I’ve been here in L.A. for a year now.  I'm an actor.  Sometimes.  Okay, rarely.  It's been kinda tough, but at least this morning I've got some money for breakfast, so I hoofed it over to Duke's on Sunset to quaff down some eggs and bacon.

     I first came out here from Wisconsin to try modeling.  My Mom said I was good-looking and I should come out here and that I’d do great.  Looking back I think she just wanted me gone so she could rent out my room.  I think this because I called her about a month after I came out here and she told me she had rented out my room.  I think her boyfriend put her up to it, though she’s pretty clever herself.

     So I got out here and tried to find modeling jobs but I was told in no uncertain terms that I didn’t have the right look.  I think that was a nice way of saying I was ugly, if there is a nice way.  Not that I don’t consider myself good looking, but it wasn’t my call.  Seems there are people out here called  agents, and if they don’t think you’re good-looking, you’re ugly.  And unemployed.

     So I decided to become an actor.  I figured you don’t really have to be good-looking, although it probably helps, and I’ve pretty much been acting all my life.  I know this because Mom was always telling me to act my age.  So far I haven’t actually acted in anything unless you count porn, and that was only that one time when I was like two months behind on the rent.  Okay, I admit, it was gay porn, but still, it was only that one time.  And it’s not like I’m gay or anything.  This actor friend of mine told me you can do gay porn up to three times and still not be gay.  Actually he was just a guy I met in West Hollywood.  I don’t even know if he was an actor or not, but he got me the gig on the film so I’m sure he was in the film business. 

I was proud of my work on “Jack Steele, Private Dick.”  I thought I really captured the essence of my character, pizza delivery guy number two, because when fraternity guy number three asked if I had the sausage, I truly believed it when I replied “You bet!”  I put in the exclamation point because that’s how it was in the script, well not really the script because there wasn’t one, but when the director told me my what my line was it definitely sounded like he wanted me to say it with enthusiasm.  Therefore the exclamation point.

     When I asked the director if my character actually had a sausage pizza he said what the hell did it matter and I had to explain to him all about motivation and character development and other actorly tricks that I learned in acting class.  Well, not acting class exactly, more like my friend Gina who helps me run lines for auditions.  Gina’s a real actress.  That commercial where the girl runs across the field being chased by a giant bottle of hair conditioner?  Gina.  She’s also pretty popular.  Seems like she dates a different guy every night.  Anyway, I learned all about motivation and tons of other actorly things from her, although motivation is the only one I can remember.

     When the waitress comes by I stop her.  “Ah, mon ami,” I said.  “My compliments to the cook.”  I threw the French her way because it impresses the ladies.  Oh sure, I speak some French.  Picked it up on a trip to Paris.  Well, okay, actually it was on another porno I did that was set in Paris.  It wasn’t actually in Paris, that was just the setting thanks to a little movie magic.  And yeah, I lied, it’s two pornos I’ve done, so shoot me.  And this one wasn’t gay so I can still do two more of those.

     It was called “Day of the Jackoff,” and in this one I joined in a six-way lesbian romp. I portrayed a guy who inadvertently walks in the wrong hotel room as the assassin Jacqueline and five of her girlfriends are getting friendly, if you know what I mean.  They basically have their way with me before Jacqueline kills me by beating me to death with a dildo because she thinks I’m a spy who know she’s the assassin.

     But seeing how I was fired on that film I didn’t really count it in my oeuvre.  That’s like a resume only more important sounding.  The director apparently didn’t care for my interpretation of the character so I was fired.  Either that or he was pissed I couldn't perform on cue, if you know what I mean.  But come on, I’m supposed to be a poor French stable boy and here I am in the middle of Paris?  I didn’t buy it and neither would the audience, but don’t try telling that to Mr. Big Pants director, especially after you’ve just sex with his wife and her five lesbian lovers.  On camera.

     So anyway, the waitress smiles at me, writes down a phone number and gives it to me.  Honestly, I wasn’t sure what she wanted me to do.

     “So you want me to call the cook and thank him over the phone?” I say to her.  She laughs and tells me that’s funny.  I smile although I don’t have the faintest idea what’s so funny.  This happens to me a lot.  But she’s laughing at what I said and that feels good, so I ask her for some more coffee and then I start to really laugh my ass off to, you know, show her what a good sense of humor I’ve got and how smart I am.  To say to her I get it.

     She just stares at me like the strippers in the clubs do, the ones who tell me what a creep I am just because I stare at them.  Hello, isn’t that the point of going to see strippers?  I always try to explain this to the bouncers before they toss me out but they don’t seem to be listening.  I even try to look them in the eye when I talk to them (and let me tell you that is not an easy task when you’re hanging by the arms and legs between two bruisers the size of houses) because my Mom’s boyfriend told me to always look people in the eye when you speak to them as a sign of respect, and he was a pretty successful truck driver so I think he knows what he’s talking about.

     So the waitress goes to get coffee and I’m left there by myself reading USA Today, which as anyone who is anybody in Hollywood knows is the best newspaper around for inside Hollywood info.  I didn’t even have to pay for it because at here at Duke’s they have a table with all the newspapers on it free for the customers.  That’s how all the classy joints do it.

     Also, all the Hollywood bigwigs go to Dukes.  I know this because the walls are covered with photos of famous people signed by the celebrities themselves when they've eaten at Duke’s.  But I’ve never actually seen anyone famous in there, at least until today.

