West Hollywood

It was the kind of night people found themselves in jail for dumb reasons; usually involving some type of alcoholic drink and lingering anger.
I felt tense, but I attributed it to jet lag and the fact that I still didn’t have a hotel room. I was at a party on the roof of some tenement in West Hollywood. It was probably bad luck to take acid while on approach to LAX, but I was nervous about my first screen-writing gig.
Now I was sweating, and I gripped by wine glass to avoid dropping it on the patio.
I took a look around at the participants; wild eyed lizards with thousand dollar suits smoking Cubans, even the women. Like many women, Hollywood was better looking from a distance and as long as you don’t have to talk to them.
I strolled through the crowd as invisibly as I could. The chatter centered mostly on first net grosses, adjusted grosses, properties, points and penalties. Almost everyone was a lawyer. Greed is at a fever pitch and if you don’t have a taste for the blood then stay out of the fucking water.
“Are you connected with the movie?” a female voice said from behind me. I turned and smiled. She wasn’t pretty; she wasn’t beautiful; she was hot, the centerfold you tear out and hang on the wall hot.
“Are you connected with the movie? She said again.
“I’m sorry, I think I’m still jet lagged. I’m sort of connected to the movie.”
“Sort of?”
“Yeah. I wrote it.”
“Myyyyron,” this huge fat lizard with thick Buddy Holly glasses smoking a fat Cohiba. He held his doughy hand out and I shook it again, for the fourth time.
“Having a marvy time, are we kids? Myron, do you realize you are talking to one of the top ten runway models in the world? How are you darling?”
“Uh Mel, you’re the Superfly of movie producers, but I don’t have a hotel room-“
“What? That’s impossible. Karen! Goddammit Karen!” Mel said waving his hand.
“Mel, mel, did you dig the script?”
“Oh, I loved it! You killed it; it’s out in the car right now. We simply must get you set up out here. Don’t worry, I’ll put you in my own bed if I have to. Karen!”
He pushed his way through the people and I stood alone with this vision trying not to say anything stupid.
“So you’re a writer?” she said. We sat on some cheap plastic folding chairs near the ledge. They creaked and wobbled like they had been left in the rain.
“Yeah, The world’s third or fourth oldest profession. At least, the one everyone thinks they can do.”
She looked at me like I had a knife wound on my cheek. “You’re not from around here, are you?”
“If you asked everyone here, just walked up and asked ‘how’s the screenplay?’ you’d get answers all over the place. I’m from another planet. It’s called Brooklyn.”
She laughed and I spied a fist fight down the block at an ice cream store.
“What’s your favorite ice cream flavor?”
She thought. Probably Rocky Road. I like when it’s mixed up.
I looked down the street; several police cars arrived and the officers were scuffling with the assailants. I escorted the runway model down to the street for a bit of entertainment and dessert.