The Hollywood Guy (14 page)

“Just kidding.”

“Racial profiling isn’t funny.”

“Perrier?”

“I see you met my assistant, Cayenne. Don’t fuck with her, she’s smarter than both of us.” Marcus Bergman, 47, tight-beard, short hair and tennis-tan, impeccably dressed in a custom-made, light gray Italian suit, glides into the room on bare feet and an easy smile, shakes hands limply with Pete. “Marcus Bergman.”

Pete catches a reflection of himself in the mirror: he looks like a street person. “Any relation to Ingmar?” Always cracking wise.

“A distant cousin on my grandfather’s side, I own the remake rights to
Wild Strawberries
. What’s your take on that movie?”

So far Pete’s smartass comments have resulted in insulting the hot assistant and going off on a tangent with the producer. “I’d have to see the film again.”

“Cayenne, make sure Petur gets a copy of
Strawberries
- that’s what I want to call it. So you’re from Iceland?”

“Ever do standup?”

“As a matter of fact I did, but I was no Seinfeld.”

“So you became a producer.”

“Tell me about Iceland, I have Scandinavian roots.”

“I grew up in the Bronx, lived in the Village, then briefly Soho before moving to LA. Now I live in Woodstock.”

“I’m a true Angelino, from the flats between Olympic and Pico, graduated Fairfax High. I bleed Dodger blue.”

Archenemy from Brooklyn, they abandoned their fans and bandbox ballpark for the easy life on the West Coast. The weird thing about all the years in LA was rooting against the home team, but he could never trade Yankee pinstripes for Dodger blue. Cayenne hands him a glass of the city’s famous tap water, Pete’s stomach rumbles as he sits down.

Bergman settles himself on the couch opposite. “I loved what you did with my pilot. It went from good to off the charts.”

“Thanks.”

“Sure the concept is mine, but your elevator scene points the way for the first season. David D is on board, the network is fast tracking the show. They ordered thirteen episodes, unheard of. I need you buddy to lead my creative team.”

“You want me to write the bible for the first season?”

“You have an ending?”

“In fact I do. The mayor and the chief get it on while Bobby skips bail and a terrorist cell plots an attack next season.”

“You are truly amazing.”

Is Bergman in actual awe or is this an act? “I want shared created by credit.”

Bergman stops smiling; his voice drops. “Here’s the way I see it, you’ve done great work… in the past. I also know that you had a gambling jones that followed a sex jones that left you with a reputation for unreliability.”

“So why hire me?”

“Because this project is made for you.”

He’s right, it is. “What’s the catch?”

“Is working in LA a catch?”

Pete stands and stretches. Does he really want this job? He takes in the commanding view out the window. “I read in the paper that hotel guests stand up here flashing the High Line.” He drinks his water. “How long would I be needed on the project?”

“Six months exclusive.”

“Expenses?”

“Negotiable. Remember, this is a cable deal, so the money isn’t huge to start but the series takes off, I don’t have to tell you what that’s worth.”

Pete watches a Staten Island ferry pass the Statue of Liberty, considers how much he would make by doing the deal instead of co-writing a novel on spec with a partner who has a dual personality.

Marcus smiles again, warming to Pete’s style. “See Cayenne, this man plays serious poker, you can learn something from him besides how to insult people.”

“I can’t say I’m not interested,” Pete murmurs.

The phone rings. Cayenne takes the call. “Jeff at Warners.”

“Tell him I’m finishing a meeting.” He puts his hand on Pete’s shoulder. “Why don’t I have a conversation with David. But understand one thing, signing on means a commitment.” He studies Pete closely. “This series will be bigger than
Nasty
.”

Cayenne accompanies Pete to the door, hands him a copy of
Wild Strawberries
accompanied by a reappraising smile. “I have a certificate in Reflexology.” She winks, hands him her card. “Text me when you come out.”

T
he High Line was an elevated freight spur that ran down the west side of Manhattan to the old meat packing district below 14
th
Street centered around the cobblestone triangle where Gansvoort, Little West 12th and Greenwich converge.

