Big Night Out

"Irwin's is depressed, " Wendy said to Harry, who was also depressed. No one had called him back yet. Not Mike Winikoff for the script review. Not Mathew Spitz, not Carla Weisel, not Teddy Slutsky. Not no one.

"Irwin?"

"Yeah, Gretta's pug."

"No wonder. Irwin probably wishes he were a collie, a good-looking breed."

"Well I think pugs are cute. And so does Gretta. She wants me to talk to him."


"Who are you, Dr. Doolittle?"

"I understand dogs, I have six of them, remember?"

"I remember stepping in some crap this morning."

Wendy blushed and giggled nervously.

"Make all the jokes you want, Harry, but I've healed a lot of dogs."

Hence the dinner invitation to the Sheza, Amazon Warrior star, Gretta Bismarck's house. But it was a stretch. And while Harry agreed to go along as Wendy's date, he wasn't convinced that it all wasn't but a ruse to go out with him. Wendy told fantastical tales all the times. Yesterday she claimed Bill Clinton pardoned her father, the week before she confessed to sleeping with O.J., and before that something about a PhD in Astro Psychology -- (whatever that was) -- from "somewhere in Europe."

In any case, Harry brought along a copy of his Feldman spec script just in case, not that he could imagine himself writing for an audience of love-starved humpy adolescents and middle-aged postmen still living with their mothers. Where was the dignity in writing for a show like that? Meanwhile if Wendy told him at the last minute that Gretta cancelled, and that they might as well go for dinner once they were already out, he wouldn't be surprised.

"Gretta is mad about her pets. Mad, mad."

"Madder than you?" Harry blurted.

"Way. She hired this guy just to take care of this parrot aviary she built inside her house. She thinks it inspires her for her part."

"Madder than you."

"Haaaarry. You're so mean." Wendy giggled. 

Harry scanned Wendy while she drove. "Rather tasty when she gets dressed up and out of her kennel. Cute face, tight little body." Harry thought. He sniffed the air. "Perfume! Eau de kennel?"

"You are such an asshole, Harry...Why do I love bad boys?"

That was a strange remark to hear, Harry never thought of himself as anything remotely near a bad boy like One-Ball Spiegel, Mr. Matricide," or Kenny Frick who dipped a finger or two inside Tracey Gordon's jeans in the back of the 292 bus. That stuff was bad.

"Just watch what you say around Gretta. She's actually quite educated and sophisticated, I think she has a Masters degree in Art History. There's nothing Hollywood star about her or her new boyfriend, this British billionaire guy, Chester Goodfriend, who's kind of a Lord or something."

"Do you mean Chester Goodfriend, heir to the Goodfriend cosmetics empire?"

Harry ears pricked up. Bullshit or should he be impressed?

"Yeah, that's him. After his family bought the studio, Chester started hanging out on the set. Now they're kind of together. So be on your best behavior, Harry."

Harry felt like a shit for all his disparaging thoughts and remarks about Wendy. Take her outside of her kennel and she was actually pretty cool. And upon reflection, Harry realized that this could be a Big Night. Dinner with a legitimate TV star, albeit cable and cultish, and her billionaire boyfriend who owned a studio. 

"We're almost there now, Harry. She lives next door to the pink villa with the turquoise statue of Zeus and Apollo at the entrance."

"So where's our sad little Amos?" Wendy asked Gretta after the round of greetings and introductions. Instinctively Harry clutched his cell phone to call Finkie...then he let go. He pained for his fallen comrade. How much better this surreal Hollywood moment would have been with Finkie.

"He's lying there in front of the aviary. All he does is lie there, watching the parrots all day," Trudy said.

Harry was adjusting to the normality of the situation. Someone just talking about their pet. Didn't seem like a TV star, could be just another attractive brunette who goes to the gym a lot. She also seemed a lot smaller and thinner than she appeared on TV. And Chester the lanky, fair-haired billionaire heir, reminded Harry of an unassuming college professor. Over the top, but ultimately nothing more than a get together with a couple of new friends.

California Dreamin'

Every night that week the same dream.

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

Gary Feldman looks down at Harry and pats him on the head.

"Beautiful brown eyes, Harry, but you're too short to write on my show."

Gary and Mike laugh maniacally.

