Category Archives: Actors

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My Summer Romance With Ewan McGregor

by Diane Lisa Johnson

A heartbroken woman uses the actor’s movies to get through a painful breakup. 3,015 words. Illustration by Thomas Warming.


I wasn’t expecting any of this, but they say when the student is ready the teacher will appear.A5B3E0F0-C9C6-486D-B9BF-98B356EAA0EB

If you had told me back in January that Ewan McGregor would pull me up out of the pit of despair, I would not have believed you. I didn’t know that one day he would come to me all sexy and whisper in my ear, “Choose life.”

I should start by saying that last year was a difficult year for me.

The break-up took me so by surprise that it was like a movie with a twist ending. You have to go back and watch it again. My boyfriend turned out to be Keyser Soze and now I had to re-read every text and replay every date looking for the clues I missed. I pieced the timeline back together, now with the new plotline: his face and hers together in a picture she had posted back when he and I were together. I knew everything in that instant. His confession came much later.

There is this thing your brain does in grief, replaying the story, as if reliving it could change it. I searched for the moment when things went wrong, desperate to fix it, or at least understand it. Was it a word I said? Or maybe it was my childhood? Or maybe his?

My brain sputtered. My mind was caught in an infinite loop. All I wanted was my boyfriend back. The heart wants what it wants. There was no explaining to mine to let go, and there was no explaining to his to hang on. Thinking about it became exhausting. I had to find something else to occupy my restless mind. I knew that much.

Enter Ewan.

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How Does That Make You Feel?
Part Four

by Michael Barrie

The L.A. psychologist follows the seductive allure of his new-found showbiz fame. 3,152 words. Part One. Part Two. Part Three. Illustration by Thomas Warming.


“The mailbox is full and cannot accept messages at this time.” What a difference an anonymous tip A5B3E0F0-C9C6-486D-B9BF-98B356EAA0EBmakes.

Say hello to Dr. Dennis Corbin, Hollywood guru. My client list now rivals that of a boutique theatrical agency. The driveway is a Red Carpet arrival ceremony, sans couture. I feel bad for Caroline. She held onto Dennis Corbin stock forever then bailed before it popped. Like selling Apple in 1997 before Steve Jobs’ return.

Sitting before me is my latest celeb. Welcome to Corbin World, Monica. You may have seen her standup on one of the late night shows. Monica Reardon, with her Nordic noir hair, tattooage and piercings. I know what you guys are thinking: get a load of those big tats.

She started out doing random, disconnected jokes: I stuck a pin in a pincushion and my couch dropped dead. I like to feed unpopped corn to pigeons and watch them explode in the sun. Realized non-sequitur comedy was a dead-end and developed more personal material. The result was a trifecta of well-received HBO specials: Potty Mouth, Old Maid, and No Immediate Survivors. She dug deep and hit a gusher.

At the moment, she’s fidgeting with a soft pack of Pall Malls, unfiltered.

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How Does That Make You Feel?
Part Three

by Michael Barrie

When he’s thanked on TV, the L.A. shrink tries to become Hollywood’s new must-see. 2,354 words. Part One. Part Two. Part Four tomorrow. Illustration by Thomas Warming.


It’s one of those nights, rare in L.A., when you can hear the quiet. There’s a faint but audible electric buzz.  A5B3E0F0-C9C6-486D-B9BF-98B356EAA0EBThe Adirondack chair is as hard and cold as slate. Across the black void a woman in a lighted window washes a single plate. The sprinklers whoosh on. I flick my cigar into the wet grass.

Stop The Presses! is great. I love my recurring role on it. I’m their Keyser Söze. Three days in, the Dr. D mystery — a non-story, if ever there was one — is kept alive by my client Sadie’s trendingness and a slow entertainment news week. Not that you’d guess it from Carlito’s caffeinated hysteria. But it doesn’t take an “entertainment reporter” to know that with no new news, this story will soon die. Then I can forget about a bonanza of new clients. About turning things around.

I freeze-frame on the show’s closing crawl: Got a tip? Submit tips anonymously: tips@stopthepresses.com.

I read a line once in a self-help book that stuck: the best way to escape from your problem is to solve it. This thought is accompanied by dramatic music: the startup chord of an iMac. Followed by these words on the screen: the ease & simplicity of Gmail, available across devices.

Create an account.

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How Does That Make You Feel?
Part Two

by Michael Barrie

The L.A. psychologist is more focused on his bumpy marriage than his showbiz clients. 2,512 words. Part One. Part Three tomorrow. Illustration by Thomas Warming.


