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California Thing

He took a long hard drag on his Marlboro red with great intent. This was not the drag you take when you are hooked on cancer sticks. This was one of the legendary drags borne from pure ecstasy and satisfaction that you rarely see outside of black-and-white movies and light beer commercials. He let it out in a slow, smooth wave of pearly white smoke which flaunted for the rest of the empty room its perfect form, and then scattered quickly so nobody could ask it questions later.

Facing him was the bright white glow of his twenty-one inch Sony monitor, upon which was splayed his favorite new wallpaper, which featured a perfect sandy beach upon which sat a perfect blonde, golden beauty, sipping a perfect pina colada. At least it looked like a pina colada. Even computer monitors have their limits in terms of resolution (the pixel-by-pixel kind) and resolution (the moral determination kind). Over this picture was a plain white window, an opaque aberration with only the top few lines, labelled "To:" and "From:", filled in.

The email to Mom. Years later, he was sure, this would make a wonderful story for the entertainment trades, as he spoke of the tough years, the small time before the big time, when professional network interviewers wouldn't have known his name, so instead every week he told his stories to Mom, the one who would always listen, regardless of who he was dating at the time, regardless of how many millions he got for his latest picture, and regardless of what he was wearing. Good Lord, he thought to himself, I do hope you're saving these.

He tapped the ash into his Ace-of-Spades ashtray, left the cigarette leaning idly against the sides, and began to write...

Hi Mom... Where to start, you know? It has been such a fabulous week, I would think even you would be embarrassed. Crying to me as I left, how I would be all alone, I'd never make it, I'd never meet anyone, I'd never-- Well, you know what you said, but I know you were wishing for the best along with the rest of us. Let me just start this mail by saying you can stop worrying. Little boy is all grown up, and things are just fine. What? You want to hear about some of it? Well, okay... :) :)

First of all, on a professional note. I haven't yet landed that big job, as you and dad seem to awfully enthusiastically point out to me every chance you get. Well, hopefully this little update will quell your fears and help you sleep at night. One of my friends from the acting workshop introduced me to his agent, who was (fortunately) around to see my latest reading, and... well, I have to work up to this slowly, otherwise the significance of this event might be lost through the emotional black hole that email tends to be... I had just finished my reading, which was a dramatic turn on Nicolas Cage's speech in Raising Arizona where he begs the physical manifestation of all his fears to return his son to him. It was meant to be a comedic scene, but I decided to turn it into a gut-wrenching, tear-jerking scene of a broken man seeking redemption. Nobody in the audience was ready for it. When I had finally finished, there was this wonderful pause, as nobody knew what to do -- what to think. Then slowly, applause rose from the crowd, to a blistering crescendo which I really, I never expected to hear or see such a thing, at least not this soon into my career. It was wonderful.

Anyway, the agent I told you about, she came up to me afterwards and said she'd like to talk to me about some possibilities... "Some possibilities," mom. Do you know what that means? That means it's starting. Right now. I gave her my number, and now I'm just waiting for her to call back. I can't hardly sleep, I'm so excited. But that's not all.

As you know, while all this is going on, I'm still working at the restaurant. Of course, everyone there is working on their own crafts too, and God love them, I do wish them the best, but in this town, only the best of the best will ever make it out of the restaurant. In fact, that's what they call it when you land a big part, or get signed to a decent label. "Making it out of the restaurant..." But I'm still working there for the time being. It's not all bad. Particularly it's not all bad because of Denise, who works the bar while I'm doing tables. Before you ask, she's happily married, and I've met her husband and he's a really good guy, so don't get any funny ideas. But I can't tell you how nice it is to have met a real friend out here. I've spent so many nights alone in my apartment, that just to meet a nice, funny, personable person to hang out with is just such a relief, I can't tell you. Denise and I, we work there all night, trading barbs in between drink orders and cheering on the Dodgers and Kings on the TV, it's just... It's just a lot of fun. I think I owe Denise more than anyone, just because she's been able to keep me sane so long since I've been here. Some of the best times I've had have been out with Denise and Mark (her husband), just enjoying being here, being in (what I think) is the best place in the world, sharing times and laughs. I called her a few times last week, so I'm hoping to get together again as soon as possible. Now I'm just waiting for her to call back. It's really great.

Okay, now to the news I'm sure you're really interested in. Yes, mother, I'm so happy and proud to finally tell you... I've met someone. Like you read about in fables and romance novels, I didn't even mean for it to happen. I was out at a bar alone (amazing, isn't it?) one night, wishing there was someone else with me, and she came up to the bar. I know the moves, so I was pretty cool. I was cool, that is, until the bartender came up and asked, "What can I get ya?" I thought he was talking to me, she thought he was talking to her, so we both blurted out at the same time, "Greyhound, please." It was so funny, all three of us just started laughing and laughing. Anyway, he got us the drinks, and I swear, I don't even remember what I said, but it must have been charming as all hell, because an hour and a half later, she was still there talking to me, and I was still there talking to her. It was sweet. The night grew later, and she said she was getting very tired and had to go, but before she did, she gave me her number on a cocktail napkin and asked me to call her. I swear, a feather could have knocked me over, but apparently I just seem to have it all going on right now. I don't want to jinx this thing by talking about it too much, but I did give her a call last night and left a message on her voicemail. Now I'm just waiting for her to call back. I think you'll like her, Mom.

Well, that's about it from the land of sun, surf, and those gorgeous palm trees. Give me a call if you want to know any more. You know the number.

Love, Bill.

So he sat there, and the phone sat there, and they both sat there together.

And the horse you rode in on, too.