It was a nice thing to do. An opportunity.  Totally unexpected. What right did Dik-Dash have being ...nice?

"So why don't out come over to my house for Thanksgiving dinner, Harry? We can talk about your script and I can introduce you to some people, like this agent friend of mine."

What could be the downside?

"Sure, thanks,  Dik."


Dik. Just can't get into this Dik thing.

CUT TO:

A LITTLE LATER - STARBUCKS ON MONTANA AND 26TH, SANTA MONICA

Gomez licked the lid of his frappacino and scrunched up his nose. "Cinnamon! I distinctly asked for chocolate. "

"So go back and change it," Harry said.

"What for? I'd rather sit here bitching about it. Anyhow we have to plan your Thanksgiving dinner strategy."

"I still can't believe he invited me. "

"He probably wants you there so that you can go back and tell everyone in Montreal how wonderful he is. The home in Hollywood Hills, the industry friends...Y'know the big life."

"Maybe."

"Schmooze your ass off. It's the only way you get anywhere around here. It's not about the great script, it's about meeting the right people. Why d'ya think these studios churn out so much crap?"

"Like Leftovers."

"Exactly. I have the crappy cast,  I wrote a crappy script and now the project is floating around in the toilet like a piece of crap waiting for some snot-nosed studio prick to flush."

CUT TO:

SFX: A TOILET FLUSHING

A WEEK LATER: INT: DIK'S HOUSE - IN FRONT OF THE POWDER ROOM NEAR THE DINING ROOM

Teddy Slutsky peeps his head out from inside the powder room and hollars, "Hey Dikkie, where do keep the plunger? EMERGENCY!"

Dik dashes from the table to the powder room.  Teddy emerges from the powder room laughing. "The perfect dinner party ice -breaker! Relax, just took a leak, no number twos."

FADE INTO PROSE:

Trisha Levy contemplated her glass of Merlot and inhaled deeply. She'd have to hold it in a bit longer. The thought of  'next in line to the loo after Teddy' was not amusing. Ever since she married her rich Uncle Asher, the game- show producer, ambitious Trisha Levy had taken on airs.

"Oops, sorry," Teddy excused himself as he intentionally brushed up against her - Trisha had a great ass.

"Class act, Teddy," Trisha groaned. Nothing turned her off more than horny men who weren't even family, rubbing up against her wonderful ass. 

"It's party-time!" Teddy roared. "Loosen up your sphincter, Trish baby!" 

Like she did during that wet 'n wild SeaWorld weekend in San Diego a few years back. What an accommodating gal!  Trish scowled in disgust. Teddy was always Teddy, ever the vulgarian, the heavy-hung pig in bed she could never get enough of. Unlike Uncle Asher; he was tender and giving.

"Whoa, the football kid!" Teddy cried after spilling a splash of  Stoli on Harry.

"Whoa, the football coach!" Harry mimicked while intentionally unintentionally stepping on Coach's stubby toes.

 If only I had my cleats on.


"Fuuuck!" Teddy whimpered while grabbing his foot.

"Sorry, Teddy, sorry. I guess we're all being so clumsy tonight," Harry said.

Teddy hobbled off back to the powder room and shut the door. No doubt a little toot would ease the pain.

"So who do you play for, Football kid?" Trisha asked Harry.

"Myself, but I haven't stepped on a football field for years? Teddy used to coach me when I was a kid back in Montreal."

"Oh, another Montrealer..."

Oh, another jerk?


"Did I hear you say, Montreal?" Vikki Bee recited as she tapped Harry on the shoulder. "I once had a special lover there who made wonderful sandwiches..."

Vikki Bee nee Shirley Blumenthal, fuck-doll to the stars. How did she do it? How far could a charming sycophant smile take you? When you're skinny like a chicken carcass, sport an unfixed Shylock schnoz and have bug-eyed baby blues. Dressing in Pravda ain't enough. And not everyone gets the peroxide mane in a bun, the neo-Kate-Hepburn look. Yes, Vikki nee Shirley is an artistic one, her ersatz Gauguin portraits adorn the laundry rooms of all her ex-lovers. Like real estate mogul, Cliff Fainer.

"She's a slut, I'm a slut. It was a perfect match."  

Cliff Fainer, another schmaying real estate guy. Par for the course among these crowds. Cliff Fainer, CEO, President and God of The Fainer Group. Builder of all that is industrial, commercial, Lord of the strip malls, feudal baron of the residential, increasing his great fortune with each tick of the clock. Tic tock, tic tock. Whining about bad tenants, how he just got screwed for rent by another Chapter 11 schmata whore. But ever manly; slap the bastard with a court injunction, confiscate his chattel,. Oh, the cat-and mouse games played out like a ballet with commercial tenants. Dance of the Eviction. The Flight of the Tenant. Need to blow off steam, to stay in shape to rape more Johnnies-on-the-make. Cycling, cycling, cycling. A hundred miles here before breakfast, five hundred mile weekends. Peddling, peddling, peddling. Pedaling his lumpy ass away.

"The Match Game, now that guy made money," piped in Mr. Big, every inch of his sculpted 5'4" frame packed with importance. Every show He created a monster hit. Mr. Big, hustling, hustling, hustling. Creating, reinventing, shmoozing, shmoozing, shmoozing. Scoring jackpots, new ventures, triple sevens with Internet start-ups, getting out before the bubble burst. Scoring, scoring, scoring. Emceeing cancer fundraisers, his mug shot plastered on every society page. Smiling, smiling, smiling. Why not? Just having fun with life. Writing a memoir now. Chock-full of rich and famous BBF's. And he did it all with but a 5'4" frame, bluster, chutzpah, an effervescent smile and a good yiddishe kop for business. Everyone loves Mr. Big.

Montreal, L.A., what was the difference? Just another room full of Jews. Like he never left home. Everywhere Harry turned nothing but Jews, Jews, Jews. Just like back home, blabbing, blabbing, blabbing. To be noticed, to adored, to be validated by the In. To show your pipik to the world. To shout from the top of Sinai, I'm here, I'm here, I'm here. I'm in the money, I'm in the business, I'm beautiful.

Like their forefathers millennium ago, still worshiping the golden calf.

Isaiah Redux:

In that day the Lord will take away the finery of the anklets, the headbands, and the crescents; the pendants, the bracelets, and the scarves; the headdresses, the armlets, the sashes, the perfume boxes, and the amulets;

Potential , career-making connections, rain-makers, sipping cosmos, dipping dips, shmaying shmaying shmaying. Ingratiate yourself Harry boy, burrow your nose deep into needy asses in search of noses. Brown-nose it to the top, Harry. Go for it, go for it, go for it, boy. This is how you do it, Harry. This is how it works. They'll love you 'cause you're beautiful. Work this room of success Harry boy, grab some stardust. Grab it now, Harry. Feast on it, stuff it in your pockets, eat it, excrete it. It's there for the taking, Harry boy. Don't be a schmuck. Connect, connect, connect. Cause humans are social animals, because success is the currency in this room.