The threesome walks past an office building and stops to look at the graffiti sprayed on the wall. Harry reads it, "I'm tall." the graffiti grows taller along with Harry until they are both as high as the building.

Harry looks down to see that he is still in between Mike and Gary, only now, he towers above them both.

"I've always been tall," Harry says as they nod in agreement.

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

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

SFX - SITCOM LAUGH TRACK FOLLOWED BY CLAPPING.

FADE OUT OF DREAM

Dinner with Gomez

Time to network:

Din din with Gomez at a West Hollywood Cuban chicken restaurant. Sitting in a booth with Gomez, one on one. Heebie-jeebies territory. Harry's gay-phobes bristled.

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

Say that again? You have beautiful brown eyes? From a guy? How do you answer that? You have beautiful skin? A noble Roman nose? Maybe just a, shall we dance? But Harry held back, this was networking. Be slick, let it slide. But fuck, You have beautiful brown eyes? From a dude? What was with this Gomez?

"..." But all Harry could really do was sit there slack-jawed.

And Gomez knew it. Look, you try. Tactless and nosy people like Gomez were always pushing it. Dumb questions, embarrassing questions, inappropriate questions, questions, questions, questions. But the askers know how to deal with it. They put up with eyes rolling, with guffaws and sneers and turned shoulders and sometimes the asking pays off. They weasel their way into the right hole. So Gomez's web of questions ultimately lead to making a pilot for NBC. But, You have beautiful brown eyes?  

 "No,  that's not what I meant, y'know. Just that you've got kind of a dangerous look."

Dangerous look?

"..." Drop this line of conversation, Gomez...Gomez...Who names a kid Gomez? Born into insanity. But this was still networking, working behind a veneer of phoniness. Store the barb in the bin of nasty thoughts.

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

Harry sighed. Make this conversation go away. Why do people always say such stupid things? A good time to take a vow of silence. Count to ten and suck it in. Network, Harry. Be an adult.

"I did some acting in college. Majored in theater actually." Beautiful eyes? Fucking guy.

"Why'd you stop?"

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

Choke-head Revisited. An omen for the Fate of the Flunkers which in any case, does not apply when residing in L.A.. At least according to Harry.

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

It is for me, Gomer. "Look, I can't, 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 didn't have many left.

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

Ding ding ding. Be nice, Harry. Remember, Gomez is a connection. Networking is about making connections. About browning your nose. Should've been a radiologist. No need to network. Memorize shit from textbooks. Get your degree and laugh all the way to the bank. What was there to that whole gig? A radiologist? Take some pics? Identify a tumor. Send the poor sap to a doctor to get poked and prodded. What was so hard about that? 

"I like writing because you don't feel so exposed. 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 three cats. Shared a joint with her last night and she coughed up a fur ball."

Gomez cracked up. "Seriously?"

"Yeah." Which was an embellishment, as are all stories. Did Adam live to 930, or maybe just 200 and change? Did Noah bring on board two of every species on earth, or maybe just a hundred thousand or so? The world is an embellishment.

"And she's got this daschund -- German shepherd mix that's got the daschund's body but the shepherd's balls. Looks like it has an udder, fucking dragging those huge balls along the ground." Gross exaggeration, maybe? But man, that mutt had disgustingly big balls.

"You mean Bugsy?"

"I mean Ripleys Believe It or Not. Wendy's place is a fucking freak show."

"Welcome to California, my friend. It's all one big freak show. 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. She smells like a pet shop, but does have a pretty hot body."

Gomez knew that it was a good time to change the subject. Like all bullshitters, he was used to changing subjects. "So did Mike Winikoff 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 your break, Harry. L.A. is all about connections."

And that worried Harry. Connections.

Californy

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.

A world of wonder.
The soundtrack: Deodato's Also Sprach Zarathustra plays in an endless loop.
Light. Sun.
Blue sky. Palm trees.

Californy.

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

Californy.

Opportunity screaming from the hilltops to the canyons to the boulevards to the sea. But as ephemeral as passing clouds.

Californy.

The place Harry oughtta be.

Californy:

A blur of overlapping scenes and images. Time experienced in other dimensions. Concurrent, parallel. Past present and the future rolled up into one and then unrolled into a magic carpet of existential being. A Venn diagram of converging dreams.

