Tinseltown Riff (2 page)

Finally, the phone rang. Ben let it jangle six times, slipped back into the kitchen, snatched the receiver off its cradle and waited.

“Ben?” said Gillian, breaking the silence. “Listen, I don't have time for this. I know you're there.”

“It's nine-twenty.”

“I realize that,” said Gillian in that condescending tone of hers. He could just picture her giving her chestnut-brown bangs and lacquered do the once-over in the mirror to make sure she was still the frostiest of them all.

“Let's cut the tap dance, okay?” said Ben. “I am, where I've been for some time, at the bottom of your list. Most were either out of town or already committed. Those who were available wanted a little coin up front which let them out, but still left the ones who hadn't picked up their messages. Just now you threw in the towel figuring ‘Ben's so hungry he's still waiting desperately for my call'.”

This time it was Gillian's turn to leave Ben dangling. After a few beats, she said, “Do you or do you not want to fill-in this morning in front of some wanna-be screenwriters, make a little change and induce me to throw you a bone?”

“A bone?”

“A bone.”

“Ah, I see ...  Legitimate or illegitimate?”

“It's Hollywood, Benjy.”

“That's what I was afraid of.”

“Yes or no. I'll need you off and running by eleven.”

“Is that clock time or Gillian time?”

“Get in character, pal: the boy next door who gives you no grief.”

“I wing it, is that what you're saying? Pretend I'm a player and then—”

“No
and then
unless you come through.”

Realizing he was in no position to dicker, Ben gave Gillian a definite, “Okay, you're on.”

A second after she hung up on him, he hurried back down the hallway. In the master bedroom that featured duplicates of the framed map, bulletin board and calendar, he caught Aunt June perched on her queen-sized bed, double checking every item in her shoulder bag.

“Tell me this, will you?” she said, squinting over her bifocals. “Why, when you've got two sharp cookies like Iris and me as role models—”

“Right. Admirable Iris massaging yesterday's celebs.”

“At least she's solvent. Look, kiddo, I told you, I'm cleaning house and came across your junk. Should've chucked the drawing pads and crayons and put the kibosh on the old movies as well. Played Monopoly with you, got you out on the street.”

“Are these misgivings? Sentiments that have never crossed this threshold?”

June pursed her lips, as close as she ever got to an emotional overflow.

“Hey,” said Ben, “you didn't put me up for adoption and you gave me room and board.”

“Right. But just look at you. Hyper, your sandy hair's thinning, your nice face has some wrinkles, you're thin as a rail.”

Scuffing back to his old room, Ben called out, “Don't look now, Miss June, but you're getting a tad motherly.”

He secured the window latch, knelt down and noted the copy of Dr. Seuss'
Oh, the Places You'll Go
and the rough sketches for
Rescue Rangers
and
Skateboard Troopers.
 Then he leafed through the printouts courtesy of Aunt June's dandy telephoto lens before the Hollywood Police stepped in. Here were stills of helicopters hovering over a roof on Mulholland Drive, and the shattered front door of a duplex over at Pico and Robertson. All taken by crouching under yellow crime-scene tape. Snapping “sneaky-good action shots” for Leo, the mad Russian producer and cousin Iris' current wrestling partner—living proof of how far he'd sunk and how far he was willing to go.

After checking the thermostat, he hoisted the cardboard box as Aunt June scooted past him and dropped her luggage outside the front door. He locked the inside door and the wrought iron screen, hid the keys in the secret spot behind the giant Madagascar and picked up the crumpling box. Weaving unsteadily beyond the cacti in time to catch Aunt June's backside, he shouted, “Saturday,” over the flapping lid. “My birthday this year'll be Saturday. That gives me five days.”

“Based on what calculation?” said Aunt June, ensconced behind the wheel of her sedan.

“Your own window of opportunity. The length of the annual all-women's realty confab.”

“Good call. Gives you enough time to grab any kind of work and hole up on your own.”

“Not what I meant.”

“Too bad. Anyway you look at it, you got five days. Over and out.”

“Whatever. Rest assured the world's most hapless orphan will finally find himself.”