Mr. Big to the left, Fainer to the right, here you are suck in the middle with--- 

But he bailed, he bailed. Harry slipped out of the room and ran wee wee wee all the way home. And he knew it was a mistake, that he was choking on yet another stage, and didn't have a clue why he fled success. Just to have the goods is not enough though. Harry knew nothing, Harry knew everything. But nothing o be done.

California Dreamin'

Every night that week the same dream:

FADE IN:

Walking down Sunset Boulevard between Dik-Dash and Gary Feldman. Harry looks up and realizes that both men tower over him. As if he's a two-year old boy. Dik-Dash looks down at Harry and says, "Harry, you have beautiful brown eyes," and then laughs hysterically.

Gary Feldman stares down at Harry, pats him on the head and ruffles his hair. "You have beautiful brown eyes, Harry, but you're too short to write on my show."

"No, Gary, I'm really tall."

Gary and Dik-Dash laugh maniacally.

The three of them walk past an office building and stop to admire an artful graffiti mural spray-painted on the wall of the building. Harry reads a message embedded in the mural: I'm tall. The message grows taller along with Harry, until they both are high as the building.

Harry looks down to see that he is still standing between Gary and Dik-Dash, only now, he towers above them.

"See, I've always been tall," Harry says as Gary and Dik-Dash nod in agreement.

The graffiti vanishes and is replaced by a giant video clip of a brown eye winking at the three men.

Gary says,"That's one beautiful brown eye."

The eye pops out of the wall followed by another brown eye.

Poof! A cloud of smoke appears. When it clears, Gomez emerges singing The Partridge Family song, Point Me In the Direction Of Albuquerque. Now he is on stage before a packed house at the Hollywood Bowl. The audience applauds wildly. Harry finds himself on stage in from of a mike. 

"But this is so gay," Harry tells the crowd.

SFX: SITCOM LAUGH TRACK FOLLOWED BY THUNDEROUS APPLAUSE.

Harry smirks and as he prepares to tell a joke, he gags.

SFX: SITCOM LAUGH TRACK FOLLOWED BY THUNDEROUS APPLAUSE.




FADE OUT OF DREAM.




Harry wakes up in a cold sweat.

Beautiful Brown Eyes

Say what you want  about  Gomez, but like most Platonics, the man knew where to go for good food. Like the Cuban chicken place "that Desi Arnas Jr. owns" (bullshit, he just ate there once). The chicken was crispy, juicy and bursting with spicy flavor,  the MPC (Maximum Plate Coverage) score - a perfect 100, and the price of a meal, a steal. Still, prolonged one-on-one time with Gomez made Harry edgy. You never knew what the dude would say next. Like:

"Harry, did anyone ever tell you that you have beautiful brown eyes?"

(((((You have beautiful brown eyes))))) 

(((((You have beautiful brown eyes)))))

(((((You have beautiful brown eyes)))))

(((((You have beautiful brown eyes)))))

(((((You have beautiful brown eyes)))))

"..."

Harry clutched the seat of the booth for dear life. He was afraid that his legs would betray him and sprint out of the restaurant  and run wee-wee-wee all the way home. Flee from  Gomez, leave town.

The chorus to The Partridge Family song, Point me in the direction of Albuquerque, suddenly played in Harry's head:

Point me in the direction of Albuquerque
I want to go home, so help me get home
Point me in the direction of Albuquerque
I need to get h-o-o-o-ome, need to get h-o-o-o-ome


David Cassidy singing. The epitome of cool. SFX: A NEEDLE SCRATCHING A VINYL RECORD. David Cassidy? How gay is that? Take thought back, take thought.

I want my room. I want my bed. I want my basement. I want to hibernate there for the winter. Or maybe longer.


I wanna go home and sell belts.


I wanna stay and be a star.


I don't know what the fuck I want, just let it be far far away from Gomez. The guy is creeping me out.

It didn't take much to creep Harry out.

"...?"

"You have beautiful brown eyes." What next? "Shall we dance?"

Gomez knew it was a stupid thing to say, he just couldn't contain himself. He was a blurter; that was just him. Nothing to be done. Sigh. Nothing to be done.

It wasn't a come-on line. Not for Gomez, who at thirty-two years old, still wasn't sure what he was. Am I or ain't I? Is he or isn't he? He didn't have a clue. A hunch, okay. A feeling, yeah, but shit, Harry did have beautiful brown eyes.

Poor tactless Gomez. Thick thick, Gomez, Always pushing it, pushing it until something goes oops. Dumb questions, embarrassing questions, inappropriate questions, annoying questions. Questions, questions, questions. The trouble was that he had grown immune to eyes rolling, guffaws, sneers and about-turns. One stupid remark and you become a jerk. Life as Gomez, 'Good grief.'

"No, that's not what I meant, y'know," Gomez back-tracked.

Yeah right, yeah right.

"Just that you've got kind of a dangerous look, Harry."

Dangerous look?

I wanna go home. Take me home.

"Like maybe you should do acting instead of writing?"

Like maybe I should punch out your fucked up Gomez face.


Not that Harry would. Instead, he bragged, "I did some acting in college. Majored in theater actually," while hating himself simultaneously himself for saying that. The only thing more pathetic than hanging out with Gomez, was trying to impress him.

"Why'd you quit acting?" Gomez bit his lip.  He really wanted to say, 'You'd  make a great leading man,' but that really was too gay.

"Choked...Literally, on stage during a production of Waiting For Godot. Long story but I can't get on a stage anymore without gagging."

"Well, the camera's not a stage..."

"Look I can't act anymore,  Gomez, I just can't. No desire." Which was anything but true. Harry hungered for the spotlight, any kind, any way, but he lost his nerve and that was it. Shalom.

"Okay, okay. Just asking. In case we go into more casting for Leftovers if it gets picked up. There's still a few parts that need to be cast." (Bullshit).

Restraint. Be nice, Harry. Remember, Gomez is a connection. Networking is about making connections. About browning your nose. Hate it though. Maybe mom is right? Become a radiologist. No need to befriend the likes of Gomez. Just look at some undeveloped pictures and laugh all the way to the bank. What was so hard about that?

"I like writing because you don't feel so exposed.," Harry said. "Like there's something so pathetic about acting, so, 'Look at me, look at me!' Like a neglected child."

"For sure, actors are pathetic exhibitionists screaming for attention. Now I've got Wenzday Wilson threatening calling me up every day with special requests. 'I need this, I need that.' Like fuck, the show isn't even close to a green light yet and he's got this never-ending list of demands. Fuck him...On another note, how's life with Wendy?"

First tell me you never really dated her, Gomez.

"Well, she just adopted another pussy," Harry said. "Shared a joint with her last night and she coughed up a fur ball."

Gomez cracked up. "Seriously?"

"Yeah."

No. Embellished. Bullshit, but true in spirit. Because stories go better with bullshit.

"Welcome to California, Harry. One big freak-a-thon. Get used to it...And how's your room?"