Harry awakens in Californy:

Like a baby rocking on its back absorbing the sweet songs and sensual stimulation of a mobile. Like a sea anemone with sticky flowing tentacles sucking in a pastiche of sensory perceptions. Synapses firing off volleys of chemical codes translating the corporeal into impressions.

Californy.

What may be.
Or not.

Californy.

Far from flunkers, farther from St. Clair. Flunkers never die out of town. The phoenix rises from the subterranean.

Gomez referral checks out.

First stop: Wendy's house. Six dogs, five cars, four boarders, three cats, two little piggies and one Wendy landlord. Harry's room -- guest house over the garage. Room with a view. Leafy, awash in sunlight. He parks his car and there's:

                            Wendy

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 thought that it was very interesting.

Californy.

The Dick List

Make a hit list for L.A.. Who do you know who's made it? Who can be a connection? "It's not about what you know," Harry heard his mother repeat forever, "it's who you know?" Only problem was that the who's were usually dicks and Harry didn't do dicks well. He sat at his desk, pulled out his agenda and started to write out his dick list.


Mathew "Nipple-Nose" Spitz


For sure the mole-on-the-noser BMOC cum schlocky game show producer would take Harry's call. After all, what are old high school friends for? Nipple-Nose, A decent egger, but not a go-to guy.  Madly in love with himself, which ultimately turned out to be his greatest asset, more so than his ersatz-Travolta hairdo, more so than his grey wolf fur coat, or white Trans Am, or even his blondie, firm-titted sweetheart, Marli. Ole Nipple-Nose would take Harry's call just to have the opportunity to shmay ad infinitum about himself and his towering accomplishments. About his cheesy game show, Guess What's In My Pants?, about his Hollywood friends like Sonny Pinto and Diqué Ricardo, about his visits to the Playboy Mansion and hot tubbing escapades with Hef and the triplets, about the Ferrari he bought from Will Matlock, about,  about, about. But would he give Harry a bonafide lead or introduction or invariably forget his wallet at the office when he took out him out to lunch?


Carla Weisel


Finkie's first cousin, now a up-and-comer hot shit PR agent counting among her B-List clients the likes of Macy Golden, Tara O'Neil and Jace Lowenthal . She might take his call, that is if she still didn't hold a grudge against Harry for (accidentally) farting in her face while going down on him. For chrissakes, they both ate onion soup that night, what did Carla expect? Besides, it's not like the pug-nosed tart had never experienced a misfire before during a fellatio expedition with any of the scores of pimply would-be Lotharios from high school, from ski school, from afternoon Hebrew school, from summer camp, from the park, from under the bleachers, from, from, from. Carla was always a busy gal, now she was just adult-busy. Busy on calls with stars, busy with meetings, busy on route to more meetings, busy having dinner with good friends, busy at the gym with her trainer, (also Pamela Anderson's), busy, busy, busy.


Teddy Slutsky


Harry's old football coach who led the Mustangs to two consecutive provincial finals only to get massacred because Jewish boys don't do well on frozen fields. Teddy with the fu manchu moustache, flowing silk shirts and clogs who barked orders from the sidelines and snuk smokes during time-outs. Dandy Ted was now a producer on kiddie sitcom House Hubbies and partied with Nick Tassos. Maybe Teddy never answered his home phone, but the message on his answering machine attested that he was now a Hollywood insider: "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..." Fortunately for the millions of Tonight Show fans who like good comedy, Dandy Ted got bumped off the guest list 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? Unfortunately however, Teddy's memory of his head coaching days had faded into oblivion. "Yeah, I remember the Mustangs. Always tripped on the logo. Man, that's going a long way back. Haven't watched a football game in years. Does Denver still have those ugly orange uniforms?"

What a list.

Calling Gomez Glickman

Harry rummaged through his sock-and-curiosa drawer and found Gomez Glickman's number scrawled on the inside of a matchbook from the wedding where they had met.

He studied the odd name -- Gomez plus Glickman equaled what? This had to be a guy with a story.

Indeed.

Gomez Glickman was born enigmatic, treasured, yet resented by his mother for:

• His late arrival in her life. Millie Glickman was forty-four years and seven months when she gave birth to Gomez.
• Stretching her innards with his huge egghead to the point where only a custom-made girdle could keep her distended floppy lips from tumbling out of her undergarments.

