Chapter 3 #2
I open the door, and she scurries past me to the toilet.
I go into the bedroom, wrap a robe around myself, and head downstairs to the kitchen.
Helen shops for me every Wednesday and Saturday, but I’m not sure what I have.
I grab a jug of OJ, twist off the top, and take a few gulps.
I find eggs, spinach, bread and butter. I pull everything out, including a pan.
I’m almost done with the eggs when Margie reappears, wearing one of my undershirts. Her face is clear of makeup, and her hair is wrapped up in a towel. She sits on the stool at the counter and watches me for a moment or so. “Hey, were you on the phone earlier? Or was I dreaming?”
I place some eggs and toast on a plate and slide it over to her like in a diner. “Phil called. He’s producing another TV show.”
She picks at the eggs. “Do you have any coffee?”
“I can make some.” I fill up the pot with water.
“A new TV show, huh? Why was he calling you about it?”
“He said he has a part for me.”
“Really?”
“But I can’t have it unless I go to rehab on the other side of the country.” I turn to look at her to see if she rolls her eyes or looks surprised, but she gazes at me warily as she slowly dabs her lips with a napkin.
“What?” I frown.
“Nothing.” She takes a bite of toast and chews thoughtfully. “Is it a big part?”
“He says it is.”
“Comedy?”
“Drama. Police drama.”
“Sounds intriguing.”
Once the coffee is brewed, I pour some in a mug for her and one for me.
“Aren’t you going to eat?” she asks.
“I’m not really hungry.” I blow on the coffee, and I stare at her. She keeps looking anywhere but at me.
She glances out at the crystal blue pool. “I might go for a swim.”
“You agree with him, don’t you?” I accuse her.
She glances at me, guilt written across her face.
I sigh. “I can’t believe this.”
“I just think… maybe you should give it a shot.”
“Were you thinking that while having my coke or booze last night? And bringing that guy here? That couldn’t have been all my idea.”
She sets down her fork. “Please don’t make me be the reasonable one.”
“You had fun last night. We both did. So what’s the big deal?”
“Austin, don’t get mad at me. I worry about you. I worry that if I’m not with you, doing whatever it is you want to do, then…” She pauses long enough for me to complete her sentence in my head.
Then no one will be there to stop you.
“Are you going to hold that against me forever?” I say quietly.
“No one’s holding anything against you.” She sighs. “Did Phil… mention it or something?”
“No. But he knows about the fight I had with Harvey.”
I wonder if Phil knew about the fight we had near the reservoir off Mulholland a few years ago.
If he did, he never said a word about it.
During the last season of Love Thy Neighbor, Harvey and I exchanged blows in an empty lot.
No paps were around, but people heard about it.
Phil said nothing, but Arnold Lenny reminded me that Love Thy Neighbor is a family show.
About a month after our fight, the network suddenly pulled the plug after ten seasons.
Our last episode had Reggie Camden trying to climb a ladder to Peggy Marshall’s window to serenade her like Romeo.
Margie and I accidentally called each other by our real names a few times and giggled so much we had to reshoot the scene.
I wondered if the show’s cancellation was my fault—for screwing up in the last episode, for fighting with Harvey, or just simply for growing up. Phil told us it was funding, and TV Guide said Love Thy Neighbor had fallen behind the times. I still don’t know.
And there’s going to be a new show.
A new opportunity. Phil is a powerful guy. He golfs with Aaron Spelling and lunches with Norman Lear. If you’re in with him, you’re in with all the major television producers. If this new show doesn’t work out and the network drops it or whatever, Phil would set me up with one of them.
“You weren’t exactly sober that night fighting with Harvey,” Margie says.
I glare at her. “He fucking started it!”
“There you go again,” she sighs. “It doesn’t matter who started it. It just matters who ends it.”
“Why are you judging me all the sudden?”
Her green eyes look tired. “You said you wanted more mature roles. You said no one would even give you a chance. Now Phil’s giving you that chance.”
“With just one catch.”
She slowly sips her coffee, sets it down, and looks at it. “It might be good for you to get away from here for a while.” She looks up at me. “All the photographers. All the parties. Be somewhere where there’s none of that. Or Harvey Laden.”
I don’t like what she’s suggesting, but it’s true I can’t land more adult roles. It’s true that I complain about it to her—she’s right about that. She’s been luckier than me with a reoccurring role on a soap opera as an attention-seeking housewife.