"Okay if  I never leave it. Yesterday I walked into the kitchen and there was an inch-thick line of army ants running from the garden into a discarded pizza box on the kitchen counter..."

Gomez gagged. "Oh yeah, I forgot to mention the ant problem."

"Here's something else to gag about. I'm kind of having a thing with her. Don't tell anyone though."

Oh shit, Gomez thought, she probably exposed him already. They were only friends, platonic friends. He knew it was a mistake to introduce them. Every time he had introduced one of his friends to a girl he was once seeing, they ended up in bed, he got exposed and lost two friends in the process. The collateral damage from bullshit. " You  didn't!"

"More like she did me. Bad mistake but nothing serious. Wendy's not my type. Her pussy smells like a pet shop, but man, can she fuck!"

Gomez blurted out a nervous laugh. Good time to change the subject. Did Wendy expose him? Gomez shuddered at the thought but plowed forward with the conversation. "So did Ricky Dash read your Feldman script?"

"You mean Dik-Dash, that's how he wants to be called...I think he's on it now. I'm actually supposed to call him back tomorrow."

"Follow up with him. It could be the big break you need, Harry. That's what L.A.'s about."

Point me in the direction of Albuquerque.

Beautiful Brown Eyes

Harry was totally surprised but he wasn't, as he sat there with Gomez eating barbecued chicken in a Cuban restaurant "that Desi Arnas Jr. owns" (bullshit).

"Did anyone ever tell you Harry, that you have beautiful brown eyes?"

(((((You have beautiful brown eyes))))) 

(((((You have beautiful brown eyes)))))

(((((You have beautiful brown eyes)))))

(((((You have beautiful brown eyes)))))

(((((You have beautiful brown eyes)))))

"..."

Harry clutched the seat of the booth for dear life. He was afraid that his legs would betray him and sprint out of the restaurant down to the freeway. He couldn't bear another Gomez split-second. Flee Gomez, flee L.A..

Point me in the direction of Albuquerque
I need to go h-o-o-o-ome
I need to go h-o-o-o-ome

I want my room. I want my bed. I want my basement. I want to hibernate there for the winter. Or maybe longer.

I wanna go home.

I wanna stay.

"...?"

You have beautiful brown eyes. What next? "Shall we dance dance?"

And Gomez knew he had blurted out yet again The Cry of the Moron, but that was just him. Nothing to be done. Sigh. Nothing to be done.

It wasn't a come-on line. Not for Gomez, who at thirty-two years old, still wasn't sure what he was. Am I or ain't I? Is he or isn't he? He didn't have a fucking clue. A hunch, okay, a feeling, yeah, but shit, Harry had beautiful brown eyes.

Poor tactless Gomez. Always pushing it, pushing it till something goes oops. Dumb questions, embarrassing questions, inappropriate questions, annoying questions. Questions, questions, questions. But after a while, people like Gomez get used to the eyes rolling, the guffaws, the sneers, the turned shoulders. Life as Gomez, "Good grief."

"No, that's not what I meant, y'know," Gomez back-tracked. Yeah right, yeah right. "Just that you've got kind of a dangerous look."

Dangerous look?

I wanna go home. Take me home.

"Like maybe you should do acting instead of writing?"

Like maybe I should punch out your fucked up Gomez head, Gomez.

The Law of Putz Attraction in motion.

"I did some acting in college. Majored in theater actually," Harry bragged while simultaneously hating himself for feeling that way. The only thing more pathetic than hanging out with Gomez, was trying to impress him. Harry wanted to weep.

"Why'd you stop?" Gomez bit his lip.  He actually withheld saying, 'You'd  make a great leading man.' There's hope for us all.

"Choked...Literally, on stage during a production of Waiting For Godot. Long story but I can't get on a stage anymore..."

"Well, the camera's not a stage..."

"Look I can't,  Gomez, I just can't. I have no desire to act." Which was anything but true. Harry hungered for the spotlight, any kind, any way, but he lost his nerve and that was it. Shalom.

"Okay, okay. Just asking. In case we go into more casting for the series if it gets picked up."

Ding ding ding. Be nice, Harry. Remember, Gomez is a connection. Networking is about making connections. About browning your nose. Maybe mom is right? Become a radiologist. No need to Gomez. Look at some pitchers (sic) and laugh all the way to the bank.

"I like writing because you don't feel so exposed.," Harry said. "Like there's something so pathetic about acting, so, 'Look at me, look at me!' Like a neglected child."

"True, actors are mostly a bunch of morons. Now I've got Wenzday Wilson threatening to walk if he doesn't get a personal masseuse on the set. Like fuck, we 're no even close to a green light...But more important, how's life with Wendy?"

First tell me if you really ever dated her, Gomez.

"She just adopted another pussy.  Shared a joint with her last night and she coughed up a fur ball."

Gomez cracked up. "Seriously?"

"Yeah."

No. Embellished. Bullshit, but true in spirit. Cuz stories  go better with bullshit.

"Welcome to California, Harry. One big freak-a-thon. Get used to it...So how's your room?"

"Okay if  I never leave it. Yesterday I walked into the kitchen and there was an inch-thick line of army ants running from the garden into a discarded pizza box on the kitchen counter..."

Gomez gagged. "I hope it's not the same one from last week..."

"Here's something else to gag about. I kind of had a thing with her the first day."

Gomez sang, "Everyone loves Wendy," but was worried that she exposed him. They were only friends, just friends. "You didn't!"

"More like she did me. Bad mistake. Won't happen again." it did happen again. And again. "She has a pussy that smells like a pet shop, but man, can she fuck!"

Gomez blurted out a nervous laugh. Good time to change the subject. Preemptive move before you get exposed. "So did Dik-Dash read your Feldman script?"

"I think he's on it now. I'm actually supposed to call him back tomorrow."

"Follow up with him. It could be the big break you need, Harry. That's what LA.'s about."

Just one more thing to dread.

Harry was totally surprised but he wasn't as he sat there in the booth eating chicken in Gomez's favorite Cuban restaurant.

"Did anyone ever tell you Harry, that you have beautiful brown eyes?" Gomez asked.

Echo. You have beautiful brown eyes.

Echo. You have beautiful brown eyes.

Echo. You have beautiful brown eyes.

Echo. You have beautiful brown eyes.

...

Harry clutched the seat of the booth  tightly so that his legs wouldn't betray him  and flee out of the restaurant. Flee from Gomez.

"...?"

You have beautiful brown eyes. What next? "Shall we dance dance?"

And Gomez knew it. Stupid remark.  Not a come-on line. Thirty-two years old, and Gomez still wasn't sure what he was. Am I or ain't I? Is he or isn't he? He didn't have a clue. Just a hunch, just a feeling. But Harry had beautiful brown eyes.

Gomez was a blurter, so he was used to dealing with inappropriate questions and comments that escaped from his mouth. Sometimes blurting out led to success like it almost did with his pilot, Leftovers.  "So what happens to Adults that don't hook up with someone - ever? There's lots of them and they're funny. Leftovers, a show about those left behind in the wake of life."  and he sold the script sold.