Gomez Glickman:

Named after the Dominican fish-monger who delivered him in his store between the octopi and the smelts.

Gomez Glickman:

A mistake, an epilogue to a brood of four fussing  older sisters and a pallid sixty-nine year old father who, in order to provide for his little prince, was forced to delay his dreams of retirement until never.

Yes, Gomez Glickman was born to be confused.

Harry dialed the phone number.

"Hello Gomez, it's 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 driving down the end of the month."

"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..."

Harry held back a guffaw while slicing and dicing Gomez. Yeah right, like Gomez was seeing some girl...any girl...In his dreams, man. In his dreams.

Harry had his number; Gomez was a Mr. Platonic, the type of guy who goes around befriending almost-cute girls and try to pass them off as ex-girlfriends. The reality of his unfulfilled gay existence too painful to confront. No doubt the reason Gomez moved to L.A., to reinvent himself, to rewrite his history.

"...is renting out rooms in this big house she's got in Santa Monica. Before 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..."

And like all the Mr. Platonics he knew, always full of crazy stories.

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

And a friend-of-a-friend connection to fame.

"...Anyhow I could speak to her..."

A nice guy who will always go out of his way to do a favor. Knows many 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..."

And deals, knows where to get the best deals in town on anything. Born with the innate skill of a purchasing agent, but with the character of a Barbra Streisand.

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

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

"Sounds great, Mi-- err...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 and chaotic there at times."

Caveat emptor, the underbelly of the deal.

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

But it was more like an "okay until I can find something better," or an "okay as long as the place doesn't smell like the SPCA."

"So 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. Face it, the guy's just 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."

Harry was too busy cracking up. This Gomez guy was hysterical. They'd be good friends. Even if he was full of shit.

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

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

The Homestretch

                    SCENE I

EXT. THE STREET – A LITTLE LATER THAT EVENING

GARY AND HERB ARE WALKING DOWN THE STREET. GARY IS WHISTLING, STROLLING JAUNTILY.

                   HERB

       How can you be happy at a time

       like this?

            

                   GARY

       Oh relax, Herb. Someday you’ll look

       back on this and laugh.

                   HERB

       Great. The way my life has gone, I’ll

       have to live to two hundred to get

       in all the laughing.

                   GARY

       And that’ll only cover the high

       school years.

                   HERB

       At my funeral, instead of a eulogy,

       they’ll just play a laugh track.

       Would it offend the gods so much to

       make me a winner just once?  Even

       Charlie Brown won a baseball game

       last year.  

                   GARY

       Maybe that’s your problem, Herb.

       All your role models seem to be

       cartoon characters. Robin, Jughead,

       Charlie Brown. You’re comparing

       yourself to ink!

                   HERB

       (WITH RESIGNATION) You’re right. I’m

       I’m aiming too high. Hey, what the hell’s

       going on here?

GARY AND HERB HAVE ARRIVED AT THE MILK BAR. THERE IS A CROWD OF PEOPLE MILLING ABOUT. POLICE TAPE IS BARRING THE ENTRANCE.

                   TERRI (OC)

       The whole place is infested with vermin.

GARY AND HERB WALK OVER TO ELAINE.

                   HERB

       Great – I’ve lost my girls, and now

       I’m not even gonna get ice cream.

                    TERRI

       Lost the girls? Where’s Jana and Jill?

                    GARY

       Listen to this! Jana, my girlfriend,

       tells me that she likes Herb better

       than me.

TERRI PUSHES GARY.

                   TERRI

       Get out! She liked Robin better than you?

                   HERB

       You haven’t heard the best. They both

       liked me so much, they dumped me.

      

                   GARY

       Rather than fight over Herb, they

       thought it’s be best to break it off.

       Pulaski, this charm of yours...it’s

       a curse.

                   HERB

       You are so right, my friend. Why is

       it that with women, I’m either Valentino

       Charlie Brown? They either become totally

       obsessed with me, to the point of

       suicide, or I turn them into nuns?

                   GARY

       You're godly, Herb.

HERB STOPS TO THINK FOR A BEAT.

                   HERB

       Godly, yes. A new angle!

END OF ACT TWO.

END OF STORY.

CUT TO MONOLOGUE: