"The Great Rocky Wilder"

                                                 CHAPTER TWO: The Producer

 

“Darlings, come in,” Birgitte says.

     She greets Rocky and Konrad with a Wangenküsschen, a kiss on each cheek. In a sleek silver lamé party dress that’s cut too high and too low, she looks like she just killed for fashion. “The bar and everything is that way. Just follow the Botox.”

     Rocky and Konrad enter this wonderland. The party swarms with celebrities, influencers, and agents, mostly in black.

     “It looks like they might sacrifice a baby on the altar of Balenciaga,” Rocky says.

     The lighting is dim and cold. Music is playing somewhere, but you can’t hear it over the conversations. It’s like a networking event at an upscale nightclub.

     “Oh, shit,” Konrad says, spotting her. “Eleven o’clock. Piper.”

     Rocky turns. Yep, across the grand living room. Underdressed, checking her phone.

     “Should we say hi?” Konrad asks.

     “In a bit.” They keep walking. “The goal of the night is to move the needle with Christöph, if I can even find him.”

     “Let’s stay as long as you want,” Konrad says. “I’m going to find an actor and ask them if they’ve ever heard of Shakespeare.”

     And with that, he dives into the party.

     But as he walks off, Rocky notices him pop a large orange pill into his mouth and wash it down with wine.

Oxy?

     He hopes not.

     “How do you know Christöph?” snaps Rocky out of his thoughts. Before him is an earnest young Asian guy, with a hunger in his eyes. His name is Quentin, and right out of the gate, he does the least L.A. thing possible.

     He asks Rocky what he does.

     “Me? I’m a writer-director,” Rocky tells him.

     Quentin’s eyes go big. Maybe even welling up.

     “Really? That’s awesome.”

     Rocky shrugs, surprised by this kid’s lack of game. Quentin then confesses: he wants to direct, he’s getting his master’s from USC Film, and he only got in tonight because one of Christöph’s interns snuck him in.

     Rocky chuckles. “Is Quentin your real name?”

     “Sure. Yeah. I’m trying it out,” he awkwardly says. “How’s the writing-directing going?”

     “Well. I just wrapped a feature.”

     “Holy shit. Amazing!”

     “Yeah, it is,” Rocky agrees, feeling a little awkward. It was a SAG Ultra-low production, definitely not what Quentin's thinking, but it was a movie nonetheless. So he pivots: “I like your jacket.”

      He's wearing what’s arguably the coolest jacket Rocky has ever seen. A designer varsity thing, clearly pricey, with the word “score” embroidered across the chest.

     Without hesitation, Quentin says, “Want it?”

     This is a test, right? A game? But Quentin insists.

     Rocky's intrigued. And repulsed.

     “Pardon. Pardon,” Birgitte says, squeezing by with cocktails that could spill.

     “Dude?” Quentin asks.

     Rocky knows he should refuse. He should tell this kid to keep his jacket, keep some dignity. But that’s the thing about Hollywood: dignity gets you nowhere.

     Finally, he asks one question: “What size is it?”

     Quentin peels off the jacket. Hands it over like it’s nothing.

     “You sure? You haven’t even Googled me,” Rocky says, already slipping it on. It smells expensive.

     “Absolutely,” Quentin grins. “Looks better on you anyway.”

     Rocky knows it doesn’t.

     Across the room, Christöph is surrounded by what looks like the cast of The Substance. He raises his glass to Rocky in a silent toast. He has a strange sense Christöph approves.

     Rocky takes a selfie in the jacket, then slips it off and hands it back to Quentin, who frowns.

     A little later, as Rocky walks through the party, he quickly dodges Piper, who’s trying to impress a group of young agents deep in conversation.

     “I saw that film. Total piece of shit. I loved it!” she says.

     Rocky chuckles. He has to find the restroom and there’s a line, so he makes his way upstairs.

     The second floor is huge. Another living room, then a long hallway lined with way too many bedrooms. He notices movement inside one of them. The door is open so he steps in.

     The room is dark with a spotlight from above. Unlike downstairs, it’s not trained artwork or food, but on a buffet of coke, piled high.

     Guests hover around a table, silent, taking turns.

     He watches as each of them eagerly grabs a straw, snorting it like hungry animals. The whole thing feels ripped from a Kubrick film.

     Then he notices something else: a donation jar labeled “Contributions Welcome.”

     Why the hell would Christöph need donations?

     “Rocky!”

     He turns, sees Christöph approaching. “So glad you’re here. Is Konrad here, too?”

     “Hey. Yeah. He’s downstairs.”

     “Did you ever make your movie?”

     “Wrapped last month. We’re in post.”

     “Awesome. Listen, I’m in the middle of three deals, two projects, and a new masseuse.” Christöph smirks.           “But let’s definitely get together soon. Do that lunch, ya?”

     “I’d love that,” Rocky says.

     “Fantastic,” Christöph says, pressing a baggie into Rocky’s palm.

