Walking with the little dude

The last time I went walk-about I met The Turk and coffee "that will kill you." Kind of a twist on the Hollywood Black Dahlia murder mystery, "maybe she stopped in there, chugged two spoon melters and..." -- see how you can spin out of control when all you got to play with is a keyboard? 

DISSOLVE TO TANGENT

I don't have normal TV when I'm staying -- but I do have Cozi TV, PBS 2 and 3 (if you subtract the former from the latter, maybe you get PBS 1, but I can't find it) and Jesus channels in Korean, Hmong (not be confused with Moang), Chinese, several flavors of Spanish, the usual assortment of old white Southern guys.

BACK TO SCENE

So I'm walking down the street when I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn to see a little dude sitting on my shoulder.  He's sitting too close and I need readers anyway and am pretty sure he's not a book, so I wait him out.

LITTLE DUDE

When was the last time you ate something?

ME

You mean today, or since I been here?

LITTLE DUDE

That's what I thought.

(points)

You know that curb you stumbled over back there?

ME

(defensively)

I barely caught the top of it.

LITTLE DUDE

Right. But there ain't no curb back there.

ME

Oh. So what you're say--

LITTLE DUDE

How much protein do you think is in those 

five cups of coffee you had?

ME

You mean today, or since I been here?

LITTLE DUDE

It depends on how dirty the spoon is.

Go to the next restaurant you find and order

a meat milkshake or a blended tuna, whatever.

But do it before someone is checking to see if

your new medicare card works.

The big sign on the front said "Chili Beans' -- big white plastic background, a red chili pepper between Chili and Beans.  LITTLE DUDE got class, steered me right to the bowl.  I make an immediate left and walk right by the sandwich board that said, "HAPPY HOUR 4 to 6 PM DAILY." Also in big letters.  Chalk.  Multiple colors which match the color scheme of the bar next door. LITTLE DUDE also has a sense of humor.

I walk in to

CHILIBEANS

and it's like I'm on the set from Man From Uncle -- where the front is a tailor shop and the back is where they hide the chili, peppers and beans.  So I'm looking around and all they got is sunglasses, here.  Not like just a few for those opportunists who walked in for lunch when it was raining and are walking out into the Bight Golden Oracle in the sky.  I walk 

BACK OUTSIDE 

and read the sign over the door I just walked in.  Still says, "Chili Beans" with A red chili separating the chili from the beans, as God intended.  I'm not dizzy, the grounds not moving more than normal and everyone looks normal.  For L.A.

BACK INSIDE

ME

(to salesperson)

Excuse me... but the sign outside -- the big one over your 

door that says "Chili Beans" with a red chili separating 

the chili from the beans?  Did they move or something?

STARGLOW

Oh, yeah... that. We get a lot of people coming in 

thinking we're a restaurant. Especially around lunch or dinner.

ME

(still grasping the concept)

And... ?

STARGLOW

And we're not. Like we're so not. We sell sunglasses, 

just like the Sunglass Hut at the corner of the block.

ME

The Sunglass Hut is 4 shops down from you?

STARGLOW

Well, DUH!  Why do you think we named ours "ChiliBeans"?

BACK OUTSIDE

Next up was BURGER LOUNGE with a tag under it in green that promised, "grass fed." Now I want you to close your eyes and conjure up what could possibly be in a burger lounge.  Cows kicked back getting a pedi.  HUGE massage table in the middle where four Japanese guys wearing karate gis with "Kobi Massage" embroidered on the back, beat hell out of some steer on the table, his legs sticking out the bottom through comfort holes.  

And I'll eat the occasional salad, but not if you have the temerity to confess it's just grass. Pass. Hard stop. Full speed ahead, past the Sunglass Hut without even a glance and into the distance where another sandwich board signals food.

ON THE SIDEWALK

Years ago I was contemplating a business decision and had worked out every angle I could think of, had exhausted Ann with endless "what if" questions and finally came to the conclusion I needed legal advice. Preferably free legal advice from an expert criminal defense attorney. No, I don't sleep much and why do you ask?

I tell my childhood friend, Ty Settles, the whole deal.  All the known ins and outs, some of the "what ifs," the worst and best case scenarios I can think of.  I mean, he's got all kinds of clients, he's seen it all, he can be my guide through the Fire Swamp, right?

