Snapshots of Fictional Wanting

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As I watch the sights that I've seen a million times before grow smaller and smaller in my rear view mirror, I think about all my failures in this city. And a boy. My failures in Los Angeles and failure with the boy are insignificant to the greater picture of this move, yet they're all I can think about.

We sat down on his couch and he picked up his guitar. I couldn't look at him anymore. He was winning me over, so I tried to keep my focus on a used piece of floss lying on the coffee table. There was only one sign that a man who once had money, fame, a family, and legions of people who looked up to him lived there. All over the apartment were pictures of the former Mr. W. Young Mr. W. Smiling Mr. W. Handsome Mr. W. All before the switch was flipped. I was drawn into the photos. I couldn't stop staring at him. Who is this strapping, vivacious young man in the picture and who is that frail, sad, old man sitting on the couch? The apartment was covered in drawing paper taped to the walls. In what looked like children's handwriting, the words "Don't give up" lined the room.

I'm trying to understand the psychological undertone of why I'd find someone who looks like Humbert Humbert attractive.

Why is it, that upon being asked what she wanted out of their frequent rendez-vous, she immediately did an impression of a deer caught in headlights and proceeded to zero in on the soup she was eating and exerting all energy on drumming up a witty comment about the root vegetables in her meal?

I sat back in my chair and digested all those forgotten feelings that I just unearthed.

Maybe this will explain some things.

Maybe I was meant to be with a smart, big nosed, categorizable idiot savant.

Maybe I should just stop fighting it and give in to what my inner child has always wanted.

Ok, so if you're a Jewish-looking scientist who finds dinosaurs, ghosts, or time travel titillating ...give me a call?

Just you and me, driving through the desert. I'm watching you, with your hand out the window, your sunglasses on though it was pitch black in the desert, and thinking there was no greater moment than this.

Imaginary Subway Love Story

That's my favorite book
He says
As I lower my wayfarers to take a look
You sit down in front of me
And say I don't want to be
Another casualty
Of this crazy
Lazy
Generation

Oh, you're one of them
I say
Let me see your
horn-rimmed
social-whimmed
vintage
drippage
bleeding heart

I've seen you before
In a dream
Or maybe more
Like a movie
Starring you and me
and what we could be
Out destiny
Amongst this calamity

You can be my Alvy Singer
I will be your Annie Hall
We will go to dive bars
And analyze ourselves
We'll name our child Circumstance
Just like the people on TV
We'll divorce though never marry
And live happily ever after
In our fort underneath the couch.

The Night of the Acquitted B-List Actor Finale

The apartment was covered in drawing paper taped to the walls. In what looked like children's handwriting, the words "Don't give up" lined the room.

"Want a pair of my cowboy pants?"

These words broke me from my daze.

"Oh, um, sure?"

He guided me into his barren spare room that had only a tool bench and a closet full of jeans.

"I think we're the same size. You can borrow them anytime."

"Oh, ok. Thanks."

We sat down on his couch and he picked up his guitar. I couldn't look at him anymore. He was winning me over, so I tried to keep my focus on a used piece of floss lying on the coffee table.

I didn't want him to get under my skin. For all I knew, this was all an act.

Lauren, just keep reminding yourself that he did it, whether it's true or not.

Before I left that afternoon, I asked him what he had done for Thanksgiving that week.

"Oh, it was Thanksgiving? I bought a chicken from Gelson's and drove up to Ojai and ate it in the woods."

I smiled and patted him on the arm.

As I left, he said,"Maybe we can go out to dinner sometime? Grab a drink?"

That evening I went to a bar with friends. I had recently gone through a sort-of break-up of a sort-of relationship. That sort-of ex-boyfriend was there. I had had a few drinks and found myself slowly slipping into a funk. I wanted to call Mr. W.

Lauren, what is the matter with you? This man is not your friend! This man is quite possibly a murderer!

I fought the temptation. I knew something was happening. I began to care for this person and I had to nip it in the bud.

The next day I dropped by Mr. W's unexpectantly and he was taken aback. He commented on the fact that he doesn't like surprise guests. I shrugged it off and handed him an invitation to my party. On the back, I wrote, "Mr. W, it's been a pleasure getting to know you. It means a lot that you trust me and brought me into your home. You've become sort of a mentor so please don't ever it on me. Haha. Sincerely, Lauren".

Needless to say, he didn't come to the party. I never heard from Mr. W again. I called him a few times to see if he needed anything. I left him a message on Chirstmas Eve. I knew I must had offended him, but I had no choice. I couldn't let my guard down. Not with this one. He was fire and I knew better.

Sometimes I think of Mr. W.
I wonder how he is doing and get the urge to call him. I pick up the phone and force myself to remember who I am dealing with.

Lauren, he's not the man you saw up on the screen.

The Night of the Acquitted B-list Actor Pt. 4

"So what time do you want to meet on Saturday?"

"Same time, Mr. W. I wasn't expecting to hear from you. What made you-"

Click.

I show up, same spot, same time, same tiny man in Wayfarers standing at the entrance.

The walls were lower now. For hours, he told me stories about his childhood, about standing in front of Paramount at three years-old dancing for the executives that walked in and out of the front gate. He told me how his parents would lock him in a closet. He spoke of abuse both at home and on the set. Back then child protection laws did not exist on films. He told me that his mentors were Bogart and Mitchum, how Brando and he despised each other, and how for a long time he was on dope and angry. And I realized that I heard all of this before.
Mr. W had told all these stories before in interviews. I realized then that he was indeed a very good actor which later made me question every single maneuver he made with me.

After breakfast we drove to Beverly Hills while he reminisced about his early days in Hollywood. As we drove by a park where a young family played with their little daughter, Mr. W slowed down and watched with near tears welling up in his eyes. He screamed at cars that honked at him. He was not going to let anything come in the way of this moment.

