The Hollywood Guy (3 page)

Every night the moms cooked great meals in the big farmhouse kitchen while Carl serenaded them on guitar. After dinner Little Petey and Mary Ann caught fireflies in the meadow.

Now and then the red tail hawk circled lazily in the sky, keeping an eye on things.

Best of all was Boomer the dog, a slobbering black Lab mix. This friendly pooch belonged to Al Bellows, the painter who rented a small cabin at the edge of the woods. Al taught high school in New York City, sported chin whiskers and wore a beret. He came up on his vacation to paint.

Boomer loved to play fetch, initiating the game by dropping a stick in the kids’ path. If they didn’t pick it up, he dropped the stick in front of them again and again until Petey threw it as far as he could. Boomer always returned with the prize, but never gave it back. Sometimes, Mary Ann threw a second stick, causing the dog to drop the first, but of course he wouldn’t give back the second.

One night when the adults went bowling at the new alley in town, big sister Susie baby-sat and invited the older kids from across the creek to come over. She dressed up, put on lipstick and danced to Rock and Roll with Eva, thirteen, while her friend’s older brother, Lazlo, fifteen, scowled and smoked cigarettes. Mary Ann taught Petey how to dance; they bopped to, “Why Do Fools Fall In Love.” The little girl danced with Eva when Susie went outside with Lazlo. Petey watched them through the window pressed close, kissing. He felt funny inside.

The next day, Pete smokes a joint with Glenda, the owner of the motel. She is an energetic widow with died red hair and a flirtatious manner.

“When I buried my husband, Larry, I said that’s it, I’m not doing another winter in the Catskills. I’m going to travel, play tennis and get laid. A million dollars and the Streamside is yours.”

“Are you serious or stoned?”

“Both.”

For fun, they walk the property, checking out the falling down units. Pete makes a list of things to do, re-shingling, plumbing, painting, electric, new furniture. He surveys the neglected landscape, stares at Little Deep where a kid swings on a tire. “I’m interested,” he hears himself saying.

Bad things also happened that summer. While playing in the smokehouse, Little Petey dislodged a wasp nest. Bellows, the painter, came to the rescue and Mary Ann ran to tell Franny. Terrified by the little girl’s dramatic rendition of the incident, mother raced to save her little boy.

Abstract landscapes were tacked to the wall of the Bellows cabin alongside sketches of Little Petey and Mary Ann playing with Boomer. There was baseball on the radio; a whiskey cured voice called the game.

As the painter applied calamine lotion to Petey’s stings, he carried on a running conversation with the radio. “Come on Chief, they just Indians, mean nothing to you baby, nothing to you.” The boy drank a Coca-Cola trying to understand what he was talking about.

Bellows explained. “Allie Reynolds the Yankee pitcher is part Indian and they’re playing the Cleveland Indians.”

Franny burst into the room. “Petey!” She hugged her son.

He suddenly began to cry. “Daddy’s never coming back. Daddy’s dead!”

Pete sits by the swimming hole in the drizzling rain, considering the feasibility of buying the Streamside for a million dollars. 200K down, another 250 to restore, that’s 450/500 cash to do the deal. Can he earn his money back, make a profit? Isn’t that why you go into business?

For the last nine months, he had been living temporarily in his best friend Bobby’s pool house, dried up creatively, losing money playing poker, and being sucked dry by cosmetically enhanced bimbos who wanted to be discovered and thought Pete still had some industry clout. He has the cash but does he have the courage to change his life? The motel could be a money pit? But not if he rolls up his sleeves and does a lot of the grunt work, he’s a hard worker; at least he used to be. He drives down Zena Road, past the Downing Farm and stops at the Four Corners Volunteer Fire Station.

Carl Downing fronted a Rock and Roll band at the Fireman’s Dance that magic summer. Little Petey and Mary Ann gazed up at her dad transformed by pompadour into a God in rust colored pegged pants and a black satin shirt. He was trading choruses on electric guitar with the tenor sax man playing on his back as the bass spun and the drums rocked out. Bellows sketched Franny and Polly dancing together to Carl singing, “Rock and Roll Music.”

“Rock and Roll,” whispered Petey.

“Rock and Roll,” shouted Mary Ann.

Pete decides to do the deal, buy the Streamside. As for Mary Ann, he learned that the Downing sisters eventually moved away and the younger one died recently of breast cancer. The older sister still owned the farm but lives in Seattle.