He listens like Yoda. Then carefully issues forth,

TY

(serious advisor voice)

You've done everything you can do. You've done all the 

due diligence, the business model, forecasting... everything. 

There's only one thing left you can do.

ME

(finally THE answer)

Yeah.  So what's left to do?

TY

Slowly approach the abyss,

grab your nuts and jump.

Yoda might have said, "nuts jump, abyss you grab" but the reason this is relevant is because the sign outside the restaurant said, "Sushi and Snake."  Ty and Yoda can kiss my abyss.  This isn't a take off on "Moose and Squirrel." Something bad is happening in there or will if I go in and meet the Turk again.

LATER

ANGIE

So, that's a chicken sandwich, chocolate chip cookie 

and a Starbucks Orange Mango Smoothy. Will that be all?

It was.  Stand by..

The Life and Times of Mac

McKinley "Mac" Acton

2/2008 - 2/2019

A life well lived, 

A joy brought daily.

A family ever so thankful. 

Mac made me laugh every day he was with us, from that first day in 2009 when I pulled him out of an isolation cage and instead of biting me as warned, he head-butted me.  And that was that.  Something magical happened that day, and I knew it immediately.  Through 10 years of victory and defeat, tumult and calm, Mac has been a constant companion -- a calming presence. The unflappable Mr. Mac -- or "Macaroni" as Erica dubbed him -- seemingly took it all in stride. 

A big guy about the size of an alpha raccoon, he was often mistaken for one by delivery people or workmen, all of whom he'd meet at the door and give them the smell test. He never ate people food, preferred wet in the can and only fish -- but his sweet tooth was dry food because apparently, feral cats don't get much of that.  

Shortly after he moved in, I dropped an open bag of kibble on the kitchen floor and Mac leaped from the counter, hit the floor like a sci-fi vacuum cleaner and started sucking it up in great mouthfuls.  I tried to clean it up as he pushed by me like he was going into hibernation.  Very helpfully, Ann laughed like hell and took pictures.  Finally, we threw in the towel. Mac had won and we all knew it.  This was his kitchen and he took possession by ever after laying in the middle of the floor like a dog.  "Don't move, Mac... we'll work around you" was commonly spoken at our house.

In the pandemonium of a film shoot in our house, with cameramen, sound people, on-screen talent, cables and equipment cluttering the floor, Mac walked through the chaos and found his spot sitting directly under camera #1, where he supervised the invasion for the day.  "That's a hell of a cat!" the director finally said. He was right.

Mac had been feral when we got him, the vet figured he was 18 months old and hadn't actually lived in a home before; he had FIV from fighting with other feral cats, but a more gentle creature I could not imagine. 

When Ann had her knees replaced, he took it as his job to walk behind her everywhere she went during her recovery. We've got film of her walking down a hallway doing PT, and there's Mac walking with her.

He and I chased bats that got in the house...me with the umbrella up high and he herding from the floor.  The first time we set the house on fire, I was cooking chicken in what turned out to be a non-microwavable plastic dish and would have seen the smoke if not distracted by Mac demanding his dinner, so OK, my bad. But the second time was on him because he kicked over the waffle iron off the counter with the sandwich in it -- and then went for help.

He's backed Roosevelt elk out of the yard with a growl that scared me, and then casually wandered back into the house like nothing happened.  He chased a bobcat out of the yard -- running right through the $1,500 invisible fence we had installed to keep him on the property and then AFTER beating hell out of the bobcat, ran back to me THROUGH the same invisible fence as if to say, "Nice little fence ya got here -- kinda tingley."  Not a scratch on him -- and so much for trying to control nature. 

When he brought a baby rabbit home to play with, the ladies of the family were not amused.  And when he hid half a snake under a rug that scared the hell out of our housekeeper and caused an immediate evacuation of her crew -- Mac yawned and flopped down for a nap.  Somehow he ate an entire bird in the living room, leaving only the feathers as evidence... and no trace of the bird ever showed up, not even in his litter box.   

