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Just day another in Fantasy Land...
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The crew is all hanging out in the dark shadowy cave we call our neighborhood bar, the Drawing Room, the jukebox glistening like a Christmas tree, the talk swirling around art and movies and plays, when some new guy none of us have seen before, Pillsbury Doughboy stuffed in black shirt and jeans, chimes in on the conversation.
Asks me, What do you do?
I write, I say, and sometimes I direct stuff - just had a production of "When You Comin' Back, Red Ryder" close a six-week run at the Steve Allen Theatre down the street.
Ah! says Pillsbury, I'm a producer over at ABC. I produce the series "Lost."
I've seen the show a couple times, I say, remembering that I knew, years ago, one of the stars, Terry O'Quinn (plays Lock on it), when Terry was an actor at Center Stage in Baltimore and my plays were starting to get produced. Nice guy, Terry, damn fine actor, and did real well with his career, getting into movies like "The Rocketeer" and "A League Of Their Own" and "Tombstone."
So I say to the Producer from ABC, "How's Terry O'Quinn doing?"
The Producer looks at me blankly and says, "Who's she?"
I smiled down at the bar room floor. My buddy Big Al sees the dark grin on my face and says, "Uh-oh."
I lift my eyes to the Producer and say, Who's she? You're one of the producers on "Lost" and you don't know who one of your stars is?
Well, stammers the Producer, uh, it's a big cast, and if she's new...
Pal, I say, stop it. What do you really do at ABC? I don't care if you deliver the breakfast trays, just don't bullshit me.
Well, stammers the Producer, no, I'm one of the producers...
"Chris," Big Al says gently, "don't hit him."
I say I won't, then I tell Pillsbury, get the fuck away from me. This is East Hollywood. Don't bring your West Hollywood horseshit over here. None of us are impressed.
My buddy Kent nudges me and says, "Come on, let's hop a cab and head over to the Formosa, get a change of scenery."
We do, and soon we're rocketing west down Sunset Blvd., the Armenian behind the wheel intent on slipping and sliding past the headlights like a shark (Kent's promised him an extra 10 if he gets us there fast - generous guy, Kent).
We hop out in front of the historic old Formosa, squat red building, dark golden lights inside, and before heading in, Kent and I fire up a couple smokes.
A smokin' tall blonde swings past us, all leather and lace and wild palomino hair, slicing through the front door. She and I make eye contact. She gives me a big white seductive smile, eyebrow arched and blue eyes tawny, before whipping past. Even Kent notices the look and he says to me, "Uh-HUH! Looks like the game's afoot."
In we go, into the Formosa's inky shadows, the walls lined with framed 8X10s of all the stars who've hung out here for decades.
SHE is sitting alone at a candlelit table. Kent and I take positions at the bar. SHE and I keep exchanging glances.
I'm just about to send over to her a drink, when the Formosa's front door swings open. Some guy strolls into the dark. SHE hops from her table, gives him a big silhouette hug. He slides into the booth opposite her.
Then HE leans into the candlelight.
It's George Clooney.
I turn to Kent and say softly, "That guy she just met - it's Clooney."
Kent smiles at me, shakes his head. "Hate to tell you this," Kent says, "but you're toast."
"You don't have to tell me."
"Come on," Kent says, "let's go back to the Drawing Room, where you can pretend YOU'RE George Clooney."
Hollywood. Sometimes it's real, sometimes it isn't.
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