Chasing Tinsel

By peter C

Chasing Tinsel is a light-hearted look at the zany world of independent film makers as seen through the eyes of a first-time screenwriter.  They are all here - producers, directors, movie stars, wannbe movie stars, agents as well as the people behind the camera who take the written word and make it into movie reality.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Leann Horrocks
• Release date: Sep 15, 2014
• ISBN: 9780990824800

Book preview

CHASING TINSEL

by peterC.

Chasing Tinsel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. Copyright 2014 by Peter C. Horrocks

The cover page art work is designed by Peter C. Horrocks.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, without the prior written consent of the publisher.

Published by Leann Horrocks, Florida USA.

September 2014

ISBN: 978-0-9908248-0-0

The author can be contacted at:

[e-mail]

Chasing Tinsel is dedicated to my wife, Leann

Her belief in me made this novel possible

She is the greatest

Special Thanks to

Susan Downing

for her help and encouragement on this project

CHAPTER ONE

You'll recognize her.

I nodded and smiled.

Esther looked at me for a few seconds through the veil of cigarette smoke that drifted up towards the water-stained ceiling. Marleeni.

Marleeni?

Marleeni. Pause. She owns the apartment building.

Oh.

You'll know her, she's in the movies. She WAS in the movies. Hasn't done much in years. She cleared her throat. I'm an actress too – still am -- you may recognize me.

I didn't.

Well, I wondered, I said.

How kind of you to remember.

Esther smiled, her badly fitting, extra bright white, false teeth gleaming between her bright red lips. She turned, looked at the wall behind her and waved her arms. It was a mass of 8x10 publicity photos of a young-looking woman, apparently Esther, with different guys. In one photo I recognized a middle-aged Mickey Rooney with Esther, in a mermaid outfit, and another actor who was wearing a Roman toga.

I didn't want to put up these photos but my friends insisted. Esther, they said, you've worked with so many famous movie stars, you must put the pictures up. They insisted.

Very uh -- very impressive, I mumbled.

Some of the stories I could tell you about Hollywood. Well, you wouldn't believe me. Then again, maybe you're too young to hear them. She laughed.

Some of her makeup was beginning to flake off. The end of her cigarette glowed as she sucked in another lung full of smoke.

This doesn't bother you, does it? Her false teeth clicked along with the words as she waved the cigarette in it's long holder in my direction.

No, I lied.

Then I thought, how could it bother me? I'm closer to the cigarette than you are! I quit smoking ten years ago and I still miss it! And where did you get that stupid holder anyway? I've seen telephone poles shorter than that.

Esther glanced at the application form that I'd filled out or more accurately that she filled out for me.

Chaz is an unusual name.

It's short for Charles, I replied.

Just like Prince Charles.

I don't think they call him Chaz, I said. They probably call him Princie.

Esther didn't react. The joke was dead on arrival.

Why don't you call yourself Charles? It's a very elegant name.

My parents called me Chaz from the time I was a young kid.

Why? Esther was clearly puzzled.

I don't know. They just did.

Delving into my family history seemed unnecessary but I didn't want to piss her off, she was going to find me an apartment.

The end of her cigarette glowed as Esther sucked in another lungful of smoke.

I think the world of her, she said.

Excuse me?

Marleeni. Wonderful gal. Like I said, I think the world of her. And she'll love having a gentleman, such as yourself, as a tenant. She's very careful who she accepts. The place is always immaculate. You'll love living there. I'll call her. She started punching the buttons on her desk phone with the handset pressed to her ear. Her false teeth grinding from side to side.

A few moments passed, she dropped the handset back onto the cradle.

Busy. We'll give her a couple of minutes.

She looked at my application form again.

A lot of us in the motion picture industry think writers are very sexy. Do you write movies?

No. Novels. I write novels. I'd written one and was working on another so the plural was technically accurate.

The word 'novels' didn't excite her.

One time Marilyn was married to a guy who wrote novels. Marilyn Monroe. I think the guy's name was Miller.

It was Arthur Miller and he was a great writer.

Esther lost interest in the conversation. She drew in a lung full of smoke and then blew out a thin stream of blue air towards to the ceiling.

Marleeni worked with Fred, you know.

Really?

Towards the end.

Right.

The end of what?

I met him a couple of times. Fred. That was before he died. A wonderful man was Fred. Lovely man. Handsome. She tapped the ash off her cigarette into an overflowing ashtray. A real gentleman. He wasn't as tall as you but he was a gentleman.

I didn't know who she was talking about. I hoped she did.

