The pilgrims broke out in yet another ecstatic rendition of the chorus of the Messiah song:
"Moshiach, moshiach, moshiach, ai yai yai yai yai.
Moshiach, moshiach, moshiach, ai yai yai yai yai yai."
Again and again and again. If the Messiah-in-Waiting was eavesdropping he had to get their message: Enough already. We really need you. Now.
We want Mashiach now
We want Mashiach now
We want Mashiach now
And we don't want to wait!
"Which is all fine and dandy," Harry said to Gomez while the pilgrims sang."But have they ever stepped to think of how it will all unfold?"
"What's there to get, Harry? The Messiah comes, brings on world peace and I'll never have to work again. Sounds good 'nuff for me."
"That's the difference between you and me."
"That you still want to work when the Messiah comes?"
"No, that I went to Hebrew school while you were eating BLT's."
"Slathered in mayo."
"Good word choice, Gomez, 'slathered'."
"Good non-sequitar, Harry."
"Okay, you're clever, Gomez. Signs of intelligence acknowledged. But your deficiencies on Messianic times are apparent. Have you any idea about the weird shit that will happen?"
"So you want me to ask: 'Like what?'"
"Here's what, Gomez. The dead will live again? I mean, isn't that frightening?"
"Yeah, like Michael Jackson's Thriller. Crazy zombie shit."
"Like what are you going to your grandmother who returns to this world afterspending the last ten years spying on you from the netherworld."
"You think they do that shit? How embarrassing?"
"Tell me about it, especially if you've into Asian lesbian foot fetish porn!...Like my cousin Joey Prager with the bleached teeth and slicked back hair."
"And small dicks! Those kind of always have tiny dicks and wax their chests!"
" ?!"
"This is what my cousin Jonathan Bieberkraut tells me based on his observations in the showers experiences at the St. James Tennis Club...Not that he's a watcher or takes notes..."
The rolling pilgrimage moved into confession hour. Pilgrims took turns broadcasting their stories over the static-ridden bus sound system:
The Tubby Bubbe, with her orange helmet hair and too much gold jewelry kicked off the round. "When I took this trip last year with Rabbi Itzie, God bless him, I had just been diagnosed with cancer..."
The pilgrims sighed a collective, "Oiiii..."
"I prayed at the tomb of the rebbe for my health and three months later, the cancer was gone."
The mole on her that theoretically could have been cancer was begging.
The Merchant was next. "Last year my business was in ruins..." He closed his jean store, promptly flew to Israel and deposited $175,000 in a new bank account. Then he became a contractor in the home renovation business.
"After I took this trip with Rabbi Itzie, I started a new business and it immediately took off..."
The profit margins were high because he never paid his crews.
"My eldest daughter, Tiffany, was nothing but trouble, running around with all kinds of men," the Wife of Sherman Oaks confided. "Nothing but the wrong kind. I took this trip and prayed that she should change her evil ways..."
And vowed that she would break off her torrid affair with the dapper Jeweler with the manicured hands and irresistible smile. It still wasn't easy for the single mom to raise her feisty daughter Tiffany, but it at least kept her home every night except for Thursdays, casino night at her cousin the Gambler's house. Tiffany straightened up and only ran around on Thursdays, but discreetly with the Jeweler's charming son.
So many had changed their evil ways.
Good for those pilgrims, Harry thought. His brushes with good fortune, or what seemed like it at the time, came about without any dramatic, tear-laden prayers over a saint's tombstone, but over a knish, over the twenty-second phone call at the end of a day of rejection, or after months of hard work writing a script. Miracles were designed, manufactured, ploddingly created.
Harry studied the passing scenery. The desert. A perfect backdrop for the pilgrim tribe. Not wandering through the desert this time, rambling through it. As foreign to Harry as space. Where had the days gone when he'd look out the car window counting cows with his brother on the way to a weekend in the country? Whoever counted the most cows on their side won. Harry shut his eyes and tumbled back into that world. Cows.
"I'm having a cow, Harry, I'm soooo bored."
Harry snapped out his daydream and stared at Gomez.
" ."
"You're creeping me out with that look, Harry."
"I need to see some cows, Gomez. I need to see something familiar."
"I think we both need our mommies."
Harry shot Gomez a look.
"Right now just a cow would be nice," Harry said.
"You want a cow, they want salvation..." Gomez pointed to the grieving couple sitting in front of them across the aisle who reading psalms. Like psalms would make the nightmare go away. Like psalms would grant salvation.
"I'd settle for home, for my old room with my baseball posters and hockey cards taped to the wall. Where I could make adulthood go away. I'll never be ready for all of this."
"And what about me and my fake girlfriends? I'm breaking up with all of them."
Confession time a la deux.
"I'm...I'm..."
"Yeah, you're afraid of everything, Harry. " Gomez tapped the window excitedly with his index finger. "Look, there's a dude ranch with horses!"
Harry phased out into a waking dream world. "Horses! I see a horse! It's worth two cows! I win! I win!" Harry cried.
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Saturday, May 28, 2011
The Magic Bus
The same story. The same play, Life, A Tragedy. In two acts for some, ACT l: BEFORE, ACT ll: AFTER. In one act for others, ACT l: SAME OLE SHIT.
Modern tales of woe, of people leading quiet lives of desperation, searching for miracles, believing in miracles, waiting for miracles, waiting for divine intervention that never happens. Waiting, waiting...Waiting for Godot, who appears to be on sabbatical.
And here they were, on the flatlands of Beverly Hills waiting in line for a bus. The battered, the tattered, the shattered. The bruised, the used, the abused. So many, too many, tough luck. Stoics, enduring because______. Standing in line to board a bus on Pico Boulevard, with their blankets, their pillows, their plastic bags of crappy kosher candy and cookies, with their carry-ons stuffed with undergarments, clutching their religious trinkets and articles for dear life. Holy-rollers in times of need.
Who still need objects to kiss.
Wear a red string bracelet for protection.
Still hooked on golden calves.
And despite it all, despite it all, despite all the indignities of life rained down upon them -- big and small, real and imagined, despite it all, the pilgrims brimmed with abundant hope. They don't know it, but Godot has checked out of town. They need not wait. Rise up, rise up, awaken the Godots from within.
Resisters, rebels, righteous warriors metamorphosed into dung beetles. Feel their pain, share it, ignore it, but it will always be there until The Grieving Husband's last campaign: Death spells relief.
The Beverly Hills Pilgrims, now that's a show.
And out from the sky came a-rumblin' from God,
The Lord that is, King of Kings, The Al-migh-ty.
The Beverly Hills Pilgrims, About to embark on a journey, to canterbury-tale it to New York, the real holy land, to ride a bus 2700 miles across the country because. To visit, to pray, to weep at the tomb of the great tzadik, the great saint, The Rebbe. Their savior, dead but alive in spirit, their conduit to God who's sitting comfortably on his throne in heaven, but
dithering dithering on his next move. How did it all get so out-of-control? And they want his ear? Take a number wait in line, Yom Kippur is right around the corner.
So that's the scene. Itzie Weinbaum, who has Madonna on speed-dial and davens with Kirk Douglas, can make anything happen. The Captain Kirk of this bus, to go where many have gone before, to explore unseen worlds, to save needy souls, that is this eight day mission to visit hte tomb of the rebbe. Get it?
While Harry and Gomez parked their car in an alley, hid it behind a dumpster and fled on foot. Where to? No fucking idea. And then they saw the magic bus, with Itzie in charge.
"That's Rabbi Itzie!" Gomez said to Harry. "I've been to a few of his events, I know him. He can help. Follow me."
Gomez made a beeline to the rabbi and embraced him. Real life salvation.
"Mr. Gomez, what brings you here?" Rabbi Itzie asked. He felt Gomez shivering, inhaled his cologned sweat. "You're in trouble, nu?"
"No time to explain now, Itzie, but we have to get on that bus and disappear for a while."
"Get in now, Gomez. I have a couple of empty seats."
Gomez hugged Itzie and hopped on the bus with Harry in tow. This bus was going somewhere with Godot behind the wheel.
Modern tales of woe, of people leading quiet lives of desperation, searching for miracles, believing in miracles, waiting for miracles, waiting for divine intervention that never happens. Waiting, waiting...Waiting for Godot, who appears to be on sabbatical.
And here they were, on the flatlands of Beverly Hills waiting in line for a bus. The battered, the tattered, the shattered. The bruised, the used, the abused. So many, too many, tough luck. Stoics, enduring because______. Standing in line to board a bus on Pico Boulevard, with their blankets, their pillows, their plastic bags of crappy kosher candy and cookies, with their carry-ons stuffed with undergarments, clutching their religious trinkets and articles for dear life. Holy-rollers in times of need.
Who still need objects to kiss.
Wear a red string bracelet for protection.
Still hooked on golden calves.
And despite it all, despite it all, despite all the indignities of life rained down upon them -- big and small, real and imagined, despite it all, the pilgrims brimmed with abundant hope. They don't know it, but Godot has checked out of town. They need not wait. Rise up, rise up, awaken the Godots from within.
Resisters, rebels, righteous warriors metamorphosed into dung beetles. Feel their pain, share it, ignore it, but it will always be there until The Grieving Husband's last campaign: Death spells relief.
The Beverly Hills Pilgrims, now that's a show.
And out from the sky came a-rumblin' from God,
The Lord that is, King of Kings, The Al-migh-ty.
The Beverly Hills Pilgrims, About to embark on a journey, to canterbury-tale it to New York, the real holy land, to ride a bus 2700 miles across the country because. To visit, to pray, to weep at the tomb of the great tzadik, the great saint, The Rebbe. Their savior, dead but alive in spirit, their conduit to God who's sitting comfortably on his throne in heaven, but
dithering dithering on his next move. How did it all get so out-of-control? And they want his ear? Take a number wait in line, Yom Kippur is right around the corner.
So that's the scene. Itzie Weinbaum, who has Madonna on speed-dial and davens with Kirk Douglas, can make anything happen. The Captain Kirk of this bus, to go where many have gone before, to explore unseen worlds, to save needy souls, that is this eight day mission to visit hte tomb of the rebbe. Get it?
While Harry and Gomez parked their car in an alley, hid it behind a dumpster and fled on foot. Where to? No fucking idea. And then they saw the magic bus, with Itzie in charge.
"That's Rabbi Itzie!" Gomez said to Harry. "I've been to a few of his events, I know him. He can help. Follow me."
Gomez made a beeline to the rabbi and embraced him. Real life salvation.
"Mr. Gomez, what brings you here?" Rabbi Itzie asked. He felt Gomez shivering, inhaled his cologned sweat. "You're in trouble, nu?"
"No time to explain now, Itzie, but we have to get on that bus and disappear for a while."
"Get in now, Gomez. I have a couple of empty seats."
Gomez hugged Itzie and hopped on the bus with Harry in tow. This bus was going somewhere with Godot behind the wheel.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
The Magic Bus
Rabbi Itzie Weinbaum studied the pilgrims boarding the bus coach and prayed for miracles.
For The Young Widow. She was there every painful step along the way during her late husband's courageous but unwinnable battle with cancer.
"Courageous battle," The Young Widow sighed. "Another overused obit-speak cliché. There was nothing courageous about it. Steve never complained, he just suffered and accepted the inevitable.What else could he do?"
For The Industrious Lady and her $122,576.89 IRS assessment that needed to go away.
"So I used a little creative accounting over the years. I've got six mouths to feed, live in a subsidized housing block and drive a 14 year old station wagon with duct tape holding up the bumper. Tell me what I'm getting away with?"
For The Grieving Couple mired in the chronic pain of losing a ten year old son to leukemia.
"Our death sentence was to live," The Grieving Husband said, even after he sold his ad agency for seven figures. "My last ad campaign will be on my tombstone where it will be carved in stone, "Death spells relief." I don't want any tears falling on my grave."
For -----, for ----- and for -----
For The Young Widow. She was there every painful step along the way during her late husband's courageous but unwinnable battle with cancer.
"Courageous battle," The Young Widow sighed. "Another overused obit-speak cliché. There was nothing courageous about it. Steve never complained, he just suffered and accepted the inevitable.What else could he do?"
For The Industrious Lady and her $122,576.89 IRS assessment that needed to go away.
"So I used a little creative accounting over the years. I've got six mouths to feed, live in a subsidized housing block and drive a 14 year old station wagon with duct tape holding up the bumper. Tell me what I'm getting away with?"
For The Grieving Couple mired in the chronic pain of losing a ten year old son to leukemia.
"Our death sentence was to live," The Grieving Husband said, even after he sold his ad agency for seven figures. "My last ad campaign will be on my tombstone where it will be carved in stone, "Death spells relief." I don't want any tears falling on my grave."
For -----, for ----- and for -----
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Tea and Flee
"So now I'm a schmuck because I have a vanity license plate," Gomez said while sipping mint tea after Gohta's evil eye exorcism. He bit into a homemade sugar biscuit. "Yum yum," he moaned.
Yum, yum. He had to sat that, he had to say that. Gomez, Mr. Annoying. Harry dipped his sugar biscuit into his glass of mint tea and took a ravenous bite. Good cookie. "All I'm saying--" Harry was saying.
