Half of Nothing

By James Thomson Wooley

In the 1970's, Sam Stratton was considered an up-and-coming actor, an actor's-actor, a promising young talent until a nasty contract dispute knee-capped his career. Now, he has a chance, maybe his last chance, to revive his stalled, defunct, movie career. All he needs to do is land a juicy role in a new project which has Tinseltown buzzing like a nest of mad hornets; adjectives like Oscar-worthy and groundbreaking being tossed around to describe it.

  In a town without rules, Sam is sick and tired of playing by the rules. This time, he likes his chances and has an inside track, an ace in-the-hole in the form of an old friend, who just happens to be a high-profile Hollywood producer; talent and marketability won't be the sole criteria. However, after a cascading avalanche of chaotic events deep-six his plans, he suddenly finds himself in a new role---a fugitive on the run from a notorious crime boss. It's a romp stretching from the Caribbean, to Las Vegas, to Balmy Springs, a small town on the Florida panhandle, a place before, Hollywood; a place he once called home. While hiding-out, he reconnects with his past and discovers, first-hand, that truth really is stranger than fiction and life is one, long, movie with lots of bad acting, no script, no dress rehearsals, no stuntmen and contrary to that famous adage, Sam finds that he can go home, again . . . He just hopes nobody recognizes him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Weaver Place Publishing
• Release date: Oct 23, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393976554

James Thomson Wooley

James Wooley, lives in Miramar Beach, Florida with his lovely wife and their two small, neurotic dogs. He's an avid procrastinator who's thinking about writing his next novel; so stay tuned

Book preview

A dream crept in last night, crawling on its hands and knees, nudging and pawing me like a curious, nocturnal, predator; another hairy version of the same dream.

I’m at an audition, fancy name for job interview, wearing an old, ragged, wool, sweater. People from long ago and people I don’t know sitting in the room. I tell a few jokes. Nobody laughs. Everybody returning from a funeral. Go figure. It’s a dream. People holding musical instruments—mostly flutes. Jethro Tull’s, Cross-Eyed Mary, riffing in the background.

I look down, noticing a loose thread. I start pulling and tugging on it, unable to stop. I keep pulling and tugging until the whole sweater unravels. The sweater symbolized the unraveling of my life . . . or maybe just meant, I shouldn’t yank on an old, ragged, sweater . . .

(EXCERPT FROM THE DIARY of Sam Stratton, actor and dream interpreter, Hollywood, CA.)

THE STAGEHAND SECURED the harness, the assistant director signaling the crew, belting-out a Tarzan-like yodel, triggering a Pavlovian chorus of barking from a pack of unvaccinated, mangy, stray, dogs scavenging and howling in the alley behind the international headquarters of Joey-G Productions, a low-rent, prefab, open-air, warehouse on the isle of San Puerto Dominica. The crew lowered Sam toward the simulated firepit, a make-shift hodgepodge of red and orange strobe lights pointed at jagged strands of white crape paper blown around by a few, small, oscillating, fans; cheap, dime-store, special effects thrown together for this low budget, low tech, late-night, television commercial intended for an audience of insomniacs with hemorrhoids.

Lights, camera, action—Act 1/Scene 1: Sam Stratton, dangling upside down, a human pendulum suspended over a fake firepit. Sam closed his eyes, a gallon of hemoglobin rushing into his head, a galaxy of tiny stars orbiting around him. He took a deep breath, feeling dizzy, a heavy weightlessness, the same old, tired, questions flooding in, a tsunami of self-pity, floating human debris, uprooted trees, seaweed and stinging jellyfish. How could this happen? How could his career sink this low? Could it go lower? How much lower? Really? It was officially official. He was a card-carrying member of the Whatever—Happened—To club and the Order of the Owl Society—-whenever his name was mentioned the response was always-—Who? He took another deep, shallow, breath. Hang in there, numb nuts. Just go through the motions, suck it up, collect your paycheck and swallow your pride—what’s left of it; internal pep-talk 101—now, back to the shit-show.

This is your last chance. Any second, now, you’ll feel the burn, only one thing can give you fast, soothing, relief from that burning, itchy, feeling.

