Devilcountry (8 page)

A word of advice, if you want
to make a good impression on someone in showbiz make
sure
of two things. One, they are hungry and
two,
you are
the one handing them their food.  I delivered to all of the top agencies
and management companies in Beverly Hills for years.  William Morris, CAA,
ICM, UTA, Brad Pitt could have been strolling past but it didn’t matter, I was
the one with a pizza.

Adam Arkin would call in his order a
lot,
he lived right near the store.  I pissed Jerry
Vale off because I was late with his food one time.  Traffic was hell.
 I swear I could hear the swish and swerve of his adult diapers as he
stormed out from his apartment and into the hallway to meet me.  Maybe he
had just dropped a load in his pants or something.  We’ve all been there.
 

James Spader had to be interrupted by his wife
and housekeeper while he was trying to strum his guitar in his man-cave
simultaneously with a house full of family waiting for him in the living room.
 He was the only one with cash.  He seemed to be removed from the
whole thing.  Didn’t want anything to do with anyone in the rest of the
house.  Just wanted to play his guitar.  A nice new Fender
Stratocaster that you could tell he was still getting to know.  
The rest of the house loud and blaring.
If I didn’t know
better, I’d have to say that James Spader, millionaire actor, was absolutely
miserable.  I felt bad for the guy.  I felt like I was part of the
problem.   We had intruded upon him.  Interrupting him.
Demanding shit from him.  Shit he didn’t even order or want.  I wanted
to say to everyone there, “Hey, everybody
,  let’s
leave James Spader alone.   Find someone else to pay for the food and
just let him go back to figuring out the chords to
Thunder Road.

I delivered to Al Gore.  Actually it was to
his secret service.  I always wondered if the security and entourage are
reimbursed.  Stars can be pretty insensitive to that kind of stuff.
 A lot of the time it’s the
assistant paying for the
food out of their
own pocket.  The celebrity will either refuse to
pay or politely forget about payment or the tip.  I’ve seen it happen more
than once.  

Patricia Arquette wanted a pizza during her
press junket for a film she was promoting.  I handed it to a handler.
 
Lousy  tip
, my guess is that it was coming
out of his pocket.  Nick Cage was walking out of the building right as I
was walking in.  He looked miserable.  
Probably
because he was divorcing Arquette at the time.
 Glad I didn’t
deliver to him.  

On the way down from Arquette’s suite a woman
walked into the elevator and someone started talking to her from the hallway.
 She looked at me to hold the elevator so she could banter.  Without
thought, I complied.  She was older.  Dressed impeccably.  She’d
been face lifted multiple times.  A quick hello to her suitor turned into
some type of impromptu schmooze session.  Seconds turned into minutes.
 I had shit to do and here I was playing Rochester to her Jack Benny.
 Only she was an incredibly unfunny Jack Benny.  It was rude.
 Yet I did it.  Finally the meeting broke up.  Laughter between
her and whoever and she gave me the look of “Okay, we can leave now.”  We
rode down together, silence.  I asked her very briefly about what was
going on upstairs.  “Press junket,” she said it in a straight monotone
with her face forward.  All of the joy and life she had just shared with
the person she had been talking to was gone.  She gave me
a whopping
two words.  She wanted nothing to do with
me, and was completely ungrateful for me holding the elevator for her for over
five minutes.  The doors opened and she was gone. Once she got off the
elevator I realized
who
it was.   I had seen
her face on TV and in the gossip column
of  
The
New York Post
which Pudgie read religiously every day.  He’d lay them
out on each table.  
Sometimes  Donnie
would
be in the restaurant with his father.  Both Donnie and his father were
producers and ran a mid-size production company.  Pudgie would always
force a copy of it on them.  Or open up directly to her column and start
reading.  Donnie and his daddy were always polite but you could tell they
didn’t want to hear any of it.  The Big Pizza was their personal kingdom.
 A slice of paradise for them
to both
refuel,
refresh and most importantly escape from the rigors of the biz that was thrust
down their throats every waking minute.  On occasion I would intervene
asking Pudgie some random question in order to distract him away from them.
Donnie would always smile at me and give me
a thumbs
up as a sign of gratitude.  You could tell he loved his dad and cherished
the private time they had together.  I admired it.  It reminded me of
the times my father would take me into Hollywood or Westwood for the latest
Spielberg movie and a burger.  We don’t realize it but it is these moments
we take with us to the next world.  The movie was good but the meal was
better.  