He and I were coming back from Portland and ran smack-on into a snowstorm in the Coast Range, snarling traffic and ditching both cars and commercial trucks. As we wound through the clogged highway, Mac self-appointed himself Lookout Cat and hissed as cars strayed too close to us, growled at the big trucks.  

The Weavers came to visit and as we were welcoming them, Howard glanced down the hall and sees Mac, 20 pounds of Tuxedo Norwegian Forest Cat in full gallop to see who just broke security -- it was an impressive sight to behold, and a lasting memory of hilarity watching Howard throw himself against the wall to let Mac pass, and Mac skidding to a stop in front of him.

And here's some inter-species irony. All the women loved him. They'd come to visit Ann and sit down, Mac would strut around, do some show-stopping stretches while he's checking out the crowd; then he'd jump up on a lap, get cozy, and BAM! he's on second base. "Your cat just put his paw in my blouse" was the normal startled response. 

How can these kinds of antics not make you laugh every day?  He believed his natural enemy was cardboard and while he never played with toys, you bring a cardboard box home and it was game on; Costco day for him was Christmas.  The guy was a riot even when he wasn't trying. 

In 2016 I was treated for an aggressive cancer and the long-term diagnosis was dodgy. We kept it to ourselves because I didn't want to forever be labeled a cancer victim, having to deal with "the look" from friends and then field the ever-present question, "How are you.  Really?"  Now, I guess, I don't really give a damn.  Cancer changes you in ways you cannot imagine, nor explain to others.  

But throughout it all -- and there was much -- Mac was my constant companion, source of amusement and reminder that life isn't just about the years, but about the experiences in those years.  I'm fine now, but heartbroken he has been lost to a disease I survived.  

Life is unique and precious in all its forms. And while it is impossible for something to be "more unique" than anything else, it is possible for it to have a most unique impact.  And Mac had that... a most unique impact on everyone he met.

Mac was my friend, my muse, my playmate and only through the mysteries of nature did he happen to be a cat.  

My muse and critic. 

The legend happened to be a cat.

Lookout Cat.

The useless electronic collar.

Resting after a hard day of resting.

EXT.  MELROSE AVE  - DAY

SUPER: January 16, 2019 

Acton wanders down Melrose, still wearing his now signature foto-gray lens glasses.  He dodges a dog walker with four charges on leashes which could be 10 feet shorter, a woman carrying her child and pushing her cat in a stroller, and a bright orange Mercedes SUV parked partially on the sidewalk with AAA changing its tire.  

A COP stands by simmering somewhere between boil and spontaneous combustion.  He and Acton lock eyes and exchange a look. 

                                              COP

                                       (shrugs)

                             Protect and serve.

                                            ACTON

                             Could be worse. If this were Beverly

                             Hills, you'd be holding the wrench, right?

                                             COP

                                         (laughs)

                              If this were Beverly Hills, I'd be

                              changing the tire!

Up all night working on a submission piece, Acton had slept until 10am.  Two  hours behind from his normal schedule, and was aimed at Verve Coffee on Melrose for a patio table under the eves, which the locals avoid on orders from their publicists.

Headed for the same table yesterday when he'd had to swim upstream against a Cameron Diaz migration with entourage, gawkers and a murder of paparazzi stalking the reflected glow of stardom.

After pachinko-balling off everyone but Diaz, Acton wondered why there weren't coin-operated Phisohex stations throughout the Hollywood area. This was still on his mind as he noticed,

INSERT BANK TEMPERATURE SIGN SHOWING 72 DEGREES

But that was yesterday when people were hiding from the hypothermic 55 degrees temp and a driving mist-like, airborne moisture imitating rain.  Today, it is like summer on the Volga with pop up contests everywhere for most skin shown without invoking the First Amendment.

The current winner is standing at Melrose and N. Almont.  Acton is standing behind her... next to the very uber-gay pop-up town crier, self-appointed as the corner's master of ceremonies.

Most notable about the winner is not the 3" gauze strip substituting for a top, nor the 5" Louboutin knockoffs nor even the red Lululemon tights easily 2 sizes smaller than what any Nordstrom personal shopper would recommend.  

What pulled the entire ensemble together was the iPhone Plus she carried conveniently held between the tights and where her undergarments might have been, the lack thereof confirmed by the iPhone's flashlight which shown sternward like a lighthouse beacon, warning, "Danger ahead." 

