Robby Rockman had only ever been drunk three times in his life. The first was with his father, an Iowa farm machinery salesman, on Robby's eighteenth birthday. Robby had two-and-a-half glasses of Tennessee mash, and then puked his guts out.
The second was the night of his bachelor party before marrying Trudy. Always the good sport, he downed every mug of beer his drunken friends requested him to down. True, he lost complete control but still retained enough of his morals to turn down the advances of the stripper-whore who had already been paid for full service.
The third was at the final wrap party of the first season of "School, Sweet School," more than fifteen years ago, when it was clear that Robby's stardom was undeniable. It was the only time he got drunk by accident, and he felt ashamed and embarrassed about it for weeks after. Yet at all three times, Robby was never a mean drunk. In fact, he became even nicer than usual, gushing slurred compliments to anyone within earshot, offering favors he didn't want to do for anyone who needed it. Just so you know, once he sobered up, he made good on each and every one of those promises.
So when I saw Robby at the poolside bar, sitting next to the only dead plant on the estate, drunkenly muttering his frustrations to four empty shot glasses, I couldn't help but feel bad for him. I had only met Robby a few times and certainly didn't know him well at this point, but it simply didn't fit anything I had ever heard about him. Could his years of unemployment have turned even him into just another Hollywood casualty?
I was at the party as the date of Artie Eichman's assistant, whom I'll call Gloria Abrams. I had recently divorced my first wife, had not yet met my second, and Gloria was only days away from getting her official agent stripes. Gloria was twenty-seven years old and a total knockout. Five foot seven with long blonde hair and delicate features, she had a thin frame and, something you don't see much at these parties, perfect shapely breasts that were real. She could have been a supermodel but she was too smart and ambitious for that. After getting her law degree from Stanford, she flew to L.A. and went right to work in the Mammoth Agency mailroom. One year later she was Artie Eichman's assistant, and now she was out to steal clients of her own. I was one of those prizes. Robby was another. That's why she invited him without ever asking Artie.
So when I discovered that this beautiful young woman's interest in me was professional and not sexual, I wanted to kick myself. I had made the move from sitcom show-runner (big bucks) to indie filmmaker (little bucks) a year earlier. Gloria, like most agents who wanted to steal me, was wooing me with fantastic film promises in order to get my TV commission. Still, being wooed by a beautiful woman is never a bad thing.
"Isn't that Robby Rockman?" I asked her when I saw Robby surrounded by the empty shots, ordering yet another. "I thought he didn't drink much."
"He doesn't," she answered, very surprised. "He's never been drunk in his life!"
This, of course, wasn't true, but Gloria had learned from the best that it's better to sound certain, even when you're wrong.
"Robby! What's going on?" she said as she led me over to him.
"Hi, Gloria," Robby answered with a slight slur, then looked at me, wondering who I was. I wasn't offended. He had been at the height of his success when we had met, and major stars are miles above successful writers in the Hollywood food chain.
"Robby, this is Jeff Abugov," she said.
"Hi," I said as I took his extended hand. "We met a couple of years ago at the Golden Globes."
"Right, right, Jeff, how've you been?" he asked, presumably being polite. "You exec produced "Grace Under Fire," right?"
I was very flattered that he remembered.
"You know, I really got to get you two together," Gloria jumped in. "Jeff's got a great new screenplay that you'd be perfect for. And Jeff," she turned to me, "I bet Robby could get it financed. I bet he could."
"Yeah, he'd be great," I said, politely avoiding the fact that there was no part for him since it was about a teen-age American boy who falls in love with an older French woman.
"It's a great script," Gloria said. "It's about a young French girl who falls in love with an older American man. You'd play-"
"Bartender, another!" he shouted, cutting her off as he accidentally spilled half his remaining drink in the dead plant. "In fact, just give me two! The service is crap 'round here, you assholes!"
"Robby, what's going on?" Gloria asked sympathetically, as if she was the only one in the world Robby could truly confide in. "Why are you drinking like this?"
"Did you hear Larry got the part in the dePaulo movie?"
"Oh, that just sucks!" she said as I wondered if she had already known it. "Artie was supposed to get you that part!"
"Apparently not," he answered as he chewed on his ice.
"That sucks," she repeated. "You would have been so good in that role. You know, I don't mean to speak out of turn, but I don't think Artie's doing everything for you that he should."
This was my cue to hightail it out of there. Letting an agent snare you with compliments and promises is bad enough -- watching them do it to someone else is downright pathetic.
"I'm going to go get something to eat," I said. "Gloria, we'll catch up later. Robby, nice to see you again."
And as he turned to shake my hand, he once again spilled his drink into the dead plant. I couldn't believe how drunk this guy was, and it was very sad to see.
"Thanks," he said to me with a sardonic smile, a one-quarter laugh, an imperceptible wink, as if letting me know that he knew why I was suddenly leaving and he appreciated it. It was if we were kindred spirits, both of us feeling above the usual Hollywood bullshit while still being embarrassed victims of it, at its mercy.
"It was great to see you again," he finished.
And with a quick "you, too," I was off to the rib station.
"Bartender, another!" I heard him shouting from behind me.
"Listen to me, Robby," Gloria said to him after I left. "You can't start drinking just because you didn't get the dePaulo film. I read the script. It's bad. Pure shit. The movie's going to tank, Larry will never work again, and you're better off for keeping clear of it. But that's not the point. The point is that Artie didn't even try to get it for you. dePaulo called on his own asking about Larry, and Artie just pushed for Larry as hard as he could. He never even mentioned your name. If I were representing you, I would've gotten you a reading, at the least."