Three stories above ground, bovine carcasses were off-loaded from boxcars into adjoining warehouses, emerging as sides of beef hung on spikes to be muscled on to waiting trucks for distribution to butchers all over the city. The stench of fat and blood fouled the air, but the meatpackers didn’t notice. Back then, no tourist ventured into this chaotic warren of streets. During the day the district was impassible to traffic; at night it was the domain of stray cats prowling the gutters and alleyways looking for food scraps. These thriving felines kept the rat population down.

Pete and Samantha found the neighborhood romantic. After dinner, they walked over from their apartment on Grove Street, pretending to be in a French movie. Over time, the neighborhood morphed into a gay trysting ground where Village cowboys had anonymous sex with closeted queers from New Jersey.

In the 80’s the meat market gradually shut down; the freight trains stopped running and the cowboys died of AIDS. Warehouse walls became frescos of graffiti; the elevated structure began to rust and seed drifted across the river from Jersey wetlands taking root between the derelict tracks of the defunct High Line. When the last butchers’ were forced out, the meatpacking district became prime real estate. Devoid of beef, there was no smell, just a nice breeze blowing off the Hudson.

Developers started to replace the warehouses along the river with glass and steel apartment buildings. When the forces of demolition collided with Village locals over the fate of the elevated tracks, the mayor surprised everyone by supporting the will of the people. The High Line would be reborn as a new kind of urban park featuring a fresh perspective of the ever-changing cityscape.

Pete climbs the stairway. The panorama that greets him is startling. A variety of flowering vegetation has been planted alongside the native grasses that blew in from the wetlands. Sections of track remain, taking on a sculptural aura. Wooden benches peel-up from the concrete plank walkway, providing a place to read or sunbathe while watching the world go by against a backdrop of architecture ranging from early 20
th
Century factories to Post Modern Frank Gehry.

Arty New Yorkers from Chelsea promenade alongside tourists speaking in tongues, young people, old people, men and women schmoozing and taking photographs.

Pete stares up at the Standard, imagines Cayenne naked in a ceiling to floor window. Did he say, bigger than
Nasty
? Best not to contemplate, let the mind clear. He checks his watch, plenty of time to catch the five-thirty bus and arrive home by eight for dinner. He drifts with the crowd enjoying the unfamiliar terrain.

Pete had always been fascinated by the city and never tired of exploring it. When he first got together with Samantha, he delighted in taking her to his secret places. The subway transported them to tiny Poe Cottage on the Grand Concourse in the Bronx where you could still feel the poet’s madness lingering in the cramped quarters. He took her to Flushing and kissed her under the derelict World’s Fair Unisphere, rode the D train out to Coney Island for a Nathan’s hot dog and a tour of Luna Park. Terrified, he rode in the first car of the Cyclone Roller Coaster because Sam wanted to. The things we do for love. They visited the auto salvage yards and body shops across from Shea Stadium, neighborhoods where only Spanish was spoken or Russian or Chinese. Sometimes it felt dangerous but that was part of the excitement. And always, wherever they went, the food was amazing.

Pete stops to catch his breath, his gaze settling on a large woman artfully sheathed in layers of expensive fabric, sporting over-size European sunglasses, gazing sadly at the river. She seems vaguely familiar, but that often happens when he scrutinizes people on the street searching for a familiar face rendered unrecognizable by the erosion of time. “Samantha,” he exclaims in wonder.

The large woman stares at him. “Pete?”

How long had it been, twenty years or more? The last time he saw Sam was at the funeral of their friend Patty who died one month after being diagnosed with lung cancer. Patty left behind an angry husband, a sad little boy, and a large group of friends devastated by her passing. Flying in from LA for the funeral, Pete’s externals were impressive. He was the father of a beautiful little girl, had a stable marriage, and his career was in overdrive. In reality, his relationship with Barbara was thorny and he had little time to spend with his daughter. Success had come with a price tag of enormous pressure. Samantha had remarried and traded her career in advertising for foundation work, her husband’s. That day they walked in terror toward an open casket where Patty lay. Samantha grabbed his hand as they stared down at their friend drained of life; tears could not revive her. After the funeral, sharing a sentimental drink at the boathouse in Central Park, he behaved pathetically, begging her to make love as a tribute to Patty who they both desired but never had the courage to pursue. Samantha blew his mind by confessing that she got it on with their friend a couple of times. Pete took the news hard. She took pity on him and agreed to go back to his room at the Mayflower, but no kissing. Now he was insulted but that didn’t stop him from getting hard when Samantha stepped out of her funeral clothes revealing sexy black lace underwear. Gazing down at the park, she braced her arms on the windowsill. Once she possessed the narrow waist, wide hips and round breasts of a Modigliani nude; Renoirian, she was no less desirable. He unsnapped her bra, held her breasts and squeezed her nipples the way she liked him to, then, tore off her panties, as she knew he would. Without endearments, they fucked. No tenderness passed between them. She moaned as he tried to pound her into submission. The orgasm was final.