"Not with your mouth full, Harry..."
Gomez, fucking Gomez. The kitchen toe-clipper; now he thinks he's Emily Post. Harry thought about sharing a room with him on the road. Probably a snorer too. He deserved some gratuitous piggyness; that kind of chance might not be around forever.
"Getting back to my point, Gomez...If we drive around west L.A. in your car with the Gomez plates, we might get caught by the goon brothers...How could you throw out money on vanity license plates?"
"How could you throw out money on an American car, Harry? Why the fuck are you even bringing this up now? In any case, I'm not planning on sticking around town. There's a million places we could get lost in."
We, it suddenly occurred to Harry, that they were now a we. He could visualize sharing a hotel room with Gomez, who would be snoring away or clipping his toe nails to Letterman.
"Nice sweater by the way," Harry said. He had to admit that Gomez was always well dressed. Harry considered the blue Oxford button down shirt and Gap khakis he was wearing. He often thought about what he'd be wearing if he died suddenly or was caught in disaster. Clean underwear would be important, you wouldn't want to be caught dead in underwear that wasn't clean.
Regine entered the living room. She had just helped Gohta to bed and overheard their conversation. "I have a great idea," she said, which prompted Harry to wonder why people were always proposing great ideas that always sucked.
Meanwhile Gomez was peaking out the front window through the curtains.
"Here's an idea," Gomez said. "Ruuunnn! The Marano brothers are here!" The hitmen had caught up with Harry and Gomez and were staked out across the street and were getting out of their car.
"Through the back door," Regine cried. "I'll stall them...Why would I stall them? I just won't answer the door."
"Maybe they're just shopping around for a new evil eye service provider?" Harry suggested while wondering why he was acting like such an idiot.
"Maybe you're just an idiot, Harry?! Now move your ass and let's blow this joint," Gomez shouted.
He had to say 'blow', Harry thought. That was so gay. But Harry had to agree with Gomez about acting like an idiot.
Gomez dashed out the back door and Harry followed. A sudden rush of blood to his head. He never felt so alive.
Yum, yum. He had to sat that, he had to say that. Gomez, Mr. Annoying. Harry dipped his sugar biscuit into his glass of mint tea and took a ravenous bite. Good cookie. "All I'm saying--" Harry was saying.
"Not with your mouth full, Harry..."
Gomez, fucking Gomez. The kitchen toe-clipper; now he thinks he's Emily Post. Harry thought about sharing a room with him on the road. Probably a snorer too. He deserved some gratuitous piggyness; that kind of chance might not be around forever.
"Getting back to my point, Gomez...If we drive around west L.A. in your car with the Gomez plates, we might get caught by the goon brothers...How could you throw out money on vanity license plates?"
"How could you throw out money on an American car, Harry? Why the fuck are you even bringing this up now? In any case, I'm not planning on sticking around town. There's a million places we could get lost in."
We, it suddenly occurred to Harry, that they were now a we. He could visualize sharing a hotel room with Gomez, who would be snoring away or clipping his toe nails to Letterman.
"Nice sweater by the way," Harry said. He had to admit that Gomez was always well dressed. Harry considered the blue Oxford button down shirt and Gap khakis he was wearing. He often thought about what he'd be wearing if he died suddenly or was caught in disaster. Clean underwear would be important, you wouldn't want to be caught dead in underwear that wasn't clean.
Regine entered the living room. She had just helped Gohta to bed and overheard their conversation. "I have a great idea," she said, which prompted Harry to wonder why people were always proposing great ideas that always sucked.
Meanwhile Gomez was peaking out the front window through the curtains.
"Here's an idea," Gomez said. "Ruuunnn! The Marano brothers are here!" The hitmen had caught up with Harry and Gomez and were staked out across the street and were getting out of their car.
"Through the back door," Regine cried. "I'll stall them...Why would I stall them? I just won't answer the door."
"Maybe they're just shopping around for a new evil eye service provider?" Harry suggested while wondering why he was acting like such an idiot.
"Maybe you're just an idiot, Harry?! Now move your ass and let's blow this joint," Gomez shouted.
He had to say 'blow', Harry thought. That was so gay. But Harry had to agree with Gomez about acting like an idiot.
Gomez dashed out the back door and Harry followed. A sudden rush of blood to his head. He never felt so alive.
Monday, May 23, 2011
The Oracle from Yech
"What does that mean?" Harry asked Regine since he obviously didn't understand Arabic.
"Gohta says that she sees you surrounded by words."
"Any good lines that I use in a script?" Harry joked while fiddling with his crotch.
Gohta laughed which sounded more like a big yech. Everything she said in her guttural Arabic sounded like a string of yechs, as if a pack of soda crackers were caught in her throat.
"Yech yech yech yech," Ghota spoke.
"I think she's trying to clear her throat," Harry said.
Regine bit her lower lip.
"What'd she say, what'd she say?" Harry asked.
"That you wear your pants too tight."
A good reason to go to the bathroom. Since Harry had been living in L.A., he'd been following the advice of cousin Joey Prager with the smoldering look. "Wear your dick straight down. To left is for schvartes and to the right is for queers. You'll score better with your dick down."
Maybe, although Harry had not experienced any apparent spike in his love life. Just Wendy and she was more of an aberration than a notch on the bedpost. Cousin Joey was full of shit, Harry had enough of wearing his dick down. He went to the bathroom to readjust it to the left. Relief.
A good time to reflect. Possibly the last hours of his life and here he was fiddling with his dick. How apropos, he thought. A real man thing. No visions, no regrets, just Harry alone with his dick in deep contemplation. Maybe that's all there is. A man and his dick.
After the appendage adjustment, Harry left the bathroom and almost bumped into Regine, who was carrying a portable hibachi barbecue from the kitchen to the living room.
"She's going to do the evil eye ritual," Gomez whispered to Harry. "When it's over you'll feel renewed...That, or you'll want to jump off a cliff."
Gohta threw a few pieces of charcoal on the hibachi and lit them up.
"Isn't this against the fire code?" Harry whispered to Gomez.
"I think there's an exemption for black magic," Gomez whispered back.
When the coals were lit, Gohta chanted, "Yech yech yech, yech yech yech."
Regine handed her a small chunk of something that looked like clear glycerin soap. Ghota threw the chunk on the hot coals, then some herbs and the eye of a toad - (according to Harry's enhanced version) - and chanted more, "Yech, yech, yech..."
The chunk slowly melted, then bubbled. Ghota took a shish kabob skewer and pierced the three bubbles that formed. She yeched something to Regine.
"My aunt says that you had three evil eyes on you. Some people are very jealous of your close relationships." Regine told Gomez.
"It's true," Gomez whispered to Harry. "My three sisters never accepted that I'm my mother's favorite."
"Yech yech yech," Ghota proclaimed.
"But now the evil eye has vanished," Regine translated.
"Phew," said Gomez, who really believed it.
Phew? A grown man saying, 'Phew,' Harry thought. How gay.
Ghota pointed to Harry and yeched. "Your turn, Harry," Regine said. Ghota cracked up and yeched some more. "She says you remind her of a chicken plucker from the Fez souk. His father slit his throat throat for making passionate love to a goat."
"I guess they were strictly a sheep family." Harry said.
No one laughed.
Ghota sighed in longing. For a few seconds was transported back yore to the enchanting memories of Fez.
But back to business; Ghota repeated the evil eye mumbo jumbo on Harry. She threw the clear chunk on the coals and sprinkled it with some herbs. "No newts' tongues?" Harry joked. No one thought he was funny, including himself. He didn't like the looks of the ping pong-sized bubble emanating from the melting chunk. She pointed to Harry, yeched a few words and passed him the skewer and motioned to him to pierce the bubble.
Harry instinctively resisted Ghota's overture; he hated superstition. Gomez was watching intently, stroking his rabbit's foot. "C'mon, Harry. She wants you to pierce it."
"Pierce it, pierce it," Gomez and Regine chanted as if they were seven year olds again.
Ghota yeched to Harry. "Ghota says that there is a big evil eye on you, that there is danger from within. Go ahead, pierce the eye, confront the evil..." Regine said.
A scene from Rosemary's Baby flashed through Harry's head.
Partake in the insane. Heed the irrational. Be human. All eyes were upon Harry as he reluctantly accepted his task. When in Rome...Harry took the skewer scimitar from Ghota and as he was about to pierce the bubble, it burst spontaneously.
Ghota covered her mouth with her hands and muttered another yechism. Before Regine could explain, Harry said, "Let me guess-- it's got something to do with a curse."
Gohta chuckled. Regine said, "She says you're fucked, Harry, so go out and have a good time."
Something he intended to do anyhow.
"Gohta says that she sees you surrounded by words."
"Any good lines that I use in a script?" Harry joked while fiddling with his crotch.
Gohta laughed which sounded more like a big yech. Everything she said in her guttural Arabic sounded like a string of yechs, as if a pack of soda crackers were caught in her throat.
"Yech yech yech yech," Ghota spoke.
"I think she's trying to clear her throat," Harry said.
Regine bit her lower lip.
"What'd she say, what'd she say?" Harry asked.
"That you wear your pants too tight."
A good reason to go to the bathroom. Since Harry had been living in L.A., he'd been following the advice of cousin Joey Prager with the smoldering look. "Wear your dick straight down. To left is for schvartes and to the right is for queers. You'll score better with your dick down."
Maybe, although Harry had not experienced any apparent spike in his love life. Just Wendy and she was more of an aberration than a notch on the bedpost. Cousin Joey was full of shit, Harry had enough of wearing his dick down. He went to the bathroom to readjust it to the left. Relief.
A good time to reflect. Possibly the last hours of his life and here he was fiddling with his dick. How apropos, he thought. A real man thing. No visions, no regrets, just Harry alone with his dick in deep contemplation. Maybe that's all there is. A man and his dick.
After the appendage adjustment, Harry left the bathroom and almost bumped into Regine, who was carrying a portable hibachi barbecue from the kitchen to the living room.
"She's going to do the evil eye ritual," Gomez whispered to Harry. "When it's over you'll feel renewed...That, or you'll want to jump off a cliff."
Gohta threw a few pieces of charcoal on the hibachi and lit them up.
"Isn't this against the fire code?" Harry whispered to Gomez.
"I think there's an exemption for black magic," Gomez whispered back.
When the coals were lit, Gohta chanted, "Yech yech yech, yech yech yech."
Regine handed her a small chunk of something that looked like clear glycerin soap. Ghota threw the chunk on the hot coals, then some herbs and the eye of a toad - (according to Harry's enhanced version) - and chanted more, "Yech, yech, yech..."
The chunk slowly melted, then bubbled. Ghota took a shish kabob skewer and pierced the three bubbles that formed. She yeched something to Regine.
"My aunt says that you had three evil eyes on you. Some people are very jealous of your close relationships." Regine told Gomez.
"It's true," Gomez whispered to Harry. "My three sisters never accepted that I'm my mother's favorite."
"Yech yech yech," Ghota proclaimed.
"But now the evil eye has vanished," Regine translated.
"Phew," said Gomez, who really believed it.
Phew? A grown man saying, 'Phew,' Harry thought. How gay.
Ghota pointed to Harry and yeched. "Your turn, Harry," Regine said. Ghota cracked up and yeched some more. "She says you remind her of a chicken plucker from the Fez souk. His father slit his throat throat for making passionate love to a goat."
"I guess they were strictly a sheep family." Harry said.
No one laughed.
Ghota sighed in longing. For a few seconds was transported back yore to the enchanting memories of Fez.
But back to business; Ghota repeated the evil eye mumbo jumbo on Harry. She threw the clear chunk on the coals and sprinkled it with some herbs. "No newts' tongues?" Harry joked. No one thought he was funny, including himself. He didn't like the looks of the ping pong-sized bubble emanating from the melting chunk. She pointed to Harry, yeched a few words and passed him the skewer and motioned to him to pierce the bubble.
Harry instinctively resisted Ghota's overture; he hated superstition. Gomez was watching intently, stroking his rabbit's foot. "C'mon, Harry. She wants you to pierce it."
"Pierce it, pierce it," Gomez and Regine chanted as if they were seven year olds again.
Ghota yeched to Harry. "Ghota says that there is a big evil eye on you, that there is danger from within. Go ahead, pierce the eye, confront the evil..." Regine said.
A scene from Rosemary's Baby flashed through Harry's head.
Partake in the insane. Heed the irrational. Be human. All eyes were upon Harry as he reluctantly accepted his task. When in Rome...Harry took the skewer scimitar from Ghota and as he was about to pierce the bubble, it burst spontaneously.
Ghota covered her mouth with her hands and muttered another yechism. Before Regine could explain, Harry said, "Let me guess-- it's got something to do with a curse."
Gohta chuckled. Regine said, "She says you're fucked, Harry, so go out and have a good time."
Something he intended to do anyhow.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
Witch Stop
"Gomez! Why are you pulling over?"
Harry's sudden moment of panic: What if Gomez was in on the whack? Shit like this happens in L.A. all the time.
"Don't worry, no one's following us. We're safer here than on the road," said Gomez, the big authority on getaways.
