Old Jeffy listens.
When I get to the end, he says:
"You know Shelly Kind?"
I nod.
"He tell you the story about Harry Blackman?"
"You know Shelly Kind?"
"He make you look up Blackman on Wikipedia and tell you how many movies he made?"
"Yeah. Sixty-two, right?"
"Yeah, 62. Fucker's dead now."
Ole Jeffy swigs his gin.
"He tell you how many of them made money?"
"Yes he did."
"None, right?"
I take the bottle.
"So don't you think this business is filled to the brim with producers like your Harry O Blackman? Most of the people who came out here to make movies..to act, direct, write, produce..we came out here why? Why, my favorite Oregon director?"
I pass the bottle back.
"Because we love movies?" I say.
"Of course," he says. "Because we fucking love movies."
He scoots closer to me on the concrete.
"We'd be making movies back home in our garages and living rooms if we couldn't make it to LA. This business is stuffed to the gills with people who love movies..and some people who love movies so much that they keep producing over and over and over even when movie number 62 is the 62nd movie that's lost money."
Ole Jeffy laughs.
"Harry O Blackman. That guy's dead. And he can still get people to invest in making the next one!"
Ole Jeffy slaps me on the knee.
"Now that's producing!!"
I look over at this gin-smelling homeless guy with the pimp hat and the gold Elvis glasses.
"Who are you?"
"I used to work for Paramount."
"Bullshit," I say.
Then he tells me his story.
And I start to realize: this is one of the sages of Hollywood.
The Batman guy on the skateboard. Ole Jeffy. The Oracle—
"You go see the Oracle of Hollywood?"
"Yes."
"Wha'd she say?"
"She told me I know my own fate..or something."
"What did she say exactly?"
"She wouldn't say anything! She threw my hand down on the counter and rented me a mailbox!!"
"Oooh. I've never seen her do that."
"That's what my assistant said! What does it fucking mean??"
"Don't get worked up, girl. Is it that time of the month?"
"None of your fucking business!!"
Ole Jeffy looks at me cockeye.
He passes me the bottle.
And that's how I met Ole Jeffy, Pimp Daddy Producer, or any of the names they call him. We talked all night that first night. I realized that I didn't know if Skateboard Batman was a millionaire or homeless, too—that it was the same for all of us, here, in Lala Land: we came here to chase a dream. A few of us caught it. The rest died trying. But we all died, and we all got life from the chase.
I invited Ole Jeffy to my set.
And one day he came.
I was calling action and I saw light behind me. I was about to yell the fuck out of whoever was doing it but I saw it was Ole Jeffy and he sneaked in and held up his hand sideways at me in an apology for disturbing us and he leaned silently on his cane after that. When I yelled "Cut!" I turned around and Ole Jeffy looked at me through all the people standing around watching the scene and he gave me the thumbs up.
Then he snuck out the door he came in.
And I saw the crack of light close completely.
At some, point, he disappeared. We never said bye.
I don't know what he did.
I assume he did what we all must do at the end.
That day Kristi asked me where I was sleeping.
"I went by your apartment and saw you'd been evicted."
"Uh—" I say.
"Don't tell me any stories. You're staying with me now."
"Uh—"
"Do not argue. You're my friend and a friend helps a friend when a friend needs help. Ok? That's all there is to it. Here's a key. I'll text you the address. Couch is yours. Bedroom is mine. Everything else is shared space from now on and I won't hit on you. Eat what's in the refrigerator. Don't say thank you. This is the last time we will speak of this."
"Kristi."
"What boss?"
"Thank you."
"Old woman, I told you not to say thank you."
"I won't say it again."
"Good or else I'll kick you back on the street."
She starts to go, then comes back.
"I don't believe you didn't talk to me. Pride.."
She shakes her head.
"..Pride will kill you in this city. You listen to that."
And she goes back in the studio, leaving me standing in the California sun, holding her key, ready to cry.
At her house she was honest: she didn't hit on me. We were like girlfriends.
"Nah I don't go in for jewelry."
"Why not?"
"A guy gives a girl something shiny to look at and she's supposed to open her legs? Fuck that."
Kristi laughs. She tops off my champagne.
We're sitting on the floor in front of her couch watching reruns of 30 Rock.
I clink Kristi's glass.
"This husband I used to have—" I say.
Kristi's eyebrows raise.
"Yes, I used to have a husband. No, I'm not bi, if you were wondering. I used to write silly ingredients on the grocery list whiteboard on the refrigerator and he couldn't handle it. Like I'd write, 'international zebras,' or 'pig carcass with glue.' He couldn't take it. Sometimes he'd ask me questions about what I wrote, acting, playing along, like he wanted to prove he could be weird, too. But he hated it—it messed with his sense of order. As soon as I wasn't looking he'd erase those items, leaving the rest of the grocery list up there. Like he couldn't stand to have a little nonsense sitting around. He controlled everything at his job and he controlled everything at our house, including the fucking grocery list whiteboard!! It was like I wasn't allowed to have any ownership to write what I wanted to write, even if it was 'international zebras.' I think every house could use some international zebras. He didn't. So I had to give him a divorce."
Kristi almost snorts through her nose.
"I feel like a little kid when I'm with you," she says.
"Everybody feels like they're still a little kid," I say. "Don't you know that? Everybody feels like they're still a little kid."