The Extra (17 page)

“Of course it is.  That’s why I won’t share it with anyone,” said Rallston.

“You’re going to get me in trouble,” said Denise.

“You can’t just let me sit on this one,” said Rallston.  “It’s the entertainment story of the decade.  The century even.”

“What’s in it for me?”

“I like you, Denise.  I always know where I stand.”

“A nice bio article could help my career,” said Denise.  “Maybe get me out of the background racket.”

“I might do you one better,” said Rallston.  “I’ve got a lot of friends in this town, you know.  All the top agencies.”

“Get me a job interview with any one of them and you’ll have a fax on your desk within 20 minutes.”

“Pleasure doing business with you Denise,” Rallston said before he hung up the phone and smiled to himself.  He’d break this story yet.  Harold Oswald could go screw himself.  Sydney Rallston was not going to go quietly.

Chapter Thirty-Two

With the students yet to arrive for the day, the grandstands inside the gymnasium at Woodrow Wilson Junior High School were pushed up into the walls.  To one side, a sole figure in beige coveralls moved a large, round waxing machine back and forth across the wooden flooring.  He’d been at this task for two hours and was nearly finished.  A glance at his watch told Warren August that his shift would end in fifteen minutes.  If he hurried, he could just get it done.

When he finally pushed the machine across the last patch of un-waxed floor, Warren had a few minutes to spare.  He put the machine away in its proper closet and then walked out of the gym, down a hallway, and into his supervisor’s office.  His boss, Gabriel Hernandez, sat behind a desk filling out requisition forms.  Hernandez glanced up when Warren entered the room.

“How’d that floor go?” Hernandez asked.

“Just finished,” Warren answered.

Hernandez nodded and looked back to his forms.  “We’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

Warren moved into the janitor’s locker room next door.  He opened his locker and took off his slightly scuffed work boots and his coveralls.  Underneath he wore brown canvas pants and a dark blue T-shirt.  Warren’s hair was cut short, his face clean shaven.  These improvements; the job, the clothes, the resolve to make something of himself, were all due to Bridget Peterson.  Not that she even knew about it, but her influence was still strong.  It was for Bridget more than anything that Warren wanted to better himself.  He took this job shortly after the film wrapped.  He’d moved off the street and into a motel.  He was earning his own way in life, yet despite all of this, happiness still eluded him.  Perhaps the worst part was that he knew Bridget was right.  He never would be happy until he sorted out his feelings for Ophelia.  Even as his physical condition improved, his psychological state was in serious decline.  Warren was haunted by depression.  He spent most of his time sleeping the days away inside his room.  He tried to attribute this to the fact that he’d taken a night job, but deep down he knew better.  Warren didn’t want to see anyone.  He didn’t want to be seen by anyone.  Instead he’d come home, shut the curtains and hide himself away.  He tried to convince himself that he could overcome his depression through sheer force of will.  He knew that help was available if he were willing to pursue it; drugs and analysis and therapy.  He’d been down that route before.  This time he was determined to go it alone.  If he could just get through one day, and then another, things would improve eventually.  For the time being, however, each day was a major struggle.

When he’d put his boots back on, Warren took a tan work-coat off of a hook in the locker and slid it on one sleeve at a time.  He hung his coveralls on the same hook and then shut the door and gave his combination lock a quick twirl.  At a time clock on the wall, Warren punched out and then moved outside into the cool morning air.  The sun was just rising as he walked across the silent campus and out the front gate.  From the nearest intersection, Warren caught a bus back to the motel.  He let himself into his room where he dropped his jacket on a chair, took off his boots, his socks and his pants, and climbed into bed.

The winter sun peeked through a crack in the curtains, shining directly in Warren’s face as he awoke, squinting against the light.  He rolled to his left to check the bedside clock.  Half past two.  He closed his eyes again in an attempt to fall back asleep but after a few minutes he changed his mind.  He was tired of wasting his days away.  On this day, anyway, depression was outweighed by guilt.  He had to accomplish something, however minor.  Warren climbed out of bed and dropped his boxers and his t-shirt onto the chair before moving into the bathroom.  When he’d showered and shaved, he put on a fresh pair of underwear, socks, his last clean t-shirt, and the same work pants.  He opened the door to a small refrigerator to find a few cans of beer, a yogurt, and a half empty carton of milk.  He took out the yogurt, peeled off the top and then took a spoon from a desk drawer.  He ate the yogurt quickly, threw the container in a waste bin, and then washed the spoon in the bathroom sink, drying it with a hand towel before he dropped it back in the drawer.  It wasn’t much of a breakfast, but it would do. 

