The Extra
The Extra
A Bachelor Series Prequel
by
Kenneth Rosenberg
Kindle Edition
Copyright 2014 by Kenneth Rosenberg
All Rights Reserved
Also by Kenneth Rosenberg
Bachelor Number Five (Bachelor Series Volume I)
No Cure for the Broken Hearted
Natalia
Memoirs of a Starving Artist
Chapter One
The air on the boulevard was choked with exhaust from a never-ending stream of city buses, garbage trucks and taxi cabs. The sidewalk was covered with the grime left behind by cigarette butts, spilled soft drinks and discarded chewing gum. A cacophony of foreign languages drifted past Warren August’s ears as he weaved his way through clutches of tourists in front of the famous Chinese Theater. Visitors beamed broad smiles as they posed for photos with their hands in cement imprints of the stars. Warren hardly noticed.
As he continued up the street, nearly everybody noticed Warren even if they pretended not to. He was a sizeable man, tall and strong, wearing a stained and dirty trench coat. On his feet he wore a well-travelled pair of boots with a bare toe showing through a split on the inside left. An old fedora covered his dirty blonde hair. A scraggly beard hid what once was described as a handsome face. Now he was just another homeless person, struggling to survive on the streets of Hollywood. In his hands he carried a saxophone, slightly dented and worn.
Warren walked past vendors selling sunglasses, postcards and double-decker bus tours. He passed down-on-their luck actors dressed up as Batman, Spiderman and Darth Vader. Warren had seen it all before. He moved to an alcove at the front of the Dolby Theatre where he stopped, took off his fedora and placed it at his feet. From deep in one pocket he pulled out a dollar bill and a few coins and dropped them into the hat as seed money before he stepped back and strapped on the sax. His fingers rubbed the keys lightly. This instrument was Warren’s life. It provided him with an income and kept him company. It never judged him and never let him down. Warren’s saxophone took the edge off the harshness of his life. He brought the mouthpiece to his lips and began to blow a deep and soulful tune, closing his eyes and losing himself in his music. Passersby hurried along, trying to avoid any contact with the panhandler. But those who allowed themselves to listen were moved. This was no ordinary street musician. A few stopped and gathered around, surprised by the effect of these haunting notes.
Further down the boulevard, two police officers saw the small crowd beginning to gather. Raul Garcia, a 15-year veteran of the force with wide hips and a developing paunch, and James Washington, a bright-eyed rookie new to the beat, walked up the sidewalk and stopped opposite Warren, waiting respectfully until he finished his song.
“That was nice. Really nice. Now move along. No loitering here, you should know that,” said Garcia. “We’ve told you before.”
Warren opened his eyes and cringed at the sight of the officers. Men in uniform made him uneasy. “I’m just playing some music,” he said.
“Go play somewhere else. You’re attracting a crowd,” said Garcia.
Warren sighed. He was wise enough to know when he was beaten. He bent low and picked up his hat. He put the money back in his pocket, unclipped his saxophone strap and moved on down the street, mumbling to himself.
“Hey Buddy!” Washington called after him. Warren turned back without a word and watched as Washington opened his wallet, pulled out a dollar and held it out in his hand. “You play real good. Just not around here, ok?”
Warren glanced at the dollar in the officer’s hand. If this was a feeble attempt at an apology, Warren would have none of it. But then he saw the eager, kind-hearted look in the man’s eyes. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen that look. Warren knew that he sometimes had this effect on people. Some called it charisma. Whatever it was, he’d always seemed to have it. At times it was useful. He knew, for instance, that he never would have won over his beloved Ophelia without it. But charisma or no, she was long gone now. Warren tilted his head sideways and narrowed his eyes. “You haven’t worked the streets for long, have you?” he asked.
“No. No, sir, I haven’t,” Washington admitted.
Warren wanted to offer him some advice; to do something else. Anything. To save the innocence still left in his soul. But Warren knew it was too late to save the man. He’d made his choices in life, just as Warren had. Everyone had their own choices to make. In the end Warren took the dollar, though he hated himself for it. He crumpled it in his fist and then slid it in his pocket before he moved on.
After a few blocks Warren turned left up a side street and passed an aging black man with tints of grey in his frazzled hair. The man wore dirty jeans and an oversized grey sweater with holes in the elbows. An odor of unwashed funk hung about him. His left eye was clouded over with a cataract. The man squinted as he looked up with his good eye and recognized Warren. “How ya doin’ Mr. August?” asked the man with some enthusiasm.
“Hungry,” Warren answered flatly.
“I hear ya, I hear ya,” the man replied with a rhythmic cadence.
Warren paused for a moment. They were a family, those who lived on the streets, and Warren had a particularly warm spot in his heart for Smiley. No matter what came his way, nothing seemed to get him down. Warren wondered how Smiley managed it. Some people were just wired differently, that was all. Warren himself was a happy-go-lucky person for the most part, but now and then his upbeat demeanor masked a harder truth underneath; that he was haunted at times by the demons of depression. When he thought of Ophelia for instance, or the promise his life once seemed to hold. He fought off his doubts through willpower, the camaraderie of his friends on the street, and his music. Smiley, on the other hand, was another sort entirely. Smiley’s joy at life was completely organic. There was no artifice to it. He was a man who lived wholly in the moment. Sure he complained about things, all of the time in fact, but never without a touch of some ironic glee. Just the complaining itself gave the man a sense of satisfaction. Warren knew there was a lesson here; to be content with whatever one had in life, no matter how little. He would do his best to heed it. “You take it easy,” he said with a nod to Smiley and then continued up the street.
