outfit; Dicey races in behind her, licks Pete’s face. “Are we working?”