Food Merchant is a family-owned Southern California supermarket housed in a former warehouse on A5B3E0F0-C9C6-486D-B9BF-98B356EAA0EBLincoln Boulevard. Step inside and you enter a world of specialty foods lovingly displayed in a Disney theme park version of the Kasbah. A colossal indoor souk divided into sections with names like Marrakesh, Algiers, and Casablanca posted on banners overhead. It’s 10:40 a.m. and I’m here, as on most days, killing time. My next (and last) appointment of the day is at 4:00. It’s why Caroline’s lost all respect for me.

Her Big Grievance #1: Not holding up my end. I could surprise her with FM’s Natural Turkey Bacon, smoked over hardwoods without preservatives. See, Caroline, I’m bringing home the bacon. A joke, Caroline. Ah, forget it.

Big Grievance #2: Dr. Dennis Corbin, Day Trader. I studied the financial markets. Study may be too strong a word. I skimmed business news on the Internet. Watched that morning guy on One For The Money. He rated E-Tec a strong buy. “Lithium-ion batteries — it’s the future, Caroline. Cell phones, electric cars, personal computing. Green technology. Trust me, I’ve done my homework.”

Big Grievance #3: Buying more on the way down (technically, #2A).

Big Grievance #4: We were going to start a family when we had the savings.

I won’t get into the Little Grievances.

My new ringtone: Kubrick’s 2001 theme. “Hello?”

“Dr. Corbin?”

“Yes?”

“Sadie Cowen gave me your number.”

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How Does That Make You Feel?
Part One

by Michael Barrie

An L.A. psychologist with a boring practice has one cool patient: an Emmy-winning tabloid princess. 2,571 words. Part Two tomorrow. Illustration by Thomas Warming.


“Graceful, isn’t she? I’m a full-on spastic.” The presenter in the tangerine gown fighting with the envelopeA5B3E0F0-C9C6-486D-B9BF-98B356EAA0EB is British actress Myrtle Davies. Myrtle won last year in this category — Outstanding Lead Actress In A Comedy Series. She’s in the third season of that cable show set in Brooklyn where she speaks in a New Yawk accent. It’s surprising to hear her proper English, as if this were the acting.

“Bless your patience,” she says, tugging at the enclosure. Myrtle yanks the card free. Applause. “How humiliating.”

Caroline and I are sitting at opposite ends of the living room couch. Alan, our black shepherd mix, takes up the demilitarized zone. He sleeps a lot these days. We’re watching the Emmy Awards on the widescreen. Caroline hates award shows, but the marriage counselor wants us to do more activities together, so she sits there working on her laptop. She can’t stand this Hollywood bullshit. I love it. All of it: the golden lives, the yawping narcissism, the better class of women.

“And the Emmy Award goes to…” Myrtle scans it, breaks into a broad smile. “Oh, this is extraordinary… Sadie Cowen! Yes!” The orchestra plays the Good To Go theme. It’s the first comedy series based on a food delivery app.

Myrtle and Sadie are friends. I know this because Sadie told me so in therapy. I, Dr. Dennis Corbin, also know that she and Myrtle had a threesome this summer with Ezra Garrett. Google says he’s a “fuckboy” and a “wannabieber” who starred in something, I forget what. At the time, Ezra was a hair shy of eighteen, a fact discovered late. It threw Sadie into a panic. “Ah’m a rapist,” she moaned in her Texas drawl. It took most of a session to talk her down. But, hey, that’s what I’m here for.

I’d like to share this bit of gossip with Caroline. It might make her laugh, something I was once able to do. But professional ethics prevent it. So I say nothing as she goes over Monday’s cases and Hollywood continues to celebrate.

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Ingenue 2 - Thomas Warming

Ingenue
Part Two

by Sagit Maier-Schwartz

A 17-year-old Latina aspiring actress has the best and worst day of her fledgling showbiz career. 2,073 words. Part One. Part Three. Part Four. Illustration by Thomas Warming.


I drove back down Franklin Avenue until I reached the 101 Coffee Shop. I sat at the counter and tried to 8547D799-C475-4659-B563-17A9A283F8B3come up with a game plan. I pulled up Craigslist on my cell and scoured the rental listings. Everything was too expensive. The cheapest was a share in Koreatown for $500 a month. I called the number.

“I’m calling about your furnished room. Is it still available?”