When he’d slid on his boots and laced them up, Warren walked outside to check the weather.  Large white clouds drifted overhead.  A light breeze put a chill in the air.  He stepped back in for his jacket, slid it on, and then picked up his saxophone from where it rested in one corner.  He pocketed his room key and headed out for an afternoon session on the street.  At least he still had his music.  That more than anything was what saved him.  It reminded him, in some measure, of his worth.  He was more than just a janitor.  Warren’s music was his gift to an indifferent world.

At Sunset Boulevard, Warren turned right and headed up the sidewalk, considering which spot he might stake out on this day.  There was a bank a few blocks up where he played on occasion.  Go where the money was, isn’t that what the bank robbers said?  Only it rarely did him much good.  Dealing with large sums of money made many of the customers even more cautious than usual, as though handing over a few coins might somehow grant access to the great riches they had hoarded away inside.  For others, though, a small withdrawal or deposit made them realize how fortunate they were by comparison.  These were the people who suddenly didn’t mind parting with a dollar or two.  And of course there was guilt.  That always played a role.

As he ambled along, Warren thought about the lessons in human psychology he’d learned on the street.  In some ways this lifestyle was like a doctoral program all its own.  There were psychologists, no doubt, who knew much less about the workings of the human mind.  He was considering this prospect when he came across a bus shelter with a large movie poster hung behind glass.  Suddenly there she was right in front of him; Jessica Turnbull with a lurid smile, seductive in her burgundy negligee.  He stopped in his tracks, eyes opened wide.  It was as though she were mocking him, right there on the street.  Warren felt the blood rush to his head.  He scanned the rest of the ad and saw Richard Slade in the background, surrounded by henchmen.  There to the right was Warren himself in a loose-fitting brown suit.  He turned around self-consciously.  Nobody on the sidewalk paid him any heed, though he still felt strangely uneasy.

Warren continued on up the street, haunted by a sense of disquiet.  The idea that he might be recognized worried him.  He’d spent months hiding away from the world, curled up in bed in a motel room with the curtains drawn.  Warren didn’t want anyone trying to pull those curtains back.  He didn’t want to be judged by strangers.  He wanted to be left in peace.  But he knew better.  This was bound to change everything.

A city bus pulled to the curb beside him and Warren hopped on.  He needed to get out of Hollywood for a while, to clear his head.  He paid his fare and found a seat near the back.  All the way down Sunset, he tried to keep from making eye contact with the other passengers.  The bus moved past the mansions of Beverly Hills and Bel-Air, through Westwood and on into Brentwood.  The whole way down the line he considered his predicament.  Maybe the movie would bomb.  The posters would disappear and he could go on with his life.  But what if it didn’t?  He recognized the irony.  Success as an actor was what he’d sought, yet now that it beckoned all he wanted was to be left alone.  He knew he couldn’t handle the glare of the spotlight now.  The less people who saw him like this the better.  After an hour, the bus wound on down to the Pacific Coast Highway, where it pulled to the curb.  Warren was the only passenger left on board. 

“Last stop!” announced the driver before he turned off the engine and climbed down to the sidewalk for a stretch.

Warren exited the bus from the rear doors and took a look around.  Directly in front of him was a gas station.  Across the highway stretched the enormous expanse of the Pacific Ocean.  In the three years that he’d spent in Los Angeles, he’d never before seen it.  He waited for the traffic light to change and then walked across.  On the other side of the road, a jumble of rocks led down to a narrow strip of sand and then the water beyond.  A light breeze put a texture on the sea, where a small clutch of surfers waited patiently just outside the breakers.  When a larger wave rose up, three of the surfers paddle furiously until one hopped to his feet and carved effortlessly down the face as the wave peeled south on along the point.