While other times, most times those blurts don't go over well.  Like, "You have beautiful brown eyes." Even Gomez didn't know what he meant.

And Wendy

"I'm staying here for good, mom."

"Give it some time, Harry. You've only been there...what, an hour?"

"More like two hours, mom. We landed early."

"Ridiculous. You see a palm tree and you're sold."

"I actually haven't seen any palm trees yet..I'm still in the airport waiting for my luggage. "

"So just tell me that you've landed and that you're okay. Give it at least a day before you say, 'Mom, I want to live here,' like you do whenever you go somewhere."

"That's not true."

"When you went to Burlington and ate for the first time at Burger King, you called to tell me you weren't coming home."

"I meant it."

"A day later you back in your room."

"There were too many fat women in Burlington. What choice did I have?"

"When we sent you on that trip to Israel, you called after a day to tell us that you were moving to that kibbutz. Forever."

"I was totally serious."

"After two weeks you wanted to come home early."

"Yeah, well, they wanted me to wake up five in the morning and shovel chicken shit. What kind of a life would that be?"

"And went you went down to audition in New York, you also called to say you weren't coming home."

"I was on the verge of of making it on Broadway."

"Until you choked on stage."

"Why do you always have to throw that in my face?"

"Who's throwing anything in your face, Harry?"

"You are."

"All I'm saying is to at least give it time. "

"..."

"Harry?"

"..."

"Harry, are you still there?"

"I see my bags, mom. Gotta go. Bye."

Said Californy is the place you gotta be
So he brought along his script
And moved nearby the sea
Santa Monica that is
Swimmin' pools, movie stars.

Sun.
Light.
Blue sky.
Palm trees.
Pacific Ocean.
Sunset Boulevard.

And the homes, what homes.
And the cars, what cars.
And the people, pretty people.
So many pretty people.

Californy.

Opportunity.

Californy.

The place he oughtta be. A Venn diagram of converging dreams.

Californy.

Far from flunkers
Far from belts
Far from family
And psychic welts.

Change your name
Change your life
Don't look back
Or get a wife.

Californy.

Harry parked the car in front of 262 Alta. He made it.

Who's leaning out from her bedroom window
Tokin' on a fat jay, blowin' her mind

Wendy opened the door.

"Hi, Wendy?...Harry Starr. A pleasure to meet you."

"Let's get one thing straight before we start, Harry Starr. I never dated Gomez. We're just good friends. I know that his real name is Irwin and I don't give a shit if you're gay."

"I'm not gay."

Who's bending over giving some lovin'
Some kinda greeting from Wendy.

"Wanna see my head-shots, Harry?" the blond down the hall asks while unbuttoning her blouse.

"Uhh.."

"Gross! You stepped in dog shit!"

Who's renting rooms to wannabe starlets
Smiling at everybody who pays
Who's canine family howls for attention
Some kinda living with Wendy

"I want you to spend your first night with me, in my room, Harry. Y'know I can set you up with the right people."

"Sweet," he says.

And Wendy has needy eyes
Inviting to lonely guys
And Wendy tells crazy lies
In her place that few escape
In her place that few escape.

"I'm staying here for good, mom."

"Give it some time, Harry. You've only been there...what, an hour?"

"More like two hours, mom. We landed early."

"Ridiculous. You see a palm tree and you're sold."

"I actually haven't seen any palm trees yet..I'm still in the airport waiting for my luggage. "

"So just tell me that you've landed and that you're okay. Give it at least a day before you tell me, 'Mom, I want to live here,' like you do whenever you go somewhere."

"That's not true."

"When you went to Burlington and ate for the first time at Burger King, you called to tell me you weren't coming home."

"I meant it."

"A day later you back in your room."

"There were too many fat women in Burlington. What choice did I have?"

"When we sent you on that trip to Israel, you called after a day to tell us that you were moving to that kibbutz. Forever."

"I was totally serious."

"After two weeks you wanted to come home early."

"Yeah, we'll they wanted me to wake up five in the morning and shovel chicken shit. What kind of a life would that be?"

"And went you went down to audition in New York, you also called to say you weren't coming home."

"Because New York is the place to go o if you wanna make it big."

"Not when you're choking on stage."

"Why do you always have to throw that in my face?"

"Who's throwing anything in your face, Harry?"

"You are."

"All I'm saying is to at least give it time. "

"..."

"Harry?"

"..."

"Harry, are you still there?"

"I see my bags, mom. Gotta go. Bye."

Said Californy is the place you gotta be
So he brought along his script
And moved nearby the sea
Santa Monica that is
Swimmin' pools, movie stars.

Sun. 
Light. 
Blue sky. 
Palm trees. 
The ocean.

And the homes, what homes.
And the cars, what cars.
And the people, pretty people.
So many pretty people.

Californy.

Opportunity.

Californy.

The place he oughtta be. A Venn diagram of converging dreams.

Californy.

Far from flunkers, far from belts,  far far away from St. Clair. Change your name, change your life.

Californy.

Harry parked the car in front of 262 Lincoln. He made it.

Who's leaning out from her bedroom window
Tokin' on a fat jay, blowin' her mind
Who's bending over giving some lovin'
Some kinda greeting from Wendy.

Who's renting rooms to wannabe starlets
Smiling at everybody who pays
Who's canine family barks for attention
Some kinda living with Wendy.

And Wendy has needy eyes
Inviting to lonely guys
And Wendy tells crazy lies
In her place that few escape
In her place that few escape.

And it was day. And it was night. Sunday. And Harry saw that it was very good.

Two More Calls

Calling Gomez Glick


Harry studied the wide and loopy  handwriting scrawled on the back of the rumpled wedding seating-card. Hard to believe that it wasn't written by a teenage girl.  And what was with dotting the small 'i' with a smiley face? Harry sighed and dialed the phone number. He knew that eventually he'd rue the day he called Gomez Glick. Still, a contact was a contact.

"Hey there, Gomez! It's Harry Starr calling. We met at that wedding in Montreal."

"Yeah, Harry, of course. So when are you coming down to L.A.?" Gomez instinctively grabbed for the nail-clippers resting on the nightstand in the same place that he used to keep his pack of Marlboro Lights. He wished that he never quit smoking. Incessant nail-clipping wasn't anywhere nearly as satisfying as smoking. Those slow-poky nails took so long to grow.

"That's actually why I'm calling you. My script is ready and I'm looking to go down to LA.."

"Cool. Do you have a place to stay?"

"Umm, no. D'you know of any places? Reasonably priced of course."

Gomez thought hard for a few seconds while clipping the mangled yellowed nail of his baby toe. "Hmmm...I think I do, Harry. There's this girl, Wendy, who I was seeing for a while..."

'This girl I'm seeing.' 

Just another pretend girlfriend like that Joy chick he took to the wedding. Swishy Gomez Glick: Harry already  figured him out.  The girly handwriting, the fake girlfriends. Another Mr. Platonic. Home address - the closet.