I remembered her now.  
Her
horrible articles.
 She was gross.  A parasite.  I
despised her.  I remember her column.  It was crap.  And she was
the queen of it.  She wasn’t famous.  She was famous adjacent. She’d
grown up in New York City.  Her parents divorced early, her mother a civil
servant.  You could tell she was born right in the heart of everything but
without anything.  Showbiz, commerce, and a sense of entitlement flew
right into her hands and became her life.  I could relate because she had
lived amongst celebrities her whole
life  but
had
made a name for herself by ratting them out.  Thus, she became famous.
 I could feel her sycophantic energy latching onto me forcing me to become
her impromptu assistant.  She was able to bend my will to hers
,  like
Obi-Wan telling stormtroopers these aren’t the
droids they’re looking for.  My mind over-taken by some type of dark,
empty force.  Like when Pudgie would come over to me with all of his puppy
dog energy and overwhelm me with his demeanor and charisma and before I knew it
I was driving into Culver City to pick up his drugs or to deliver off the book
pizzas to contacts.  Why?  There was nothing in it for me.  Why
did I do it?  There seems to be a cross-section of people who walk this
Earth like that.  They take from us and give nothing back.  She
reminded me of Rachel Abramsberg.  Taking
what’s
hers, destroying people with a smile and never giving back.  This bitch in
the elevator was all of that and more.  
Her entitlement
a death-ray that had me against the wall.
 Her life is a stinking
shit pit of denial and exploitation saturated in celebrity endorsed perfume.
 
Lost and empty.
 
Joyless
and alone.
 Lots of people like her circled around Devilcountry.
Lurking in doorways with digital cameras.  Chasing after Lindsey Lohan
after she stumbles out of a bar.  Prying at the strong-willed in a weak
moment.  Praying for prey.  In the interim they got shmucks like me
to hold doors open for them.  Getting other people to do shit they should
be doing for themselves and once the task is complete they take all of the
credit and remind you how stupid you are for showing decency by not showing one
iota of gratitude.  It’s bad for business.  Showbiz is one of the
last strongholds of Feudalism.  Work hard on my spit of land and receive
no credit or thank you.  Your only reward is the access I provide, which
is limited, and the ability to do anything I demand again when I ask.  No
medical, vision or dental.  She was at the heart of this.  
A Serf once herself, now the overseer.
 Much like her
former beauty queen looks, it was why the once beautiful and entrancing
landscape known as the City of
Angels  had
turned
to a smogged-out hole of devils.  

A vision hits me as I stare at her promenading
like a debutante through the lobby. Schmoozing her way through the press and
publicists that had gathered around one of the bars.  The vision is
strong. It is her last dying moment.  A lifetime of bulimirexia,
face lifts
, and gay husbands has finally caught up to her
and she drops in the middle of the lobby of The Four Seasons Hotel.  Her
heart no longer able to pump the darkened unoxygenated vitriol that has coursed
through her vulturous cavity all of these empty years.  Her spirit begins
to rise above. She walks down the sanctified hallway of the Algonquin hotel,
the golden sounds of Dorothy Parker laughing, and clinking champagne glasses
with a lover laments from behind her.  Perfume, lavender and rose petals
are gently hurled at her from all sides.  Her olfactory wants being
granted one last dose of pleasantry.  She smiles and waves back to friends
and fans.  No lovers or husbands are present.   Two elevator
doors open gracefully and
she is greeted by a solemn yet
pleasant older gentleman who is at the controls of the elevator, ready to speed
her along to her final destination
.  She
enters,
turns and smiles back at her fanbase, all of them glued behind the
Post
that
has her picture and obituary on it.  
One last muted
smile.
 A beautiful golden carpet beneath her as she breathes in
the sweet smell of success.  The elevator doors close gently.  