The woman who answered made an appointment for me to see it in 30 minutes. As I drove, I felt a lump form in my throat like I was going to cry. I pressed the worn out button next to Unit 3 and entered the creaky elevator. Please dont be a murderer, I whispered to myself. To my relief, the woman was in her twenties with a warm smile.

“Hi. I’m Liz. Let me take you on the grand tour,” she said wryly. The place was tiny. “I’m never around. I work all the time as an assistant in a talent agency. What do you do?”

“I just moved here. I’m a model and an actress,” I told her.

“I figured,” she said looking at me.

To rent the room, I needed to pay one month’s rent in advance. My heart sank.

“I’m filming a Target commercial next week and can give you the money as soon as I get paid.”

Liz’s face had a skeptical look.

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The Club FINAL2

The Club

by Thelma Adams

A veteran movie reviewer recalls her first vote as a member of the Gotham Film Critics during awards season. 2,540 words. Illustration by Thomas Warning.


"Nose punched," Rhoda said.

8547D799-C475-4659-B563-17A9A283F8B3"Eye blackened," said her 20-year-old son.

"Technically, the black eye happened before the narrative’s frame," she pointed out.

"Technically, scalded with chicken stew," he countered.

"Shot in the toe. The gut. Bathed in bloody barf. Brain matter splattered. Never have I so wanted to wash the chunks out of a woman’s hair," Rhoda said. "That level of misogyny, well, it’s really straight-out misanthropy. So does that make Tarantino’s treatment of women less revolting? He needs therapy, not another big budget. "

After seeing Quentin Tarantino’s master-jerk The Hateful Eight, mother and son were driving home and listing the horrors heaped on the movie’s primary female character.

"I love Jennifer Jason Leigh,” she continued, “but perhaps her performance would have been better in 70mm Panavision."

Right then, in the middle of a right turn, Rhoda flashed back to 1995, the year she first voted with the Gotham Film Critics. That awards season, she influenced her peers to award Jennifer the Best Actress for her portrayal of the twisted little sister in Georgia.

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Grant & Lilli & The HUAC

Careers At Risk

by Robert W. Welkos

HOLLYWOOD BLACKLIST SERIES – A superstar couple with a secret grapples with HUAC’s purge of Communists inside the movie industry. 4,474 words. Illustration by Thomas Warming.


October 1947

“How’s this? Take my right side, fellas. That’s always my best side.”

8547D799-C475-4659-B563-17A9A283F8B3Grant Strickland and his actress wife Lili Reynolds stood on the U.S. Capitol steps posing before a crescent of jostling still photographers as dozens of fans waved and reporters shouted questions.

“Grant, are there any Communists in the movie industry?” asked one newsman over the din. Strickland and Reynolds hooked arms and leaned toward each other for the press photographers.

“I’m not into ‘isms,’” the actor replied with a chuckle, “—unless it’s capital-ism!”

“And what about you, Lili? How do you feel about your husband appearing before the House Un-American Activities Committee today?” another reporter called out. “Are you nervous?”

The former chorus girl who became one of Hollywood’s biggest draws as the sassy dame-next-door type whom men adore glanced up at her husband and then back at the questioner. “I’m here to support Grant — and also our industry.”

Given the seriousness of the HUAC hearings, though, she ignored shouts to dip her chin and show off her steely sultriness.

“Grant, what do you think of these hearings?” asked another reporter standing at the back of the horde.

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Jeremy Botz 1

Jeremy Botz Ruined Everything

by Aimee DeLong

A woman’s boyfriend gets seduced by Hollywood. Will he take her along for the ride? 2,277 words. Illustrations by Thomas Warming.


Until that day I had never been to Hollywood, and I still have never met Jeremy Botz with the red hair, 8547D799-C475-4659-B563-17A9A283F8B3not really. He was an A minus celebrity, the street cred version of a producer. Two thirds of the people I’d mention his name to would say, “Jeremy Botz? Who’s that?” And when I told them, they’d nod their heads and say, “Oh yeah, that guy.” So he commanded respect. OK, props. But he still ruined my relationship.

It started casually enough. My boyfriend Brody had this friend – an actor, “super talented,” whose work “showed his diversity.” Anyway, this actor showed Brody’s novel to Jeremy Botz who got a major hard on for it and informed the actor that Brody’s novel “had Sundance written all over it.” Published over a decade earlier, it was a roman a clef about a writer who develops severe agoraphobia after his divorce.

