Sugar Valley (Hollywood's Darkest Secret)

by Stephen Andrew Salamon

  “Yeah, well if you only had a few shots, then why are there two bottles of vodka empty?”

  Ring, ring, ring, ring...

  The chauffeur picked up the ringing phone. “Hello?”

  “Yes, James. I was wondering where you drove Darell last night?”

  “I drove him around for a while, and then I took him to the Starbox,” James replied, honking his horn at the stalled car in front of him. “It’s some nightclub.”

  Tom looked at Darell’s ghostly face, closing his eyes for a moment, shaking his head in disappointment, and saying, “Okay, that’s all I wanted to know.”

  “Alright, sir, we’ll be at the premiere in about a half an hour, there’s a traffic jam, as usual,” James said.

  Mr. Fryer blew a gush of wind from his mouth; it was like he was releasing all the rage and anger he had toward Darell at that moment.

  Still holding the phone up to his ear, and watching as Darell’s face started to regain his normal color, Tom asked, “One more thing, James, what time did you drive him back to the hotel?”

  James was trying to drive through a traffic jam. Honking his horn and talking at the same time, he responded in a stressful voice, “It was about 3:30 a.m. or 4:00.”

  Tom hung up the phone, slamming it down with all of his rage, and gaped at Darell’s face, trying to calm his nerves a bit. “Did anyone important see you last night?”

  “Didn’t James tell you just now that he drove me to the Starbox?” Darell asked in a sarcastic attitude.

  “Yes, he did.”

  Darell’s sarcasm grew stronger, saying, “Well, the Starbox is full of important people; they only let movie stars in.”

  Tom opened his suitcase and glanced at the four-year contract that Darell signed unnoticeably, explaining at the same time, “Listen, when we get to the premiere, I want you to say nothing to the media; let me do the talking. All I want you to do is sign autographs, that’s all.”

  Mr. Fryer glanced at the contract once more, filling his mind with so many thoughts, thoughts that circled around his conscience, over and over again.

  My God, I have to put up with this for four years.

  Tom was staring at the contract still, while Darell announced with an attitude, ironically as Mr. Fryer still had his eyes focused on the piece of paper, “Listen, if you don’t like what I’m doing, don’t worry. I’ll be out of your face in five months.”

  Tom stared, grinned at Darell’s signature on the piece of paper, saying, “Well, Darell, I think we are going to see a lot of each other.”

  “What do you mean? I said I’d think about staying with you after five months. That’s not that long a time,” Darell said.

  Mr. Fryer closed his briefcase with Darell’s four-year career inside. “We’ll talk about this later. Right now, I want you to sit up straight and remember that dream you once had. Do you remember that dream, Darell? Do ya? It was the dream of fame, and now you’re getting it. If you screw up like this again, the reality that you’re accessing now will be just another dream. Am I making myself clear? Do you understand?”

  Tom Fryer’s questions made Darell’s sobering mind remember Sugar Valley and the oath of fame that he, Damen, and Jose took. That day came back to him: the promise for the first person who became famous in Hollywood, that person had to help the other two up the ladder to success as well.

  Darell watched Tom closely, he was lighting up a cigar, and still kept that promise he made, deep inside of him, accessing it, and slowly realizing its true meaning. He then looked out the window, responding in a suppressed fashion, “Yeah, I understand.”

  Tom blew the cigar smoke into Darell’s face, watching the cloud trailing in its drift, out of the window, catching onto the wind, and then flying away with great speed. He spoke, “Good, I’m glad to see that you and I are on the same wavelength, finally.”

  Darell suddenly pulled out the golden pen from his pocket, mentioning, “After this gig, you have to try contacting Jose and Damen.”

  “I will, I will.”

  Out of nowhere, the limo stopped, making Tom nervous; he picked up the phone once more, and called up to James. Awaiting the chauffeur to answer the phone, he stared nervously outside the window, noticing flashing lights; they were the lights of flashing cameras. James opened Tom’s side door, and before he could open it fully, Mr. Fryer questioned with panic, “I thought you said a half an hour? It’s only been ten minutes.”

