The Night of the Acquitted B-List Actor Pt. 1

When driving down Sunset Boulevard with a cigarette dangling out the window and Springsteen playing on the stereo just doesn't give me the hard-on it used to, I try to recall all the wonderful and weird encounters I've had in Los Angeles. I call a helpless friend from back home and retell the stories they've heard a million times while I momentarily re-inflate my ego. It is only then, that I'm reminded of a particular event. One that I seem to forget often, but nonetheless holds a very special place in my heart.

It's funny how life throws you curve balls. Or in this case acquitted b-list actors.

I was minding my own business when Mr. W started poking around.
Mr. W lived in your cookie cutter 90's faux-European style apartment complex in The Valley next door to my dear friends. He was the mysterious figure that dashed through the halls and it became a point of interest for all of us. I'd ask my friends, "Have you met Mr. W yet?!? What's he like? Is he nice? Is he creepy?"

However, it wasn't at the building that I would meet Mr. W.

No, coincidentally Mr. W called my office looking to speak to my boss. I was an assistant to a famous agent at the time and Mr. W had a history with the agent's cousin. Mr. W was cleaning out his storage units and found a screenplay written by the agent's now deceased cousin. Mr. W wanted to give him a copy of the script. We were all a little surprised to hear his voice on the other line. You see, Mr. W had been recently acquitted of his girlfriend's murder. I was used to my boss getting phone calls from A-list actors and heads of studios, but not obscure actors who's had more face time on Court TV than the big screen. I gave him the address of the agency to have the script mailed, so it was completely unexpected when security called one morning to tell us that a Mr. W was at the front desk.

"What should I do!?" I asked my boss.

"Just let him up."

We all waited with bated breathe. When the quiet footsteps stopped on the landing, we were surprised to see the tiniest old man in a purple cowboy shirt and ten gallon hat standing at the top of the stairs.

"Is Mr. F's secretary here?"

Though little, he had the voice and presence of John Wayne.

And an obvious lack of P.C.-ness.

Secretary? Psh.

"That's me." I said.

"Please give this to John's son."

He hands me the script and walks away.

That was it. We were left speechless.

Until 6 months later...