No, I’ll never tell you, Sam said, puking out another asinine, scripted, line. Verbal vomit. Nauseating. He was glad he’d skipped breakfast.

Have it your way—time’s up! Drop him into the bottomless pit of fire, the megaphone-like voice of J.W. Booth echoing across the room. There were three things certain, in this life; death, taxes and the fact that J.W. never met a script he didn’t like, his vocal cords locked, loaded and ready to fire. The high point of his short-lived career was a role in a Martin Scorsese film, playing a drunk man sitting at a bar being harassed by Joe Pesci. After reaching that pinnacle, he hit a dry spell, married a pregnant Lurlene Culpepper, had two more kids, said hello to reality, hung up the acting cleats, taking a job and making a good living selling condo-timeshares but never giving up his dream of acting—-his first love. He was from a long, undistinguished, line of Off-Broadway actors, over-actors, politicians and an obscure genealogy of British thespian blue bloods including the Duke of Earl and Sir Acts-a-lot; a holy-rolling member of The Church of The Community Theatre and disciple of the Nora Desmond School of Acting and Really-Close-Close-ups. Drumroll—-and the Oscar for best over-actor in a ridiculous commercial goes to—-J.W. Booth. Hallelujah, brother! J.W. met Sam at the dirt, runway, airport when Sam arrived on   the island, a one-man welcome wagon and human harbinger of things to come, by-passing the hotel and driving Sam straight to   the Tiki-liki Bar, a thatched-roof hangout tucked away on the harbor, the scene of the crime, J.W. holding Sam hostage, pouring out his embellished life story, Sam pretending to listen, hearing a condensed, shot-glass, version culminating with J.W.’s decision to leave the mainland accompanied by Tiffany, his children’s live-in babysitter, sending his wife, Lurlene, a postcard from Costa del Sol followed by divorce papers, island-hopping around the Caribbean, planting his flag on this tiny palm patch of utopia and doing what he was born to do, the art of acting coursing through his veins along with a consistently high alcohol level; to be or not to be—-and he was damn sure going to be. Later that night, when J.W.’s inebriated bladder swelled to the size of a cantaloupe he stumbled into the Tiki-liki men’s room, yelling to Sam, Gotta drain the main vein, might need some help. Sam saw his chance to escape and darted to the exit. Stockholm syndrome? Not a chance. His luggage? He’d grab it later—-Taxi.

Fast forward—Sam hanging upside down, exchanging stupid dialogue with J.W. Booth for a paltry paycheck. What was the currency in San Puerto Dominica—sand dollars, shells, beads?

"Let’s see more anguish. I’ve seen mannequins show more emotion," Joey-G yelled, spewing more moronic, directorial, crap and flailing his arms around for dramatic effect, a technique perfected, over the years, as a director and ex-husband to four ex-wives. He snatched the Dodgers cap off his head, throwing it on the ground and stepping on it.

Cut—-cut—I’m working with amateurs. Joey-G picked up his cap, slapping it on his head, pulling the brim down. Joseph Jedidiah Guttenberg, aka Joey-G, was a Corman pupil, B-movie director, journeyman who’d spent the past fifteen years directing low-budget commercials—like this one. He was boss of this sweatshop; no perks, no labor laws, no minimum wage; a Guttenberg trademark. It was ninety degrees outside and even hotter inside the warehouse, a few attic fans circulating the heavy tropical air, moving it around like heavy furniture. But it was, after all, August—not that any other month was different. This was San Puerto Dominica—every month was August.

A tattooed, shirtless, islander affectionately referred to as, Swamp Pig, unhooked Sam from the leather harness. Sam walked to the rear of the warehouse, scanning the landscape and spotting his prey. He walked up to Joey-G, tapping him on the shoulder. Joey-G turned around and took a deep breath. What, the hell, do you want, now?

Sam paused and rubbed his chin; a physical gesture implying thoughtfulness, in lieu of dialogue. Gee let me think. World peace, a cure for cancer, universal eradication of junk mail or maybe just a script not written by a third-grader and a director who knows his ass from a hole in the ground.