                                              Town Crier

                                          (nearly a shout)

                                   Oh My God!  Every bitch in Hollywood

                                   is trying to get into a spotlight and 

                                   this one brings her own! Does that

                                   have a low beam honey or are you 

                                   backing up?

The winner spins around and glares at Acton who, seeing his life pass before his eyes, quickly points to the 

Town Crier. The Winner and Town Crier move into recreational name calling just as the light changes and all the other innocent bystanders, including Acton, cross the street out of the blast zone.

Parked across the street is the same cop that was supervising the tire change. Acton sees him, thumbs back to the nutroll and the cop starts to laugh.  

                                                     COP

                                     If this was Beverly Hills, I might have

                                     to get involved in that. But this is LA and

                                     unless it's blocking traffic or bleeding, they 

                                     gotta dispatch me.  Some days are just 

                                     better than others, you know?

Acton and the cop go their separate ways, each, Acton is certain, leading to coffee.

--END SEQUENCE-- 

                                     

                 

EXT. DOWNTOWN LA - DAY

Walking down the sidewalk carrying his WWII A-12 messenger case with enclosed laptop, Acton is stopped dead in his tracks by the simple sandwich board sign, "Turkish Coffee" and the arrow pointing to an open door.

He turns and looks to the door.  The LA sun cannot penetrate the dark interior, but the aroma from within is compelling.

INT. TURKISH COFFEE JOINT - CONTINUOUS

As Acton walks in he recalls a prescient family moment...

                                         ERICA (V.O.)

                         I'm just saying if you buy those light

                         transition lens, someday you're going 

                         to walk from the sunlight into some 

                         janky joint you always wander into

                         and run slam into some horror show

                         just walking around waiting for you.

                 

Light begins to pierce Acton's glasses just as he bumps into a 

wall that speaks.

                                          THE TURK

                          I am The Turk. 

Acton removes his glasses, looks at where the Turk's head should be, then finds it up another foot... hiding behind the tattoos and piercings.

                                          ACTON

                                    (thinking quickly)

                            I am the Acton.

                                 

                                          THE TURK

                            Good. You sit at bar. You have Turkish

                            coffee before today?

                                           ACTON

                             Nope. I've had Portuguese coffee, though.

                                           THE TURK

                             How you like Portagee coffee?

                                              ACTON

                              Nearly stopped my heart.

                                              THE TURK

                                         (laughs)

                               My coffee will kill you. But I will show you

                               how to drink strong coffee. And live.

                                          (then)

                               What you drink everyday?

                                             ACTON

                               Vanilla latte.

                                          THE TURK

                               No wonder Portagee almost kill you.

                                     

The Turk laughs like hell as Acton looks around to see if he's only the person in the joint.  He is.  Damn glasses.

The espresso machine has no brand showing but there is little doubt the serial number is 000001.  Hand operated, The Turk's sizable biceps bulge as he forces hot water through what may or may not be ground coffee beans, but the result is the color of crude oil

The Turk delivers his beverage in a six-ounce cup, on a rimmed saucer with a teaspoon... a measuring teaspoon. No cream or sugar in sight.  

                                                  THE TURK

                                             (off the drink)

                                     You drink now? You drop dead soon.

                                                   ACTON

                                      I'm fine... I can let it cool. 

                                                 THE TURK

                                       Hot... cold... no matter. Unless

                                       you put in two spoons of butter.

With a flourish, The Turk produces a small container of butter. He quickly puts two teaspoons of butter into the latte, stirs until none is visible and pushes the cup and saucer toward Acton.

                                                 ACTON

                                        Butter.

                                                THE TURK

                                        Butter.  You drink now.

                                                 ACTON

                                         Am I supposed to dip toast 

                                         or something into it or--

                                                THE TURK

                                         --You drink now.

                                                 ACTON

                                          I'm going to put my cell on the 

                                          counter in case you need it.

Acton takes a tentative sip. Waits for 4 Horsemen to ride through the darkened door. They don't.  He takes a longer sip and notices something. There's no bite, the texture is smooth, there's no acid in his mouth, no milky taste and most importantly, no buttery taste. If anything, there's a herbal finish to it.