It sold well enough. There was buzz — not bee buzz, more like fly buzz — but still buzz. There were even write-ups, the kind that are sufficiently impressive like Vanity Fair or The Guardian. Brody managed to never sound like he was humble-bragging when he brought these up, thank god, just regular bragging. With a big personality like Brody had, he could get away with shameless bragging because people assumed he was being self-deprecating somewhere deep inside even though he wasn’t. It’s the best way to network.

Mr. Botz sent emails on the regular about turning the book into an independent film because he really liked Brody’s “juvenile yet scathingly sardonic sense of humor.” Then Brody told me that Jeremy Botz — “get this” — really liked his “juvenile yet scathingly sardonic sense of humor.”

But, before I continue, let me explain about Brody and me.

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The Fatal Allure one

The Fatal Allure

by Allison Silver

An ex-studio boss hosts Hollywood’s hottest acting couple at a dinner party that turns disastrous. 4,268 words. Illustration by Thomas Warming.


Ben Robbins was sitting at his desk, considering the best approach to take with Rob Tracey. Many in Hollywood had 8547D799-C475-4659-B563-17A9A283F8B3tackled this test. Few had passed.

Tracey was nothing if not elusive. He had been pursued for many projects over many years. Early on, he had learned always to say yes. So he did. The most seasoned veterans would heed his siren song. Even those who knew that “yes” was his fallback position could not resist. Having Tracey star in a movie was worth any amount of effort. Years were lost, sometimes the entire project, as filmmakers tried to get a script into the shape he wanted. He seemed far too young to have enticed so many pictures onto rocky shoals.

But getting him from that first “yes” to the first day of shooting could prove a treacherous, even deadly, effort for any project.

Tracey, was a serial enthusiast, warming up to an idea quickly, only to drop it without a backward glance. That’s what lawyers are for. He was a master juggler – keeping projects in various stages of limbo, as directors or producers or studio executives or other bankable stars waited for him to decide up or down on moving forward.

He was the Svengali of reworking. Subplots were changed, or added, or subtracted; supporting roles beefed up – unless they cut, changed from men to women or women to men. Or he might want the location shifted to Europe or China or New York, with appropriate supporting roles and accents gained or lost; or moved from mountains to coastline or small town to megalopolis – or the reverse. He might need key plot points re-focused or details blurred. Or positive traits made provocative, or negative traits written out.

Many movies had improved during this process of trying to lure him in – emerging as better iterations. Some hadn’t. Projects could be caught in the Tracey quagmire for years, only to be substantially overhauled for another actor or actresses. But many other projects died waiting for him to commit.

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The Paparazzo

The Paparazzo

by Strawberry Saroyan

A meditation on what it means to be the lens watching U.S. culture – even if you’re foreign. 1,757 words. Illustration by Thomas Warming.


A movie star had died. It used to be these things were good money, plus a relatively easy “get.” You had 8547D799-C475-4659-B563-17A9A283F8B3to have connections, sure, have been around for a while to make your way into the location, but Mick was an old hand and had been around since, what, 2007? The business was getting tougher.

Mick was from Slovenia. He had the body of a broken pen – slim, slightly twisted and with something coursing through it but it wasn’t always blood. He was a good paparazzo. The language barrier had hurt and helped him. It made him determined to listen, hear even the syllables, keep them straight: aah, eeh, eek, ooh. Also, to keep his receptors out at all times. He hadn’t always liked celebrities but he’d grown to do so, and even when he didn’t like someone — did anyone really enjoy working with Jonah Hill, Robert Downey? — at least he knew all their names. The shooting was a way to be independent at the same time that it paid the rent. If Mick had heard of legend Ron Galella, which he hadn’t, he might have felt a sense of tradition, even artistry. But he didn’t. Still, it wasn’t a bad gig. America was working for him.

The funeral was to take place at Westwood Memorial. He’d heard on E! that it was Hollywood Forever but no, Memorial was the place; his friend Rupert had confirmed it.

Rupert was another pap, and an ally most of the time. Mick himself got the name of the valet there — hey, you had to do leg work — and Mick told Jecky, I will help you if you help me. The words had been wrong, cracked in places of course, but Jecky didn’t care. Jecky would give him the go-ahead for a cool $250. Mick knew it might be a slice of profit but he would just have to up his game.

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Actress Bathing Girl 3

Bathing & The Single Girl
Part One

by Christine Elise McCarthy

The life of an actress isn’t all glamour and  money. Often it’s about humiliation. 2,029 words. Part Two. Illustration by John Donald Carlucci.