Marleeni did a film with Bobby. I introduced them. I met him at a party at someone's house and he told me they were casting and asked if I was interested. I told him no as I was in the middle of a movie so I suggested Marleeni. I often wondered if she and Bobby -- well, you know, became -- close. She never said and I was too polite to ask. One must be discreet, mustn't one? Bobby was very handsome and he liked the girls. But you didn't hear that from me. I think he was married at the time. But uh, you know, Bobby was uh -- well, Bobby was Bobby, if you know what I mean.

No, I don't. I don't know Bobby or Fred or Marleeni or anyone. You ever watch one of those TV shows where a guy opens a door and he finds himself in another universe? Shows like Twilight Zone. That's what this felt like.

This morning I was walking down a side street and saw the small, store-front real-estate office with a poster-size sheet of white paper taped to the inside of the window that proclaimed Apartments - long term and short term rentals written with a black marker pen. Just what I was looking for, a short term or long term anything. I had to get out of Motel Hell, where I had spent the last twenty one days. The motel was half a block south of Hollywood Boulevard and built between a twenty-four-hour car-body repair shop and a hamburger joint with a busy drive-through window. You'd be amazed how many people needed a damn hamburger at three o'clock in the morning.

A rusted bell jangled on the top of the door frame when I entered the real-estate office. Why a bell was needed was beyond me. It was a one-room store.

Esther, a spry and well-dressed senior citizen wearing too much makeup and a Baby-Jane blonde wig, was sitting at a beaten up desk in the middle of room reading The Hollywood Reporter. The desk was a mess of folders and papers and maps.

The thick lens of her glasses enlarged her eyes and emphasized her fading eyesight. This morning she must have have put on her lipstick with a paint roller as the line of bright red smeared aimlessly over her lips and skin. Her false teeth needed a refit, they clicked when she talked and sometimes beat her gums down to the closed position.

Well, hi. She stood up, straightening her wrinkled pink pant-suit that was a couple of sizes too small. May I help you?

I uh -- I'm looking for an apartment.

Why don't you buy a house, darling? I have some wonderful properties.

Maybe later in the year, I lied.

She didn't try to hide her disappointment as we shook hands. Esther Schwartz. Hollywood's number one realtor five years in a row.

I hoped the five years included at least one in the last couple of decades.

She pointed at a old chair in front of her desk. Please sit down, let's get to know one another.

We did, now I'm waiting. I didn't want to irritate Esther by reminding her to call Marleeni again, but I was getting close to doing that.

I didn't ask if you were married. We're not supposed to ask.

No, I'm not. I was. Not now.

Oh good. She'll like that.

The seconds ticked by. Esther cleared her throat for the hundredth time.

Francis was very good to Marleeni. He made sure she worked when she wanted to. The sound of false teeth grinding together echoed around the room. Her third husband was kinda related to Francis. A distance cousin or something. I don't remember exactly what. Like I said, Francis was very good to her. I never met him but he was good to her. So she said.

Francis?

Yes. They were related. Francis and Lance.

Lance. A new name, lucky me. I'll need a scorecard with this conversation.

Lance died about ten years ago. Car accident. They said he'd had been drinking. Esther whispered the word 'drinking'. She leaned forward.

And, I heard he was porking that young actress who was in 'Hot Tub Follies', Sandra something or was it Joan or maybe Debbie -- I don't know. Anyway he'd been at her apartment right before the accident. Marleeni was very upset because Lance didn't have any life insurance. She got nothing.

Another cigarette ended it's existence. Esther flipped the butt out of the holder. It rolled across the floor. She dug another one out of the package in her desk drawer and slipped it into place. The Zippo lighter blazed forth like a flame-thrower. Esther sucked on the holder. The cigarette glowed.

Maybe I should tell her I had another appointment. Tell her that I'll come back later. No, I've come this far, no point walking away now. I need a place to live and I hate looking for apartments.

The floozie that Lance was slipping it to -- that one in the Hot Tub movie -- I heard she'd had a couple of boob jobs. They didn't look real in the movie. She smiled, creating even more wrinkles in her wrinkled face. How about some coffee?

When I walked into the office, I had noticed the dirty coffee pot, dirtier cups along with a half-eaten Danish pastry, a handful of crumpled paper napkins and a few unwashed spoons on a small metal card table against the wall near the desk. If someone from the city council saw this place, they'd close it down as an imminent threat to the public health of the entire city of Los Angeles.

No thanks. I had some a while ago.

Would you excuse me for a moment, darling?

Esther stood up and brushed cigarette ash from her skirt. She walked to the corner of the room and opened a door that I hadn't noticed before. It was painted the same dirty white as the walls and faded into the background. As she stepped through the door I could see it was a small bathroom. Esther flipped on the light and closed the flimsy door. The sounds of her urinating echoed around the small office for what seemed like minutes. The toilet flushed loudly. There was the sounds of running water.