                                                    THE TURK

                                             What you think?

                                                     ACTON

                                              You have WiFi?

--END SEQUENCE--

INT.  STUDIO APARTMENT - WEST HOLLYWOOD (WEHO) - DAY

Guest apartment in large, traditional Hollywood 30's house. Apt. opens onto a private patio with built-in BBQ. The interior walls are original stucco, painted an amorphous color which could be something like "Meditation Banana." 

A white bamboo armoire with three drawers suitable for swimsuits and hanging space for two nudists corners the room. New shelving units crowd the rest of the wall, each struggling with an asymmetric organizing system which over the years has lost everything from snowshoes to passports, some more than once.

At the built-in desk is JOE ACTON, writer-in-residence and dressed in the fashion of Hollywood writers -- Costco, Zappos, and off-season Tommy Bahama -- grapples through a conversation on his cell.

SUPER: January 9, 2019

                         ACTON
               What's not to get? I was in Oregon,
               then 5 days ago I got into my POS 
               2006 Pathfinder, drove to West Hollywood
               and moved into this place. 
                   (listens)
               No. Why does everyone automatically 
               assume we broke up? I've just deployed
               to WEHO. I'm like the military but
               without air support and lace-up boots.
                   (listens)
               Three months.
                   (listens)
               Because three strikes are a turkey, 
               three goals a hat trick, the father, 
               son, and Executive Producer are the  
               Holy Trinity. And like a series, I'm 
               either renewed or canceled. How do I
               know why I picked three?
                   (listens)
               No, I haven't met anyone famous. I've
               been here three days... though I did 
               meet a New York actress yesterday
               at a writer's cafe.
                   (listens)
               Not surprisingly, it's a cafe/coffee 
               joint where writers work from. Yesterday
               I counted 27 of them beating the hell out
               of their laptops.

FLASHBACK

INT. WRITERS COFFEE/CAFE JOINT - DAY

Two-story cafe with individual tables on the second floor, picnic tables, and pub tables on the first... kitchen and coffee machines next to the front door. Library quiet except for the staccato sounds of laptop abuse. 

                         ACTON (V.O.)
               I was there working on my new series 
               pilot, "Fork In The Road" when a 
               girl/woman -- I can't tell anymore 
               -- walks up and says,

                         GIRL/WOMAN
               Excuse me, is this table taken?

                         ACTON
               Don't think so. The last guy
               abandoned ship 15 minutes ago.  

                         GIRL/WOMAN
               You don't mind if I sit here?

                         ACTON
               I dare ya.

She laughs, sits down, and Acton goes back to work. Thirty minutes later he heads for a refill and cookie. As he returns he can't help but notice GIRL/WOMAN is reading the pilot on his open laptop. 

                         ACTON
                If you find any typos feel free 
                to fix them.

                        GIRL/WOMAN
                     (startled)
                Oh, I'm sorry. I saw you reading
                and typing and realized it was
                screenplay.

                         ACTON
                Technically, a teleplay. 

                        GIRL/WOMAN
                      (interested)
                Oh, television is why I'm here. I
                just got in from New York. I'm
                an actress.  
                      (nods to laptop)
                Are you an actor and
                those are your sides?

                        ACTON
                An actor? No... I'm just a lowly
                writer. 

                        GIRL/WOMAN
                You're NOT an actor? You look like
                an actor. 

                        ACTON
                I'm trying to look like a writer.

                       GIRL/WOMAN
                A writer? Oh, I don't date writers. I
                definitely do NOT date writers!

For the briefest of moments, Acton experiences a minor stroke-like condition causing him to nearly blurt out, 

                        ACTON
                     (righteous indignation)
                "WTF is wrong with you? I'm wearing
                a belt older than you are."
                     (but instead manages)
                Actors everywhere rejoice.

Her writer's rule freshly vindicated, GIRL/WOMAN gathers her belongings and heads for the second floor.

BACK TO PRESENT 

                         ACTON
                  I have no idea who she was. I
                  didn't recognize her.
                      (listens)
                  You are not the first to suggest
                  I am on the pop culture spectrum.
                      (listens)
                  Yeah... I can live with that.

END SEQUENCE