  “Yes, sir, I did say that, but I guess I was wrong,” James said.

  Mr. Fryer was still holding the ringing phone. Turning to Darell in a frantic motion, he asked, “Why am I so nervous, I shouldn’t be nervous, are you nervous?”

  “Nope, I’m not nervous, but you’re beginning to make me nervous. I thought you do this kind of stuff all the time?”

  James was blocking the media from pushing their way into the limo, like a solider, guarding his people against the shimmering bullets that flickered toward Darell and Tom.

  Tom looked through the cracks of the door that James’ body didn’t cover. Seeing the flashing lights, the microphones, he suddenly turned to Darell and responded in defense, “Yes, I did do this once before.”

  “You see, then why are you nervous?”

  Darell finally discovered that Tom had really exaggerated his life as an agent, thinking that he did this all the time. Mr. O’Conner finally discovered, even before Tom answered his question, that his past clients never made it to their premieres, probably because they fell down the hill of fame and ruined their own success. Yet, Darell also thought, maybe they did make it to their premieres, but Tom never went with them. Nevertheless, Darell stared at Tom, waiting for him to answer his question, when he spoke, “Well, I forgot what it was like, a lot has changed since 1963.”

  Darell’s eyes turned to shock, saying in a surprised manner, “Oh, God, that’s just great. You haven’t done this in over thirty years?” Darell closed his eyes, grabbed Mr. Fryer’s arm and added, “Come on, let’s give the public what they want.” He pushed Tom out the door, attempting to get him fully out, past James’ body, but he pushed back at Darell instead, trying to fight his force and stay in the limo where it was safe.

  Tom jumped right back in the limo, looked at Darell in confusion, questioning in a shaky tone, “Wait a second, shouldn’t you go out first?”

  One of the cameras shot Darell with a bright flash, hitting his eyes, and causing white marks to appear. “I don’t know, I’ve never done this before. What did you do to the actor back in 1963? Did he or she come out of the limo first?”

  Tom slammed the door shut, responding with, “I don’t know, it was like one big dream in the ’60s.”

  “Listen, chickenshit, you are my agent, I’m supposed to be the one nervous, not you. Thank God I can still feel a little bit of vodka. Anyway, come on, you have to remember something. Who came out first, you or the star?” Darell rubbed his eyes from the flash of light brought to them by a camera, and focused in on Tom’s wrinkly face, forcing him to answer his question through his serious glare.

  “Let’s see, I think I came out first, but I’m not sure.” Darell then opened the limo door again, still gazing at Tom, and gave him a smile.

  “Well, you better hope you’re sure,” said Darell. He pushed Mr. Fryer out the door with force, causing him to hit his head on the top of the door, and create a panic once he got a hold of the media’s attention.

  Tom fell to the ground, and then got up quickly, showing his smile and saying to the lights and microphones, “Hello.”

  Darell stepped out of the limo and onto a red carpet, blocking out all of the noise that came from the media, fans, and spectators. His mind and ears were silent as he stared at the big sign on the theater marquee: the sign read The Hills of Timmy, starring Darell O’Conner. He walked slowly down the carpet as fans were pushing autograph books in his face. He stared at the sign; still signing the autographs, he didn’t even bother to notice if he signed his name correctly. It was l
ike he was in a silent trance of some kind, thinking about his dream and how it had almost become reality; all that was missing was the Oscar in his hands and Jose and Damen by his side. Walking past the golden sign with his name on it and coming up to a glass door, a man opened the entranceway for Darell as one of the media stuffed a microphone in his face. The journalist asked, “How do you feel about having the lead role? Do you think the movie is going to be a hit at the box office?”

  Darell’s silence became noise, literally ripped out from his trance, he responded with, “Um, it feels great and I hope it will be a hit.”

  “What was it like working with Mr. Schultz? Do you think he’s a good director?” another newsperson asked as Darell got another microphone shoved into his face.

  Tom pushed the microphones away from Darell’s face, and pushed him slowly into the doorway, saying, “I’m sorry, we’re not going to answer any more questions now. We have to get inside and watch this fabulous movie, the movie that my client starred in.”