     “Be careful with that. It’s…”

     “I know. Pure-u.”

     Christöph doesn’t get the joke. He just freezes, then smiles, turns, heads down the hall.

     Rocky looks down at the baggie, exhales.

     Heading to the staircase, he spots Quentin, keeled over and half-passed out.

     “Hey,” Rocky says. “You okay?”

     Quentin blinks, eyes fluttering, wasted.

     “Come on.” Rocky slips Quentin’s arm over his shoulder and helps him down the stairs and toward the door.

     Minutes later, an Uber idles at the curb. Quentin’s a little more alert, as Rocky steadies him into the backseat.

     “Want my jacket?” he asks again.

     “No. And don’t puke on the driver.”

     He shuts the door, watches the car pull away, then heads back inside. The first person he runs into is Piper.

     “Hey!” They greet each other with a quick kiss.

     “This party,” she says. “Totally living for it.”

     “Me too.”

     “I really wish I could find some blow.”

     Rocky gives her a look.

     In the bathroom, he locks the door, then opens the small baggie. They share a couple of bumps.

     “Totally not surprised,” Piper says. “Gays have the best coke, always do.”

     “We do?” Rocky chuckles, with a sniff.

     “At least you look like you belong here. I look homeless. Not actually homeless. L.A. homeless. There’s a difference. The other day, I saw a homeless guy in Koreatown. He had the abs of god. I almost fucked him.”

     They both laugh.

     “Ask Konrad to take you shopping. He loves a challenge.”

     She chuckles. They do another bump. She sniffs, wipes her nose. “You’re gonna be fine, you know? You’re gonna be great. The real tragedy is, you don’t even see it.”

     Rocky just looks at her, trying to figure out if somewhere in there was a compliment.

     Out of the bathroom, Piper runs off to get drinks as Rocky runs into Barry.

     “Hey, hey,” Barry says in his usual upbeat register, leaning in for a kiss.

     “I didn’t know you knew Christöph.”

     “Oh, we had meetings way back when. Lots of empty promises, you know.”

     “But he invited you?”

     “God, no. I was dragged to this hellscape by some young actor somewhere,” he says, glancing around. “Now I’m trying to gauge the disparity between how hot someone’s career is, based on time at the buffet table. So far, the fattest ones have the worst careers. Not exactly breaking news.” He takes a drink.

     “That scar is new.”

     “Christöph?” Rocky says absently, watching him at the bar.

     “Yeah. Makes him always look like he’s smiling.”

     Rocky finally steals a look. A deep, surgical-looking slice, too precise to be an accident. He barely reacts.

     “Is Konrad here?”

     “Of course,” Rocky says.

     Barry frowns. He’s tall, with short-cropped hair and an imposing presence; he carries himself with an air of authority. Big daddy energy. He’s twelve years older than Rocky and has always seemed to know more, see more, experience more.

     Rocky’s mind drifts to one long-ago, best-forgotten weekend, they tried to be more.

     Rocky never felt it. But Barry did.

     Hard.

     More than once, Barry told Rocky he was the love of his life.

     How do you respond to that?

     Since they met, Barry went on to create and executive produce a string of crime dramas for TNT starring aging, has-been actresses. Each has some kind of far-fetched superpower so that they could magically deduce, each week, that the ex-husband did it. One was even a former psychic. Could you even be a former psychic?

      The hardest part for Rocky, is that Barry never, not in six schlocky series, offered him a writing gig. Rocky never asked and Barry never offered. That burns Rocky to no end. You don’t have to be a former psychic to know, that’s exactly how Barry wants it.

     “Listen, I want to tell you—” Barry says, as he spots Konrad walking up.

     “Barry! What a nice surprise,” Konrad says, leaning in for a hug.

     “I was just about to say the same thing,” Barry says.

     Konrad turns to Rocky. “Uber’s here.”

     “Already?” Rocky asks, then turns to Barry. “Wait. What did you want to say?”

     “Nothing. Just be careful with Christöph. He’s a live one. Now go, you two. I’ve got to find my actor. I think he needs a spanking.”

     Safely away from the spectacle of the party, Rocky and Konrad are in the back of their Uber, speeding into the night.

     “Well, that was… something,” Rocky says.

     “So is this,” Konrad says, pulling a chilled Champagne bottle from under his coat.

     “Oh, my god, you didn’t,” Rocky says, laughing.

     “He won’t miss it.”

     “Hey,” Rocky says to the driver. “Mind if we change our destination?”

     Konrad turns to him, curiously.

     A few minutes later, their Uber turns off Highland and into an expansive parking lot, heading up into the canyon. They get out and the Uber drives off.

     “Follow me,” Rocky says.

     He leads Konrad over to a quiet section of the long metal bar fence. Rocky turns to Konrad to help him over.

     “You’re kidding.”

     “You brought the Champagne.”