"Wendy's renting out rooms in her big house in Santa  Monica. Big story there: Her father, who used to own this traveling carnival...did a killing with it...Anyhow he got arrested for fraud and tax evasion, so before the IRS confiscated all his assets, he bought Wendy this big crazy house in Santa Monica. Taking in boarders is the only cash flow her dad has these days," Gomez said while still working on the mangled nail of his baby toe.

Too much information, too much information.

"Aha," Harry mumbled while chewing on his thumb-nail.

"Wendy works as a PA on Sheza the Amazon Warrior -- whose tits are real by the way..."

"Whose tits?

Why is he telling me this?

Because guys like Gomez Glick love to keep people off balance by pumping out a constant mix of truth and bullshit. Like his name. The story he told: That his father, who owned a jazz club in Chicago, (true), named Gomez after the great trumpet player, Gomez Javier, (bullshit). Gomez Glick claimed that back in Chicago he was a corporate attorney for "some big-ass commodity trading consortium with headquarters in Luxembourg,"(bullshit - Gomez Glick nee Irwin Glickman, was actually a high school drama teacher who renamed himself when he moved to California after he broke up with his girlfriend of seven years, Sarah Tannenbaum, a movie critic for the Chicago Tribune,(bullshit, they were just good friends)). Yes, Gomez Glick was a true bullshit artist and he wasn't even from St. Clair.

"Sheza's tits, you big dummy. Don't you watch the show?"

"Never."

"Doesn't matter, neither do I. Anyhow I could speak to Wendy..." Gomez moved on to the next toe, this-little-piggy-number-four, always a breeze to clip compared to problematic baby toes.

"Sure."

An error in progress; Harry knew that it was a bad idea to get trapped into the Wonderful Bullshit World of Gomezland,  but he always had a soft spot for bullshitters. Unlike the straight-shooters, pathological liars were at least true to themselves.

For sure.

"I think she's charging like $350 a month?"

"Three hundred-and-fifty bucks a month?" Three hundred-fifty bucks more than he was paying for his basement pad in his parents' duplex.

"Maybe $400? That's still a great price for around here where there's practically nothing to rent, unless you want to stay in a hotel for like a gazillion bucks a night. And the house is in a great area, a couple blocks from the Starbucks on Montana. I saw Ted Danson there yesterday. He drives a black SUV and wears a rug."

"Ted Danson wears a rug?"

"You heard it here first."

"So getting back to Wendy...Can you speak to her?"

"Sure, we're going out for dinner tonight. Call me back tomorrow. Just a word of warning..."

Oh shit.

"Wendy's got like a bunch of dogs and cats, and maybe a ferret or something. And there are all these other boarders living there. So well...it is what it is.  A room in a cool place for a good price with lots of barking." On to this-little-piggy-number-three.

"Yeah..."

"Don't say I didn't warn you, Harry. There's dog shit all over the lawn."

"..."

"And ants. Lots of ants."

"I won't say anything, Gomez. By the way, how's your pilot, Leftovers, going?

This-little-piggies numbers three and two down, on to the juicy big toe. Gomez clipped away. Talk and clip, talk and clip. More satisfying than eating pistachio nuts. Gomez sighed. If only he had twenty fingers and twenty toes, he'd never miss smoking.

"Ouchie!" Gomez cried.

"What's wrong, Gomez? Are you okay?"

"No, it's okay,  just cut my big toe.  The corners of my toenails are just so hard to clip. God didn't bless me with straight toenails," he sighed. "I guess we can't have it all."

"I guess?"

"Leftovers? Aw you know, development hell, especially when you're dealing with washed-up stars. Duane Day dropped seventy pounds since his Feldman days and now he thinks he's gorgeous. Meanwhile he's just not funny if he ain't fat. So he dumps Cindy Saffron and elopes with the love of his life, his first cousin from Arkansas. He actually thinks it's cool that his mother-in-law is also his aunt. So now Miss Saffron, who hasn't worked in ten years if you don't count dinner theaters, wants to quit. Then there's Sonny Pinto who's  trying to get the movie made of Mr. Nanny, and will drop this project if that ever happens. At least Wenzday Wilson's still on board, even if he hates my guts because I asked him to pay me back the fifty bucks I lent him. I mean fifty bucks is fifty bucks, it's not like I've got this series in production where I'm taking home a hundred grand an episode. I only made twenty grand so far off this pilot and who knows when the next pay check will come. Meanwhile, I may have to take a job in telemarketing. But aside from that, everything is great."

"That's good, Gomez...I guess?"

"That's the biz, Harry. Get used to it."

"Yeah...So I'll call you back tomorrow, Gomez. Thanks."

"Oh fuckarama, my big toe is bleeding now."

And this little piggy went crying, "Wa wa wa," all the way home.


Calling Coach Slutsky


Call Teddy, call Teddy, everyone in St. Clair said. He's made it big now, doing stand-up and producing on the kiddie sitcom House Hubbies. Teddy will help you, everyone in St. Clair said. Everyone in St. Clair knew everything. No one in St. Clair knew shit. But the people there were always generous with free advice.

Teddy Slutsky, a St. Clair boy made good in Hollywood.

The same pimped-out Teddy Slutsky who was Harry's football coach from the old glory days. Harry could still picture Teddy with the fu manchu moustache, flowing silk shirts and gold-studded clogs barking outorders from the sidelines and sneaking out for smokes during time-outs.

Hollywood Teddy never answered his home phone, but the message on his answering machine attested that he was now a Hollywood insider, at least in his own mind:

"Hey there folks and strokes, I'm not in right now because I'm preparing my monologue for The Tonight Show. Leave a message and I'll have my buxom assistant, Brandy, call you back...Hee hee hee, Brandy. Knock it off, I'm recording a message..."

But this time Teddy picked up. He was waiting for a call back from his Thai escort who was running late.

"Hello Teddy, it's Harry Starr. You used to coach me on the St. Clair  Mustangs. how are you?"

"Oh man, St. Clair. That was in another lifetime. St. Clair."

"Yeah, I used to play quarterback. Remember we made it to the provincial finals two years in a row and got our asses kicked both times on those frozen fields?"

"Yeah, right the Mustangs. Were you the kid with the red hair and freckles who stuttered?"

"N-n-n-o, that was Shnorky Shipper. He played center."

"Shnorky Shipper, the orthodontist's kid?"

"No, that was Shlong Schwenger."

"Shlong Schwenger?! That shit-head who fucked my little sister?!"

Everyone in St. Clair fucked your little sister, "Open-Sesame."

"Really?"

"That fat little prick. I'm about to run out...What's your name again?"

"Harry. Harry Starr."

"Did your father sell ties?"

"No, but he once sold--"

"So what's up, Harry?  Make it quick, I gotta run for a taping."

"Well, I'm--"

"Can you call me back in a few days, kid? I really gotta run now. I'm late and I'm warming up the audience for Vets in Heat. Bye."

Click.

