He's No Angel

By Ryan Uytdewilligen

Charlie Fritz is a Hollywood talent agent hanging onto his career by a thread. After embarrassing himself at a movie screening, he's in need of a comeback and a superstar client. Luckily, success comes his way in the form of his presumed-to-be dead father.

 

When Bernie Fritz mysteriously arrives in the middle of Los Angeles by taxi, it's evident he doesn't remember anything about his prior life, but the white-robe-wearing man does have a cryptic message from the afterlife to share with anyone who will listen. Is he an angel from above or someone who's simply lost their memory?

 

When Bernie's message goes viral and creates a social media sensation, Charlie seizes the opportunity to become his dad's agent. It's the perfect opportunity for them to finally connect and find a little meaning in their lives—even if for one of them, life is technically over.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BHC Press
• Release date: Jul 26, 2022
• ISBN: 9781643973067

Ryan Uytdewilligen

Ryan Uytdewilligen earned his degree in broadcast journalism from Lethbridge College, which led to work in radio anchoring, reporting, and media coordinating for the prestigious Vancouver International Film Festival. After writing-producing his first short film, he has worked as a script doctor/writer for hire, optioned two feature film scripts, and published his first nonfiction work, a film-history examination of coming-of-age movies. He currently resides in Vancouver.

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Akela

Editor: Chelsea Cambeis

Proofreader: Sherry Clark

He’s No Angel

Copyright © 2022 Ryan Uytdewilligen

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please write to the publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Published by BHC Press

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021944534

ISBN: 978-1-64397-304-3 (Hardcover)

ISBN: 978-1-64397-305-0 (Softcover)

ISBN: 978-1-64397-306-7 (Ebook)

For information, write:

BHC Press

885 Penniman #5505

Plymouth, MI 48170

Visit the publisher:

www.bhcpress.com

To Ted,

an angel too soon but a friend forever.

99021549

The best time to visit Halderman Square was 12:17. On such a sunny day as it was, suit pants, khakis, and even the odd dark blue pair of jeans were planted down on benches, grass, and pavement so their wearer could partake in a little lunch. Several food trucks selling questionable tacos and something from a Middle Eastern country—most likely Turkey—were parked right beside the walking path. In the heart of Los Angeles’s financial district, business was more than enough to put the grub slingers’ financial woes at ease.

Rays of warmth and streaks of blue sky that peeked between looming glass skyscrapers treated the office dwellers to a much-needed break. A central concrete platform was as extravagant as the park got, making it a forgettable but perfectly usable space for small bands and the occasional protest speech. For a city square, nature was on the skimpy side—only a couple of palm trees overlooked sporadic patches of blooming shrubs. The odd employee noticed they were hydrangeas, while even fewer took the time to smell them.

Conversation rarely rose above quiet chatter. Many chose this spot to have a peaceful half hour of personal reflection. Munching on homemade pastrami sandwiches, these folks didn’t even utter a yum for the whole duration of their stay. The sporadic hyena laugh of a bubbly secretary disrupted the tranquility of Halderman Square, but her responses to risqué tales from Saturday night were generally excused. Nearby listeners even leaned in to get an earful of the recounting, hoping for a saucy image to get them through the rest of the day.

A homeless man made his daily rounds like clockwork, ignoring offerings of unfinished food in favor of cold hard cash. It was out of character for the scruffy gent to get rowdy, but just in case, two coppers dressed in full uniform leaned along the western brick wall—though most of their attention was on the loud secretary and any blonde who sprawled out on the lawn for a quick suntan.

There was a soft trickle of water that ran through a winding rectangular fountain. Squawking seagulls fought valiantly over a single French fry. Frustrated honks from passing street traffic competed with bicycle bells and a far-off jackhammer. Yet, for the most part, the prevailing sound of this place was the clacking of fingers on phones.

Down by the busy street side, a plume of smoke traveled along the sidewalk. The thick blackness signaled terrible engine problems. The metal-on-metal sound was reminiscent of nails on a chalkboard, and the scraping elicited similar reactions. As eyelids clamped down and heads turned toward the ruckus, the clunk of a clamoring carburetor came to a halt. Smoke, steam, and unidentifiable substances that were not to be ingested cleared to reveal a would-be shimmering yellow vehicle. Years of exhaust and spackled mud caked the car’s finish to the point where you couldn’t make out the company logo slapped on the passenger side door.

With silver trim, a silver bumper, silver grill, and white wheels surrounding hubcaps that were of a similar silver, the origin of this contraption was hard to trace. Full round headlights and fender skirts over the wheels suggested it was at least seventy years of age. Bumpy, compressed, and borderline nostalgic, the only clue as to why Old Yellow had embarked in the first place was its small rooftop sign that read Taxi.