Rolling her eyes, Aunt June countered with, “Expect a call from me first thing. I want a progress report. Make good by Saturday or you're out on the street. That comes from me and Iris, straight from the heart.”                                                                                    

“Thanks, just what I needed.”

Crossing the street, he crammed the box in the trunk of the Prelude. Returning, he performed the same task with Aunt June's luggage, leaned in and offered the customary perfunctory hug as she looked askance at her pendant watch.

“And one last thing,” added June, “couldn't help overhearing. They'll be no reconciliations with Miss Gillian on my bed. No possibility of unlocked doors while I'm gone. I mean it, come on now, swear.”

Two fingers held in the air and a couple of arm pats did the trick. Just as she was about to turn the ignition key, they both noticed that the faux Santa Ana had kicked up a notch, hot and dry as can be.

“Well now,” said Aunt June, “gusts have been a little freaky today. Wonder what it means?”

“Just the proverbial winds of change.”

“Change—you said it.  Five days, kiddo, and counting. Your dangling days are done.”

 
 

Chapter Two

 

 

Ben was increasingly aware of the Santa Ana as it rattled the jalousies of the hotel's Catalina room. He was also aware of the trickles of sweat seeping into the collar of his button-down oxford.  Together both sensations would remain a constant till he proved he could pull this off.

Pausing in hopes the air-conditioning would finally kick in with a reassuring whir, he scanned the sixty or so seated wanna-bes leaning forward in their rattan chairs.  He faked another easygoing smile and went on with his sketch of a classic movie plotline. The response was negligible.  No light in their eyes, no sign of rapt attention or even interest.

Ben looked over to his far right at Gillian perched by the open window. After all, she was the facilitator, the one who got him into this. But pert, blasé Gillian held her  pose and gave him nothing. He was failing; she would toss him no bone, his prospects were nil.

A sweet-faced lady in a lemon pants-suit raised her hand. She pointed out that according to the conference program, participants were to be offered insider tips--
Take-the
-
guess-out-of-success
, the updated mismatched cops formula and so forth.

Pushing harder, Ben nodded and suggested that classic films were a great guide no matter what the venue. At that point, the whole group grew restless.

“Look,” the sweet-faced lady blurted out, “so far, till you showed up, we've been tossed the skinny on
Girly Girls Take Paris
and
Slacker-nerds and the Prom Queen
. So far, we've been reminded that in this economy uncertainty is poison and the letters RE are the ticket--revamp, revisit. So let's move on to what's trending with this recipe. Dangerous-but-fun, we've heard about. Cynical-with-a-heart. So what's new? What've you got for us? Why are we here?”

The spontaneous applause cut through the pervading indifference.  

Ben signaled strongly to Gillian. But she remained frozen in her lime-sorbet camisole and matching Capri pants. The whoosh kept rattling the jalousies, fanning her bangs, the only part of her do that wasn't lacquered down.

The attendees began jostling each other, forming a solid block of unease, augmented by the fake Santa Ana and the glare off the mint walls.

Sweet-face stood, pointed an accusatory finger straight at Ben and hollered out, “Where is the insider angle? Come on, let's have it, if you please.”   

Ben tossed the dry marker from hand to hand and thoughtlessly said, “Right. ‘You're too smart to go down any not-so-good street. And you may not find any you'll want to go down. In that case you'll head straight out of town.'

“Doctor Seuss,” Ben said in the sudden stillness. “When in doubt, you can't go wrong with good ol' Doctor Seuss.”

This gem was greeted with stone silence.

Ben studied their faces. Most of them were at least in their fifties. And, actually, it was no surprise what he was in for. He'd seen them milling around, tapping away and spreading their fingers on their iPhones. Doubtless spending all their spare time microblogging on Twitter, networking, and scooping up the latest copy of the trades. Also, doubtless, having plunked down hundreds of dollars, champing at the bit at the Hyatt Regency Century Plaza. There they were, about to give a three-minute pitch to junior executives from second-tier production companies. Moreover, they had every tip from
Sure-fire Killer Scenarios
memorized. And the last thing they wanted to do was actually write, let alone listen to Ben talk about classic films.  