Pete stands on Sully’s Bridge, staring at Little Deep, mourning his first love.

Floating down the Esopus, Little Petey sort of saved Mary Ann’s life when her tube rolled over. In fact the girl was a strong swimmer and didn’t need his help but that didn’t change the fact that he acted bravely.

Another time, the children stopped by the Bellows cabin for a Coke and discovered their mothers posing naked for the painter. Franny wore his beret at a jaunty angle and Polly sported a cloche hat with a long feather. The children were fascinated, how beautiful their mothers were. A ballgame played on the radio; Mel Allen’s rich Southern voice rang out. “That ball is going, going, going, it is gone into the center field bleachers. How about that, a Ballantine Blast for Yogi Berra and the Yanks go ahead of the Red Sox, four to three.” Mary Ann led Petey away from the cabin. They couldn’t explain what they saw, but knew it was private.

On Little Petey’s ninth birthday Carl took everyone to the Sunset Drive In on RT 28 to see “Them,” a movie about ants nuked in the desert during an atomic test mutating into gigantic monsters. You could hear the insects approaching by their high-pitched tremolo. Petey trembled with fear; Mary Ann held his hand and he was okay.

Then, presto-change-o, Little Petey’s magic summer was over. No more swimming at Little Deep, or tubing down the Esopus, no more playing with Boomer, or Carl rocking out on guitar, no visiting Bellows’ cabin for Coca Cola and baseball. He thought summer would last forever, now it was time to return to the city and start a new life.

On Little Petey’s last day, Mary Ann led him up the back stairs to her attic bedroom. Dappled sunlight, stuffed animals; the walls were painted yellow. “Let’s take off our clothes,” she whispered.

“Everything?”

“Like our moms.”

“We don’t have hats.”

“We don’t need hats, this is just us.”

Neither shy nor ashamed, they undressed and hugged as only two innocent children can.

“I love you, Petey.”

“I love you, Mary Ann.” There was that strange feeling again.

Pete treasures that memory, keeping it safe from sexual fantasy, free of desire, devoid of sweaty passion. It flutters on gossamer wings, pure and innocent. Mary Ann Downing had left this earth, but her memory has lost none of its potency. Why, Pete wonders, didn’t he kiss her?

Returning to LA, Pete’s friends can’t believe he’s checking out, shit canning a career in Hollywood to buy a run down motel in Woodstock. Ridiculous. In a city where delusional is the norm, why try to explain one’s feeling of irrelevance. The last pitch meeting he had was with a twenty-six year old exec at T-Mobile, developing five-minute content pieces for smart phones. Pete told the kid he couldn’t take a shit in five minutes and walked out. It was a no-brainer; it was time for Pete to embark on the next phase of his life whatever that may be. So long Los Angeles, howdy Woodstock.

T
hree years later the locals call the new owner of the Streamside Motel the Hollywood guy because he was successful in the film industry, mostly television. What they don’t understand is he could no longer book a job. Doesn’t matter, Pete Stevens is Hollywood to them.

Today he’s on his hands and knees in a flowerbed cleaning up the damage left in the wake of tropical storm Karla that edged the Catskills the night before and left behind hot, humid, unseasonably warm weather and a roaring muddy stream. Pete, a steady, focused worker, has no real skills so he’s lucky to have José helping him.

His assistant from Puebla, Mexico speaks broken English enthusiastically. “Place looking good, boss.”

Pete stands, he needs a shave and his long hair is mostly gray. After three years of hard work and more money than he planned to spend, the Streamside Motel has come back, not completely refurbished, but almost and he’s in the best shape since he stopped playing basketball thirteen years ago. He surveys his modest spread with pride. “There’s still shingling on three units, painting, plenty of stuff to do.”

“I see this old place down other side of creek. For sale cheap, needs fixin’ up.”

“Jose I am not in that business.”

“What you call what we do, boss?”

A mud spattered PT Cruiser rolls past the Roses Of Sharon blooming like crazy around the entrance, parks. An athletic young woman uncoils out of the car. Her dark hair sticks out from under a Red Sox baseball cap, she wears green twill Patagonia shorts revealing scratches on her well-formed legs and her lightweight hiking boots are mud encrusted, obviously a camping victim. Stretching like a runner, she checks out the Streamside through utilitarian metal frame glasses. “Late for roses.” She flashes him an engaging gap tooth smile.