"Where's here?"
Gomez pulled out the key from the ignition, then fondled the rabbit's foot dangling from his key chain.
"Gohta, the sorceress from the henna party. Y'know, Regine's aunt from Fez."
Harry's panic attack subsided.
"Oh, just a sorceress...A sorceress...a sorceress...We're stopping now to see a FUCKING SORCERESS!"
"It's not like that's her official title. She does magic, so what? On another note, Harry, you swear a lot."
"WE'RE FUCKED! WE'RE FUCKED!"
"Which is why we're seeing Gohta, she can help. She sees things and has special powers."
"I knew there was a perfectly rational explanation."
"She can see the future."
"Which doesn't exist in our case, Gomez. We're fucked, we're fucked, we're gonna die. The Curse of the Flunkers is true...Did you ever flunk a grade, Gomez?"
"Well, I don't know if you could technically call it a flunk. My parents held me back after the third grade."
"So you repeated grade three?"
"Voluntarily...I was born in October, so they pushed me in with th older kids, but I could never catch up..It was a struggle to keep up and so humiliating...I didn't read until second grade... and I never got over it. I was always playing catch up. It even took me six years to get my B.A. I was always changing majors - Poli Sci, Economics, Drama..."
"You were a drama major?"
"For about two weeks. I went through this phase where I wanted to be a prop master."
"..."
Gomez patted his rabbit's foot. "I like props."
"You like props...Oi vey, " Harry sighed. "He likes props....I like life...Here's an idea, Gomez. Let's call the fucking police!"
" Wish I could, but I'm here illegally, They'll deport me, Harry and I'd rather get whacked than go back to Toronto. Stop worrying, I'll clear this thing with one call to Wendy now..."
Gomez called Wendy on his cell phone and listened to the recorded message: "Hi, I'm away in Mexico building animal shelters until next Christmas with no access to a phone. Leave a message and there's a chance I may get it some day. Gotta run now, the puppies are barking."
"You're right, Harry. WE'RE FUCKED! WE'RE FUCKED!"
"Gohta says she sees you surrounded in by words."
Harry's sudden moment of panic: What if Gomez was in on the whack? Shit like this happens in L.A. all the time.
"Don't worry, no one's following us. We're safer here than on the road," said Gomez, the big authority on getaways.
"Where's here?"
Gomez pulled out the key from the ignition, then fondled the rabbit's foot dangling from his key chain.
"Gohta, the sorceress from the henna party. Y'know, Regine's aunt from Fez."
Harry's panic attack subsided.
"Oh, just a sorceress...A sorceress...a sorceress...We're stopping now to see a FUCKING SORCERESS!"
"It's not like that's her official title. She does magic, so what? On another note, Harry, you swear a lot."
"WE'RE FUCKED! WE'RE FUCKED!"
"Which is why we're seeing Gohta, she can help. She sees things and has special powers."
"I knew there was a perfectly rational explanation."
"She can see the future."
"Which doesn't exist in our case, Gomez. We're fucked, we're fucked, we're gonna die. The Curse of the Flunkers is true...Did you ever flunk a grade, Gomez?"
"Well, I don't know if you could technically call it a flunk. My parents held me back after the third grade."
"So you repeated grade three?"
"Voluntarily...I was born in October, so they pushed me in with th older kids, but I could never catch up..It was a struggle to keep up and so humiliating...I didn't read until second grade... and I never got over it. I was always playing catch up. It even took me six years to get my B.A. I was always changing majors - Poli Sci, Economics, Drama..."
"You were a drama major?"
"For about two weeks. I went through this phase where I wanted to be a prop master."
"..."
Gomez patted his rabbit's foot. "I like props."
"You like props...Oi vey, " Harry sighed. "He likes props....I like life...Here's an idea, Gomez. Let's call the fucking police!"
" Wish I could, but I'm here illegally, They'll deport me, Harry and I'd rather get whacked than go back to Toronto. Stop worrying, I'll clear this thing with one call to Wendy now..."
Gomez called Wendy on his cell phone and listened to the recorded message: "Hi, I'm away in Mexico building animal shelters until next Christmas with no access to a phone. Leave a message and there's a chance I may get it some day. Gotta run now, the puppies are barking."
"You're right, Harry. WE'RE FUCKED! WE'RE FUCKED!"
"Gohta says she sees you surrounded in by words."
Friday, May 20, 2011
The Getaway
"Gomez, we're not using your car for the getaway. I hate the way you drive."
"Well fuck you too, Harry. This is my first getaway and I'm not driving in your filthy shit-box."
"Excuse me, but my shit-box, aka Toyota Corolla, was named Car & Drivers car of the year."
"For losers, Harry, for losers. My Beamer wins. Now get the fuck in."
"Okay, but I'm not splitting the gas with you, Gomez. You drive, you pay."
"Get the fuck in you cheap moron before they blow our heads off."
Lucky that the Marano brothers were too dumb to notice that the street parking for residents was on the street behind Gomez's duplex. Harry and Gomez were able to slip out and drive off undetected.
Enzo, the big Marano brother with two Frankenstein bolts sticking out of the sides of his neck -- (result of an old equestrian accident) -- rang the door bell. He was surprised that no one answered.
"Maybe they went bowling?" he said.
"Or maybe the two faggots are buying make up at CVC? They have the best cosmetic counter in this part of the city," said Bunny, the short Marano brother with the pierced nipples.
"Big bro, mind if I whack 'em both this time?"
"I dunno, you're shooting like crap these days. It took you four shots to rub out Pedro the florist in Oakland."
"Only cuz I had to used the faggot's 22 calibre piece of shit. I shoulda choked him with his dildo."
"Yeah, what about the time before with the magnum. You blew off the guy's ears and he got away."
"Did you see those ears? Like fucking Dumbo."
"I dunno. This one's gotta be clean. Wendy's got big connections."
"Then I can strangle the two queers. You know how good I am with my hands."
Bunny shut his eyes rubbed hid neck and said, "Fine, but this time I get to chop up the bodies."
"Deal."
"I brought along an extra container and some ice packs. I'd like to keep some meat for my dog. He's been hooked on this new raw meat diet ever since I fed him Pedro the florist."
"Never would've thought that dogs ate Mexican."
"Well fuck you too, Harry. This is my first getaway and I'm not driving in your filthy shit-box."
"Excuse me, but my shit-box, aka Toyota Corolla, was named Car & Drivers car of the year."
"For losers, Harry, for losers. My Beamer wins. Now get the fuck in."
"Okay, but I'm not splitting the gas with you, Gomez. You drive, you pay."
"Get the fuck in you cheap moron before they blow our heads off."
Lucky that the Marano brothers were too dumb to notice that the street parking for residents was on the street behind Gomez's duplex. Harry and Gomez were able to slip out and drive off undetected.
Enzo, the big Marano brother with two Frankenstein bolts sticking out of the sides of his neck -- (result of an old equestrian accident) -- rang the door bell. He was surprised that no one answered.
"Maybe they went bowling?" he said.
"Or maybe the two faggots are buying make up at CVC? They have the best cosmetic counter in this part of the city," said Bunny, the short Marano brother with the pierced nipples.
"Big bro, mind if I whack 'em both this time?"
"I dunno, you're shooting like crap these days. It took you four shots to rub out Pedro the florist in Oakland."
"Only cuz I had to used the faggot's 22 calibre piece of shit. I shoulda choked him with his dildo."
"Yeah, what about the time before with the magnum. You blew off the guy's ears and he got away."
"Did you see those ears? Like fucking Dumbo."
"I dunno. This one's gotta be clean. Wendy's got big connections."
"Then I can strangle the two queers. You know how good I am with my hands."
Bunny shut his eyes rubbed hid neck and said, "Fine, but this time I get to chop up the bodies."
"Deal."
"I brought along an extra container and some ice packs. I'd like to keep some meat for my dog. He's been hooked on this new raw meat diet ever since I fed him Pedro the florist."
"Never would've thought that dogs ate Mexican."
The Contract
"Wendy put out a contract on my head? This is a joke, right?"
"Not according to her pet groomer, Marvin, who by the way, also blow dries Wendy's hair."
"You're fucking pulling my leg, Gomez. First of all, I paid her back the four hundred bucks. I apologized, what's her problem?"
"Well, for one, she's insane. For two, her father's a mobster. Really. He just got thrown in jail. The Feds shut down his traveling carnivals for like a million safety violations, and the IRS is all over him for tax evasion. They seized all his property, except for Wendy's house which is in her name."
"Even so, you're telling me that this girl who goes to the same hair-dresser as collies, who works as a production assistant on a TV show, hired a hitman to kill me."
"According to Marvin, her pet groomer. She tells Marvin everything."
"I don't buy it. She may be insane, but she's not a criminal."
"She has a past, Harry. She got caught for dealing dope at dog parks a few years ago. Her lawyer got her off without doing time, but she actually has a criminal record."
"And now you tell me this? You dickhead!"
"She was just dealing pot, Harry. Big deal."
"So I'll go to the cops. We have a witness, Marvin the pet groomer."
"Also an ex-con, he'll never squeal. He used to be one her dog park dealers. Look Harry, we have to leave town till can work things out...."
"We?"
"Yeah, she wants to kill me for telling people that she was my girlfriend."
"Well that's what you went around saying."
"Never. I said we were just seeing each other. Big difference."
"Whatever. I just cannot take this whole thing seriously..."
"Tell that to the Petona brothers."
"The name sounds familiar..."
"Yeah, they played the Scarletti brothers on The Maranos. "
"Right, I remember them. The hitmen who got whacked after the second season."
"And after their characters got whacked on the show, they became...hitmen."
"But what about Gypsy. I'm not blowing my first break. And to top it off, we just hired you, Gomez."
"It's okay, we can write on the road and work online. I know a decent hotel Berkeley where we can stay with till things cool down."
"Till things cool down...I didn't fucking do anything."
"Look I can fix things, it's not the first time somebody wanted to kill me and my friends. I can speak to Marvin, he can work on Wendy. But it takes time, the chick is whacko and dangerous since she stopped taking her meds. She's been shooting pigeons."
"Yeah, I guess you would know all that, you were seeing her."
"And I want to live to see another day, Harry. No more to discuss. Let's take off."
"I gotta go home first and pack some stuff."
"The Petona brothers are probably waiting for you there right now."
"But I don't want to have to buy new clothes when I have perfectly good ones at home. It's bad enough I have to pay for two hotel rooms."
Gomez noticed a black SUV pull up in front of his house.
"The back door, Harry. I was wrong, they're in front of my house now."
"Not according to her pet groomer, Marvin, who by the way, also blow dries Wendy's hair."
"You're fucking pulling my leg, Gomez. First of all, I paid her back the four hundred bucks. I apologized, what's her problem?"
"Well, for one, she's insane. For two, her father's a mobster. Really. He just got thrown in jail. The Feds shut down his traveling carnivals for like a million safety violations, and the IRS is all over him for tax evasion. They seized all his property, except for Wendy's house which is in her name."
"Even so, you're telling me that this girl who goes to the same hair-dresser as collies, who works as a production assistant on a TV show, hired a hitman to kill me."
"According to Marvin, her pet groomer. She tells Marvin everything."
"I don't buy it. She may be insane, but she's not a criminal."
"She has a past, Harry. She got caught for dealing dope at dog parks a few years ago. Her lawyer got her off without doing time, but she actually has a criminal record."
"And now you tell me this? You dickhead!"
"She was just dealing pot, Harry. Big deal."
"So I'll go to the cops. We have a witness, Marvin the pet groomer."
"Also an ex-con, he'll never squeal. He used to be one her dog park dealers. Look Harry, we have to leave town till can work things out...."
"We?"
"Yeah, she wants to kill me for telling people that she was my girlfriend."
"Well that's what you went around saying."
"Never. I said we were just seeing each other. Big difference."
"Whatever. I just cannot take this whole thing seriously..."
"Tell that to the Petona brothers."
"The name sounds familiar..."
"Yeah, they played the Scarletti brothers on The Maranos. "
"Right, I remember them. The hitmen who got whacked after the second season."
"And after their characters got whacked on the show, they became...hitmen."
"But what about Gypsy. I'm not blowing my first break. And to top it off, we just hired you, Gomez."
"It's okay, we can write on the road and work online. I know a decent hotel Berkeley where we can stay with till things cool down."
"Till things cool down...I didn't fucking do anything."
"Look I can fix things, it's not the first time somebody wanted to kill me and my friends. I can speak to Marvin, he can work on Wendy. But it takes time, the chick is whacko and dangerous since she stopped taking her meds. She's been shooting pigeons."
"Yeah, I guess you would know all that, you were seeing her."
"And I want to live to see another day, Harry. No more to discuss. Let's take off."
"I gotta go home first and pack some stuff."
"The Petona brothers are probably waiting for you there right now."
"But I don't want to have to buy new clothes when I have perfectly good ones at home. It's bad enough I have to pay for two hotel rooms."
Gomez noticed a black SUV pull up in front of his house.
"The back door, Harry. I was wrong, they're in front of my house now."