“I don’t need to go somewhere to get clean or whatever. I don’t have a problem. I could go weeks without a drink or anything else.”
“I’m sure you could,” Margie says.
“Don’t patronize me.” I finish my coffee.
“Just think about it,” she says. “Please?”
I glance at her. She looks serious, and deep down, I know she’s right. I know Phil’s right. But there’s something about rehab and all the stigma it carries. It’s like admitting you can’t control yourself. Still, Margie has a point about getting out of here.
It would be nice to get away from the trashy, talentless son of a rock star.
“Okay,” I tell her. “I’ll think about it.”
Later that afternoon, after Margie leaves, a messenger delivers a manila envelope to my door with the script and a pamphlet for a place called Algonkian Retreat.
I toss the pamphlet aside and look through the script. The title of the show is The Precinct, and my character is Todd Winfield, a police rookie, who wants to prove himself. Todd will have a lot of scenes in the pilot. Phil was right, it is a big role, and I already know how I’ll portray him.
I spend some time by the pool, reading through my lines—out loud and in my head. I start to get excited, hope returning. I can really do this, and maybe if I impress Phil and Arnold enough, they won’t make me go to that place.
Bonnie calls to see if I want to join them for dinner, but I know the real reason is to check on me. I tell her I appreciate it, but I’m tired. I don’t mention Phil’s offer, though. Not yet. I want to wait until it’s a done deal.
For dinner, I cut a couple of rails and fix a stiff drink. I channel surf for a bit, and just when I’m considering reaching for my bottle of ludes, something on the TV catches my eye.
A brief story about Hot Night touring in Europe. Clips from some of their older concerts play. Pete is on stage barefoot, his guitar really wailing. He looks young. He looks like Harvey. Or rather Harvey looks like him. He’s practically a carbon copy of his father.
I get up off the carpet and go upstairs.
In one of the spare bedrooms, I open the closet and turn on the light.
It takes a few minutes to spot the box Bonnie brought when I moved in, assuming I’d have use for what’s inside.
I tug it into the room and open it. There are hundreds of copies of Teen Street, and a few of Heartthrob.
I sit on the floor and start pulling them out.
June 1974.
February 1973.
September 1975.
I check each cover, but I have to dig nearly to the bottom to find the one I’m looking for.
January 1973.
I open it and flip through the pages until I see it. The photographs are black and white. One of Harvey and one of me next to him.
That was the very first time they’d compared us and called us The Bad Boy and The Boy Next Door.
I scowl at the sexy look on his face. Everything Phil said about him is true.
He is spoiled. He is trashy and worthless.
Talentless. I mean, what is he doing now?
Not singing anymore as far as I know. He’s just being a pain in everyone’s ass, and a thorn in my side.
It’s always felt like everywhere I go, just this last year alone, he had to be there too, like a fucking stalker.
It’s obnoxious. Krissy Seaborn and I went to New York City to promote Roller Rink.
We hit up this new club, Studio 54, because our agents said it was the place to be seen on Saturday nights.
I couldn’t believe it when I saw Harvey there—with Shelley of all people.
It was infuriating. I didn’t know why he was in New York, and I didn’t care.
Still don’t. It’s that he was there. Thousands of fucking miles away.
Then he showed up to my New Year’s party uninvited and started a fight with me in front of The Roxy. I just can’t get away from him.
The picture of me is what I remember—a goody-goody grinning fool. But I suppose that Austin was happier. He had something to look forward to. Things could only get better. I place my finger by the photograph. If only he knew.
Fading into obscurity is terrifying. I can’t do anything else. It feels like the worst kind of failure—to have had it all and lose it. It’s humiliating. It would mean something’s wrong with me.
I begin to feel that dark, empty pain again. Except this time, I haven’t drank too much. I touch the leather band around my wrist.
I go find the pamphlet Phil sent.
Pictures show hippies smiling beside log cabins, canoes, and a garden.
A group photo features guys around my age.
It looks like summer camp with tofu and yoga.
The cabins aren’t too rustic and have amenities like private bathrooms. Someone on site does the laundry, and a chef who plans all the meals using produce from their own garden.
It’s after two in the morning when I call Phil and get his answering service. I leave him a very simple message.
“Fine. I’ll do it.”