     As I’m sitting there reading about what’s going on in the USA some old guy and a young woman sit at the table right in front of me.  At first I don’t think anything of this because the guy is real old with grey hair and a goofy looking hat and he’s reading something called Variety.  Imagine, there’s all these copies of the USA Today on the table, free for the taking, and he’s reading something akin to People magazine.  Can you say loser?

     The woman is pretty hot though, so I’m thinking it couldn’t be his wife, it’s got to be his daughter or maybe even his accountant.  That is until she leans over and they start kissing pretty hot and heavy, I mean tongue and everything.  So right then I’m thinking he’s either a perv for kissing his daughter like that or he’s just real happy with his accountant.

     When they get done kissing they both look over at me with the same expression as those strippers.  Not wanting to be rude I wave.  The old man shoots me the finger and tells me to take a picture of that.  I put it off to his not being sophisticated enough to know that I was just being Hollywood friendly.

     Not wanting to further rile this guy by pointing out his social shortcomings, I go back to my eggs and the USA Today.  I’m engrossed in a wonderful section that contains a synopsis of what is going on in all fifty states.  I know for a fact that not even the New York Times has such a section.  Back home in Wisconsin the governor is considering a bill that would put ten million dollars toward the study of methane gas production in cows.  Sure seems like a lot of money to throw at farts, but as governor he must be a learned and wise man and know what’s best for the people of Wisconsin.

     Despite being focused on my newspaper, I can’t help but overhear the old man, and I can’t believe my ears.  Seems he’s some kind of producer or agent or some kind of big shot.  This could be my big break, but I have to think it through.  I’ll probably only get one shot.  I keep listening, discreetly, so I only catch snippets of what they’re talking about.  I think he’s producing a movie called Shadow and Wings.  Okay, he’s been nurturing it, he’s brought it along, okay, he thinks he can make some good money off it, right, uh huh, he just needs to find the right, oh crap, what did he say, the right what?  The right lead?  That must be it, he’s looking for a lead actor.

     Oh this is great, it’s just like that old story about the famous actress they discovered through her drug dealer, some guy named Schwab, and her name was, oh, what was it, Lois, no, uh Lana, Lana Lane?  No, I think it was Lois, Lois Lane, that’s it, wasn’t it?  Anyway, I’ll forever be remembered as the guy who was discovered at Duke’s, but if that’s going to happen I need to make a move and make it now.

     I take a last swig of coffee to energize me and then I walk over and stand next to the old man.  I didn’t notice before when I was sitting down, but from this new higher vantage point I see that the woman is well-endowed, very well-endowed indeed.

     “What are you staring at?” the old man asks me, and very rudely I might add.

     Seeing how honesty is the best policy, and thinking this producer would appreciate the truth as he is probably surrounded by yes men, I go for it.

     “I am admiring your accountant’s full breasts sir.  May I say that they are quite beautiful and you are obviously a man of taste and sophistication.”

     “Excuse me?” the old man says.  Obviously the years have taken a toll on his hearing, so I repeat myself.  I must be getting somewhere because the old man stands up to speak.

     “Seriously, are you retarded?” he says.  “Apologize to the lady.  Immediately.”

     This is great, I’ve got him right where I want him.  “No sir, it is you that will be apologizing to me because you will be very sorry if you don’t hire me to star in your new film, Shadow and Wings.”

     “Tommy,” the old man calls out to the manager. “Get this kid the hell out of my sight before I kill him—now!”

     I’m pretty sure I’m in trouble because he’s looking at me the way the strippers do.  Or maybe he just wants to mull it over.  Either way, before I can tell him my name two waiters grab me by the arms, rather impolitely I might add, and pull me toward the door.  I forget about telling him my name and blurt out “What about the movie?”

     The old man looks down at his accountant and then at the two waiters.  “Stop.  Hold him, hold him right there,” he says as he walks toward me and my captors.  He walks right up to me, his face inches from mine.  “Kid,” he says.  “Shadow and Wings?  They’re my thoroughbreds.  My racing horses.  And this is for staring at my wife’s tits.”

     And with that I watch his fist in what seems like silence and slo-mo as it arcs high in the air back around him, and then on the down-slope seems to gain speed and momentum as it races toward my gut.  All I can think of is DeNiro in the ring in Raging Bull, except this is in color.  And not a movie.  A split second before it makes contact with my gut all the sounds in the restaurant come racing forth, dishes clanging, cash register registering, bacon sizzling, and small talk all combining with the thud of his fist in my gut in an explosion of pain and sensory overload.  I have to remember this feeling.  Method acting and all.

     I’m doubled over and seeing stars as the waiters drag me out and dump me on the sidewalk alongside the cars zooming by on Sunset.  Lots of black SUVs, Mercedes, Ferraris, and Hummers, probably driven by Hollywood big shots either on the way up or down. 

I pick myself up, wipe off best I can, and head east on Sunset to my next audition, a comedy with Ben Stiller and Vince Vaughn.  Okay, ya got me, it's another porno, but the rent is due.  And really, things could be worse.  Hell, it's snowing back in Milwaukee.  Here, in the City of Angels?  The sun is breaking through the smog, I've got a belly full of food, and in the immortal song stylings of Howard Jones, "Things can only get better."