Andy Seven, former rock star/male model/bon vivant, the man with the action-packed expense account, the fabulous free-lance creator of stories and images is available for your entertainment NOW! on Blogger.
Saturday, March 6, 2010
It's A Happening Thing (crash WALKER Chapter 3)
Showing up to a cool Hollywood party in a 1964 Chevrolet Corvair is no major embarrassment, but showing up alone sure as hell is. No equally cool stud co-stars would go to the party with him (they flaked - three different guys), no foxy beach blonde ingenue starlets ("a '64 Corvair - what kind of girl do you think I am?"). Crash Walker sheepishly pulled his car over against a hunk of Hollywood Hills mountain and quickly combed his hair in the rear view mirror. He breathed against the back of his left hand to catch shit breath, not bad, a shot of brandy will kill poop smelling germs. Leaving the car a quarter mile from the party house, he trudged slowly up the hill.
As he climbed higher up the hill by the sleepy, expensive homes with their long driveways and low ceilings stretching out over the canyon he saw the bright colored lights at the top of the hill, voices, mostly female laughing like sirens beckoning him. Valet parkers gunned their Cadillacs and Jaguars past him, narrowly missing his right leg by inches. He walked through the open front door, Sergio Mendes and Brasil 66 playing "Mas Que Nada" louder than it was intended.
Script girls were flirting with location scouts, key grips were bragging to wardrobe girls about their strenuous jobs on set, electricians were networking for jobs, and in the distance you could see the swimming pool with skinny dippers through the sliding doors. In the distance you could hear a dog barking, over and over again, never stopping.
"Crash Walker!" an excited guy who looked like Al Martino wearing sunglasses in an already darkened house leaped at him, giving with the drunken party hug. "Where've you been? The party ain't shit until you show up!"
"You finally dragged your tired ass up here, outtasite!" Humble Harve ruffled Crash's hair, automatically ruffling his feathers for mussing up his comb job. "Hey, hold my drink a second, willya?"
"Thanks", Walker walked off with his drink, sipping half of it in the process. He tried to focus his vision at the darkened room, picking out people (mostly chicks!) drifting around the brightly colored lights. Standing in the corner, laughing and gesturing animatedly in her platinum blonde hair, deep suntan and black dress was Jodi Powell.
Jodi Powell, that "Golden Goddess" suntan lotion girl from the TV commercials, all 6 feet of her. "I wonder how many drinks she's had so far tonight?" he thought. "She's talking to some nebbishy bald guy with glasses who keeps coughing nervously. That can't be her date. He's probably boring her to death".
Walker pushed his way closer to the corner, luck be his lady tonight, the nerdly bastard excused himself, either to cough his stupid ass off or get her a fresh, new drink. "Here's my big chance, move it or lose it, Walker", he mumbled to himself. Swiping a drink from the coffee table right by him, he approached Powell. "Got a new drink with your name on it", he smiled. "Mine's Crash Walker!"
"Thanks!" she smiled, sipping her new drink. "That's so nice of you. I'm Jodi, the-"
"I know, I know. You're the Golden Goddess on TV commercials. Don't be pale, Don't be hopeless", he sang the insipid jingle, her chiming in, "Get a splash of Golden Goddess". They laughed together. "Terrible song, isn't it?" she laughed.
"Are you kidding? I was singing it in the shower just this morning!"
She laughed harder. "Liar, but you're so nice I'll take your story on credit. Besides you're tall like I am, thank God".
"Where's your friend?"
"I don't know, but I just spent the past fifteen minutes looking down on the sunburn peeling off his bald head".
"Why don't we escape to the swimming pool and I'll get you another drink?"
Pushing and shoving through the crowd to the patio, her blue eyes shining in the darkness, she asked, "So what do you do, Smash Walker? Are you a stunt man?"
"No, I'm the star of 'Wrangler's Canyon', the best western on TV", he boasted in spite of the fact she got his name wrong. With her gorgeous long legs she can get his name wrong any time.
"What did you say? 'Wrangler's Canyon'? What's that, a cartoon show?" She made a confused face and began losing interest, scanning the patio for bigger fish. Five minutes and he was already losing her.
"No, I'm on 'The High Chaparral', I play Cameron Mitchell's saddle pal", good save.
"'High Chaparral'? That's one of my favorite shows! They show my commercials on 'High Chaparral'. Did you know people are more likely to buy 'Golden Goddess' for the weekend if they see my commercials on Friday night? Isn't that the wildest?" he smiled excitedly, her full breasts heaving up and down inside her small dress as she spoke.
"Yeah, groovy", he grinned, signaling two fingers to the bartender for drinks.
A cranky voice began piping into the house by a very buttoned-down man with a crew cut and a tightly-fitting suit. His voice was grating, probably from smoking too many menthol cigarettes.
"I don't know why you talk me into going to these things. Too many drunks, the girls are too loud, and the music's lousy. No Frank, no Dino, Gimme some Harry James any time", groused Bill Flagg, star of "Roadblock", the highest rated show on television.
"Come on, Bill, it's good for your image", some fat guy in a turtleneck pushing its way out of a small blazer whined, "You got to be seen having fun with other stars".
"C'mon, Bill", whispered his companion, "Just make an appearance, and we'll be gone in half an hour."
Back at the patio, "Tell me some cool cowboy talk, the kind you guys say on the show", Jodi's bugging Crash.
"Oh, man, what a drag."
"No, come on, I want to talk like a cowboy, come on!"
"Okay, let's see, there's slap leather".
Jodi's eyes got big. "Slap leather? Sounds kinky!"
"Ha, not the way we do it. Just a bunch o' smelly guys drawing guns."
"Why do they call it slap leather?" she screwed up her face, looking drunker and drunker.