“Top floor, please.” She cracks, in a monotone,
with a hint of expectation.

“Sorry ma’am. We’re headed down.
 Waaaaaaaay down.”  Her pearly smile ceases ever so slightly as the
elevator jolts to life and begins
it’s
ghostly
descent.  And she is gone.   

Her image lingers in my mind.  I know none
of that will happen.  

They’ll probably have a parade for her when she
croaks. Like the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, different giant inflatable
Dirigible Parasites will be escorted down Doheny Drive in her honor.
 Grand Marshall Seacrest will say a few
mono-syllabic
praises. They will all honor her passing with a tearful ode.  In tribute
,  one
of the inflatable Kardashian Parasite Dirigibles
is set free and floats away.  It hovers over the Hollywood sign for days.
 The vulturous gases inside slowly release a toxic cloud of poison out of
its ginormous ass.  It bleeds mildly over the devilled landscape,
disgusting all in its path.  Dry-heaving clinics are opened up along the
405.  The E channel offers
24 hour
coverage.
  

 
Why do
they shine the way they do?  I think. Why are they larger than life, even
when they are having their
mug-shot
taken?  Why
did I care so much about being disrespected by her?  
Some
cunty gossip columnist?
 A false authority
who
was granted unwarranted attention, power and influence.  It ate at me.

To be fair any kind of authority pissed me off.
  It was why I burned through so many jobs.  By the time I
started delivering for The Big Pizza I’d lost count of how many different
careers I’d burned through.  The number of bosses I’d told off had reached
double digits.  Just because you are in charge doesn’t make you God.
 I didn’t care who you were if you were an abusive prick I took you down.
 But, obviously that’s why I was in my mid-thirties and delivering pizza
in my own car with no health benefits.  Still, I hadn’t stormed off this
job yet.  Nothing had provoked me.  The owners had a muted presence
at best.  Dickie would come in maybe for an hour a day, press some flesh,
eat, steal, and leave.  I’d yet to see or meet Carin.  Geraldo was my
boss and he was good to me.  
Really good in fact.
 On my first day he gave me five bucks before my shift for gas.  I’d
known people my whole life
who
wouldn’t have done
that.  He knew I was nuts, but for some reason he was sympathetic.
 He was preoccupied with Carin and Dickie.  He didn’t like a lot of
what he was seeing at the store.  Still, they knew how to step back and
let Geraldo run it the way it needed to be run and it ran like clockwork.
 He was amazing at his job.  I loved working for him.  I guess
it was because I didn’t see him as authority.  I saw him as someone I
respected and admired for all he achieved and all he overcame.  I’d see
him laughing with the other cooks and dishwashers and I’d see my Grandfather
standing next to them, laughing too.  It was people like this who
understood what work was about.  
Friendship, camaraderie
and getting shit done.
 This kept me calm.  Kept my demons at
bay.  
Demons that had caused so much self-destruction
for me in the past while on the job.
 Unable to cope with bosses
who bullied or showed disrespect or co-workers whose ass I had to cover and
they reaped the full reward.  Working in Geraldo’s shop was healing me.
 I feared it being taken away.

Still, when I was placed in the presence of
celebrities there was an energy surge I felt which wasn’t entirely pleasant.
 Like being around an authority figure of whose behavior I wasn’t quite
convinced.  Most celebrities were fine and decent but some made me
nervous.  All of them caught me off-guard and created an element of
self-doubt. The gossip columnist had created a spike in me.  Her
entitlement became a given that others such as myself were forced
to  accept
.  It was some sort of mental push on
her part or deficiency on my part, or both working in tandem that she was able
to manipulate.  It gets people whom she sees as underneath to do shit for
her so she can maintain her “bell of the ball” status.  She has no talent
and no place within the Hollywood forum, or maybe she did and it was I that was
the imposter.  One thing was
certain,
all parties
serve a purpose in this town.  And much like a lonely, wicked, wicked
witch playing steward over a cannibalized broth
,  her
purpose was to stir the pot.