"I'm going down to..." Harry said to the dead air.

More Calls

Calling Gomez

Harry studied Gomez Glick's  handwriting on the back of the rumpled wedding seating card. Just like the handwriting of a teenage girl - wide and loopy, round  and sentimental. He had a sinking feeling that having anything to do with a guy who dotted his 'I's with tiny smiley faces, was a mistake. Still, a contact was a contact. Harry sighed and dialed the phone number.

"Hey there, Gomez! It's Harry Starr calling. We met at that wedding in Montreal."

"Yeah, Harry, of course. So when are you coming down to L.A.?"

"That's actually why I'm calling you. My script is ready and I'm looking to go down there..."

He had no idea when he was going down.

"...really soon."

"Cool. Do you have a place to stay?"

"Umm, no. D'you know anybody."

Not gay.

"In fact, I do, Harry. This girl, Wendy, who I was seeing for a while..."

'This girl I'm seeing.' Like Joy? This Gomez,  got his number. The not-really girlfriends, the loopy handwriting, the swishy swishiness. This Gomez, Mr. Platonic, home address - the closet.

"...She's renting out rooms in her big house in Santa  Monica. Big story there: her father who owns this traveling carnival...did a killing with it...Anyhow he got arrested for fraud and tax evasion, so he put the house in Wendy's name. So she's renting out rooms."

Too much information. I just need a room. 

"...So Wendy works as a low-paid production assistant on Sheza the Amazon Warrior. Those tits are real by the way..."

"Wendy's?"

"No Sheza, you big dummy. Don't you watch the show."

"Never."

"Doesn't matter, neither do I. Anyhow I could speak to Wendy..."

"Sure."

Mistake number two. Harry knew that he'd live to regret tumbling down the rabbit hole into the make-believe world of Gomezland,  but there'd be stories to tell. There'd be stories.

"I think she's charging like $400 a month."

"Four hundred bucks a month?"

"Without a lease...that's a good price. The house is in a great area, a couple blocks from Montana in Santa Monica..."

Cliché break: Sounds too good to be...

"Sounds great, Gomez. Can you speak to her?"

"Sure, we're going out for dinner tonight. Call me back tomorrow. Just a word of warning..."

Another cliché break: Spoke too soon.

"...Wendy's got like a bunch of dogs, some cats, and maybe a ferret or something.  And there are these other boarders living there, so, well...it is what it is.  A room in a cool place for a good price."

"Yeah..."

Maybe I should call up my mother's cousin? 

"Don't say I didn't warn you, Harry."

He's even warning me. 

"I won't say anything, Gomez. By the way, how's your pilot, Leftovers, going?

Gomez clipped his big toenail. He loved to talk on the phone and clip. Talk and clip, talk and clip. If only he had twenty fingers and twenty toes, he oft wished.

"Ouchie!"

"What's wrong, Gomez? Are you okay?"

"No, it's okay,  just clipped my big toe.  The corners of my toenails are just so hard to clip. God didn't bless me with straight toenails," he sighed. "I guess we can't have it all."

"?...I guess?"

  

Aw you know, development hell, especially when you're dealing with washed-up stars. Duane Day dropped forty pounds since his Feldman days and he's just not funny if he ain't fat. Now he's just skinny and butt ugly. Meanwhile he dumped Cindy Saffron for some amateur porn star. So now Miss Saffron, who hasn't worked in ten years if you don't count dinner theaters,  wants to quit. Meanwhile Sonny Pinto's trying to get the movie made of Mr. Nanny, and will drop this project if that ever happens. At least Wenzday Wilson's still hysterical, even if he hates my guts because I asked him to pay me back the fifty bucks I lent him. I mean fifty bucks is fifty bucks, it's not like I've got this series in production where I'm taking home a hundred grand an episode. I only made twenty grand so far off this pilot and who knows when the next pay check will come. Meanwhile I may have to take a job in telemarketing. But aside from that, everything is great."

"Sorry to hear that, Gomez."

"That's the biz, Harry. Get used to it."

"Yeah...So I'll call you back tomorrow, Gomez. Thanks."

"Oh fuck, I just felt a tremor...Gotta go..."

One Mo' Call

Teddy Slutsky, Harry's old football coach who led the Mustangs to two consecutive provincial finals. Tubby Teddy with the fu manchu moustache, flowing silk shirts and clogs who barked orders from the sidelines and snuck out for smokes during time-outs. Teddy was now a producer on kiddie sitcom House Hubbies and partied with Nick Tassos. 

Teddy never answered his home phone, but the message on his answering machine attested that he was now a Hollywood insider, at least in his own mind: 

"Hey there folks and strokes, I'm not in right now because I'm preparing my monologue for theTonight Show. Leave a message and I'll have my buxom assistant, Brandy, call you back...Hee hee hee, Brandy. Knock it off, I'm recording a message..." 

Fortunately for the millions of Tonight Show fans who like good comedy, Teddy got bumped off (again) from the show at the last minute and never got called back. Would Teddy remember Harry Starr, former quarterback whom he taught how to throw a screen pass, run a bootleg, call an audible?

"Hello Teddy, it's Harry Starr. You used to coach me on the St. Clair  Mustangs. how are you?"

"Oh man, St. Clair. That was in another lifetime. St. Clair."

'Yeah, I used to play quarterback. Remember we made it to the provincial finals two years in a row and got our asses kicked both times. We were too cold to play."

"Yeah, right the Mustangs. Were you the kid with the red hair and freckles who stuttered?"

"N-n-n-o, that was Jeff Shrier. He played center."

"Jeff Shrier? The orthodontist's kid?"

"No, that was Mitch Handelman."

"Mitch Handelman?! That shit-head fucked my little sister!"

No, that was actually my cousin, Joey Prager. But your sister fucked almost everyone.

"I don't think so."

"I'm about to run out...What's your name again?"

"Harry. Harry Starr."

"Did your father sell ties?"

"No, but he once sold--"

"So what's up, Harry. Make it quick, I gotta run for a taping."

"Well, I'm--"

"Can you call me back in a few days, Harry. I really gotta run now. I'm late and I'm warming up the audience for Vets in Heat. Bye."

Click.

"I'm going down to..."

Two More Calls

Calling Gomez




Harry studied Gomez Glick's  handwriting on the back of the rumpled wedding seating card. The prototypical penmanship of a teenage girl. Loopy, a circle instead of a dot for the 'I', how gay. Harry sighed and dialed the phone number.


"Hey there, Gomez! Harry Starr calling. We met at that wedding in Montreal."


"Yes, Harry, of course. So when are you coming down to L.A.?"


"That's actually why I'm calling you. I finished my spec script, tying up some loose ends and plan on going down as soon as I'm ready."


"Cool. Do you have a place to stay?"


"Not yet. Do you have any leads?"


"In fact, I do. This girl, Wendy, who I was seeing for a while..."


'This girl I'm seeing.' Like Joy? That Gomez, another Mr. Platonic hiding in the closet.