By this time, every head in Halderman Square had turned to observe the cheap chariot. Coughs and gasps now took the top spot on the list of the location’s loudest noises. Even the police had turned their gaze from a leggy lady to their intriguing new guest. The condition of this car was enough to earn ten tickets, not to mention the absence of a front and back license plate.

Fogged windows made the driver a shrouded mystery. No one could see in—or probably out, for that matter. People couldn’t tell if the passenger paid with cash or card, or spy the price on the meter—the only evidence of how far this taxi had traveled. Everything including the seagulls hushed when the door opened and creaked. Pristine bare feet planted themselves down on the pavement—toes trimmed symmetrically, topped with a healthy layer of fluff. Just above the ankles waved the hem of a silky white robe.

Long sleeves draped over unseen hands. The passenger stood in an upright position. Hooded of course, they stepped from the taxi, scanning for the most opportune place to make post. Entrées fell to the ground as fixated folks lost their grips on their belongings when the figure slipped the hood back. A beer belly that protruded through the fine garment stole the focus for some nauseated onlookers, who questioned if the being was indeed human or not. A harsh light that illuminated the new arrival negated any normality.

Uncombed curly brown hair receded halfway back behind a pair of ears. Five o’clock shadow crisply covered his mouth, neck, and chin. He had sausage fingers, and his stubby strawberry of a nose extended outward. Granted, it was a thick head, but a human one nonetheless. Eyes rolled and food was once again chewed as the arrival continued to scan through the crowd. His eyes were determined, fixated on the square, while his mouth cocked left into a proud little smirk. He stepped forward, then slammed the taxi door behind him.

The fuzz looked on, flabbergasted, as it sped off down the street without a single care for speed limits or pedestrians. The light went with it as the passenger began his journey forth. Up the stairs this man went, attracting a few curious looks while others returned to conversation. He was a peculiar man. The break-takers of Halderman Square figured this was nothing but a midlife crisis, as he looked to be in his fifties; some thought it was maybe an acid trip at best.

Like a newborn, his steps were wobbly. He had no support to keep him upright, prompting him to keep the pace rather slow. He rewarded the most-likely-Turkish food truck vendor with a generous Mick Jagger finger point. He clicked his tongue and winked an eye at the secretary, who could barely summon a breath let alone another hyena laugh. The poor homeless fellow threw up his arms in disbelief, understanding he had no chance for charity now. After a brief snort of the hydrangeas, the cloaked being turned toward the square’s center.

Up and up he went, past the picnickers to the top of the platform. He regained the crowd’s attention as he unfurled his arms to form a steady cross. Each phone in the park rose to collect documentation from every possible vantage point. All the coppers could do was gape at each other while the passenger stood in full Christ pose and clenched his eyes as tight as they could close. He opened his mouth as the sea of phones hit record.

Okay, I’m going to make this quick. I know we’re all busy. But I’m here to bring you a message, so listen up. Here we go. I know things are hard for you. This is a difficult time. So ditch the device. Accept the wine. Say yes to Victoria. Changes are needed if you’re to have a chance. Make the effort because you know she can’t. Reap the rewards far greater than gold. It’s all going to be okay.

His eyes opened. His outreached arms turned from a cross into a shrug. Silence greeted him along with befuddled stares. What the fuck are you looking at? I just gave you instructions. This is important! Go! Get going! Do it!

Security sighed as they sprang into action.

Get down from the podium, sir, one of them requested as both stepped up to the ledge. Phones continued to record.

Did I say it wrong? You want me to do it again? All right—fine. I’m here to bring you a message. Things are hard—

Sir, get down from the podium or you’re going to be under arrest.

Hey, screw you, pal. I’m working here. This is my job. I don’t bother you when you’re downing donuts, all right?

Their waning patience and rapid tempers fueled their prophet takedown like a well-rehearsed plan. A collective gasp and a couple screams—one most certainly from the hyena secretary—echoed as one copper drove all his weight into the arrestee’s body. Down the messenger went. Out came the handcuffs. His arms were folded behind him despite his resistance. It took both of the cops just to cuff him while the crowd covered their mouths and shakily filmed with their free hands.

Ditch the device. Accept the wine. Hey, you can’t do this! You can’t do this! I have a message! With a mighty yank, the messenger was thrown off the platform and dropped on his feet, robes flowing in revealing directions. I have a message. I’m getting it out one way or another. Say yes to Victoria. Make the effort. Let go of me, goddammit.