Esther exited, drying her hands on a paper towel, and said That's better out than in. She threw the damp paper towel onto the table with the coffee pot. Boy, was I glad I tuned down the offer of coffee.

I'll call Marleeni again.

This time the elusive Marleeni answered. The conversation was short. Esther ended it out with We'll be right over, sweetie.

We left the office and crossed the parking lot to her car, a 10 year old Plymouth Belvedere with rust spots all over the hood. The engine rattled into life after several turns of the ignition key. Black smoke poured out of the exhaust pipe.

I should get the car checked up, it burns a little oil, Esther said backing out of the parking space, narrowly missing a new Cadillac in the next space. I instinctively tightened my seat belt.

It’s only a few minutes from here.

She hit the gas pedal. The car sped down the street to the intersection with Hollywood Boulevard. Throwing caution to the wind, Esther kept her foot on the gas and forced the car into the mass of traffic on boulevard. A moment later she jammed down on the brake pedal and we slid to a stop behind the line of cars waiting at the stop light. I was relieved that I hadn't got whiplash.

Fucking traffic! She paused. Oh, I shouldn’t have said that. Pardon my French.

I thought, that’s French? I never knew that. You learn something new everyday.

No problem. It’s fine, I replied.

The lights turned green, she punched the gas pedal and I swear the front wheels came off the ground as the rear wheels burned rubber.

Did I mention I was in 'Around The World in 80 Days'. Mike insisted. He wouldn’t take no for an answer. She steered the car off the boulevard and onto a pleasant, quiet side street, lined with small two and three story apartment buildings.

David was the star. Did you ever meet David? David Niven.

Not that I remember.

If you’d met him, you’ve remembered. Wonderful man. Wonderful actor. Handsome. Very handsome. He liked me. He told me that it was a pleasure to work with an actress who was so professional, so talented. He actually said that. To me. I was flattered.

Mid-way along the street she parked the car in front of a fire-hydrant. It was the only space left. We got out of the car, walked a few yards. She stopped and pointed to a three-story building that was probably built around the time Chaplin was a teenager.

Ta-da! She smiled as she held her arms out wide. Your new home. Isn’t it darling?

Nice.

A narrow path, with a mangy-looking lawn on each side, led to the front door. Inside the building, it smelled musty. The studio apartment was on the top floor on the right side of the building, facing the street. There was no elevator. The iron stairs echoed as we climbed them. Esther rattled the key in the door lock. The door swung open, she led the way inside.

Here we are! she said cheerfully. The look on her face said, what the hell am I doing here when I should be selling Beverly Hills mansions to the rich and famous.

A kitchen-alcove was on the left. The walls needed a coat of paint and the few kitchen cabinets must have been there since World War II. The burners on the gas stove had seen better days.

The living room had a sofa with a faded pink floral pattern on it. Two end tables each had a lamp on them. On the other side of the room, there was a long low coffee-table with an old TV set in the middle. A black and white TV set! All the furniture was blond wood, surviving a lifetime of mistreatment by a long list of tenants. The sofa opened up into a bed.

It's a queen size, Esther said.

I found out later that it wasn't.

A darling little place and, she said then paused for dramatic effect. It's a penthouse.

Technically she was right, but being on the third floor of a three-story building didn't match my idea of a real penthouse. The apartment was small. One large room plus a tiny bathroom with no bathtub, just a shower stall. I wandered around for about twenty seconds. Is this what I want? Is it good enough? Ah, what's the difference, there's only me.

Esther walked by the old sofa and opened the sliding glass doors which led to a narrow balcony over looking the street. The balcony was two feet wide and six feet long. In the corner was a small ceramic container holding the remains of a plant that had about thirty minutes of life left.

Standing in the doorway and waving her arms she explained how I could put a small table and a chair out there and enjoy my morning coffee in the warm sunshine. Her teeth clicked along rhythmically. She told me how wonderful that would be and sooo California. Yeah, and sooo much bullshit. Again, what's the difference.

In an effort to close the deal, she mentioned the apartment had a view of the Hollywood sign. She explained that if I stood on the edge of the toilet, leaned out of the window and looked to the right, between numerous buildings, I'd see the Y and the start of the W of the sign. She actually said that. Sooo much bullshit part two. But I have to admit, months later I tried it. Once, just once. She was right I could see the Y and part of the W.

I like it, I said.

From the moment I met you, I knew you were a gentleman who would recognize a bargain when he saw one. And it’s a penthouse, too.

I felt like saying, you already mentioned that. Please stop kissing my ass, you've got the deal. I just smiled and nodded. I’ll take it.