"Because their guns slap their holsters before they draw 'em out of the big showdown."
"I don't get it", she shook her shoulders and threw her arms up. Walker grabbed her by the waist and kissed her slowly. She licked his lips.
"Let's go somewhere quieter", he whispered in her ear. She smiled sweetly.
They both drunkenly stumbled down a dark hallway towards a closed bedroom door. They passed by a highly disgusted Bill Flagg and agent. "The Byrds, The Turtles, The Turds, it's all Commie faggot junk to me", Flagg cussed.
"Bill, Bill, Bill, it's gonna be okay", he whispered quietly trying not to arouse too much attention with his volatile charge in tow.
"They should pass out ear plugs as party favors. If this ever gets back to Dick Nixon", Flagg stopped, and winced disgustedly. "Is that Crash Walker with a hooker trying to use the bedroom? I think I'm going to get sick!"
Actually, Flagg and Jodi walked by the den, where a TV was blaring loudly with voices laughing hysterically. As they crossed the doorway, a voice yelled into the hallway, "Crash Walker! Get the fuck in here and check out this shit! Heeheeehohaw!"
Very stiff horns blared out of the TV set with the dullest speaking voices ever heard. Jodi smiled at the hilarity but Crash wanted to know who had the balls to interrupt his attempt at seduction. It was Billy Bell, the new stunt man from the drugstore, passing a joint around the sofa with his friends.
"Don't you remember, Billy from Schwab's? C'mon, sit down and have a drag with us and check out the Square City Show."
"Oh, shit, it's 'Roadblock'", Crash mumbled to Jodi. She sat down, crossing her long, well-suntanned legs and took a drag, but Crash stayed where he was standing, watching America's favorite program.
Bill Flagg's character, Sgt. Jim Davis, was standing in a groovy, fake hippie-morre beatnik styled apartment, grilling an old woman in horn rims and a homemade knit cardigan.
"You know, Sargeant, he seemed like such a nice boy, he always does his homework, takes out the trash, mows the lawn, goes to church, I don't like to pry in his business, and what not, but lately he's been acting awful strange."
"But lately he's been missing pep rally and I've been smelling the oddest things around the house, like burning rope."
"Burning rope, ma'am?"
"Do you have any rope on the premises, ma'am? Burning or otherwise?"
"None that I know of, Sargent." The set was so overlit you could see shadows of the boom stand against the wall.
Sgt. Davis walked over to an ashtray with three carefully placed roaches, the camera zooming into his face, gritting his teeth as he put the broke the roaches under his nostril. "Just as I thought! Marijuana cigarettes!"
"Oh dear!" the old woman lost consciousness and dead fainted on the floor.
Bell and his friends exploded into stoned laughter, Bell leading the pack by screaming hysterically, kicking his legs in the air. Even Walker had to laugh at the corny hijinx. "This show sucks, you guys."
"Are you kidding, man, this show is comic gold, shit gold!" Bell roared with laughter. Even Jodi was ripped and laughing. Walker could hear somebody storming into the room.
"Alright, you peckerheads, that's enough!" Bill Flagg blew his cool and yelled at Billy and his friends. "You worthless drug addicts, I'll call the cops right now and have your asses dragged into night court!"
"OMIGOD IT'S HIM, HOOHOO HAHA!" Bell's laughter doubled at the sight of Flagg.
"Billy, that's some powerful shit, the show just flew out of the TV!"
Flagg grabbed Walker by the collar, "And I just knew you were behind this pot party, aren't you, Mister Crash Walker? You'll be the first person I'll see to getting put behind bars, you worthless, no talent reprobate!"
Walker pushed Flagg off him. "I wouldn't talk about talent if I were you, Flagg, if you didn't have your shitty TV show you wouldn't even be working at all."
"Read it and weep, pal, I've got a number one show, not a piece of jackoff shit like 'Wranglers' Canyon', Mister!"
"Hey!" The Golden Goddess yelled, drunk and doped to the gills, "You said you were on 'High Chaparral', you lied to me!"
"Siberia's closer to the top of the ratings than your Romeo's dead-end cowboy show", Flagg scowled. "Didn't you know? He's colder than Kennedy!"
Walker punched Flagg square in the face, Billy Bell jumoping up and holding him back. "Easy, Buddy, no flying off the handle now, you hear? Forget about him!"
Flagg's agent grabbed him, "C'mon, Bill, no scenes this time, let's go grab a drink somewhere else, c'mon."
"Nothing doing! Get me a phone, Phil, I'm calling the cops. I'm going to practice my civic duty, doggone it."
"You'd better leave, TV Cop", Billy spat at Flagg, "Or I might lose my grip on Mister Walker here."
"You're trash, kiddo", Flagg cursed, "You're all trash. I'm going to leave alright, but I'll remember each and every one of you. The cops are going to hear about these drug parties and they're going to flush every one of you down the toilet".
"Come on, Bill", Phil the fat agent pulled him away, but not before Walker jumped up from his restraint and kicked Flagg square upside his ass, sending him stumbling down the hallway. Every body laughed hard, and Billy asked quietly, "Are you gonna be okay?"
"Yeah, man, I'm fine. Let me go." Walker felt his arms, now free but numb, and he rubbed them. "You've got quite a grip there, kid."
He turned to find Jodi gone from the sofa. "Look, I gotta find my girl."
"Sure, man, you take care, maybe we'll see each other soon on set or something."
Walker walked down the dark hallway, the house tilting. He slowly approached the swimming pool, which spun up and down too quickly. He doubled over and took a deep breath of chlorinated air. A red-haired girl smiled up at him from the water.
"Isn't this the grooviest party ever?"
Walker's eyes rolled up in his head and he threw up into the pool.