By this point, both officers had a grip around each arm. They dragged him kicking and screaming down the stairs from which he came. Even when he could no longer be seen, his expletives could still be heard trickling down the street. One by one, each onlooker ended their filming of the unexpected cinematic masterpiece. Lunch was once again devoured. Hyena laughs and seagull squawks rang throughout Halderman Square. Most-likely-Turkish food was purchased while change was requested by the poor homeless beggar.

The only difference now was that while people ate and conversed and eavesdropped and meditated, they also shared their newly made recordings with every friend on social media. It was 12:23—time for them all to start moseying back to work.

21633

H ey, hey, hey, hey—how is that fair? How is that fair, Megan? I just explained to you… Yeah, because it was an accident. They were serving free rye and gingers all throughout the screening. How was I supposed to say no?

Charlie Fritz didn’t put his phone to his ear like a regular person. He preferred to leave it on speaker phone and yell into it while holding the well-worn screen three inches from his face, even when he was driving. Drifting into other lanes had just essentially become part of the job. One hand was on the phone, and the other was used for fine-tuning Drake on the stereo. He had to keep it loud so everyone knew he was cool. With his thick black hair, thick black sunglasses, and slick red convertible, Charlie had the general population fooled—for the most part.

"Well, because it is shit, Megan! You don’t lie when you get piss drunk; you tell the truth. I’m sorry I got you wrapped up in this garbage heap to begin with. I thought it’d be different, but after Zemeckis dropped out, it went— Well that’s not my problem! What is my problem is finding your next project."

Behind the driver’s seat perched a near-dead laptop—on and open—which Charlie periodically turned toward so he could answer an email or join a Skype call. When he did so, his other piece of precious cargo—Lila Valentine—took the wheel. A blonde with a straight blunt cut. Not a blemish on her face. Baby blue eyes. Sickly model thin. They’d been together for three years and resided together in a luxury apartment on the twenty-seventh floor. She’d started out as just a client, but you know, these kinds of things happen.

Life was good despite the look on Lila’s face that said she was brain-dead bored. She was tired of listening to Charlie’s Hollywood drama. With a deep and heavy sigh, she occupied herself with the riveting entertainment of passing white highway lines. She hated driving.

Just don’t do anything right now, okay? We’re going to meet. We’re going to talk about this.

Charlie caught wind of Lila’s well-rehearsed breath. That was his cue to yell into the phone, Hey, we’ll deal with this later. I can’t talk right now. As he looked over at his lonely and neglected girlfriend, the convertible drifted two lanes to the left. A hearty honk from another car and a swift correction swung Charlie back to reality. You’d think he’d learn, but his immediate reaction was to turn around and check his laptop. His inbox was filled with fourteen new emails. He clicked the first. Lila took the wheel.

Shit! Charlie shouted. No, not you. I’m driving right now. I just lost Tim Rockwell. I’ll have to call him… No, you’re my number one, Megan. I promise you, you’re my number one. A lot of people liked… No—no—no—no—don’t do this to me, Megan! Don’t do this to me! I’m going to find you a new project! Think about it! Just—

The call met its sudden demise. With a couple of curse words and an angered throw of his phone, Charlie finally gripped the steering wheel with two hands and stared blankly at the winding highway ahead.

Great. And now I just lost Megan Cates.

Well, was she even that good? Lila asked. I’ve never heard of her.

She’s an up-and-comer. Good kid, little range. Known around the straight-to-video slasher crowd, but we were looking into roles that would—dammit! I can’t believe this is happening!

Well, maybe if you didn’t guzzle Bacardi and tell Jack Appleton the truth about his movies…

He’s a shmuck! He’s a hackneyed producer. Everyone hates him. You know how he’s always rubbing up against you!

He controls half of Hollywood. The man has more awards than girlfriends.

And that gives him a free pass? You know, I’m glad I said what I did. If standing up for good quality cinema and putting these moguls in their place scares off a few clients, so be it! I’m just trimming away the hedges and getting to the roots of the people I want to work with.

How many clients do you have left?

A whimper left Charlie’s lips as his face scrunched into hopelessness. He squeezed the wheel tight, seeing only his decaying, penniless future ahead. No more parties. No more hobnobbing. Only low-cost mobile homes with flowered wallpaper and stained ceilings from previously murdered occupants. Just soulless button pushing at a factory and frozen meals that were purchased at a discount no-name grocery store. Would he even make it in the real world? Why couldn’t he have just kept his mouth shut?

We are going to be okay, right? he whispered.