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
10 Seconds Away
"The ratings suck, especially considering that this is the Gypsy franchise," Lee said while adjusting his glasses. Always touching something on his face. The glass adjustment for the more important announcements:
"If we don't do something fast, they'll pull the plug. We need to move on this Leftovers idea," Harry said while caressing his eyebrow. He had this habit of matching Lee facial gesture to facial gesture, Harry's indirect way of demonstrating how distracting facial play could be, but Lee never got the message.
- The beard-tug when in deep reflection.
- The forehead sweat-mop when pressured.
- The in-between-nostril tap with his index finger when nervous.
- And the cheek rub 'n scratch, a tic so popular that it migrated down to Lee's butt cheeks as well.
"If we don't do something fast, they'll pull the plug. We need to move on this Leftovers idea," Harry said while caressing his eyebrow. He had this habit of matching Lee facial gesture to facial gesture, Harry's indirect way of demonstrating how distracting facial play could be, but Lee never got the message.
"We could try out a couple of the Leftovers right away. We're not committed to Jimmy's dad and Doc...Doc, grew up jerking off to Betty Boop." Lee poked his cheek with his index finger.
"Let's bring in Gomez," Harry said while fingering the cleft in his chin, his favorite gesture. He had a great chin, strong and square, not one that you had to hide behind a beard like Lee did. What Lee would've given to own Harry's chin. "He's got Leftovers and he's hysterical."
Lee pulled an inside nostril scratch; how Harry hated that move. He shuddered when he thought of the snotty scrapings collection inside the nail of Lee's index finger. Mental note oft revisited: Never shake hands with Lee. "We introduce the Leftovers simply as neighborhood characters, like they did with the three brothers on Newhart."
Lee pulled an inside nostril scratch; how Harry hated that move. He shuddered when he thought of the snotty scrapings collection inside the nail of Lee's index finger. Mental note oft revisited: Never shake hands with Lee. "We introduce the Leftovers simply as neighborhood characters, like they did with the three brothers on Newhart."
Harry tugged his earlobe. Getting warm, getting warm. The mere mention of Newhart, his idol, set Harry's heart a-pounding. "Larry, Darryl and Darryl."
Lee thought hard while closing his eyes and massaging his eyeballs."Three ex-mobster brothers who retire to the country to start a puppy mill. The Retardo brothers!"
Harry rubbed his stubble and cracked up. "That's hysterical. Johnny, Gino and Harvey Retardo...Harvey's named after the family lawyer. We turn Gypsy into a mob show."
"Been there, done that."
Harry cringed. No facial touchings, but a cliched expression or use of the word 'awesome' was worse.
"Awesome!" Harry said.
"What's so awesome about that?"
"Nothing, I just wanted to know how I'd feel saying the word, 'awesome'."
"How does it feel?"
"Awesome."
Lee groaned while mining a crusty tear from his eye.
"So bring in this Gomez guy and we'll figure things out. I know there's something to this idea. We make this show funny and...and..." Lee did a quick in-out, commando style nose pick-flick.
"Sick. We make it sick. Sick is edgy. Sick sells."
"Funny-sick, like crapping in your pants while waiting in line to pay at Wal-Mart," Lee said while scratching his ass.
"That actually happened to my Aunt Toby. She got caught in line behind one of those change-dumpers, y'know those fucking losers who pull out every coin in their purse just so they won't have to break a fiver. My aunt actually crapped in her pants while the lady in front of her fished out ninety-six cents of pennies and nickels."
"She should wear Depends when she goes to Wal-Mart like my mother." As Lee should've just last week when he crapped in his pants during a long red light on his way back to the office after lunch. Those all-you-can-eat buffets in Chinatown were dangerous.
"A total mess," Harry confirmed. "How about doing a Revenge of the Zombies spoof but we use fed up cashiers instead? They hunt down the change-dumpers."
"But what does that have to do with the dog?"
"I dunno, Gypsy runs around smelling their asses and eating treats, that's enough."
Lee keeled over in a fit of laughter holding his stomach. He was ten seconds away from crapping in his pants.
"Awesome!" Harry said.
"What's so awesome about that?"
"Nothing, I just wanted to know how I'd feel saying the word, 'awesome'."
"How does it feel?"
"Awesome."
Lee groaned while mining a crusty tear from his eye.
"So bring in this Gomez guy and we'll figure things out. I know there's something to this idea. We make this show funny and...and..." Lee did a quick in-out, commando style nose pick-flick.
"Sick. We make it sick. Sick is edgy. Sick sells."
"Funny-sick, like crapping in your pants while waiting in line to pay at Wal-Mart," Lee said while scratching his ass.
"That actually happened to my Aunt Toby. She got caught in line behind one of those change-dumpers, y'know those fucking losers who pull out every coin in their purse just so they won't have to break a fiver. My aunt actually crapped in her pants while the lady in front of her fished out ninety-six cents of pennies and nickels."
"She should wear Depends when she goes to Wal-Mart like my mother." As Lee should've just last week when he crapped in his pants during a long red light on his way back to the office after lunch. Those all-you-can-eat buffets in Chinatown were dangerous.
"A total mess," Harry confirmed. "How about doing a Revenge of the Zombies spoof but we use fed up cashiers instead? They hunt down the change-dumpers."
"But what does that have to do with the dog?"
"I dunno, Gypsy runs around smelling their asses and eating treats, that's enough."
Lee keeled over in a fit of laughter holding his stomach. He was ten seconds away from crapping in his pants.
Monday, May 16, 2011
The Action Hero Scene
On location with Gypsy:
SCENE 14 EXT. DINER - DAY
Gypsy returns to where the flatbed truck was parked, but it's not there. We see a trail of dust down the road emanating from the truck as it speeds down the road. Johnny Hipp and Jimmy arrive on the scene and notice Gypsy fixated on the truck. Jimmy gives Gypsy a treat and then Gypsy (farts unscripted and) takes off after the truck.
Harry, who is standing along the side of the road with Lee and the rest of the film crew are cracking up.
Harry sighs. "A hero that needs a treat before she kicks into action..."
"And farts," Lee added.
Which got Harry thinking.
JOHNNY
(calling out)
Doudou! Come back, Doudou!
JIMMY
Go get him Gypsy!
Johnny sees a discarded object a few storefronts down from the diner and points to it.
JOHNNY
That's Doudou's beanie!
Johnny and Jimmy run towards the beanie. Johnny arrives first, bends over, picks up the beanie with both hands and looks at it with despair.
JOHNNY
(quietly)
Doudou.
SCENE 15 EXT. TOWN - DAY
The truck turns a corner causing the barrel on the open flatbed to bounce. Doudou is stuck inside it. MONKEY NOISES from the barrel. As the truck rounds the corner, Gypsy comes into view, chasing. Gypsy follows the truck around the corner.
SCENE 15A EXT, COUNTRY ROAD/FIELD - DAY
As the truck disappears around another corner, Gypsy reaches the corner. She stops and thinks for a beat (and farts spontaneously - unscripted). Then, instead of following the road, Gypsy turns and runs into the field. We watch her run across the field for some distance.
SCENE 15B EXT. BRIDGE - DAY
Inside the truck cab, the driver sees something on the road. His eyes widen. He turns the steering wheel hard.
POV truck driver: Gypsy is blocking the road. HONKING OF HORN. The truck swerves around the unflinching Gypsy. TIRES SQUEAL.
The barrel bounces and falls off the side of the road and disappears down an embankment, Gypsy runs to the point where the barrel disappeared from view.
SCENE 15D EXT. HILLSIDE/RIVER - DAY
Gypsy appears at the crest of the embankment. She gazes down worriedly.
POV Gypsy: The barrel rolls down the hill towards the creek. Monkey noises. The barrel SPLASHES into the creek.
Gypsy runs down the hill, but when she reaches the creek at the bottom, the barrel is gone. MONKEY NOISES. The barrel SPLASHES into the creek.
Gypsy runs down the hill, but when she reaches the creek at the bottom, the barrel is gone. MONKEY NOISES cause Gypsy's ears to prick up and her head to turn in the direction of the noise.
POV Gypsy: The barrel is bobbing and floating down the creek.
Gypsy chases after the barrel.
SCENE 15E EXT. SLUICE FURTHER DOWN THE RIVER - DAY
The barrel careens through the rapids at the sluice, finally getting caught in the rocks. Gypsy runs into view, then stops at the barrel. After a beat of silence, Gypsy BARKS. Doudou pops his head out of the barrel, sees Gypsy and SCREECHES. CLOSE UP on Doudou who is wearing the missing gold bracelet around his neck. He jumps out of the barrel onto Gypsy's back. Gypsy BARKS and Doudou jumps safely off of Gypsy's back onto the land. He pulls a treat out of the pocket of his vest. CLOSE UP of Doudou feeding the treat to Gypsy. Gypsy BARKS.
Gypsy farts spontaneously, (unscripted). Harry and Lee are standing along with the film crew along the side of the river. Harry turns to Lee and says, "Lee, this farting is a franchise."
SCENE 14 EXT. DINER - DAY
Gypsy returns to where the flatbed truck was parked, but it's not there. We see a trail of dust down the road emanating from the truck as it speeds down the road. Johnny Hipp and Jimmy arrive on the scene and notice Gypsy fixated on the truck. Jimmy gives Gypsy a treat and then Gypsy (farts unscripted and) takes off after the truck.
Harry, who is standing along the side of the road with Lee and the rest of the film crew are cracking up.
Harry sighs. "A hero that needs a treat before she kicks into action..."
"And farts," Lee added.
Which got Harry thinking.
JOHNNY
(calling out)
Doudou! Come back, Doudou!
JIMMY
Go get him Gypsy!
Johnny sees a discarded object a few storefronts down from the diner and points to it.
JOHNNY
That's Doudou's beanie!
Johnny and Jimmy run towards the beanie. Johnny arrives first, bends over, picks up the beanie with both hands and looks at it with despair.
JOHNNY
(quietly)
Doudou.
SCENE 15 EXT. TOWN - DAY
The truck turns a corner causing the barrel on the open flatbed to bounce. Doudou is stuck inside it. MONKEY NOISES from the barrel. As the truck rounds the corner, Gypsy comes into view, chasing. Gypsy follows the truck around the corner.
SCENE 15A EXT, COUNTRY ROAD/FIELD - DAY
As the truck disappears around another corner, Gypsy reaches the corner. She stops and thinks for a beat (and farts spontaneously - unscripted). Then, instead of following the road, Gypsy turns and runs into the field. We watch her run across the field for some distance.
SCENE 15B EXT. BRIDGE - DAY
Inside the truck cab, the driver sees something on the road. His eyes widen. He turns the steering wheel hard.
POV truck driver: Gypsy is blocking the road. HONKING OF HORN. The truck swerves around the unflinching Gypsy. TIRES SQUEAL.
The barrel bounces and falls off the side of the road and disappears down an embankment, Gypsy runs to the point where the barrel disappeared from view.
SCENE 15D EXT. HILLSIDE/RIVER - DAY
Gypsy appears at the crest of the embankment. She gazes down worriedly.
POV Gypsy: The barrel rolls down the hill towards the creek. Monkey noises. The barrel SPLASHES into the creek.
Gypsy runs down the hill, but when she reaches the creek at the bottom, the barrel is gone. MONKEY NOISES. The barrel SPLASHES into the creek.
Gypsy runs down the hill, but when she reaches the creek at the bottom, the barrel is gone. MONKEY NOISES cause Gypsy's ears to prick up and her head to turn in the direction of the noise.
POV Gypsy: The barrel is bobbing and floating down the creek.
Gypsy chases after the barrel.
SCENE 15E EXT. SLUICE FURTHER DOWN THE RIVER - DAY
The barrel careens through the rapids at the sluice, finally getting caught in the rocks. Gypsy runs into view, then stops at the barrel. After a beat of silence, Gypsy BARKS. Doudou pops his head out of the barrel, sees Gypsy and SCREECHES. CLOSE UP on Doudou who is wearing the missing gold bracelet around his neck. He jumps out of the barrel onto Gypsy's back. Gypsy BARKS and Doudou jumps safely off of Gypsy's back onto the land. He pulls a treat out of the pocket of his vest. CLOSE UP of Doudou feeding the treat to Gypsy. Gypsy BARKS.
Gypsy farts spontaneously, (unscripted). Harry and Lee are standing along with the film crew along the side of the river. Harry turns to Lee and says, "Lee, this farting is a franchise."
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Another Role
(NOT TO BE INCLUDED IN STORY)
"The asshole drops out three days before we shoot the episode," Lee told Harry over lunch. "Apparently the D-list schmuck is checking into rehab."
"So what happens now? How do you find a replacement?"
"Easy. You play the part, Harry. You wrote it, you know it."
"Not sure I can do it, Lee. I haven't done a thing since I choked during that audition in New York."
"There's 25K for playing that role."
"25K..." The sound of money, as sweet as a Mozart sonata.
"Yeah, 25K."
But the choke, the choke. Harry could feel the humiliation all over.
"The money's nice, but I'm not sure..."
"You won't be on stage, Harry. Just in front of a camera and a small crew."
" . " Harry knew that he had to do it. He had to do it.