We continued on through L.A. looking for garage sales. You see, Mr. W lost a very large civil lawsuit and he is broke. Zilch. Mr. W lost or sold everything that he owned, but he'd occasionally pick up a new piece of treasure at a yard sale.

If he didn't sell it or lose it, then he gave it away. He explained how he gave a complete stranger his guitar that he used in both his Oscar-nominated film and hit TV show. I asked him why he did that.

"What's the point of holding onto these things that once I'm dead and gone, people are going to fight over? This way somebody who really appreciates it will hold onto it and cherish it."

"People" meant his family. He wouldn't refer to his children as family. He told me in the beginning that he had no children, when in fact he had three.

He gave away his Emmys, his scripts, and his film and television mementos.

And when I entered his apartment, I saw that he indeed had nothing. A couch to sit on, a bed to sleep on, a TV to watch, and some gym equipment he fastened together from trash, were all the large pieces he had.

For character, cowboy boots, cowboy shirts, and cowboy hats hung up on the walls.

There was only one sign that a man who once had money, fame, a family, and legions of people who looked up to him lived there. All over the apartment were pictures of the former Mr. W. Young Mr. W. Smiling Mr. W. Handsome Mr. W. All before the switch was flipped. I was drawn into the photos. I couldn't stop staring at him. Who is this strapping, vivacious young man in the picture and who is that frail, sad, old man sitting on the couch?

To be continued...

The Night of the Acquitted B-List Actor Pt. 3

His ideas weren't that great.

He wanted to tour with Anne Margaret or Rita Moreno and entertain the people of Peoria, IL. Mr. W had a thing for Peoria. Peoria represented life. Not the machine that is Hollywood; the machine he has drudged through since he was 3 years old. L.A. is all that he's known, but he understands that there are real people out there. People who don't get the urge to kill.

I politely and nervously told him my thoughts.

"Honestly, at this point in your career, I think you need to reach out to people like Tarantino or Lynch. Those are the guys that will take a chance on you. People are too scared right now because they think...well...you know what people think."

"I know they think I killed Patty."

AWKWARD!
Change the subject, change the subject, change the subject...

I was saved by the people sitting next to us.

"Excuse me Mr. W." The mother said in hush tones. "We just want you to know that we are huge fans of your show, it was quite popular in South America and the people of our village would go every night and pray for you in the church."

Mr. W was touched, but not surprised.

Before my eyes was a small, defeated man, but inside I could see an ego the size of the moon still alive and well. I think that is the only thing that has kept him going. He had no money, no family, and no career, but his belief that he would become a star again was the only thing that kept him from killing himself.

Mr. W and I talked for five hours that day. As we parted ways, I found that I wanted to see him again.

"Let's keep brainstorming ideas for you and meet same time next week? What do you say?"

He shook his head and laughed.

"I don't think so."

"So be it."

We shook hands and each got in our respective cars. Me in my '06 Nissan Versa, he in his '96 Toyota Corolla.

I chalked up the experience as potential for a great dinner story or future blog.

Three days later I get a call from him...

The Night of the Acquitted B-List Actor Pt. 2

"Is this John's son's secretary?"

God, will you quit it with the "secretary"? It's not 1955 anymore, daddy-o.

"Yes"

"This is Mr. W. We met awhile back."

"I remember. How are you?"

"I'm good. Look, I want back in the business and need help."

"Ok."

"I mean I need an assistant to tell me what's new, who the agents are, who are at the studios."

"Well, I work exclusively for Mr. F, but I'd be happy to meet with and give you some ideas."

"10AM, 101 Cafe, Saturday. How does that sound?"

"Um..great. See you then."

What the hell did I just do!?!?

The rest of the week I hemmed and haughed about meeting with Mr. W. I mean how often is one faced with the predicament of conversing with an actor who was found innocent of killing someone when we're all pretty sure he did it. A new moral question came up for me- do I speak to a man who may or may not have killed his wife? Even if he did, does that mean that no one should talk to him? I needed to be informed, so I did as much research as I could before our weekend breakfast meeting. I read the entire case online. I watched Mr. W's most famous works. By the end, I knew no more or less than I did before.

I decided to go through with it.

It was the most nervous I'd been in a long time. At that point in my career I had worked for and met some of the most intimidating presences in Hollywood, but none of them compared to the 120 pound 74 year-old I was about to have breakfast with now. Did I think he was going to kill me? Of course not. I just had no idea what I was in for.

I pulled into the parking lot and headed for the door. There he was. The same tiny man in cowboy garb and hat bigger than his torso. He lowered his Wayfarers and in his unforgettable voice says, "Ms. Modery, how ya doing? Let's go inside so these people will stop staring at me."

We got stares from every angle. If it wasn't because of his face that everyone in America got used to seeing on the nightly news, it was because of his ridiculous hat and shit-kicking boots. The waitresses new him by name and everyone seemed genuinely happy to see him. This was his haunt and one of his only havens left in town.

Before we even sat, he ordered "the same old thing" and directed me to his table in the back. The atmosphere was tense and I could tell he was just as nervous as I was. We talked about trivial things and at points his dialogue was slightly nonsensical, his focus elsewhere, shifting to what's going on around him, who was watching him, judging him. He ate more butter than toast and he was quick to explain the physical and sexual abuse he was subjected to as a child, as almost a pretense excuse to what he thought I could be thinking.

Four cups of coffee later, he stops with the small talk.

"Let's cut the bullshit. I want back in the industry and I need help. I know no one likes me, I know they all think I'm a murderer, but I'm going to win an Oscar before I die, God damnit. I have these ideas, you know, and I need your help."

I shuffled in my seat...

To be continued...

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...