  Darell stopped in the doorway, turned around and looked at Mr. Fryer with serious eyes. Darell questioned, “Hey, let me at least answer his question, alright?”

  “Alright, but make it quick.”

  Mr. O’Conner turned to the newsperson, answering, “It was great to work with Henry Schultz, I think he’s an excellent and talented director.” He then walked past the doorway and into the theater, turning around and watching the doorman closing it shut, seeing the newspeople pushing at its glass; it looked like they were trying to walk through the door’s glass body.

  The theater seats were filled from top to bottom with stars and directors, Darell watching and looking at some of the movie stars as they looked at him. He saw stars that he idolized, and stars that he hated. He was amazed to see everyone smiling at him; it was like his birthday, and having everyone there, knowing them for so many years, to celebrate his date of birth. Darell caught on to these humans, learning that if you’re successful, they will kiss your ass, but if you fail, then these smiles will most definitely and inevitably turned to frowns.

  The lights went off in the movie theater, with Mr. Fryer speaking in a low and excited way, “Well, here we go.”

  The movie lights appeared on the screen. Watching and hearing the sounds before the movie showed itself to them, Darell spoke. “Yep, yep. You know what would make this moment complete, Tom?”

  The movie title appeared. Seeing Darell’s name, Tom glanced at it for a moment and then whispered, “No, what?”

  “A nice big box of popcorn,” Darell replied before Mr. Fryer’s nerves turned into laughter.

  Tom’s nerves turned to laughter, chuckling, “Yeah, I know what you mean.”

  “What are you laughing about? I’m serious, go get me some popcorn.”

  Tom Fryer’s laughter ceased, ended, was ripped away, having his nerves appear again, and asking, “Are you joking?”

  “Yeah, I had you there for a second,” he laughed.

  Mr. Fryer started to think again in his mind, feeling the thoughts pressing against his forehead, trying to shoot out of him, and leave him be. Tom watched as Darell appeared on the movie screen, still thinking his thoughts, running around his consciousness like fire burning down a tree. Maybe these four years won’t be that bad. I’ll wait till the five months is up, then I’ll tell Darell about the four-year contract. Maybe by then, he won’t be that upset.

  Darell lay back in his seat and thought about how he’d been waiting for this day a long time, and how it was finally here: the day when he would become a star.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  She was old, in her late eighties, having a large figure to guide her age, and five wrinkles under both eyes, that meant she squinted a lot over the years. She had a very long cigarette in her right, trembling hand, with an ash that hung off it, as if she hasn’t ashed her cigarette ever in her life; a talent. This woman drank her coffee, sipped it once, and then pushed the five wrinkles together, squinting in a hateful way, looking at the coffee in confusion.

  As she stared at it, the café was full of drunks, being that it was late, and night already had fallen over Hollywood, the café had an aroma of urine mixed with booze, as new customers would come in, showing their drunkenness, and only wanting one thing: coffee.

  Chuck stared at this elderly woman, seeing her face reactions of negative nature toward his coffee that he brews himself, directly from beans, and waited for her to complain or say something about it. It was a face where you knew she would verbally present her thoughts about the coffee, squinting her eyes down so far that you could hardly see her green eyes. Chuck started to get aggravated in his wait for her words, complaints, tapping his fingers on the counter of the café, and still gawking at this woman, literally looking at her reflection in her coffee cup. Then, he gave up for her to speak first, went over to Damen, and said, “Would you take care of that customer for me?”

  “Sure, boss, whatever you say,” Damen replied in a smart-alecky nature. Mr. Schultz had a lot of things roaming around his mind, and his attitude was showing that he did; he wasn’t about to take anyone’s crap tonight.

  “Hey, don’t get smart with me, I’m still holding your paycheck.” Chuck’s tyrant’s voice made Damen roll his eyes toward him, and then he walked over to the woman.

  She held up her coffee, like a priest holding the glass of wine up high in the air, as Damen put on a fake smile, asking, “Welcome to Wood Café, what would you like this evening?”