When Warren came to a dumpster that was a regular stop on his daily rounds, he flipped open the lid and peered inside. Flies buzzed through the air and the smell of garbage was nearly unbearable, but in the bottom Warren spotted a potential prize. He set down his sax and scrambled over the edge of the dumpster, landing with a thud atop a pile of plastic bags and assorted rubbish. When he stood up, he steadied himself with one hand on the rim and then leaned over and fished out a cardboard pizza box. Inside was one small crust. He picked it up and took a bite, but then spat it out and threw the box back down. Too stale. He looked around briefly, but seeing no other opportunities, he heaved himself up and over the edge once again. He stood on the sidewalk and brushed himself off. To Warren, a good day was finding an uneaten slice of pizza in the garbage, and so far today was not a good day.
Warren picked up his sax and walked on slowly, lethargic from the late-morning heat and a lack of proper food. He pulled his money out of his pocket and counted it. Two dollars and seventy-three cents. Enough for a muffin and a cup of coffee. He headed for a convenience store three blocks away. At the next intersection he passed a short, stocky man with dark glasses, silver hair and a bushy gray moustache that made him look like a walrus. The man wore battered leather work boots, green army surplus pants and a dirty gray sweatshirt. He held a cup in one hand and a white cane in the other. A small sign that rested against his knees read, “Blind Man, Please Help.”
“Warren, how are ya?” the man said.
“How’s it going, Duke?” Warren asked.
Duke lifted up his glasses and peered at Warren with tired eyes. “It’s been better, you know,” he said.
“Yeah, I hear you,” said Warren. “Can’t even find no joy in the dumpster.”
“Can’t say I’m finding much myself today either.” He looked into his cup and rattled around the change. “Slim pickins.”
“Shouldn’t you be on a busier street?” Warren asked curiously.
Duke just shrugged as though he couldn’t be bothered.
“I’ll see you around,” said Warren.
“Right on,” said Duke.
As he moved down the block, Warren’s only goal was a fresh blueberry muffin, and when he inhaled deeply he could almost smell it.
Chapter Two
Nearly 100 people sat on white plastic folding chairs under a large white awning, some clustered in small groups chatting, others gathered around tables, playing cards. A few more kept themselves apart from the rest, trying in vain to maintain some sense of solitude. Half of the men wore loose-fitting suits of wool or tweed, or long brown overcoats with fedoras on their heads. Others wore dark blue police uniforms with peaked caps. The women dressed in either solemn brown cotton dresses or racy negligees. To an innocent bystander it might have looked like some strange costume party except that nobody seemed to be having much fun. Instead they were trying to stave off the boredom that came from sitting for hours on end with nothing much to do.
Off to one side, Bridget Peterson struggled to read a paperback book without being distracted. She was of the plain-dressed women, and her short brown hair hung over hazel eyes. In one hand she held a black beanie that she rubbed comfortingly between two fingers. Beside her in a frayed tweed suit sat Justin; pasty, overweight and friendless, he’d shadowed her all morning. In the palm of his open hand rested a collection of multi-colored pills that he pushed back and forth with an index finger. “This is my happy pill, and this is my sleepy pill, this is my relaxing pill…” he mumbled.
“Mmm, hmmm,” Bridget tried to ignore him.
“My mom and dad don’t think I can make it here,” he said. “They told me I should just give up and come home, but they don’t understand. They don’t understand that this is something I have to do. If I went home it would kill me. They don’t understand,” he shuddered nervously. “It’d kill me…” his voice trailed off.
Nearby sat Marjorie, a grey-haired grandmother and self-described movie nut who spent her time playing solitaire one game after another. “How long you been out here?” she asked Justin pointedly without looking up from her cards.
“A month,” he answered. “I have an apartment and everything. My own apartment.”
“You take those pills every day?” said Marjorie with a voice worn raw by years of cigarette smoke. She looked up at the boy with concern in her eyes.
“Every day, I have to take these pills. Every day,” he said.
Marjorie shook her head and looked back to her cards. “Over-medication. Seems like that’s the answer to all of society’s ills these days. It’s a shame.”
“I’m going to make it,” Justin sputtered. “I’ll show them. They’ll see!”
Bridget was struck by a pang of guilt, knowing that she couldn’t do anything to save him. She knew he had no chance of making it in this town. Practically none of these people did. They were fooling themselves; setting themselves up to be eviscerated by the Hollywood machine. What she began to wonder was whether she was fooling herself as well.
“How long have you been here?” Justin asked Bridget, encouraged when she actually looked at him.
“Four months,” she answered.
“Really?” he was enthused. In his eyes that made her practically an old-timer. “Where did you come from?”
“St. Louis,” she answered.
“I’m from Illinois,” he said, gazing at her with eager desperation.
Bridget knew how he felt. She knew that this might be the only conversation he had all day. She knew what it was like to feel invisible on the set and then go home to a cold, lonely apartment in a city where nobody knows your name. Somewhere back home his parents must be sick with worry, and rightly so. He needed the help and support only family could provide. But then maybe his parents were as mixed up as he was. Either way, this boy needed something. She just couldn’t be asked to provide it. Why should she have to feel so guilty? Was she the patron saint of lost causes? She was known as such back in Missouri. Her friends teased her, the way she always had a soft spot for the less fortunate. Always taking in the strays and befriending the friendless. That same instinct confronted her with Justin, but this one would have to take care of himself. She had her own problems to deal with.