Lila’s lips went into a full-on sympathetic pout as she unclipped her seat belt to embellish on her compassionate moan. For each reason to panic, Charlie received a slobbery kiss on the cheek. Delicate hands kneaded his tense shoulders. Fluttering hair blew up inside his nostrils and mouth.

We’ve saved up enough, right? he wondered out loud. Just, like, eighteen more payments on the car. New kitchen was worth every penny—that’s almost done. But after that’s paid for… We can still do Jamaica. We can…right?

Charlie, you’re being dumb. You’re still with Heavyweights. Not everyone’s going to leave you. And there’s always more fresh talent to discover. You just got to go back to the drawing board.

Charlie nearly lost his lunch at the sight of Lila’s hopeful bright-side smile. I’m fucked. He fished out a rattling pill bottle from the center console cup holder. A quick frustrated yank of the cap and a shot of three or four little remaining white tablets put him at ease. He checked inside for more and tossed the bottle into the ditch when he found it was empty.

Oh, come on. What you need is to get away from all the bells and calls and notifications. Let’s take a break. Let’s go somewhere. Remember Napa Valley? Like we’ve always talked about?

And what, pay for drinks just so they can be spat back out? What a tease! How is that enjoyable?

Hey, you promised! You said you’d take me. That was when we first started dating, and you still—

Buzz.

Charlie’s phone shook against his heel, prompting him to once again take his eyes off the road to fish around for the device. After retrieving it from the convertible floor and turning it over to take stock of his inbox count, he used both hands to unlock his phone and open his texts.

Fuck me. Howard Carter is dropping me too. Come on, people—this is not that big of a deal! Again, Charlie’s phone landed with a thud by his feet. I needed Howard. I really… This is getting scary.

Charlie reached over to the cup holder to find his least favorite of all the world’s beverage options: a bottle of water.

Can you stop paying attention to your phone for a little bit and, you know, maybe carry on a conversation with me?

You know what I’d like? If people stopped paying attention to this Appleton thing and let me be. Don’t the tabloids have another story they can feast on? There’s got to be some jackass saying something ultra-Republican on Twitter.

Are you okay?

Charlie spun his head to Lila, flashing the cheesiest, toothiest cheeseball grin anyone had ever faked in Tinseltown. Why yes, honey, I’m super! Why do you ask?

Lila looked down at her lap, extending both her hands to cup Charlie’s free one. After a moment passed and his sarcastic smirk dissipated, seriousness took hold. I know it’s a tough day, but you don’t have to be such an asshole.

"Lila, it’s going to be fine. I know I seem worried, but you’re right. They won’t fire me. They can’t. I’ve been there too long. Sure—maybe I haven’t gotten a client onto The Tonight Show, but I’ll rebuild my list. I’ll finally get a big name. I won’t say a word anymore, and—"

"No, I meant today. Ten years since your dad…"

Charlie let go of Lila’s hands so he could fish for his phone as the beeps and buzzes went off. Keeping himself in suspense would only drive him to insanity.

Come on, you know I don’t care about that. The man’s in hell. And now so are we all! He lifted the phone to his face, shaking his head and pushing the call button. Lila resumed her position as an observer of highway lines while the ring broadcasted from Charlie’s hand. You know, I think I’d actually rather go to work tomorrow morning than go to this.

21658

Alopsided angel food cake came forth, boasting six lit candles—one had already gone out—and a central sparkler that made the whole occasion extra festive. Lila gave it her best, singing Happy Birthday the loudest out of the three. Charlie mumbled along, spitting out only one or two comprehensive words. Nancy Fritz sang too, though most of her focus went toward making sure the slippery pudding-slathered dessert didn’t tumble.

The house was as old as Nancy’s hairstyle, circa 1981. Every fixture and decoration had gone up around that time: dark brown cupboards overlooking an even darker countertop, green table, flowery wallpaper. Every time Charlie entered that kitchen, his skin would crawl. Childhood memories of choked-down brussels sprouts and late-night near-fisticuffs gnawed at the back of his mind. He squirmed in his seat, trying to avoid eye contact with Nancy and her ceramic cow figure collection perched on the surrounding ledge. Her haircut, by the way, was feathered in an aspiring mullet at the back and brought to a culminating poof of bangs at the front—and Molly Ringwald red.

The cake landed safely on the table just as the crescendo of the traditional chant came to a close. Silence overtook the miniscule party as guests took turns looking at each other, then down at the dusty floor. The guest of honor was nowhere to be seen—not even in old photographs hanging on the wall. The only evidence as to who this event was for, was written in bold, green icing atop the day’s dessert: Happy Birthday, Bernie Fritz!

So, who’s gonna blow out the candles? Charlie smirked.