"...is renting out rooms in this big house she's got in Santa Monica. But her father got arrested for fraud and tax evasion, he put the house in her name and she's renting out rooms because the IRS froze all of her dad's assets..."


Mr. Platonics always have great stories. And more important - connections. They're friends with the world.


"...So Wendy works as a lousy paid production assistant on Sheza the Amazon Warrior -- whose tits are real by the way..."


"Wendy's?"


"No Sheza, you dummy. Don't you watch the show."


"Can't say I do."


"Doesn't matter, neither do I. Anyhow I could speak to Wendy..."


Love this guy already. Someone who will always go out of his way to do a favor. Must know lots of people, an invaluable friend in a new city.


"...I think she's charging like $400 a month and you don't have to sign a lease..."


"Sounds great."


"...And the house is in a real cool area, a couple blocks from Montana in Santa Monica..."


Of course, a Mr. Platonic always hangs out where the beautiful people go.


"I'm loving this, Gomez. Can you speak to her?"


"Sure, we're going out for dinner tonight. Call me back tomorrow. Just a word of warning. She's got six dogs and three cats, not to mention four other boarders, so you gotta be able to handle that. It can get a little messy at times...Fuck, it's always messy.."


"That's okay. I grew up with dogs and a big noisy family..."


"Don't say I didn't warn you, Harry."


"I won't...Say, how's your pilot, Leftovers, going?


"Aw you know, development hell, especially when you're dealing with washed-up stars. Duane Day dropped forty pounds since his Feldman days and he's just not funny if he ain't fat. Now he's just skinny and butt ugly. Meanwhile he dumped Cindy Saffron for some amateur porn star. So now Miss Saffron, who hasn't worked in ten years if you don't count dinner theaters,  wants to quit. Meanwhile Sonny Pinto's trying to get the movie made of Mr. Nanny, and will drop this project if that ever happens. At least Wenzday Wilson's still hysterical, even if he hates my guts because I asked him to pay me back the fifty bucks I lent him. I mean fifty bucks is fifty bucks, it's not like I've got this series in production where I'm taking home a hundred grand an episode. I only made twenty grand so far off this pilot and who knows when the next pay check will come. Meanwhile I may have to take a job in telemarketing. But aside from that, everything is great."


"Sorry to hear that, Gomez."


"That's the biz, Harry. Get used to it."


"Yeah...So I'll call you back tomorrow, Gomez. Thanks."


"Oh fuck, I just felt a tremor...Gotta go..."




One More Dreaded Call




Teddy Slutsky, Harry's old football coach who led the Mustangs to two consecutive provincial finals. Tubby Teddy with the fu manchu moustache, flowing silk shirts and clogs who barked orders from the sidelines and snuck out for smokes during time-outs. Teddy was now a producer on kiddie sitcom House Hubbies and partied with Nick Tassos. 


Teddy never answered his home phone, but the message on his answering machine attested that he was now a Hollywood insider, at least in his own mind: 


"Hey there folks and strokes, I'm not in right now because I'm preparing my monologue for theTonight Show. Leave a message and I'll have my buxom assistant, Brandy, call you back...Hee hee hee, Brandy. Knock it off, I'm recording a message..." 


Fortunately for the millions of Tonight Show fans who like good comedy, Teddy got bumped off (again) from the show at the last minute and never got called back. Would Teddy remember Harry Starr, former quarterback whom he taught how to throw a screen pass, run a bootleg, call an audible?


"Hello Teddy, it's Harry Starr. You used to coach me on the St. Clair  Mustangs. how are you?"


"Oh man, St. Clair. That was in another lifetime. St. Clair."


'Yeah, I used to play quarterback. Remember we made it to the provincial finals two years in a row and got our asses kicked both times. We were too cold to play."


"Yeah, right the Mustangs. Were you the kid with the red hair and freckles who stuttered?"


"N-n-n-o, that was Jeff Shrier. He played center."


"Jeff Shrier? The orthodontist's kid?"


"No, that was Mitch Handelman."


"Mitch Handelman?! That shit-head fucked my little sister!"


No, that was actually my cousin, Joey Prager. But your sister fucked almost everyone.


"I don't think so."


"I'm about to run out...What's your name again?"


"Harry. Harry Starr."


"Did your father sell ties?"


"No, but he once sold--"


"So what's up, Harry. Make it quick, I gotta run for a taping."


"Well, I'm--"


"Can you call me back in a few days, Harry. I really gotta run now. I'm late and I'm warming up the audience for Vets in Heat. Bye."


Click.


"I'm going down to..."

Dik-Dash with a Dash

Call #1

"Hello, Roosevelt Insurance. May I help you?"

"Hello, can I speak to..."

Gulp, do not say "Stiff."

"...Don?"

"May I ask who is calling please?"

Sure, an old friend who knew your boss before he became Don Roosevelt, when he was Sheldon "Stiff"  Rosenfeld, aka The Human Erection.

"Umm, Harry, Harry Starr."

"Thank you, Mr. Starr. I'll check if he's available."

Check if he's available...More like check if he's jerking off in his office or not. How do guys like this pull off these charades? May I ask who's calling? I'll check if he's available. Don Roosevelt.

Harry wrapped his hand around the mouth-piece of the phone and flushed the toilet.

"Hello, Mr. Starr!"

"Hello, Stiff!"

"Oh man, Harry. Those were the days. Camp was the best. So how are you doing, Harry old boy?"

Old boy. Like we knew each other from The Knickerbocker Club, not Camp --- where we ate gefilte fish and drank grape juice for Friday night supper. Old boy.

"Harry? Harry, are you still there? What's that sound? Did something just explode?"

O, the dangers of the bathroom call.

"...Oh yeah, sorry. A light bulb just blew."

Out of my ass.

" Hang on, let me turn off the switch."" Harry covered the mouth-piece of the phone with his hand and held back from cracking up. Calling from the crapper was epic.

"Sorry...I'm okay now...What do I call you now anyways?"

"Don. Don Roosevelt. Officially changed my name two years ago."

"Okay...D-d...Stiff...Fuck, can I still call you Stiff?"

"Fuck, why not? From one dick-head to another...So what's up, Starr?"

"Well, for one, I'm moving to L.A. next week. I'm writing sitcom scripts now and want to go down to L.A. and give it a shot there. I was wondering if you could give me Ricky Dash's number? I haven't spoken to him since he moved to L.A."

"Yeah, well, say hello to Dik-Dash with a dash for me if you see him."

"Dik-Dash with a Dash?"

"Yeah,  Ricky-boy's new and improved Hollywood name. He actually modified his name. Ricky - out, he's Dik now, that's D-I-K, no C, and he added a dash between Dik and Dash. So he's got like one name now, Dik-Dash with a dash. And to think the dick-head busted my balls for changing my name! That fucking hypocrite, that Dik-Dash."

"Dik-Dash? That's hysterical!...Umm...so I guess your still not talking since the Wedding Invitation dispute? Man, I thought that you guys would've made up by now. You were so close."