At the same time, Ben knew this was his own last-ditch pitch. If he couldn't get past these dilettantes, he would wind up driving a night-shift cab to and from LAX, bleary eyed, disheveled, hustling for tips. Remembering this very moment when he blew it all big time.    

As the stone-cold stillness shifted to a sense of unified puzzlement and Gillian's cosmetic façade faded from blasé to blank, Ben jumped back in.  

“Ideally, I mean,” said Ben, winging it. “The lesson from Dr. Seuss is a call to bypass the road well traveled.”   

The unified puzzlement switched back to unease as the chairs began to squeak.

“Think about it. Every prequel and sequel, every spin on the mismatched cops routine has been kicked around and hung out to dry. But you take another route, leave your comfort zone and go out of your way. Maybe shift gears from mismatched cops to mismatched pair.”

Totally reaching now, Ben said, “I mean classic doesn't mean retread. You can still have a blundering rookie who hooks up with a mentor. But does our hero have to be a cop?  Does his crusty but benign mentor have to be in uniform and does he have to be crusty and benign?” On a roll, Ben carried on about Dr. Suess's title,
Oh the Places You'll Go
. “Now if that rallying cry isn't apt, I don't know what is.”                    

Agitated murmuring followed by more determined chair-squeaking as though some fuzzy inside information had indeed been leaked.

Sashaying to his side, Gillian added, “Well now, how about that?  I mean puh-lease. Take a look at him. Average height, slight build, two eyes, a nose and a mouth.  A throwback to the defunct nice guy from MGM. But he just opened the door to the new retro. Right, Benjy?”

“You bet,” said Ben, wincing, hating her for calling him that. “Turner Classics meets leading edge.”

“Exactly,” said Gillian, continuing to affect her best Hollywood hostess tone. “Boy next door latches on to seasoned pro and takes off. Sounds like a plan. Everyone agreed?  Terrific. We have to count ourselves lucky that Mr. Prine was available at the last minute. Because he's a busy man, took a few minutes away from his tight schedule and, needless to say, if he keeps playing his cards right, the sky's the limit.”

“Yes, ma'am,” said Ben, anxious to learn what Gillian had up her sleeve.  “Always nice to have those timeless clichés applied to me.”

“And what's the key to those timeless clichés?  What's always the key?”

Answering her own question, Gillian stepped to the side, erased Ben's notes with a flourish and began listing links that were all over the map. Like unexpected connections between reruns, YouTube and what-have-you.

Her list-making reminded him of the time he found himself in her apartment four blocks north of Hollywood and Vine. The one with the glistening black-and-white décor replete with posted rules of engagement, including the timing and sequence of foreplay. You wanted to keep up with Gillian, you had to get with it, be it sex or projects or, as Sweet-face put it, whatever was trending.  

Scribbling away, Gillian noted the wanna-bes' main competition: ninety-five percent of Writers Guild members were unemployed, ever-hungry for any opportunity to take a flyer and do whatever it takes.   

Gillian's broad smile and mellow tone belied the way she then uttered, “Those past thirty are especially bad off,” aiming the aside solely at Ben.                                            

Undaunted, in no time the bevy of seekers were lapping it up. A portly man in an oversized Disney T-shirt and baggy shorts observed that only an hour ago a woman his age, naked, swaddled only in Saran Wrap, was hawking a video of her love poems. Poised between the two oversized palm fronds fronting the hotel entrance, she'd succeeded in gathering a crowd. “Yes-sir-ree,” the portly one chortled, “ready to take a flyer on anything.”

Sloughing off this loopy deflection, still dying to find out what Gillian had in mind for him, Ben finally managed to cut the discussion short and announced it was time for lunch. But he'd no sooner left the dais, when he was accosted by a gaggle of leery matrons who questioned him about his credentials and wanted to know exactly how he broke in.

As fast as he could, worrying he was about to lose track of Gillian, he revealed that he spent months watching the mouth movements of Japanese cartoons while supplying the English dialogue. He'd also helped doctor plots for kiddie shows, sitcoms and a few low-budget movies, leaving out the fact that most never got made.