In his mind’s eye, Warren saw Ophelia.  Sweet, beautiful Ophelia.  It was Mardi Gras, and he’d invited her to a party; the first time ever that he’d been secure in the knowledge that they were a couple.  Warren remembered the pride he’d felt that this gorgeous, alluring creature at his side was his and nobody else’s.  Her smooth dark hair was cut in a bob; bangs straight across her forehead.  Her stunning green eyes were highlighted in turquoise, and those luscious red lips painted a deep red.  As he stood all alone on this far edge of the continent, Warren yearned to return to that time and place.  Above all else, he knew that there was one thing missing in his life.  Warren would never be happy without love.  It simply wasn’t possible.  If Warren could somehow get Ophelia back, he knew that everything would be whole again.  At the very least he had to try.  It was time to take that chance.  Warren was going back to New Orleans.  He was going to Ophelia.

From his pockets, Warren pulled out his money and counted it.  He had fourteen dollars and thirty five cents.  He wouldn’t get far on that.  There was nothing back at the motel room but a few dirty t-shirts and some extra socks and underwear.  Not enough to return for.  With his mind made up to leave town, Warren couldn’t get started soon enough.  He walked south, following the coast.  After two miles, he cut across the highway and followed the roadway on up the bluff into Santa Monica.  At the top he came to a long, narrow park, with green grass and towering palms in a long strip overlooking the sea.  He continued south until he came to a small group of homeless men and women resting in the shade.  When Warren inquired about the nearest pawn shop, they pointed him toward Santa Monica Boulevard.

It wasn’t hard to find the shop, right where they’d said it would be.  Inside, the owner sat behind a glass counter reading a magazine.  He was middle-aged, with short dark hair and a clean white shirt.  A serpent tattoo wrapped around his right arm.  He hardly looked up until Warren laid his saxophone on the counter.  “How much for this?” Warren asked.

The owner glanced over the instrument.  “Where did you get it?”

“It’s not stolen; I paid good money for it.”

“Oh, yeah, where?”

“I’ve had it since high school.”

The owner was suspicious but he picked up the sax and gave it a more thorough inspection.  “Where is the case?” he asked.

“I don’t know, I lost the case.”

“I’ll give you $60 bucks.”

“Come on, it’s worth a couple hundred dollars at least!”

“To you, maybe.  Not to me.”

“I can let you have it for a hundred bucks.  How does that sound?”

“I’ll give you eighty, but don’t push your luck or I might change my mind.”

Warren placed two fingers on the sax and gave it a light rub.  His heart sank at the prospect of giving it up, but he didn’t have much choice.  “Fine, eighty bucks.”

The shop owner slid a pawn slip and a pen across the counter.  “Fill this out in case you want it back.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not coming back.”

“You still gotta fill out the form,” said the owner.

Warren glared at him but picked up the pen.  When he’d filled in the pertinent information, the owner handed him four worn twenty-dollar bills.  Warren stuffed them into his pocket and walked out the door, afraid to look back.  He followed Fifth Street three blocks further south until it traversed the 10 freeway.  Warren crossed to the other side and stood beside the eastbound onramp with a thumb in the air.  He had a long way to go, but he was determined.  It took about twenty minutes before a beat-up red pickup truck pulled over and stopped.  Warren hurried to the passenger door and bent down to look through the open window.  Inside was a man in his late 60’s, with long grey hair tied back in a ponytail.  “Where ya headed?” the man asked. 

“East,” Warren replied.

“I can take you as far as Pomona.”

“Good enough.”  Warren opened the door and climbed in.

As they picked up speed and merged into traffic, Warren felt a sense of purpose that had eluded him for so long.  He was going to turn his life back around.  He didn’t know exactly what he’d say to Ophelia once he saw her, but he had 2,000 miles to figure that out. 

Chapter Thirty-Three

As the last of the evening light faded from the sky, a single streetlight flicked on to illuminate a small brown house.  The exterior could have used a fresh coat of paint, but it was in better shape than most in this working-class section of New Orleans.  The lawn was freshly cut.  The F-150 pickup in the drive was less than ten years old. 

In the living room inside, Vernon August and his wife Miriam sat a few feet apart on a couch in front of their television set.  Vernon wore olive-colored work pants and a white T-shirt.  His hair was cropped close and he sat ramrod straight, still unable to hide his military bearing a decade after retiring from the service.  Miriam wore a flower print dress.  She had medium-length brown hair mixed with strands of gray and a light application of rouge on her pale cheeks.  Folding trays rested above their knees, topped with steaming dinners, fresh from the microwave.  Vernon picked at his apple cobbler as they watched a program on the Entertainment Channel.