Today on the newly opened High Line, tourists flowing between them, Pete and Samantha stare. Is that her, could it be him? If so, she’s gained 75 pounds since their encounter at the Mayflower, while Pete is unkempt and seems down on his luck, a person best to avoid.

“Is that you?” Samantha asks.

“Don’t I look like me?”

“Older.”

“And you’re not?”

“Am I unrecognizable?”

“No.” They hug tentatively.

“How long has it been?”

“Since Patty died.”

Each flashes a memory of that traumatic day.

“May I walk with you?”

Samantha nods. “I’m back in the Village near where we lived, only much bigger.”

“Bathroom in the kitchen?”

She laughs. “Still married?”

“Divorced for the third time.”

“I thought Barbara was the love of your life?”

He ignores her jibe. “Remember the time we climbed up here?”

She smiles shyly and for a second Pete glimpses the Samantha he loved. “I was terrified.”

“But you did it anyway.” Pete wants to put his arms around her, but doesn’t. “I moved to Woodstock three years ago.”

“How come we never went to the festival?”

“I get claustrophobic in crowds.”

“We went to a Be-In in the Sheep Meadow.”

“With Patty.” They descend to the street. “How is Jonah, he must be in college?”

“I lost touch.”

“Weren’t you his godmother?”

“Weren’t you his godfather?”

“I guess we’re bad godparents.”

“Are you a better father?”

Pete shakes his head sadly. “Not really.”

They walk toward the cobblestone triangle, past warehouses converted into boutiques, salons and trendy restaurants. Samantha takes his arm. “So different from when we….” her voice trails off.

“In my mind Patty will always be young, bubbly - alive.” Pete spots a French bistro on the corner. “Buy you a drink?”

“Can you afford it?”

“I may look indigent but I have plenty of cash in my pocket and a big job offer.”

Sitting at a sidewalk table they stare at the renovated building across the street. A couple they knew lived there during the neighborhood’s decline. On the way home from seeing friends, a man stepped out of the shadows and demanded their money. No way Gus, the husband, would be mugged at his front door. He pulled a knife; the assailant had a gun. When it was over, two men were dead. Another memory shared in silence.

“Cinzano and soda,” Samantha orders.

“Delamain, Grande Champagne.”

The waiter leaves.

“The priciest.”

Pete still loves her voice, the accent. “You bring out the cognac in me.”

“Tell me about your big job offer.”

“A cable series.”

“You don’t sound excited. TV made you famous.”

“I moved back east to live in the real world. I fell in love with a run down motel alongside a stream in a place that means something to me. I bought and fixed it up, stopped writing.”

“You were a good writer, that first novel was special.”

“You weren’t very enthusiastic at the time.”

“I wanted you out of my life.”

“And I left.”

“You did fine after me.”

“Two more marriages that didn’t work out.”

“Have your friend Bobby fix you up.”

“I’m done with women.”

“Have you changed your sexual orientation?”

“I’m celibate.”

Samantha laughs bitterly. “Me too.”

“Aren’t you married?”

The waiter brings the drinks.

Samantha holds up her glass. “I loved you so much, Pete.”

He smiles. “The moment I saw you, Sam, I knew you were the one.” They drink.

“When I was with Patty, she suggested a three way. I knew that was your fantasy, to have us at the same time, but I said no. I couldn’t bear to watch you fuck another woman, the sameness of the act, what we call love reduced to animal behavior.”