As the owner of the motel Pete does as he pleases and it doesn’t please him to be charming or informative with check-ins, especially Red Sox fans but Jamie his manager is off today. He wipes his hands on his jeans. “Roses love the heat.”

“Manager around?”

“That’s me.”

“Any vacancies?”

“A few.”

“What does a room go for?”

Pete likes to pick out accents, but hers is unidentifiable, yet something about her is vaguely familiar, or maybe, at sixty-three on the edge of geezerhood, everyone reminds him of someone. “I have a deluxe with a Jacuzzi and a deck overlooking the stream.”

“That’s some stream.”

“A couple of days it will settle down.”

“How much?”

“Two-fifty, Sunday through Thursday, three hundred, Friday/Saturday.”

“What about those up there?” She points to the smaller units across the parking lot on the upper tier.

“Cheaper, one-fifty, two hundred.”

“And for a week?”

“Five times one-fifty plus two times….”

“Two hundred is one thousand one hundred and fifty dollars. I can multiply. How about seven hundred flat?”

“Those units have small kitchens.”

“I don’t need a kitchen.”

Pete’s former self liked to haggle, it was part of the way things worked. Pete’s present incarnation doesn’t waste time making deals.

“I really can’t afford more.” She sounds like she means it.

Pete, the softie, hands her a pen. “Sign in. Complimentary coffee and home made muffins every morning. One small thing, if you would refrain from wearing that Red Sox cap during your stay, it would be much appreciated.”

“That would be an abrogation of my right to free speech, don’t you think?” Cleo Johnson from Marshalltown, Iowa, registers and pays cash for a week in advance. He puts her in Unit 15, adjacent to the main house. She’s traveling light with a small canvas bag and a laptop.

Once upon a time, when Pete met a woman, he had a tendency to rate their attributes on a scale from one to ten - tits, legs, ass, smile and personality, Samantha had been a nine, Heidi, wife number two was an eight, Barbara, who he was married to for twenty-two years, would have been a ten but she discouraged this crude form of Bronx objectivism, so he dropped the behavior thus refraining from rating Unit 15.

Pete is a creature of habit and routine and where he eats is how he orients himself. In NYC there were hero places, pizza stands, delis and cafeterias, all substantial fare. In LA he had an endless array of salads to choose from in the hip bistros and cafés he frequented. In Woodstock everything is home made. He loves the Cuban pressed panini at O9, where he tries to read his newspaper but occasionally ends up sharing a table with Edith Evans, the vivacious realtor that handled the Streamside sale. At Maria’s, where the denizens go, he feasts on inexpensive garlicky vegetables and homemade pesto ravioli. He often stops for a fresh fruit shake at Sunfrost, taking the time to listen to the bearded counterperson’s latest poem.

Today he drives down the hill to where he feels the most kinship, Lori’s, located among a string of commercial spaces fronting Rt. 212 that includes the Walk-in Doctor, a hair salon, copy shop and wooden kazoo maker. Lori’s baked goods are a constant temptation. Pete’s cell phone rings as he pulls into a parking spot. He wouldn’t carry it, but doesn’t want to be perceived as technologically challenged or unreachable.

It’s his friend Bobby who became famous playing an LAPD detective in
Nasty
, a TV series that ran for seven seasons and made them both rich. Pete created the character; his friend lived it, solving crimes with a sarcastic sense of humor and a way with women. The audience loved the rascal.

“Yo, Pete.”

“Bobby. Long time.”

“I miss you man. Life isn’t the same with you gone. And you’re not even dead.”

“Bobby, you know where I live. It’s been three years, visit why don’t you?”

“I thought you’d be back by now. Don’t you miss your old buddies?”

The truth is Pete misses them all, even Barbara who finally threw him out and especially Bobby who always made him laugh. “That’s not the point.”

“Pete, listen up. I’ve been cast in a new pilot, great part, chief of detectives in a small city, maybe Seattle or Portland. I play opposite an African American woman mayor – younger – who wants to replace me. They feud, but in the end learn to work together. Problem is there’s no juice in the dialogue. My character is way too bland.”

“Any heat between you and the mayor?”

“See, you get the problem immediately. My producer, Marcus Bergman, needs someone to do a rewrite, you know bring out the potential of the concept. When I mentioned your name, he flipped. Turns out, he was a huge fan of
Nasty
.”