"I can't do it."
"You have to, Harry. We're scheduled to shoot in three days on location. All the sets are done, everything's ready. Even if I found a replacement to play the part, he wouldn't have enough time to learn the part. And besides we don't want the cheap-ass cable guys on our throats."
"I want to do it."
"The asshole drops out three days before we shoot the episode," Lee told Harry over lunch. "Apparently the D-list schmuck is checking into rehab."
"So what happens now? How do you find a replacement?"
"Easy. You play the part, Harry. You wrote it, you know it."
"Not sure I can do it, Lee. I haven't done a thing since I choked during that audition in New York."
"There's 25K for playing that role."
"25K..." The sound of money, as sweet as a Mozart sonata.
"Yeah, 25K."
But the choke, the choke. Harry could feel the humiliation all over.
"The money's nice, but I'm not sure..."
"You won't be on stage, Harry. Just in front of a camera and a small crew."
" . " Harry knew that he had to do it. He had to do it.
"I can't do it."
"You have to, Harry. We're scheduled to shoot in three days on location. All the sets are done, everything's ready. Even if I found a replacement to play the part, he wouldn't have enough time to learn the part. And besides we don't want the cheap-ass cable guys on our throats."
"I want to do it."
Saturday, May 14, 2011
A Good Moment
Two weeks later:
Lee held Harry's Monkey Business script and tossed it on his desk.
"It's good, Harry, it's good. Won't cop you an Emmy, but it doesn't need a rewrite."
Harry beamed, "Yeah, I kind of felt that I nailed it."
"Let's not get carried away, Harry. It's good enough for a show like this about a tubby Golden Retriever, but Shakespeare it ain't."
"Shakespeare wrote some crap too."
"What's good, what's crap? A few assholes proclaim something's good and everyone follows. " Lee rose from his chair and looked out the window. "How'd you like a staff writing job on the show?"
Harry was having a moment and it was good.
Lee held Harry's Monkey Business script and tossed it on his desk.
"It's good, Harry, it's good. Won't cop you an Emmy, but it doesn't need a rewrite."
Harry beamed, "Yeah, I kind of felt that I nailed it."
"Let's not get carried away, Harry. It's good enough for a show like this about a tubby Golden Retriever, but Shakespeare it ain't."
"Shakespeare wrote some crap too."
"What's good, what's crap? A few assholes proclaim something's good and everyone follows. " Lee rose from his chair and looked out the window. "How'd you like a staff writing job on the show?"
Harry was having a moment and it was good.
Monkey Business
It took Nigel a month before forgiving Harry for writing a Prupas script. The thought of one of his clients working for the Cohen brothers with an 'h', was horrifying. Nigel's boutique agency had a reputation of quality to maintain.
"I got you a pitch meeting with Lee Menardi, the show-runner on the new Gypsy remake," Nigel said.
"I used to watch Gypsy reruns every day after school. I loved that dog."
"Caveat emptor, my friend. This is the cable remake of the series."
"Oh man, Gypsy...That dog could do anything."
A few days later at the meeting with Lee Menardi, the disillusioned TV writing veteran ever one series away from realizing his dream of retiring in Alaska:
"One thing, Harry. This new Gypsy is a pig. Too fat to even jump, I'm not kidding. So no car scenes, okay?"
"But what about all the great rescue scenes Gypsy was famous for?"
"That was the original Gypsy. This one's about as heroic as a meatball. Of course it doesn't help that Gypsy's dog trainer is a mean alcoholic with a gambling problem. The fucker only has the job because he's the son of the trainer and owner of the original Gypsy. All this new Gypsy tub-of-shit can do is roll over and scarf down a treat. Meanwhile, Chow Down, the show's sponsor, wants it that way. This show is really about selling dog food."
"Dog food?"
"Yeah, so there's gotta be at least three scenes with Miss Piggy gobbling down a fucking dog treat."
"Better than having three scenes of the pooch taking a shit."
"That's probably where we'll end up next season if this show ever gets renewed. The whole thing is fucking depressing. I'm forty-seven and working with a fat-assed dog that can't even jump into the back seat of a car."
"Fucking Gypsy, man. She was once America's canine sweetheart."
"Now reduced to a dog food whore. How do you develop a show around kibble? I'm coming up blank with story lines, Harry. What you got, boy? Think, think."
Harry loved this Menardi guy. He thought about a story idea for a few seconds and then it just came.
"How about a story about this hot young actor who comes to town to shoot a movie? It's like the biggest thing to ever happen in Hickville...But he's an eccentric actor who won't go anywhere without his pet chimpanzee...which also happens to be a kleptomaniac...So something gets stolen in every location where they shoot a scene...Better yet, the chimp frames the actor...Johnny Hipp...who then becomes the main suspect..."
"Great idea, Harry! They want shows with pet guest stars...This monkey thing should work.."
"Chimp, Lee, chimp. Everyone loves a mischevious chimp."
"Not the cheap-ass producers of this show. On this budget we'll be lucky to get a rescue monkey." Lee sighed. "I should've been a radiologist. I mean what are they but glorified photographers and yet they're the highest paid specialists. Like what's the big shit about being a radiologist? 'You've got a tumor up your ass, go see the proctologist.'"
"D'you ever wonder what makes someone become a proctologist?"
"Their fascination with assholes...just like the American public," Lee wondered aloud while scratching his ass. "Bring me an outline for tomorrow and you have a writing job."
"I got you a pitch meeting with Lee Menardi, the show-runner on the new Gypsy remake," Nigel said.
"I used to watch Gypsy reruns every day after school. I loved that dog."
"Caveat emptor, my friend. This is the cable remake of the series."
"Oh man, Gypsy...That dog could do anything."
A few days later at the meeting with Lee Menardi, the disillusioned TV writing veteran ever one series away from realizing his dream of retiring in Alaska:
"One thing, Harry. This new Gypsy is a pig. Too fat to even jump, I'm not kidding. So no car scenes, okay?"
"But what about all the great rescue scenes Gypsy was famous for?"
"That was the original Gypsy. This one's about as heroic as a meatball. Of course it doesn't help that Gypsy's dog trainer is a mean alcoholic with a gambling problem. The fucker only has the job because he's the son of the trainer and owner of the original Gypsy. All this new Gypsy tub-of-shit can do is roll over and scarf down a treat. Meanwhile, Chow Down, the show's sponsor, wants it that way. This show is really about selling dog food."
"Dog food?"
"Yeah, so there's gotta be at least three scenes with Miss Piggy gobbling down a fucking dog treat."
"Better than having three scenes of the pooch taking a shit."
"That's probably where we'll end up next season if this show ever gets renewed. The whole thing is fucking depressing. I'm forty-seven and working with a fat-assed dog that can't even jump into the back seat of a car."
"Fucking Gypsy, man. She was once America's canine sweetheart."
"Now reduced to a dog food whore. How do you develop a show around kibble? I'm coming up blank with story lines, Harry. What you got, boy? Think, think."
Harry loved this Menardi guy. He thought about a story idea for a few seconds and then it just came.
"How about a story about this hot young actor who comes to town to shoot a movie? It's like the biggest thing to ever happen in Hickville...But he's an eccentric actor who won't go anywhere without his pet chimpanzee...which also happens to be a kleptomaniac...So something gets stolen in every location where they shoot a scene...Better yet, the chimp frames the actor...Johnny Hipp...who then becomes the main suspect..."
"Great idea, Harry! They want shows with pet guest stars...This monkey thing should work.."
"Chimp, Lee, chimp. Everyone loves a mischevious chimp."
"Not the cheap-ass producers of this show. On this budget we'll be lucky to get a rescue monkey." Lee sighed. "I should've been a radiologist. I mean what are they but glorified photographers and yet they're the highest paid specialists. Like what's the big shit about being a radiologist? 'You've got a tumor up your ass, go see the proctologist.'"
"D'you ever wonder what makes someone become a proctologist?"
"Their fascination with assholes...just like the American public," Lee wondered aloud while scratching his ass. "Bring me an outline for tomorrow and you have a writing job."
Friday, May 13, 2011
On Good Days, On Bad Days
Harry on good days:
I'm smart, I'm good-looking, everybody likes me.
Harry on bad days:
I have no common sense, everybody is a jerk, at least I'm good looking.
Life on the cusp of everything. A step away from success, a step away from failure, but always a step away.
On good days:
An agent, I have a real agent.
On bad days:
He doesn't return my calls. He doesn't get me meetings anymore.
On good days:
Connections, I have built a network from scratch. Nigel, Mike, Gomez, the Cohen brothers.
On bad days:
That's the Cohen brothers with an 'h'. Don't much of a network. Pestering Mike to pitch to his show, to no avail. He humors me, he likes me, but he isn't opening the fucken door. Nigel has lost interest in me since Prupas, not the right stuff for his agency. And Gomez's pilot deal fell apart.
On good days:
I'm scoring with girls.
On bad days:
Well, really just Wendy, which doesn't really count and I haven't met anyone else. I'm lonely, I'm scared.
On good days:
I already have a writing credit on an established animated show. I can call myself a professional screenwriter. I have a Writer's Guild card.
On bad days:
Seven minute cartoon episodes are bogus and I haven't even been able to get more work on that show. It was a shared writing credit with a hummus grease-ball. And most Writer's Guild members can't make a living.
On good days:
We love you, Harry.
On bad days:
The mocking answering machine: "You have no new messages."
I can't sleep. I'm lonely. Feel so lo-lo-lo, feel so lo-lo-lo. Lonely, lonely. So looonely, so looonely.
Who am I, what am I doing?
I don't have a clue.
It's 4 AM in the morning and Harry can't fall back asleep.
Some fun this adult world.
Harry never wants to grow up.
I'm smart, I'm good-looking, everybody likes me.
Harry on bad days:
I have no common sense, everybody is a jerk, at least I'm good looking.
Life on the cusp of everything. A step away from success, a step away from failure, but always a step away.
On good days:
An agent, I have a real agent.
On bad days:
He doesn't return my calls. He doesn't get me meetings anymore.
On good days:
Connections, I have built a network from scratch. Nigel, Mike, Gomez, the Cohen brothers.
On bad days:
That's the Cohen brothers with an 'h'. Don't much of a network. Pestering Mike to pitch to his show, to no avail. He humors me, he likes me, but he isn't opening the fucken door. Nigel has lost interest in me since Prupas, not the right stuff for his agency. And Gomez's pilot deal fell apart.
On good days:
I'm scoring with girls.
On bad days:
Well, really just Wendy, which doesn't really count and I haven't met anyone else. I'm lonely, I'm scared.
On good days:
I already have a writing credit on an established animated show. I can call myself a professional screenwriter. I have a Writer's Guild card.
On bad days:
Seven minute cartoon episodes are bogus and I haven't even been able to get more work on that show. It was a shared writing credit with a hummus grease-ball. And most Writer's Guild members can't make a living.
On good days:
We love you, Harry.
On bad days:
The mocking answering machine: "You have no new messages."
I can't sleep. I'm lonely. Feel so lo-lo-lo, feel so lo-lo-lo. Lonely, lonely. So looonely, so looonely.
Who am I, what am I doing?
I don't have a clue.
It's 4 AM in the morning and Harry can't fall back asleep.
Some fun this adult world.
Harry never wants to grow up.
On good days:
This is fun, I'll never regret a thing.
This is fun, I'll never regret a thing.
On bad days:
I regret everything.
It's 4 AM in the morning and Harry wants to get back to sleep.
Thursday, May 12, 2011
Good Vibrations
"Three weeks to write a seven minute piece of crap?"
"Why? That's too long, Nigel?" Harry said while straining to focus on both his agent and on the hot piece of work crossing and uncrossing her legs sitting at the table across from them. He felt creepy about the prolonged indiscreet wanton glance, but listening to Nigel rag on him all night was a drag.
"So what, it beats sitting in Starbuck's all day calling in for my messages. 'You have no new messages.' I know that's just a standard recording, but I swear you that it's become a Hal and now mocks me. Anyhow. no one calls me back, including you, Nigel."
"I call you when I have something to say. Meanwhile I'm here taking you out to dinner, spending some quality time with you. What else do you want from my life?"
"How about a little encouragement, after all, I am writing for the Cohen brothers--" Harry said while fantasizing about crawling under the table of the hot legs babe and licking her from head to toe.
"AKA the hummus brothers. Not thrilled about the shared writing credit with Mr. Doudou or the split paycheck. That's twelve hundred and fifty bucks with no benefits since it's a non-union gig, less my commission of course."
"Fuck the money, Nigel. I'm getting experience...I thought you were waving your commission?"
"And pay for this dinner out of my own pocket?"
Harry put his hand in his pocket to adjust the positioning of the bird dog in his pants, now pointing towards the leggy girl who was driving him crazy.
"Man, you're cheap, Nigel. Next time just take me out for the early bird special."
Nigel tugged at his shirt collar as if he was wearing a make-believe tie. "That's the thing, Harry. If you continue working for the Cohen brothers, there may not be a next time. Our agency doesn't do--"
No next time? The asshole! Harry went ballistic and pounced from his chair until he realized that he was standing there, with the pup tent in his pants pointing directly at Nigel, pecker to eye-level.
