"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. Fucking Dik.
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, Harry. 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. A cast of crappy has-beens doing a show about life in the crap-lane. That's my Leftovers, waiting for some snot-nosed studio prick to flush it down the crapper."
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 Grey Goose 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..." she sighed.
Oh, another jerk?
"Did I hear you say, Montreal?" Shyrrel Bee recited as she tapped Harry on the shoulder. "I once had a special lover there who made wonderful sandwiches..."
Shyrrel Bee neé Shirley Blumenthal, fuck-doll to the In-Boys. How did she do it? How far could a charming sycophantian smile with a figure like a chicken carcass and bug-eyed baby blues take a gal? Fucking far if you play your cards right, if you're always decked out in Prada noir and Hermes scarves. Pull your peroxide blond mane in a bun, a kind of ersatz-Kate-Hepburn look and away we go. That Shyrrel neé Shirley, a muse to the walking hard-ons with fat wallets, an artiste that Shyrrel, with her clumsy Gauguin portraits adorning the laundry rooms of all her fuck-buddies.
Like real estate mogul, Cliff Finegold. "She's a slut, I'm a slut - a perfect match," he whispered into Harry's ear, foregoing the usual boring formalities of a self-introduction. Who needs to introduce oneself when you're a God?
Not that Shyrrel was a conquest worth bragging about. Cliff Finegold, another schmaying real estate guy. Par for the course among these crowds. Cliff Finegold, CEO, President and God of The Finegold Group. At least that's what it was written on his business card. Yes, God. Cliffy, Cliffy with the doughy bubble ass, builder: 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. Cliffy Finegold The Almighty, whining about bad tenants, how he just got screwed for rent by another Chapter 11 schmata whore. Cliffy, Cliffy, "the wrong guy to fuck with." Relentless, ruthless, unforgiving. Slap the schmata slime-bucket 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. Cliffy, Cliffy needs to blow off steam, to stay in shape, to rape and pillage more Johnnies-on-the-make. Cause they have to start from scratch and he didn't. Cliffy the athlete, burning off calories, bringing down the pulse rate. Cycling, cycling, cycling. A hundred miles here before breakfast, five hundred mile weekends. Peddling, peddling, peddling. Not melting his lumpy doughy ass away. No one's perfect, even a real estate God.
"A perfect match," Little Big Man piped in loud enough so that a minyan of heads turn around. "The Match Game, Mark Goodson and Bill Todman, now those guys made some real money!"
That Little Big Man, every inch of his sculpted 5'4" frame packed with importance. Every show He created a monster hit. That Little Big Man always hustling, hustling, hustling. Creating, reinventing, shmoozing, shmoozing, shmoozing. Scoring jackpots, forging new ventures, hitting triple sevens with Internet start-ups, getting out before the bubble burst. Scoring, scoring, scoring. That Little Big Man, star emcee to all the cancer fundraisers, his mug shot plastered on every society page. Little Big Man - smiling, smiling, smiling. And why not? Just having fun with life. "Writing a memoir now." Chock-full of rich and famous BFF'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 Little Big Man. Everything he touches turns to gold.
Well I don't know why I'm here chez Dik-Dash,
I have a feeling I'm wadin' through trash,
I'm so stressed, scared I'll pee in my pants,
And I'm wonderin' if I'll get me my chance
Boors to the left of me
Tarts to the right, here I am,
Stuck in the middle and blue
.
Yes I'm stuck in the middle and blue
And I'm wondering why I ain't gotta clue
It's so hard to fake I'm having some fun
Panicking man, I just wanna run.
Boors to the left of me,
Tarts to the right, here I am,
Stuck in the middle and blue.
.
Well you moved down here with pages
And vowed you wouldn't choke again,
And your friends, they've all gone away,
Making scores, forgotten you
I caught fleas.....fleas...
.
Trying to fit into it all,
But I can see that I can't fit in at all,
Is it cool to slip out the door,
Can't suffer these phonies no more,
Boors to the left of me,
Tarts to the right,
Here I am stuck in the middle and blue
.
Well you moved down here with pages,
And vowed you wouldn't choke again,
And your friends, they've all gone away,
Making scores, forgotten you
I caught fleas....fleas....
Well I don't know why I'm here chez Dik-Dash,
Have a feeling I'm wadin' through trash,
I'm so stressed, scared I'll pee in my pants,
And I'm wonderin' if I'll get me my chance,
Boors to the left of me,
Tarts to the right
Here I am stuck in the middle and blue
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.
So he bailed, he bailed. Harry slipped out of the room and ran wee wee wee all the way home. And Harry knew it was a mistake, that he was choking on yet another stage without a clue why he fled success. Just to have the goods is not enough though. Harry knew nothing, Harry knew everything. Boors to the left, tarts to the right, stuck in the middle and blue.
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