Thursday, April 2, 2009

Too early... too late...

It's 3am, and I'm sitting in a parked car, blowing on my hands for warmth. Across the street, my former agent's house is bone pale in the darkness. All of the lights have been off for hours, but on occasion I catch a silhouette moving through the gloom towards the bathroom on the second floor. A scant light gives me a glimpse of his bulbous form as he defecates in the toilet. Just as he expelled so many other talented clients before me, he flushes the waste down then retreats to the bedroom.

My "Dunkin Donut's" coffee is stale, and I'm out of cigarettes.

What is this, this "Hollywood" that we dwell in? The outsiders, the trash... the debris? There's an old saying that I can't place right now... but I think it goes, "Los Angeles is where all of the spare parts collect". Am I a spare part, just another wasted dream?

If only my agent was able to grasp what I was going for with "The Shroud". People have told me to aim for the teen market. "Prom Night" did great, and studios are looking for projects with a youthful edge. The truth is, I don't have a youthful edge. I'm old... I was born old. Even in high school I wandered the hallways, practically a corpse in tattered hand me downs, weathered eyes gazing out of deep sockets. I can't relate to children traipsing around some cheap high school set.

I watched "Prom Night", and it did nothing for me. The killer in the film wasn't frightening in the least. I'm not afraid of talented character actor Johnathon Schaech... his boyish good looks are not nightmarish, in fact they fill me with a sense of warmth that rises from the bottom of my belly and settles in my throat. It's hard to explain, but he just sort of makes me feel funny.

My former agent goes back to bed, and shuts off the lights, casting his home in darkness once more. I entertain the prospect of knocking on the door, just having one more chat with him. Maybe he'll see things my way. My screenplay is almost finished, and I need a messenger...

I'll settle for urinating on his mailbox.


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