  “Taste this.”

  “What?”

  “Taste this?”

  “Once again, what?”

  She pushed the coffee cup near his face, chanting once more, “Taste this.”

  Damen grabbed the cup, staring at the coffee, he questioned, “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Taste it.”

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “It’s cold, I want another one now,” the woman said in a villainous fashion, staring into Damen’s eyes with a look of hatred.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Damen walked over to Chuck, gaping at him with remorse and anguish, and then poured another cup of coffee. He wanted to leave; he wanted to quit; he wanted to pour this hot cup of coffee over that woman’s head and then tell her off for her rudeness.

  “Don’t look at me like that. You knew today was going to be busy. After all, it’s New Year’s day,” Chuck said, watching Damen placing the fresh cup on the counter next to the woman.

  “Could I go on my thirty-minute break now?”

  “No, wait till Vivian gets here. I need someone out here to take the orders from customers,” Chuck replied.

  At that same moment, Vivian came soaring in through the doors and looked at her watch. Chuck seen her, watched her, and then said to her, “Well, well, well, if it isn’t Miss Tardy Vivian.”

  Vivian ignored his sarcasm, put on her green apron, and kissed Damen on the cheek. She turned toward Chuck, explaining, “I’m not late, I start at 7:00 p.m.”

  The old woman started to complain about her coffee again, with Chuck stating, “It’s 7:05 p.m. In my book, you’re late. Now, help that woman over there, she’s complaining about something ... again.”

  Damen took off his apron and began to walk into the backroom of the restaurant. “Where do you think you’re going?” Chuck asked, handing Damen his apron again. “I didn’t say you could go on break yet.”

  “Sir, you said as soon as Vivian...”

  “I don’t care what I said. Now get back in there and work,” Chuck demanded, noticing the depressed and saddened look upon his face. He took in a deep breath and added, “Alright, you can go on break now, but be back in thirty minutes.”

  “Thank you, sir, I’m just gonna be out back smoking my pack of cigarettes.” Damen grabbed his lighter and walked toward the back entrance of the café, which led to an alley. It was a wide corridor he had to walk through and a big silver, thick door, that stuck a lot, which he had to go through. But once he rea
ched the dirty alley, Damen lit up a cigarette and allowed the silver door to close with the push of his hand.

  Ten minutes went by, and he was still out back on his break. Chuck went over to Vivian and pulled her aside, causing her, by accident, to spill the coffee on the ground. “What’s wrong with Damen? He’s not acting himself, Vivian.”

  “I don’t know, sir, I have no time to answer that question seriously, this man over here wants coffee, he’s drunk,” she responded, wiping up the spilt coffee from the floor.

  Chuck grabbed his cane and walked to the back door of the café. Opening it a crack, he saw Damen staring up at the sky; it was as if he was staring at a map, a map that would guide his lost spirit to wherever he was destined to go. Chuck walked out into the dark alley that revealed light from one source, that source was a small light that hung over the café. Walking slowly to an upside-down garbage can and sitting on it unnoticeably, he looked at Damen and then looked at the dirty alley. He thought in his mind, I have to hire someone to clean this alley fast. I don’t want rats in it.

  Suddenly, a single rat that was as big as a football jumped out from behind a red dumpster right next to Chuck. He gave a silent yell before Damen turned around. Chuck didn’t want him to think he was afraid of a little rat, so he said, “It’s a nice night,” in a timid way.

  Damen took a drag of his cigarette and exhaled into the wind, watching it float for a distance, and vanish from his sight. He was confused as to why Chuck was out here, taking his own time to come and sit in an alley, looking as if he was about to give a serious talk. Chuck was usually very vicious to Damen, but now, he talked with a calm voice, sort of like it was a test for Damen, to see if he could put up with the fake sinister that Chuck gave to him. Then he stopped the silence, and Damen spoke. “Yeah, it got dark early.”

  Chuck placed his cane on the alley floor, speaking, “Damen, I’m gonna cut right to the chase. What’s the matter with you?”