     “Okay. You’re insane,” Konrad laughs.

     He boosts Konrad up, and he lands on the other side. Rocky climbs the fence and gently drops down. Then he takes Konrad’s hand and they head down through the empty bleachers and right up to the stage, under the distinctive shell-shaped proscenium of the Hollywood Bowl.

     It’s dark. A few dim lights linger, and a ghost light. Every theater has one, thought to either keep ghosts away, or depending on the show, entertained.

     They sit on the stage, legs dangling over the edge, facing the vast open-air amphitheater. Rocky can feel the history radiating from every beam and bench. The same stage where everyone from The Beatles to Adele performed.

     Rocky loves this place. Coming here on a warm summer night, among other Angelenos, is one of the best things anyone can do in the city. 

     He opens the Champagne with a pop, takes a swig, then offers some to Konrad, who drinks, too.

     “This is pretty incredible,” he says, looking out at the benches that go up so high you can’t see where they end.

     “So are you.”

     He turns to Rocky, eyes glassy, moved.

     They drink again. Then Rocky pulls out his phone, stands, and offers his hand in a grand gesture.

     Konrad is overwhelmed. He stands, takes his hand as Rocky hits play. Norah Jones’ “Come Away with Me” begins to play as they sway, slowly, in the warm summer air.

     It is, without exaggeration, a perfect moment.

     “So tell me, what do you love most about me?” Konrad asks.

     “You’re the most compassionate person I’ve ever met.”

     Konrad smiles, his eyes still twinkling.

     “What about me?” Rocky asks.

     “Easy, you’re the most passionate.”

     Rocky nods, and they hold each other, dancing.

     Then share a kiss in the most magical place in Los Angeles.

     A lone security guard watches from the wings. He’s seen it all before. Still, he lets the song finish before kicking them out.

                                                                            ***

Rocky drives up to the valet at the Beverly Hills Hotel.

     Over the decades, it’s become synonymous with L.A. glamour. Icons like Elizabeth Taylor, Marilyn Monroe, Howard Hughes, and John Lennon all stayed there. George Michael was arrested for cruising in the park bathroom across the street. Rather than hiding from the scandal, George came out, leaned into it, turned it into a moment of empowerment.

     That made a big impression on Rocky.

     Turn your defeats into power.

     He’s working on it.

     The valets do a quick walk-around, inspecting his Corolla, noting the pre-existing damage before handing him a ticket. Do they really mean it, or are they just car-shaming him?

     Rocky crosses through the lobby to the Polo Lounge. He scans the room, spots Christöph, who waves Rocky over.

     He slides into a booth. Christöph nods to Rocky as he finishes a call.

     “No, darling. It’s not fucking acceptable. Because I say it’s not, ya?”

     He smiles at Rocky. It’s uncanny, with that scar, even when he’s angry he’s smiling.

     “Then make it happen.” He finally hangs up, lets out an exaggerated sigh, shaking off the conversation before turning his attention to Rocky, just as cocktails arrive. He picks up his martini, clinks his glass against Rocky’s.

     “Chin-chin.”

     Rocky aims for a sip, but takes too big of a drink.

     “So, tell me. Now that you’ve finished this project, what’s next?”

     “Well, I uh… I have a couple other scripts. Piper, remember her? She’s still putting together one of my projects. It’s another small indie…”

     “Rocky, I think you should take your career to the next level, ya?”

     “Ya. I mean, yes. What do you mean?”

     “Well, these indie films are cute and all, but aren’t you better than that?”

     Rocky pauses. Of course, he is. But he wasn’t expecting to be insulted.

     “I… I’m definitely open-minded. I’ve got lots of ideas and…”

     “Let me think about it.”

     “You want to think about what?”

     “You.”

     Rocky nods. Tentative.

     “You know, about these indie films, I’m very proud…”

     “I’m going to stop you right there,” Christöph interrupts. You don’t owe me an apology. We all have to start somewhere. But the thing about you, Rocky. You get shit done. I admire that.”

     Rocky finishes his martini.

     “And I do want to see your new one.”

     “Sure, I can send you a link,” Rocky says, reaching for his phone.

     “No, I don’t want to watch it on my phone. I mean a screening. Like at a studio.”

     A studio? Shit.

     “My office will set it up. It’s very simple. I make a call, see the picture, then we’ll work together. How’s that sound?”

     Rocky is stunned. He really wants them to work together? That’s amazing. He needs a moment to think this through. Come up with some ideas, pitches.

     “Hey. Are you two around this weekend? Birgitte and I are having people over. Another fun couple. Just drinks and a bite. You’ll like them, ya?”

     Rocky blinks. A nervous jolt rushes through him. Are they working together or are they now suddenly friends? He’s got a weird feeling about this. And he thinks they’re a fun couple. What the hell does that mean? He is European. Is it an orgy? He can’t make the fuck of it.

     But Christöph's staring at him, waiting.

     “We’d love to.”