The Hollywood Guy (13 page)

“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.”

P
ete 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 pages 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?

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.”