The prominent all-girl hip-hop trio ended their set, and Artie took the stage. "All my friends, thank you so much for coming," he said as he began his off-the-cuff speech which had been written for him by two desperate story editors on "Malcolm in the Middle."
"How did dePaulo even know who Larry was?" slurred Robby.
"None of this would have been possible without all of you. But I'd like to make a special thanks to certain, very special people..."
"Five years ago," Gloria whispered to Robby, "Larry got dePaulo's sixteen-year-old daughter high and seduced her. dePaulo freaked out and sent some of his Mafia friends to break Larry's legs. Two weeks ago, Larry caught dePaulo at Morton's, made a heartfelt apology, dropped to his knees and started crying over what he had done. He said he deserved to have his legs broken, that dePaulo had shown him mercy because he deserved much worse. dePaulo was touched and wanted Larry for his film."
"Because he apologized."
"Hollywood is a very forgiving community," Gloria said by rote. "And this country is a very forgiving nation."
"And to Richard Lechter, president of World Studios..." Artie continued from the stage, although I must admit I made up both the name of the studio and its president.
"Then it's not Artie's fault, it's mine," Robby said to Gloria. "Bartender, another two for me! Gloria, you want anything?"
"Bartender, no!" Gloria insisted, then turned back to Robby. "How is this YOUR fault?"
"I'd like to thank you all for coming" said Artie, then, "Joke, joke, joke."
Actually, most of Artie's jokes were pretty good. They should have been -- they were professionally written.
"Bartender, yes," Robby insisted to the bartender, then turned back to Gloria. "It's my fault because I haven't apologized to anyone."
"You have nothing to apologize for. Everyone loves you."
"And that's exactly why it's my fault," he muttered inaudibly under his breath.
Artie's pre-written off-the-cuff speech came to an end as he asked everyone to enjoy the fireworks that would be coming up shortly. Robby and Gloria applauded along with the other thousand guests, but as the applause died down, one slow, loud, sarcastic clap continued.
"Fan-tastic!" Robby drunkenly proclaimed with outstretched arms, playing it all for the back row. "Marvelous party! I would just like to add a few words myself because there were so many deserving of our gratitude and praise that Artie neglected to thank."
"Robby, don't do this," Gloria whispered, trying to stop him.
"To my agent," he slurred past her, raising what appeared to be his seventh bourbon to the Heavens. "To Artie Eichman, who built an empire of wealth and power on the dreams of others, only to ignore and spit on them when they were no longer of use. To Artie, may you rot in hell! Let us drink."
And then the fireworks began. Huge explosions followed as red, blue and green streaks lit up the black mountain sky.
Trudy, who had been chatting with some of the former writers of "School, Sweet School," all of whom currently had seven-figure deals with major studios, made a beeline across the compound to save her husband from further embarrassment.
"To Anthony dePaulo!" Robby shouted over the booming bursts of light.
"Robby, stop it!" Trudy blurted, grabbing her husband's outstretched arms.
"Get away from me!" he said, swaying his arms out of her control so that she fell down to the pavement. "To Tony dePaulo! World-renowned Anthony dePaulo! Star-maker, artiste, crime boss! Who rewards those who molest his daughter with fame and fortune! You may be good behind a camera, Tony, but you're a bad, fuckin' father. Let us drink!"
Five successive sky-high explosions of purple and magenta.
"To Larry O'Dell, my former partner, a brilliant comic who will rape your children, ruin your marriage, shove a gun in the mouth of your friend and mutilate your buddy. But he says he's sorry, so let us shower him with our praise. To Larry! Let us drink!"
Four streams of yellow light shot up into the air, then burst into all the colors of the rainbow as they drifted down to the earth.
"To Gloria Abrams! My loving agent's caring secretary who uses her good looks and lying promises of promiscuity to steal clients from her boss, whom she despises because HE taught her to despise everyone in this godforsaken business. Gloria, you will run this town one day, because you are a bitch, and that's all it takes. To Gloria. Let us drink!"
And Trudy returned. "Honey, please. You don't want to do this."
"To my lovely wife Trudy!" he said as he staggered away from her. "My high school sweetheart. The mother of my only son. The beautiful caring lady with whom I have shared my soul, my being. The beautiful caring lady who will get half of everything I have ever earned when I throw the slut out of my life because she's been fucking my agent for the past year! Let us-"
But just then, Robby tripped over a lawn chair, fell to the ground as he whacked his head on a Plexiglas end table, then rolled into the swimming pool, seemingly unconscious.
Four silver balls streaked into the air, then exploded into as many streaming rainbows. The Hollywood crowd was too stunned to move, multi-millionaire deer trapped in Fourth of July headlights.
And while Robby floated face down in the pool, a tiny ring of blood leaking out of his skull, all the pieces came together and it occurred to me that he had never been drunk at all. He had faked the whole thing.
The only question left was which of these Tinsel Town elites would ruin their expensive designer clothes to jump into a giant pond to save an unemployable actor? Or would Robby simply run out of air and have to pull himself out of the pool on his own, thereby giving the entire act away and making himself the biggest farce in all of Hollywood? Or would he just let himself die to save himself the embarrassment?
*** Up Next: "Drowning" ***
The main characters in this e-novel are fictional and are not intended to portray or resemble any actual individuals, whether living or dead (except for Jeff Abugov who is a real screenwriter, director and producer.) Although certain real people and companies are mentioned in this e-novel, all of the events are fictional and are not intended to portray or resemble any actual events.
Copyright © 2011 Tinseltrash, Inc.