A horrified Nancy froze in place. Well, I didn’t even think about that.

Maybe you should do it. Lila gestured to Charlie.

He shook his head and raised his hands in defense even before she was finished speaking.

Well, someone has to, Nancy said, then coughed.

Charlie nodded at the cake. Go right ahead.

Oh, I couldn’t possibly…

Mom, it’s okay. Go ahead.

The flustered old bird clenched her jaw as she circled around the last resort. Maybe Lila would like to give it a go?

I wouldn’t feel right. It’s better if it’s one of you.

Nancy’s persistent gravelly hack had already put out two candles. Amidst all the arguing and indecision, the sparkler went out on its own.

Well, I made the cake so it’s not right for me to do it.

Why did you light it, then? Or make a cake in the first place? We loathe the man, so why—

I just wanted a little festive atmosphere. Is that so damn hard to understand? My child has no spirit! No soul! Every time I do something, you always have to go and—

Charlie leaned in and gave a forceful blow, wiping out each flickering flame whilst sending another text to yet another lost client. Nancy was too busy coughing to properly finish her rant or thank her son. Instead, with a knife in hand, she took a seat. In her other, she propped a cigarette between her lips and lit up.

Oh Bernie, Bernie, Bernie. Ten years. I can’t believe it. He was driving to his whore’s house, you know?

Oh, for God’s sake, Mom! Do we have to talk about this? Charlie slammed his phone down on the table.

Nancy gave him a stern stare as he buried his heavy head in his hands. Well, it’s not every day we celebrate your father. And someone here isn’t familiar with the story! Nancy’s scowl quickly turned to a soothing expression as she cocked her head at Lila.

Charlie groaned. I don’t know why we have to celebrate him at all.

Lila jabbed her elbow into Charlie’s rib for that one. Charlie’s told me a bit. It was his birthday, and he went out to meet another woman.

Right as we were getting his cake ready, he said he had to step out for a bit. He claimed he’d be back in an hour. Last words he said to us were ‘Bye for now!’ Guess he was overly excited to screw her, because he drove right off a bridge. Landed smack in the ocean and drowned trapped inside his car.

Lila hiccupped with an unintentional giggle. How awful.

Charlie rolled his peepers until a call beckoned his attention and disrupted the story with a sound-drowning ring. After a quick eye-gazing standoff between them, Charlie sped out of the room like it was his golden ticket out of the torturous conversation.

Well, we were just mortified. Nancy dropped ash into a tray, inhaled, and utilized the next few minutes to have herself another nice little cough. Until we got to the hospital and met the whore at his bedside, of course. Quite rightly, she was worried too. Guess it had been going on for a while…

That’s, like, so insane. That really must have been tough.

Lila considered making a break for it when Nancy’s knife smacked through the cake like it’d been swung to kill. All presentation efforts were abandoned as severed slices made their way around the table.

Nancy grunted. He was an ass. Never even knew I existed. Never once took me out for a night on the town, even for a simple ice cream cone. We’d always go for mint chocolate chip and strawberry cones when we were dating, then marriage happened! Always pants-less, always a drink in hand… The only good time for us was the wedding, really. We were so hopeful. Old friends and little pink streamers hung all around. Dancing to Just the Way You Are by Billy Joel. It was lovely. I just hope my son is treating you better than my Bernie treated me.

Oh, he’s just… Lila had to think about that one as she caught a glimpse of him waving and jumping up and down in front of his phone. She cleared her throat. He was just thinking about treating me to a nice holiday over in Napa Valley.

How nice!

A disgruntled Charlie entered the kitchen, freezing when his mother turned to open her mouth.

Don’t tell me you’re thinking of proposing?

Uh… I think I’m going to go make another call.

Come back here, she insisted.

Slowly, fingering the ring box he kept in his pocket, Charlie did.

A mother has got to know these things. It’s just as big of a deal for me as it is for you!

Lila and Charlie shared a quick Are you kidding me? glance. Charlie just mumbled and faked another phone call.

Fine, fine. I know Charlie gets short with me when I talk about those things. So then, tell me, how’s work going? Working in the movies must be so magical. Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve always wanted to visit a set and see how they do it.

Lila gave a little sneer as she watched her befuddled boyfriend shake his head and wave his arms to signal a change in subject.

Charlie never lets me see his movies, Nancy said.

They’re not my movies. I’m just a talent agent, he told her.

Then there’s no reason to be embarrassed. Why don’t you take me to see the new one?

"Trust me, you’d rather die than see Dangerous Rhythms."

Nancy responded with a hoarse cackle, producing a pitch that sounded more like a rock tumbler than a