A wonderful choice, Esther said as she whipped out a few forms from her plastic briefcase and handed them to me along with a ball-point pen with 'Motel Six' stamped on the side. I signed on the dotted line of each document and suddenly I really lived in LA.

Oh, there's one more thing. It's a surprise.

What's that, I asked nervously.

Don't tell me I have to share this studio with a troupe of transvestite circus performers from Albania. I'd signed the twelve month contract, I was locked in.

A swimming pool!

Phew! Great.

Come along. I'll show you.

She led the way down the stairs and through the building to the large inner courtyard. The pool area was paved and had several outdoor tables shaded by large colorful umbrellas. There were plenty of chairs and sun-loungers around the pool's edge. For an apartment pool area, it was a nice extra.

Four overweight guys, senior citizens all, were at one table playing cards. When I said overweight I was being diplomatic. A couple of them had stomachs larger than a Volkswagen. Each was wearing flowered swim trunks that reached their knees, the kind that you can buy for two dollars in any discount store. They all were sucking on unlit stogies. One old guy was still wearing his black socks and brown shoes.

There you are, darling! Esther said.

Standing in a ground floor apartment doorway and decked out in a flowered bikini, was the famous Marleeni.

Well, hello there, she replied stepping out onto the courtyard. She was tall, the kind of tall that you would associate with a Vegas showgirl. Unfortunately middle-age spread was spreading rapidly, and the 'middle-aged' part was almost in the rear view mirror. A small roll of fat folded over her bikini bottom. Her large breasts were barely held in check by the bra-top. Her thighs and cellulite were close friends.

She doesn't look fifty-nine, does she? Esther whispered as we walked over to Marleeni.

Certainly had me fooled. I'd pegged her more like sixty-five.

Esther introduced me as your lovely new gentleman tenant.

We shook hands. Marleeni's grip was strong and lingered.

We're all signed and sealed. Esther handed Marleeni copies of the rental contract.

That's wonderful. When will you be moving in, sweetie? Marleeni's voice was sultry and sexy.

Tomorrow? I asked.

Wonderful. She showed me her pearly whites. And they were pearly and brilliant white.

Come on, Marleeni! We're gonna play poker now! That was one of the seniors.

I'll be right there. Marleeni waved at them. As you can see we have an active social life at Casa Marleeni. The boys adore me.

Boys? When they were boys the country was first getting the news about the Titanic.

I hope that we can have a chance to talk privately -- later, she said quietly.

My first thought was that if I run short of money, maybe she and I could come to some arrangement regarding a trade-off in place of actual rent money. I shouldn't think that way, but it crossed my mind. Bottom line, it didn't happen and our private chat didn't happen either. We did talk often when I was working on my tan by the pool, but it was all movie talk under the watchful eyes of the 'boys'.

CHAPTER TWO

That was two years ago. Now it's May 1984 and I'm still living in the same apartment and have yet to have my morning coffee on the balcony in the warm sunshine. Sooo California, don't you know.

The apartment is much the same. I bought a used card table and placed it between the TV stand and the window. With my old typewriter on it, suddenly it was a desk. I bought some dishes, cutlery and a couple of pots and pans. With no plans for large dinner parties, these few items were more that enough for just me.

The fabric on the couch had faded even more. It's position in the room, against the wall by the sliding doors, left it to the mercy of the morning sun. The kitchen cabinets looked older every day and the carpet had become more threadbare. But it's home and I'm used to it. It's like an old pair of shoes - worn out but comfortable.

It was setting up to be another hot dry summer, the smog thickened over the Los Angeles sprawl. But this year was different. The City of Angels was hosting the Olympic Games. Preparations had been going on forever and the games were starting in a couple of months. All us residents cringed, hating the idea of the crush of visitors jamming the already over-crowded freeways. A lot of people decided to leave town for the duration. Those were the ones with money. I wasn't one of them.

It was a regular Wednesday afternoon. My second-hand 18 inch rotating fan was on the floor by the open sliders pulling the outside hazy air to where I was enjoying my afternoon nap on the sofa. The only time I opened up the sofa and used the actual bed part was if I had an overnight companion, which wasn't very often. Although lately, Lorna, the wannabe actress in apartment 2B was spending the night at least once a week. Lorna's roommate, a sales rep for a stationary company, was dating a married guy who managed a stationary store in Woodland Hills. So, when the guy shows up for a little affection, the roommate gives Lorna the 'take a hike' sign and the next thing she's tapping on my front door.

Honey, it's me, she'd whisper.

I'd open the door and she'd say she'd been thinking about me and I'd lie and say I'd been