That’s hilarious, Stratton. I’ll let you in on a little secret. Joey-G leaned toward Sam and spoke in a low, whispering, voice. "We’re filming a television commercial not the Godfather. He patted Sam on the shoulder. Talk to him about the script," Joey-G said, pointing at Chip Beetleman, a part-time script writer and full-time bartender hunched over a card table, thumbing glossy magazine pages, turning the magazine vertically, the page unfolding. He whistled.

Joey-G waved at one of the crew, telling him to get more coffee. He looked at Sam. Anything else on that razor-sharp mind of yours, Stratton?

Yeah, just a suggestion. This isn’t an advertisement for shaving cream. Makes lot more sense to lower me, butt-first, Sam said.

Joey-G let that sink in. Hell, it did make more sense. He needed to rethink the anatomical logistics of the ointment’s application; a bone-headed, rookie, mistake. We’ll talk about it later, is all he said, turning toward the crew, telling everybody to break for lunch, J.W. running after him, asking for more lines, a few script revisions, and a private dressing room and . . .

Sam switched his focus. He wasn’t finished venting. He knew it wouldn’t change a damn thing but letting off some steam might make him feel better. The nearest target for his childish, toddler-like, wrath was Chip Beetleman. Taking it out on Chip was irrational, juvenile and misdirected; not to mention, plain silly. Chip probably did only make it as far as the third grade. Sam needed to grow up. He’d do that later; first—the tantrum. He was a pissed-off, pitiful, victim of life’s twisted sense of humor; angry at the whole, damn, world—except for, puppies and children under the age of five.

Hey, Shakespeare, you write this shit?

Chip looked up and shrugged his shoulders. Yeah, kept it simple for you—no words, more than a syllable.

Touché, Chip-ster. The gloves were off. Sam grabbed the advertiser’s product sample off the table, tossing the large tube of Healthy Harvey’s Coconut Oil Hemorrhoid Ointment to Chip. Use that, it’ll make it easier.

Easier for what?

Cram that sorry excuse for a script, up your ass. After Sam said it, he didn’t feel better. He felt worse. Venting was overrated. He’d apologize later. Sam grabbed his sunglasses, changed-out of his sweat-drenched clothes, walked outside and flagged down the first taxi he saw; a beat-up Toyota with a large dent in the rear passenger door, a faded decal on the back windshield: Horn Broke, Watch for Finger!

He climbed in, telling the driver his destination, the driver placing a half-eaten sandwich and bottle of Red Stripe on the front seat, flipping the meter and grunting-out a reply, pushing the gas pedal, flooring it and leaving tire marks on the road.  The driver, unfazed by cavernous potholes and speed limit signs, sped down the narrow, winding, streets, an empty beer bottle rolling around on the floorboard, Sam watching it, hypnotized by it, wishing it was full, needing an infusion of gin or vodka, a shot of anything with alcohol; lots and lots of anything.

Up ahead, Sam saw Lenny standing on the street corner, decked-out in lime-colored shorts and a dark green shirt, his perennial Saint Patrick’s Day outfit. Lenny had an affinity for Irish culture, his roots running deep, his blood green; Lenny’s great grandfather born in Muckanaghedederdauhaulia, a 470-acre townland in the poor law union of Oughterard in the barony of Moycullen on a briny, boggy, peninsula in Camus Bay. He loved beer, Lucky Charms cereal and hated snakes; a perfect Gaelic trifecta. Top of the morning.

Sam patted the driver on the shoulder and pointed, a few seconds later, the taxi screeched to a halt in front of a makeshift, clapboard, fruit stand. He handed the driver a crumpled twenty-dollar bill for the nineteen-dollar fare, telling him to keep the change, the driver responding in broken-English, mumbling scrambled words, stuffing the twenty in his shirt pocket. You ‘merrycans, cheap-ash, bass-stards, he added and sped away before Sam could shut the car door. The driver extended his arm out the car window and honked at Sam with his middle finger.

What, the hell’s, wrong with him? Lenny asked.

Beats me, Sam said. They walked down