"Good God!" Nigel gasped, attracting the attention of the legs babe sitting across from them. She involuntarily spit out her mouthful of wine while Harry collapsed back into his seat in raging shame. He shrugged his shoulders in embarrassment.
"It happens," he mumbled. "It's that chick with the hot legs sitting across from me," Harry pathetically tried to explain. "She's been vibing me all night."
"Seems like all the vibrations have migrated to inside your pants...I think I'll grab check now. This is sooo embarrassing."
"Can we at least finish the Cohen brothers discussion, Nigel?"
"The Cohen brothers, " Nigel spat in disgust. "Sorry, Harry, but no interest in discussing this topic. I've got to get home and take a bath. As for you, frisky lad, a cold shower will work wonders."
Harry's eyes wandered off again and for a brief shining moment, locked glances with Miss Legs, who was busy fantasizing about Harry, crouched under her table, licking her from head to toe.
"Why? That's too long, Nigel?" Harry said while straining to focus on both his agent and on the hot piece of work crossing and uncrossing her legs sitting at the table across from them. He felt creepy about the prolonged indiscreet wanton glance, but listening to Nigel rag on him all night was a drag.
"So what, it beats sitting in Starbuck's all day calling in for my messages. 'You have no new messages.' I know that's just a standard recording, but I swear you that it's become a Hal and now mocks me. Anyhow. no one calls me back, including you, Nigel."
"I call you when I have something to say. Meanwhile I'm here taking you out to dinner, spending some quality time with you. What else do you want from my life?"
"How about a little encouragement, after all, I am writing for the Cohen brothers--" Harry said while fantasizing about crawling under the table of the hot legs babe and licking her from head to toe.
"AKA the hummus brothers. Not thrilled about the shared writing credit with Mr. Doudou or the split paycheck. That's twelve hundred and fifty bucks with no benefits since it's a non-union gig, less my commission of course."
"Fuck the money, Nigel. I'm getting experience...I thought you were waving your commission?"
"And pay for this dinner out of my own pocket?"
Harry put his hand in his pocket to adjust the positioning of the bird dog in his pants, now pointing towards the leggy girl who was driving him crazy.
"Man, you're cheap, Nigel. Next time just take me out for the early bird special."
Nigel tugged at his shirt collar as if he was wearing a make-believe tie. "That's the thing, Harry. If you continue working for the Cohen brothers, there may not be a next time. Our agency doesn't do--"
No next time? The asshole! Harry went ballistic and pounced from his chair until he realized that he was standing there, with the pup tent in his pants pointing directly at Nigel, pecker to eye-level.
"Good God!" Nigel gasped, attracting the attention of the legs babe sitting across from them. She involuntarily spit out her mouthful of wine while Harry collapsed back into his seat in raging shame. He shrugged his shoulders in embarrassment.
"It happens," he mumbled. "It's that chick with the hot legs sitting across from me," Harry pathetically tried to explain. "She's been vibing me all night."
"Seems like all the vibrations have migrated to inside your pants...I think I'll grab check now. This is sooo embarrassing."
"Can we at least finish the Cohen brothers discussion, Nigel?"
"The Cohen brothers, " Nigel spat in disgust. "Sorry, Harry, but no interest in discussing this topic. I've got to get home and take a bath. As for you, frisky lad, a cold shower will work wonders."
Harry's eyes wandered off again and for a brief shining moment, locked glances with Miss Legs, who was busy fantasizing about Harry, crouched under her table, licking her from head to toe.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Prupas and the Tree
Harry in Doudou's office:
"So we don't exactly have a writing staff," Doudou said in his thick Israeli accent while fidgeting with a rubber band. "We use a few writers, try out otherss. You know Prupas the Dufus, nu?"
Harry nodded, he knew of the puerile show, but had never watched an episode.
"It's a high-concept show," Doudou continued. He accidentally snapped the rubber band, stinging him on his fist. "Ku-semmoh!" which seemed to be some kind of basterdized foreign cuss word.
A high-concept show indeed. About a seven year old kid who has a small apple tree sprouting out of his head. Shookie bought the idea and prototype drawing for two hundred and fifty bucks off a hard-up graphic designer back in the days when he was selling T-shirts on the Wildwood, New Jersey boardwalk. He hot-stamped that image on a lot of irregular sized T-shirts which immediately flew off the shelves. By the end of that summer half of the stock in his store were T-shirts with variations of the original design. By fall, Shookie took the concept wholesale and started selling it to all the retailers. By Christmas, it was the hottest T-shirt on the market. By spring, Shookie Cohen made his first million. He eventually trademarked and developed the image into a character and named him, Prupas the Dufus, the seven year old boy with a tree growing out of his head who unwitting causes mayhem wherever he goes.
Doudou picked up a paper clip and proceeded to unbend it. "We've done three seasons of this, that's 198 seven minute episodes, it's getting boring. How many stories can you make about a stupid kid with a tree growing out of head? So now we go back to the beginning. How did Prupas get the tree growing out of his head?"
" ." Was he expecting Harry to answer on the spot?
"Nu?"
"Am I supposed to pitch you an idea right now? Without a contract or assignment?"
"Mr. Details. You want a contract?" Doudou reached into his draw, pulled out a contract, filled out a few lines and signed it. "Sign this document, now pitch."
"How did Prupas get the apple tree growing out of his head? How did that happen?" Harry asked.
"You tell me Mr. Contract, you're the writer."
And like manna from heaven an idea descended from the heavens onto Harry's quivering lips.
"Here's how it happened: It's a beautiful crisp autumn day--"
"How can a day be crisp? A cracker is crisp, a day is sunny."
"Okay, it's a sunny autumn day--"
"Not cloudy?"
"A few clouds. Makes a better background--"
"This is what I mean..."
"The Prupas family--"
"Prupas is the kid's first name. Shookie named him after his dentist...the goniff who charged him $600 for a root canal. Look who's laughing now!"
"Okay, so what's the name of Prupas family?"
"This is a cartoon, who says they need a family name. No family name."
Harry took a deep breath and exhaled. His heart was pumping so fast that he felt his ear drums vibrating.
"Prupas and his family go apple-picking on an autumn day that is sunny with a few clouds--"
"Now this sounds like a good story..."
"The whole family, Prupas, his parents and siblings--"
"You mean brother and sister?"
"Yes-- brother and sister too. The whole family is picking apples from a tree. Except Prupas, who's crunching on a juicy apple while the others pick away..."
"You don't crunch on an apple, you eat one..."
"Okay, Prupas is eating an apple while watching the rest of his family pick away. Prupas notices a very clever looking woodpecker watching the family, hoping to get a piece of apple--"
"Then why doesn't he just fly to the tree and grab one?"
"...Ahhh...because this is a special golden apple, the only one--"
"...that Prupas is eating!"
"You got it, Doudou! So Prupas bites out a chunk out of that golden apple and offers it to the woodpecker who flies over and eats a piece out of Prupas's hand. This makes Prupas feel really cool, so now he bites out another chunk of apple and--"
"...puts it on his head!"
"Exactly Doudou, you are reading my mind--"
"No, I have good ideas. I am a creative man. All of Tel Aviv still talks about my chopped liver statues!"
"Uhh..yeah, I'm sure...So Prupas wants the woodpecker to eat it off his head. Why?"
"Because this Prupas is a dufus!"
Like you, Doudou, like you.
"Exactly! The audience notices that there are a few seeds in the apple chunk that Prupas has placed on top of his head. The woodpecker, now perched on Prupas's head, takes the apple chunk and starts eating it but has a coughing fit when he tries to swallow the seeds. When the woodpecker coughs up the seeds he uncontrollably pecks a little hole in Prupas's head. The kid starts crying, points to his head, then his mother puts a band-aid over the wound and from there the seed grows into a tree in cartoon time of course."
"I love it, stupid enough to work! Write me an outline of it for tomorrow and I'll give you a contract to write the episode."
"I thought I just signed one?"
"You should read what you sign. That was a waver to protect me from you stealing my ideas. I get a 'story by' credit on this."
"So we don't exactly have a writing staff," Doudou said in his thick Israeli accent while fidgeting with a rubber band. "We use a few writers, try out otherss. You know Prupas the Dufus, nu?"
Harry nodded, he knew of the puerile show, but had never watched an episode.
"It's a high-concept show," Doudou continued. He accidentally snapped the rubber band, stinging him on his fist. "Ku-semmoh!" which seemed to be some kind of basterdized foreign cuss word.
A high-concept show indeed. About a seven year old kid who has a small apple tree sprouting out of his head. Shookie bought the idea and prototype drawing for two hundred and fifty bucks off a hard-up graphic designer back in the days when he was selling T-shirts on the Wildwood, New Jersey boardwalk. He hot-stamped that image on a lot of irregular sized T-shirts which immediately flew off the shelves. By the end of that summer half of the stock in his store were T-shirts with variations of the original design. By fall, Shookie took the concept wholesale and started selling it to all the retailers. By Christmas, it was the hottest T-shirt on the market. By spring, Shookie Cohen made his first million. He eventually trademarked and developed the image into a character and named him, Prupas the Dufus, the seven year old boy with a tree growing out of his head who unwitting causes mayhem wherever he goes.
Doudou picked up a paper clip and proceeded to unbend it. "We've done three seasons of this, that's 198 seven minute episodes, it's getting boring. How many stories can you make about a stupid kid with a tree growing out of head? So now we go back to the beginning. How did Prupas get the tree growing out of his head?"
" ." Was he expecting Harry to answer on the spot?
"Nu?"
"Am I supposed to pitch you an idea right now? Without a contract or assignment?"
"Mr. Details. You want a contract?" Doudou reached into his draw, pulled out a contract, filled out a few lines and signed it. "Sign this document, now pitch."
"How did Prupas get the apple tree growing out of his head? How did that happen?" Harry asked.
"You tell me Mr. Contract, you're the writer."
And like manna from heaven an idea descended from the heavens onto Harry's quivering lips.
"Here's how it happened: It's a beautiful crisp autumn day--"
"How can a day be crisp? A cracker is crisp, a day is sunny."
"Okay, it's a sunny autumn day--"
"Not cloudy?"
"A few clouds. Makes a better background--"
"This is what I mean..."
"The Prupas family--"
"Prupas is the kid's first name. Shookie named him after his dentist...the goniff who charged him $600 for a root canal. Look who's laughing now!"
"Okay, so what's the name of Prupas family?"
"This is a cartoon, who says they need a family name. No family name."
Harry took a deep breath and exhaled. His heart was pumping so fast that he felt his ear drums vibrating.
"Prupas and his family go apple-picking on an autumn day that is sunny with a few clouds--"
"Now this sounds like a good story..."
"The whole family, Prupas, his parents and siblings--"
"You mean brother and sister?"
"Yes-- brother and sister too. The whole family is picking apples from a tree. Except Prupas, who's crunching on a juicy apple while the others pick away..."
"You don't crunch on an apple, you eat one..."
"Okay, Prupas is eating an apple while watching the rest of his family pick away. Prupas notices a very clever looking woodpecker watching the family, hoping to get a piece of apple--"
"Then why doesn't he just fly to the tree and grab one?"
"...Ahhh...because this is a special golden apple, the only one--"
"...that Prupas is eating!"
"You got it, Doudou! So Prupas bites out a chunk out of that golden apple and offers it to the woodpecker who flies over and eats a piece out of Prupas's hand. This makes Prupas feel really cool, so now he bites out another chunk of apple and--"
"...puts it on his head!"
"Exactly Doudou, you are reading my mind--"
"No, I have good ideas. I am a creative man. All of Tel Aviv still talks about my chopped liver statues!"
"Uhh..yeah, I'm sure...So Prupas wants the woodpecker to eat it off his head. Why?"
"Because this Prupas is a dufus!"
Like you, Doudou, like you.
"Exactly! The audience notices that there are a few seeds in the apple chunk that Prupas has placed on top of his head. The woodpecker, now perched on Prupas's head, takes the apple chunk and starts eating it but has a coughing fit when he tries to swallow the seeds. When the woodpecker coughs up the seeds he uncontrollably pecks a little hole in Prupas's head. The kid starts crying, points to his head, then his mother puts a band-aid over the wound and from there the seed grows into a tree in cartoon time of course."
"I love it, stupid enough to work! Write me an outline of it for tomorrow and I'll give you a contract to write the episode."
"I thought I just signed one?"
"You should read what you sign. That was a waver to protect me from you stealing my ideas. I get a 'story by' credit on this."
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Going for Shookie
"Shookie? Shookie Cohen?" Nigel said while smacking his forehead in exasperation. "Are you thinking of opening a falafel stand? You must be kidding!"
"What's the problem, Nigel? I have to start somewhere."
"True, but not with Shookie Cohen, Prupas the Dufus producer."
"What's wrong with that? It's a super successful show--"
"Among the four year old nose-picker crowd..."
"So it's a kid's show. It pays, it would give me some experience."
"Sure, if you call two grand for a seven minute episode, money. And as for experience, you'll get pegged as a kid's cartoon writer which will take you on the great road to nowhere. Shookie Cohen?" Nigel covered his eyes with the palm of his hand.