So one morning later in the month, I was again facing the relentless onslaught of overdue bills. 8547D799-C475-4659-B563-17A9A283F8B3And once again, I faced an unpayable mortgage. I managed to stretch a few paltry residuals and my unemployment benefits to cover my cell bill, utilities and the minimum payments on my credit card balances. It struck me that “balance” was an interesting word to call mounting debt. What would they call it once it came tumbling down all around me? Bankruptcy, I guessed. Foreclosure.

My chest began its now-too-familiar objection to thoughts of financial matters and squeezed in on itself while my heart sped to a dangerous pace. I tried some exercises to prevent the stroke that I was certain was coming, but I couldn’t even get air to fill my lungs let alone the deep breaths I’d been taught in yoga classes. I was becoming light-headed.

Then the phone rang. It was my agent, Kim.

“Hi, Ruby, good news! I have an audition for you. It’s a new show. Something about cops with ESP versus vampire teens. It’s actually called Sexy Dicks With ESP Vs. Gangster Vampire Teens.”

“You have to be kidding me.”

“It’s a Mentalist/Sopranos/Twilight hybrid with amazing buzz. You’re lucky I was able to get you in.”

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The Elusive One

The Elusive One

by Laurie Horowitz

She has a fantasy about a renown actor/writer. Isn’t Hollywood where dreams come true? 2,361 words. Illustration by Mark Fearing.


The first time Lolo Liebowitz did not meet Steve Martin was at the Rite-Aid in Beverly Hills. She had walked 8547D799-C475-4659-B563-17A9A283F8B3over there from her office where she spent her days trying to get jobs for screenwriters. At The Embark Agency, she had a lowly occupation filling writing assignments and covering studios. She was a junior agent, a woman like almost all the other junior agents, usually unappreciated like everyone there except the triumvirate at the top of the tenpercentery.

Embark might be responsible for finding jobs for the most famous actors in the world, the most talented directors, and even some original writers — but it was, at its crux, an employment agency. As employment agencies went, it was high powered and high pressured. One of Lolo’s senior colleagues, Tip Gill, had just called Lolo to berate her for getting the rewrite of Balustrade for Sophie Linden instead of his client Gitta Prentice. Tip explained there is no ‘I’ in team at Embark. But Gitta’s spec script was an action thriller about sadists, while the Disney assignment was a rom-com between canaries.

“Let’s face it, she wasn’t really right for it,” Lolo told Tip.

“Why are you being so defensive?” Tip accused her.

Lolo soon discovered there was no way she could keep from being attacked almost daily in her job. The days of the glamorous Hollywood agent may have been just as rough, but at least the occasional bowl of cocaine sitting on a coffee table in the office helped smooth them out. This constant assault was hard on Lolo’s body and soul. She hadn’t had a date or a decent bowel movement in weeks. So she set off for Rite-Aid that night to buy a bottle of Metamucil.

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Hail Mary

by Ned Dymoke

A stuntwoman turned realtor is suspicious when she finds out A-list celebs are buying from her. 2,937 words. Illustration by John Mann.


"Sorry I’m late," he said.

He walked in holding a stack of binders under his left arm and a coffee in his right hand. He looked 8547D799-C475-4659-B563-17A9A283F8B3sweaty. It was air conditioned in the half-finished showroom almost to the point of catatonia yet Spader was sweating big buttery bullets.

"What’s with the stacks?" said Nicole. She shot him a disgusted look. She could smell him from where she was sitting, and she hated that he could somehow bleed into multiple senses. Nicole had the face of a Midwestern blonde beauty queen but the demeanor of a drill sergeant. She had moved to Los Angeles from Minneapolis to become a stuntwoman, but had fractured her leg in multiple places falling down a flight of stairs for a movie shoot five years ago. The filmmakers hadn’t even kept the take. But she’d been left with a limp and been forced to abandon her stunt career. There had been flowers and a brief mention in the press at the time that she had been at fault. She’d since learned to swallow the memories of that whole past life of hers. She rarely thought about Hollywood the same way, and kept her head out of the industry trades. Luckily for her bank account, she had taken to selling real estate like a shark in shallow water. She sometimes wondered what she’d say if the producers of the movie ever tried to buy from her.

Nobody around the table that morning liked Spader except for Pete and even that friendship was tenuous at best, with conversations revolving mostly about the Dodgers’ team troubles. But there would be no talk of baseball today. Out of the four of them, Nicole was the most talented at actually selling.  Until this contract was over, they were stuck in this trailer from 10 to 6 every day, without fail.