Harry ripped a long fart while dumping more from the previous night's midnight souvlaki run.

"Are you calling me from the crapper, Starr?"

"No, no, of course not," Harry said while involuntarily ripping another mighty blast.

That yogurt sauce was a killer.

"You fucker, this is a crapper call. You're calling me from the shit-house! I can practically smell it over the phone line."

Shit, I must seem like such a jerk.

"Relax, Harry, it's no biggie. I'm actually on the can too. I think there's something about hearing from an old camp friend that moves the bowels...So what were you saying?"

"About Ricky, man. I can't believe you lost contact with him."

"It's not like I didn't try, Harry.  I sent Ricky a card when his father died. Then I called him. Never heard back. Guess that Dik-head Dash is too big a Hollywood dude to bother with his old friends."

"Shit...You guys were like best friends. Didn't you give him his first blow job?"

"No, when I tried his cock was already up your ass, Harry Starr. After you've always been the dream boy, tall, dark and handsome...Say, weren't you doing some acting. I remember Ricky talking about you. He thought you were great, that you'd one day you'd make it as an actor--"

"Yeah, we'll, he thought wrong. Acting's not my thing anymore...I fucken choked, but that's another long and boring story. But now I'm writing."

"Yeah...writing? Cool...So you should still try to call Dik-Dash with a dash. He always thought you were a great guy, Harry. Look, I don't have his number anymore, but you should try his mother. She's in the phone book. Still lives in the same house on Tupper Drive."

"Ahhh...okay...Okay."

"..."

"Well, thanks, Stiff. I'll let you know how it goes."

"Yeah, keep me posted, Harry...Say, did you take out a health insurance policy for when you're in L.A.? Y'know Medicare doesn't cover you down there if something happens like getting your dick stuck in a drawer."

"Fuck off..."

"No seriously. I just so happen to have a plan that would be perfect for you, Harry...And quite reasonably priced too. Are you still cheap?"


Call #2


Awkward. "Hello, Mrs. Dash, it's Harry Starr. Old friend of Ricky's from camp."

"Oh yes, I remember you, Harry. You were over at our house a few times. Nice boy. Ricky likes to be called Dik now. It's more adult-sounding."

"That's me, very nice."

Crackling silence. Uncomfortable mother chat.

"...So I'm going down to live in L.A. for a while and wanted to call up Dik. Would you be able to give me his number?"

"...Aha...yes...I don't mean to be impolite, Harry, but I'll have to speak Rich-err-Dik first. His rules. Dik gets so many calls now, you can imagine."

"...Yes, umm, I understand...so..."

"Why don't you call me back in a couple of days? I'll be speaking with Rr..Dik tomorrow."

"Sounds good, Mrs. Dash. I'll call you then."

Not really, needing clearance from Dik-Dash. Fuck, what am I? Some desperate stalker? But hey, you gotta do what you gotta do.

Two days later Harry got the number.

That was a Sunday night.


Call #3


Monday night: Mondays are always a bad day to call.

Tuesday night: Too tired. Killer day at work.

Wednesday night: Three aborted dials. Tried.

Thursday night:  They tape Dik-Dash's show that night, Dik-Dash unavailable. Would've tried.

Friday night: It's Friday night. Never call on a Friday night.

Saturday night: Only losers call on a Saturday night.

Sunday night: Fucking do it already! Everyone's home on a Sunday night dreading Monday.

Need a drink.

A shot of vodka...another one...and another.

Make the call already. What do I call him? Ricky or Dik? Or sir? It's not the same anymore.  How different things would've been if I would've played Ernesto, son of Hitler.

If only, if only.

Pacing, pacing.

Deep breaths.

Sit down, get a pad and pen.

Doodle caricature of Ricky, vacuumed hair, chiseled nose and chin, while a bird craps on his head.

Vodka shot.

Dial, man, dial.

Busy signal. Phew.

Pacing, pacing.

Look in the mirror. You're so handsome, Harry, so handsome. Better looking than Dik-Dash.

Dial...A ring. Fucking stomach in knots.

"Hello."

A woman's voice. Wonder who's the bimbo he's fucking.

"Hi, can I speak to...uhh...Dik, please?"

Yeah, Ricky.

"Let me see if he can come to the phone. Who's calling?"

The guy who used to play rafter-ball with me in Bunk 24.

Bang down, bang down! Blow off this doomed plan.

"Harry, his old friend from camp, Harry Starr."

You stupid dick, Harry Starr, you stupid dick.

"Hold on a sec,  he's on another call right now."

Oh shit, I'm bugging him. He doesn't want to talk to me. Bang down, bang down...Too late to bang down.

"I can call back at another time if he's busy."

Don't sound so fucking submissive, Harry.

"No, it's okay. Dik loves  hearing from old friends.

Even ones that hate him and just want a favor?

"Oh, okay."

The time freezes. What's taking so long? He doesn't want to speak to me and I don't blame him. I wouldn't want to speak with me.

"Hello...?"

"Ricky?"

"Dik."

"Dik?"

"Was Ricky."

"Hi D-Dik, it's Harry."

"...Hi Harry."

"Uhhh, hi. Dik. Can I call you Rick?"

"I'm Dik, Harry."

"Yeh, okay...Dik...How are you doing...Dik?"

"Crazy busy, man. Fox just green -lit my new show, The Dik Show. Working night an day, Harry. Night and day."

"Great, man, great."

"...Yeah...great."

"So what's up with you, Harry? It's been a while."

"Yeah,  it has...I've been working in sales..."

"Selling what?"


Stupid-fucking-pieces-of-leather-that hold-up-your-pants...or skirts.

"Uhhh, fashion...fashion."

"Okay...good, yeah...good."

"I'm not acting anymore..."

"Really?"

"Yeah...I lost the taste for it."

"Too bad. You were pretty good."

"Yeah, we'll. That's how it goes.  You try different things. Some work out, others don"t."

"Uh huh..."

"So now I"m writing.  Remember Ronnie Finkelstein?"

"Oh yeah, Ronnie...How's he doing?"

"Well, not so hot lately. But he got me into writing scripts. I'm actually finishing off a Feldman spec script now and planning on taking it down to L.A. with me."

"Okay..."

"I guess...That's kind of why I'm calling. I'm gonna see if I can get something going writing for sitcoms and was wondering if you wouldn't mind...taking a look at it?"

"...Sure,  Harry. I can read it and give you back some notes."

Oh, man, fucking great, amazing.

"That would be great...Dik--"

"So look, Harry. Send me your script and we'll take it from there. Might take me some time to get to it, things are crazy busy now."

"I can imagine..."

No I can't.

"...Yeah..."

"Anyhow, I won't keep you longer, D-Dik. I should be finished the script this week and then I'll send it to you..."

"Great."

"Yeah, great. I really appreciate this, Dik. Thanks a lot."

"My pleasure."

Really?

"Well, take care, we"ll be in touch. Bye."

"Bye, Harry."

Harry crashed out on the sofa and fell asleep.

Dik-Dash with a dash.