Harry opened the palm of his hand and studied the henna stain.
"Next time use toilet paper when you wipe your ass," Nigel suggested.
"I told you I met him at a henna party."
"I don't care if you met Shookie Cohen in a vat of hummus. Working for that schlockmeister is a gauranteed career-killer."
In his office on the twenty-sixth floor with a panoramic view overlooking the military cemetery, sat Shookie Cohen behind his oak boat of a desk, phone suctioned to the left ear in Hand One, fried piece of pita dipped in hummus in Hand Two.
"Nu?" he grunted.
" ?" Harry blanked.
Really, what could Harry say to Shookie? That this was a divine moment? The Shookie, the hummus, the phone, the nu. A creation as perfect as a hummingbird. The vulgarian revealed atop Mount Prupas the Dufus.
"What? You gonna sit here all day looking into my eyes?" Shifting conversations and languages from English to Hebrew, Shookie whined into the phone. "B'seder, b'seder," okay, okay.
"But you asked me to come here about a writing job..."
Shookie laughed into the phone while Harry blushed. "Don't worry, I not laughing at you, it's dis story about my cousin Hummi who met dis sexy sexy baby on the Tel Aviv and tried to marry her a week later, only to find out she was dis aunt of his from Morocco dhat he never met. Funny, nu?" He dipped another piece of fried pita into the tub of hummus.
Harry cracked up so hard, he nearly keeled out his chair. This Shookie was hysterical. There was no way about it, he had to work for this guy. Whatever would happen, it would be worth all the stories.
"You go to de story editor, my brudder, Doudou, and you tell him I hired you."
Without anyone having ever read a word Harry wrote.
"O-okay," he replied, fully aware that this was a bad idea, that history was repeating itself, that he would soon be plotting Shookie's murder, that he, Harry Starr, was a schmuck. But fuck, would it be worth the story.
"What's the problem, Nigel? I have to start somewhere."
"True, but not with Shookie Cohen, Prupas the Dufus producer."
"What's wrong with that? It's a super successful show--"
"Among the four year old nose-picker crowd..."
"So it's a kid's show. It pays, it would give me some experience."
"Sure, if you call two grand for a seven minute episode, money. And as for experience, you'll get pegged as a kid's cartoon writer which will take you on the great road to nowhere. Shookie Cohen?" Nigel covered his eyes with the palm of his hand.
Harry opened the palm of his hand and studied the henna stain.
"Next time use toilet paper when you wipe your ass," Nigel suggested.
"I told you I met him at a henna party."
"I don't care if you met Shookie Cohen in a vat of hummus. Working for that schlockmeister is a gauranteed career-killer."
In his office on the twenty-sixth floor with a panoramic view overlooking the military cemetery, sat Shookie Cohen behind his oak boat of a desk, phone suctioned to the left ear in Hand One, fried piece of pita dipped in hummus in Hand Two.
"Nu?" he grunted.
" ?" Harry blanked.
Really, what could Harry say to Shookie? That this was a divine moment? The Shookie, the hummus, the phone, the nu. A creation as perfect as a hummingbird. The vulgarian revealed atop Mount Prupas the Dufus.
"What? You gonna sit here all day looking into my eyes?" Shifting conversations and languages from English to Hebrew, Shookie whined into the phone. "B'seder, b'seder," okay, okay.
"But you asked me to come here about a writing job..."
Shookie laughed into the phone while Harry blushed. "Don't worry, I not laughing at you, it's dis story about my cousin Hummi who met dis sexy sexy baby on the Tel Aviv and tried to marry her a week later, only to find out she was dis aunt of his from Morocco dhat he never met. Funny, nu?" He dipped another piece of fried pita into the tub of hummus.
Harry cracked up so hard, he nearly keeled out his chair. This Shookie was hysterical. There was no way about it, he had to work for this guy. Whatever would happen, it would be worth all the stories.
"You go to de story editor, my brudder, Doudou, and you tell him I hired you."
Without anyone having ever read a word Harry wrote.
"O-okay," he replied, fully aware that this was a bad idea, that history was repeating itself, that he would soon be plotting Shookie's murder, that he, Harry Starr, was a schmuck. But fuck, would it be worth the story.
Sunday, May 8, 2011
The Henna with Gomez VII
While the men were silently praying the Amidah, the meditative part of the service where talking is prohibited, Harry slipped out undetected among a passing group of businessmen. Free at last, free at last, O Lord I am free at last, Harry thought.
Until a henna gaggle of thick-ankled, cleavage-popping aunties and slutted-up sisters emerged from a side door escorting the tiara-wearing Cleopatra bride-to-be. She was ensconced on her royal litter, the curtained couch that was being carried about on the shoulders of her retainers, her burly thick-browed uncles and disco-duded brothers. The aunties were hollering yu-yus, the party battle cries, while the royal princess's painted mother and waddling grandmother carried tubs of mucky, magical, mystical henna. Mud. Fucking mud. Rub it between your palms and good fortune is yours.
Harry froze while he took in the scene. This was the same indifferent little Cleopatra Gomez tutored throughout her high school years to no avail. The little princess had zero interest wasting time on an education when she knew that her hot looks and family connections could deliver the good life on a silver platter. Find the right rich guy like Guy, her husband-to-be and coast for life. Education? Fucking waste of time.
Gomez popped out from among the throng and pulled Harry to the side. "They're doing the henna. We can't miss this," he said while motioning at Harry to follow him."It's for good luck."
Harry followed. Why not? Who knew how things worked in the unseen world of Fortune? Rub some henna between your hand, kiss a mezuzah-- smear shit on your face, who the fuck knows? Try it all, believe in nothing. What did it matter?
Until a henna gaggle of thick-ankled, cleavage-popping aunties and slutted-up sisters emerged from a side door escorting the tiara-wearing Cleopatra bride-to-be. She was ensconced on her royal litter, the curtained couch that was being carried about on the shoulders of her retainers, her burly thick-browed uncles and disco-duded brothers. The aunties were hollering yu-yus, the party battle cries, while the royal princess's painted mother and waddling grandmother carried tubs of mucky, magical, mystical henna. Mud. Fucking mud. Rub it between your palms and good fortune is yours.
Harry froze while he took in the scene. This was the same indifferent little Cleopatra Gomez tutored throughout her high school years to no avail. The little princess had zero interest wasting time on an education when she knew that her hot looks and family connections could deliver the good life on a silver platter. Find the right rich guy like Guy, her husband-to-be and coast for life. Education? Fucking waste of time.
Gomez popped out from among the throng and pulled Harry to the side. "They're doing the henna. We can't miss this," he said while motioning at Harry to follow him."It's for good luck."
Harry followed. Why not? Who knew how things worked in the unseen world of Fortune? Rub some henna between your hand, kiss a mezuzah-- smear shit on your face, who the fuck knows? Try it all, believe in nothing. What did it matter?
Saturday, May 7, 2011
The Henna with Gomez - VI
After a brief but animated discussion it was decided that the direction of Jerusalem faced the men's room across the corridor, so they pray in that direction. Nanou, a trollish twentysomething telemarketer, seized control of the prayer service. Not that he wanted to show off his sweet voice or prayer fluency, Nanou was desperately seeking atonement. Too much shit had happened over the past week to risk getting hit by a bolt of lightening with Yom Kippur months away.
It happened during the groom's stag party in Vegas a week ago where in hind site, Nanou realized that it wasn't the best idea to share that Russian hooker with his best friend, Jackie, another legendary cocksman. And it was even a worse idea to play the gentleman and let Jackie have the crack with the Muscovite treat.
Nanou had no idea that a man could hold out so long while the sweet Slavic treat slurped away. After a seemingly eternal two hundred and forty-three seconds -- (Nanou was timing it) -- the kid gloves came off. Nanou got up and yanked out Jackie's throbbing member from Tsarina Slurpski's hard working lips.
"Enough already, Jackie! You're exaggerating!" Nanou cried while stuffing the fair maiden's gaping mouth with his mighty warrior. "I'm paying for this too!"
"You fucking grabbed my dick, Nanou. You - grabbed - my - dick," Jackie fumed while rushing off to the bathroom to wash off Nanou's paw prints from his pecker. He took a whiff and felt like vomiting...Pineapple chicken. That Nanou, that rascal -- he didn't wash his hands after the all-you-can-eat Chinese food buffet.
"Get over it already, " Nanou said while writhing in ecstasy. "Can't you see I'm having fun?...Ahhhh...Oh yes, oh baby, oh baby, oh baby..."
But that was then and this was now. Nanou began the evening prayer service.
"Barchu et Adonai HaMivorach," Blessed be the Lord the praised One, Nanou chanted as he exchanged winks with his forgiving cousin, Jackie. That's what friends are for.
It happened during the groom's stag party in Vegas a week ago where in hind site, Nanou realized that it wasn't the best idea to share that Russian hooker with his best friend, Jackie, another legendary cocksman. And it was even a worse idea to play the gentleman and let Jackie have the crack with the Muscovite treat.
Nanou had no idea that a man could hold out so long while the sweet Slavic treat slurped away. After a seemingly eternal two hundred and forty-three seconds -- (Nanou was timing it) -- the kid gloves came off. Nanou got up and yanked out Jackie's throbbing member from Tsarina Slurpski's hard working lips.
"Enough already, Jackie! You're exaggerating!" Nanou cried while stuffing the fair maiden's gaping mouth with his mighty warrior. "I'm paying for this too!"
"You fucking grabbed my dick, Nanou. You - grabbed - my - dick," Jackie fumed while rushing off to the bathroom to wash off Nanou's paw prints from his pecker. He took a whiff and felt like vomiting...Pineapple chicken. That Nanou, that rascal -- he didn't wash his hands after the all-you-can-eat Chinese food buffet.
"Get over it already, " Nanou said while writhing in ecstasy. "Can't you see I'm having fun?...Ahhhh...Oh yes, oh baby, oh baby, oh baby..."
But that was then and this was now. Nanou began the evening prayer service.
"Barchu et Adonai HaMivorach," Blessed be the Lord the praised One, Nanou chanted as he exchanged winks with his forgiving cousin, Jackie. That's what friends are for.
The Henna with Gomez V
A man wearing an embroidered kippah with his name (Ari) sewed in, clutched Harry and Gomez by the shoulder and said, "Please join us for a minyan." It was time for Maariv, the evening prayers where a minyan, ten men are needed to get it started. It was about the last thing that Harry and Gomez felt like doing. Unless it was another sign from the Big Guy. "I gave you the Big Break on a silver platter, now go thank me."
"No thanks," Gomez said. "I have to make a call," and then he slipped away into a circle of tubby aunties in a heated debate about soup. Too late for Harry though, he was caught like a deer in the headlights. Holy-rollers wearing kippahs could do that to him, especially this Ari guy who definitely had some kind of look going on, a look no man or woman could resist.
The Look: A cheesy Al Pacino resemblance. Tussled hair, pouchy soulful eyes, weary expression. The first time Harry witnessed cool and religious melded under one kippah. Interesting, Harry always thought that religion and cool were like oil and water.
The Urgency: If this prayer session was as important as Ari made it out to be, then so it must be. Harry was getting off on Ari's sense of urgency which was earnest. After all, he was looking to get off the hook for his latest transgression; bringing his mistress along on his honeymoon. Which made turning all those odometers back on his used car lot seem like child's play.
Ari led Harry and the rag tag minyan of old world bible-thumpers and new world shikse humpers into a corner of the sumptuous hotel corridor. Ari pulled out a pocket-sized prayer book from inside his caftan - (Was he, like Shooky, an underwear-stuffer?) - and stopped in a discrete corner of the hall corridor.
"Here. We pray here," Ari said while pointing straight ahead."Jerusalem is in that direction."
"No no, no," interrupted a crusty old bible-thumper wearing a fedora jauntily tipped to the side. "Jerusalem is that away," he insisted while pointing to the opposite direction where a debauched Hollywood movie producers was leading an underage hooker on their way to a room. Mr. Hollywood Debauched freaked out when the Crusty Bible-Thumper pointed in his direction. The slimester panicked and fled. This bolting caught the attention of Crusty Bible-Thumper who gave the underage hooker a once-over.
"Nice tits," he whispered to Ari.
"No thanks," Gomez said. "I have to make a call," and then he slipped away into a circle of tubby aunties in a heated debate about soup. Too late for Harry though, he was caught like a deer in the headlights. Holy-rollers wearing kippahs could do that to him, especially this Ari guy who definitely had some kind of look going on, a look no man or woman could resist.
The Look: A cheesy Al Pacino resemblance. Tussled hair, pouchy soulful eyes, weary expression. The first time Harry witnessed cool and religious melded under one kippah. Interesting, Harry always thought that religion and cool were like oil and water.
The Urgency: If this prayer session was as important as Ari made it out to be, then so it must be. Harry was getting off on Ari's sense of urgency which was earnest. After all, he was looking to get off the hook for his latest transgression; bringing his mistress along on his honeymoon. Which made turning all those odometers back on his used car lot seem like child's play.