"These," said Spader, "are for the meeting at 11."

"It’s 11:22, Spader," Nicole said.

"Yeah I know. I had to go and get them. And then make sure they were the right ones." Pause. "I also stopped to get coffee," said Spader, almost out of breath. The table groaned "But I think you’ll find that I did good on finding all these."

Spader was confident, and this was new.

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Roommates NEW

Roommates

by Robert W. Welkos

Three world famous actors started out long ago as NYC roommates struggling to make it. 3,222 words. Illustration by Thomas Warming.


New York City — 1950s

Sheldon Dumar, Bo Daggett and Bill Travers live together in the same New York City apartment 8547D799-C475-4659-B563-17A9A283F8B3building as close to roommates as three straight guys can get, all in their twenties and all focused on finding acting jobs.

Tonight, Sheldon is awakened by a pluk, pluk, pluk noise. What is that, the faucet? Geez, can’t a guy get any sleep around here?

“Shut up.” He covers his ears. “I said, shut up, dammit!” Groggily, he rubs the sleep from his eyes and stares unfocused into the grayish darkness. He has to laugh. How does that TV show go? There are eight million stories in the naked city… and now this is one of them: Bo’s shitty leaky kitchen faucet. Then Sheldon remembers all those lessons drummed into him using the Meisner Technique. Learn to improvise, Sheldon, like Meisner says. A phrase. Respond with intensity. Let your emotions flow. Sheldon glares at the faucet. “Are you pluking with me, faucet? Stop pluking with me!”

Sheldon dips his head and laughs. Always on. Always the actor. But he’s thankful Bo doesn’t kick him out of the apartment. Bo wouldn’t, would he? They’ve been pals since meeting at the Pasadena Playhouse, as unlikely a pair as Wally Cox and Marlon Brando.

Sheldon asked to crash at Bo’s pad while looking for a job in New York. Found one, too. Waiting tables. Don’t we all in this profession until the auditions pay off? Now Sheldon is looking for something off-Broadway or maybe a TV commercial. That would suffice until he gets on his feet financially and can afford his own pad. Until then, Bo says Sheldon can sleep on the kitchen floor. What a pal. Pluk, pluk pluk.

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A Friend Of Dorothys3

A Friend Of Dorothy’s

by Jim Piazza

A teen has a close encounter with a movie idol and learns more about her than he wants. 3,101 words. Illustration by Thomas Warming.


Danny and his only friend at West Lynn High, Joanie, take their balcony seats at Boston’s Colonial 8547D799-C475-4659-B563-17A9A283F8B3Theater. They’re in a sea of matinee ladies who unwrap candies and chatter about the Broadway-bound musical they’re about to see.  (“Isn’t Auntie Mame a little naughty for a musical?” “Who knew Angela Lansbury could sing?") Suddenly a hubbub in the orchestra as a late arrival makes her way down the aisle. The word wafts up to the balcony. "It’s her! So tiny! She doesn’t look so bad from here!” Danny leaps from his seat to peer over the railing. He’s mesmerized, tries to find his breath. The Hollywood legend turns and gives the audience a little wave before her escort helps her into her seat. The houselights dim with the first notes of the overture. Joanie tugs at Danny’s arm, forcing him back down.

"I think I saw that pink suit in Life magazine," he whispers.

“Danny, she’s a huge star.  She’d never wear the same thing twice."

"What I hear, she’s not exactly flush."

"Are you kidding? She must have millions!"

Four nights later, the legend is passed out across her bed at the Ritz-Carlton, still in her pink suit. The house phone rings. It’s the manager reminding her once again her bill is overdue. No amount of charm will put him off at this hour. He’s immune to Big Names on the skids trying to pay their way with promises and capped smiles. The lady in Room 1214 is particularly notorious on that score. He knows all the stories, who doesn’t by now? All those movies, headlines, breakdowns, comebacks and husbands.  As she once said about all the men in her life – they steal her heart, then her checkbook, then her pool boy.

She slams down the receiver, in desperation now, and searches for her purse containing the all-important address book with the numbers of hangers-on to assist in her hour of need. To her growing irritation, it’s nowhere to be found in the rubble of empty bottles and overturned prescription vials. All she’s managed to come up with is a schoolbag full of homework. "What the hell have I been doing?" she mutters to herself.

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