Ari led Harry and the rag tag minyan of old world bible-thumpers and new world shikse humpers into a corner of the sumptuous hotel corridor. Ari pulled out a pocket-sized prayer book from inside his caftan - (Was he, like Shooky, an underwear-stuffer?) - and stopped in a discrete corner of the hall corridor.
"Here. We pray here," Ari said while pointing straight ahead."Jerusalem is in that direction."
"No no, no," interrupted a crusty old bible-thumper wearing a fedora jauntily tipped to the side. "Jerusalem is that away," he insisted while pointing to the opposite direction where a debauched Hollywood movie producers was leading an underage hooker on their way to a room. Mr. Hollywood Debauched freaked out when the Crusty Bible-Thumper pointed in his direction. The slimester panicked and fled. This bolting caught the attention of Crusty Bible-Thumper who gave the underage hooker a once-over.
"Nice tits," he whispered to Ari.
Friday, May 6, 2011
The Henna with Gomez IV
And then Harry had a moment while he watched Shookie scurry off to the men's room. He just had a near parallel event to when Alvy hired him at the bar mitzvah luncheon. A successful vulgarian makes him an out-of-the-blue proposition at an affair over hors d'oevres at a time when he was needed to get into a new situation. He wished that he had a witness there, someone who had been with him during both those moments, someone to tell him that it couldn't just be coincidence, that other forces were st work, some other-wordly entity like Fred Flintstone's buddy the Great Gazoo, someone to explain that moment of epiphany.
It's not like Harry had much, if any faith in God or that he was put on earth for a reason. He would've like to be one of those believers, but it all seemed so infantile to him. How could a world so full of misery and peril be the work of some grand master? Why bother creating so much crap, so much chaos?
But if there were other forces at work, then it was all kind of hysterical. Theatre of the absurd. What if that's that's how God was manifesting himself to Harry? Moses had his burning bush, Harry had his hors d'oevres.
It's not like Harry had much, if any faith in God or that he was put on earth for a reason. He would've like to be one of those believers, but it all seemed so infantile to him. How could a world so full of misery and peril be the work of some grand master? Why bother creating so much crap, so much chaos?
But if there were other forces at work, then it was all kind of hysterical. Theatre of the absurd. What if that's that's how God was manifesting himself to Harry? Moses had his burning bush, Harry had his hors d'oevres.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
The Henna with Gomez III
Gomez took a shot of scotch and squeezed Harry's bicep in apparent disbelief.
"I lied. I totally lied...Well, I wasn't sure."
"Don't tell me Wendy's here," Harry said in a panic.
"No, no, no. I mean the part about there being no TV people here. You see that guy over in the navy caftan wearing that embroidered kippah?"
Harry followed the line of vision of Gomez's pointing pinky, something that annoyed him. Why couldn't Gomez at least point with his index Ginger? Pinky-pointing was so gay. He hoped no one was watching, thinking that they were a couple.
"Yeah, You mean the little dumpling Wolfman Jack guy with the thumb in his nose?"
"Right. He is kind of gross looking, but that's Shookie Cohen, one of the biggest animation producers in town. Y'know Prupas the Dufus?"
"The retard show about the kid with the little apple tree growing out of his head?"
"It's hysterical and Shookie's the producer. Let's go talk to him. Maybe you can get some work?"
"Writing that crap?"
"That crap pays." Gomez led Harry towards Shookie who was fressing at a plate of sticky spare ribs. Harry wondered why he was letting Gomez lead him along by pulling his hand. People might think they were a couple.
When they arrived at the table there were only a couple of lonely spare ribs left.
"Yum yum," Gomez said to Shookie. "Mind if we snatch the last two spare4ribs?"
Shookie's chomp seemed to indicate a yes. Gomez snatched the remaining spare ribs and popped one in Harry's gaping mouth. Kill Gomez after the party, was all Harry could think, although he did take note that the spare rib was delicious.
Shookie licked his fingers and said to Harry,"You like?"
"Me like," Harry replied and then grunted.
"Me too," Shookie said while coming up for air in between bites.
"Me Harry." He pointed his pinky at Gomez who was chewing away."Him Gomez." Shookie laughed.
"Me Shookie."
"Prupas the Dufus Shookie?"
Shookie nodded beaming great pride.
"Me writer. Me want to write for you." Harry said while wondering why his business always seemed to begin around a plate of hors d'oeuvres?
Shookie's arm disappeared inside his billowing caftan and he pulled out a business card from...Snap!The sound of an elastic waste band snapping back...From his underwear. He handed Harry the moist card with a pubic hair stuck to it and said,
"You funny. Call me Monday." Shookie placed his hands on his rumbling pot-belly.
"Uh oh..." And Shookie made a mad dash to the exit.
"I lied. I totally lied...Well, I wasn't sure."
"Don't tell me Wendy's here," Harry said in a panic.
"No, no, no. I mean the part about there being no TV people here. You see that guy over in the navy caftan wearing that embroidered kippah?"
Harry followed the line of vision of Gomez's pointing pinky, something that annoyed him. Why couldn't Gomez at least point with his index Ginger? Pinky-pointing was so gay. He hoped no one was watching, thinking that they were a couple.
"Yeah, You mean the little dumpling Wolfman Jack guy with the thumb in his nose?"
"Right. He is kind of gross looking, but that's Shookie Cohen, one of the biggest animation producers in town. Y'know Prupas the Dufus?"
"The retard show about the kid with the little apple tree growing out of his head?"
"It's hysterical and Shookie's the producer. Let's go talk to him. Maybe you can get some work?"
"Writing that crap?"
"That crap pays." Gomez led Harry towards Shookie who was fressing at a plate of sticky spare ribs. Harry wondered why he was letting Gomez lead him along by pulling his hand. People might think they were a couple.
When they arrived at the table there were only a couple of lonely spare ribs left.
"Yum yum," Gomez said to Shookie. "Mind if we snatch the last two spare4ribs?"
Shookie's chomp seemed to indicate a yes. Gomez snatched the remaining spare ribs and popped one in Harry's gaping mouth. Kill Gomez after the party, was all Harry could think, although he did take note that the spare rib was delicious.
Shookie licked his fingers and said to Harry,"You like?"
"Me like," Harry replied and then grunted.
"Me too," Shookie said while coming up for air in between bites.
"Me Harry." He pointed his pinky at Gomez who was chewing away."Him Gomez." Shookie laughed.
"Me Shookie."
"Prupas the Dufus Shookie?"
Shookie nodded beaming great pride.
"Me writer. Me want to write for you." Harry said while wondering why his business always seemed to begin around a plate of hors d'oeuvres?
Shookie's arm disappeared inside his billowing caftan and he pulled out a business card from...
"You funny. Call me Monday." Shookie placed his hands on his rumbling pot-belly.
"Uh oh..." And Shookie made a mad dash to the exit.
Sunday, May 1, 2011
The Henna with Gomez II
Harry looked around the hall; it was like he jumped into an issue of National Geographic. Swarthy tribesmen with exaggerated features glazed in sweat, clad in caftans and fezzes, dripping in gold, caked in garish make up, ululating like hyenas, wiggling like inch-worms to the twanging sound of the arabic music. A vat of body heat, a soup of celebration.
Gomez scouted the landscape, spotted his pretend-girlfriend and made a beeline towards her with Harry in tow.
So she wasn't bad looking, actually almost cute if not for that peaked hairline and simian brow. Tight little body, almost delicious if not for the hairy arms. Still, well put together. Certainly good enough for Gomez if they were a couple. Introductions.
"Regine, this is Harry, Harry - Regine," Gomez said.
Regine kissed Harry on both cheeks. Harry clumsily reciprocated, kissing the air near both of Regine's cheeks, but grateful that his lips were spared contact with the downy peach fuzz sprouting along the sides.
"Hi," Harry said while scoping the party in his tapered navy blue suit which made him stick out like a sore thumb. "I feel out of place here. Maybe I should've worn my silk bathrobe?"
Regine laughed while displaying her intricately gold embroidered royal blue caftan. "Definitely caftan country here."
"Where underwear is optional," Harry said.
Regine laughed.
"Please excuse my friend, Harry. He's a work in progress. Not a bad guy when you get to know him though," Gomez said while directing Harry towards the bar. "Think I'll start him off with a drink. Can I get you something, Regine?"
"No thanks, I think I see my cousin from Marrakech waving at me. She's a sorceress you know. Better say hello before she gives me the evil eye..."
Gomez led Harry to the bar, elbowing his way through the scrum of guests and ordered a couple of scotches. Harry noticed another fish-out-water hanging out next to the bar, an elegant Chinese man in a suit, who was chatting with a fez-hatted slickster, the father of the bride-to-be. Definitely a business guest. Harry sidestepped into optimal party eavesdropping position. The Chinese man, Winston Lu, was speaking.
"Prosper, you have to sell many sweaters to pay for this wedding. Hahaha."
That, or not pay the key Hong Kong supplier, Harry thought. Prosper had the mark of the devil written all over his face. The phony smile, the exaggerated laughter, the overly interested concern, the dipped left eyebrow advertising his smoldering look.
Prosper clutched Winston's shoulder and bragged, "Business is booming, my good friend. Just the Bloomingdales fall order will cover the whole affair!"
Yeah, right.
Meanwhile Prosper's fading sportswear line, Flirt-Flirt, is going down the tubes fast. Cut to three months later where Marco is four months late on a $600K payment to Winston.
"It's just a little cash flow thing," Prosper lies. "I'm getting paid any day from a big customer. I'll pay you in a few days, I swear."
Which of course never happens. If Winston doesn't get paid soon, he'll have to close his factory.
Winston calls up a friend in L.A. to check on Prosper. It doesn't look good:
Prosper is downsizing. He put his twelve million dollar Beverly Hills home up for sale, and is on the market for a more modest abode - in the six to seven million dollar range. But the Bentley stays.
Put a lien on his home, the friend advises, only to learn a day later that the home is held in trust by Flirt-Flirt Investments, a shell company that is incorporated in Antigua.
A week later, still no payment. It's the end of the work day in Hong Kong and Winston is sitting at his desk with a bottle of vodka, sobbing uncontrollably.
The next day he blows out his brains in the office.
Gomez scouted the landscape, spotted his pretend-girlfriend and made a beeline towards her with Harry in tow.
So she wasn't bad looking, actually almost cute if not for that peaked hairline and simian brow. Tight little body, almost delicious if not for the hairy arms. Still, well put together. Certainly good enough for Gomez if they were a couple. Introductions.
"Regine, this is Harry, Harry - Regine," Gomez said.
Regine kissed Harry on both cheeks. Harry clumsily reciprocated, kissing the air near both of Regine's cheeks, but grateful that his lips were spared contact with the downy peach fuzz sprouting along the sides.
"Hi," Harry said while scoping the party in his tapered navy blue suit which made him stick out like a sore thumb. "I feel out of place here. Maybe I should've worn my silk bathrobe?"
Regine laughed while displaying her intricately gold embroidered royal blue caftan. "Definitely caftan country here."
"Where underwear is optional," Harry said.
Regine laughed.
"Please excuse my friend, Harry. He's a work in progress. Not a bad guy when you get to know him though," Gomez said while directing Harry towards the bar. "Think I'll start him off with a drink. Can I get you something, Regine?"
"No thanks, I think I see my cousin from Marrakech waving at me. She's a sorceress you know. Better say hello before she gives me the evil eye..."
Gomez led Harry to the bar, elbowing his way through the scrum of guests and ordered a couple of scotches. Harry noticed another fish-out-water hanging out next to the bar, an elegant Chinese man in a suit, who was chatting with a fez-hatted slickster, the father of the bride-to-be. Definitely a business guest. Harry sidestepped into optimal party eavesdropping position. The Chinese man, Winston Lu, was speaking.
"Prosper, you have to sell many sweaters to pay for this wedding. Hahaha."
That, or not pay the key Hong Kong supplier, Harry thought. Prosper had the mark of the devil written all over his face. The phony smile, the exaggerated laughter, the overly interested concern, the dipped left eyebrow advertising his smoldering look.
Prosper clutched Winston's shoulder and bragged, "Business is booming, my good friend. Just the Bloomingdales fall order will cover the whole affair!"
Yeah, right.
Meanwhile Prosper's fading sportswear line, Flirt-Flirt, is going down the tubes fast. Cut to three months later where Marco is four months late on a $600K payment to Winston.
"It's just a little cash flow thing," Prosper lies. "I'm getting paid any day from a big customer. I'll pay you in a few days, I swear."
Which of course never happens. If Winston doesn't get paid soon, he'll have to close his factory.
Winston calls up a friend in L.A. to check on Prosper. It doesn't look good:
Prosper is downsizing. He put his twelve million dollar Beverly Hills home up for sale, and is on the market for a more modest abode - in the six to seven million dollar range. But the Bentley stays.
Put a lien on his home, the friend advises, only to learn a day later that the home is held in trust by Flirt-Flirt Investments, a shell company that is incorporated in Antigua.
A week later, still no payment. It's the end of the work day in Hong Kong and Winston is sitting at his desk with a bottle of vodka, sobbing uncontrollably.
The next day he blows out his brains in the office.
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