Copyright © 2016 Alby Stone
Since you ask, I didn’t get the part. Oh, come on – you know who got it. Yeah, that’s the movie I’m talking about. Now you know why I was so pissed. I couldn’t fucking believe it. I mean, he was a complete unknown and he couldn’t even act, know what I mean? Hey, bartender – more beers over here. And maybe pretzels? Thanks, man.
So there we were at the screen test, waiting to do our thing for the camera. Confident? You betcha. I took one look at the competition and thought there was no way I could fail. The big guy hadn’t even fucking shaved, and boy did he need it. He looked like a bum. And I thought he’d been drinking – couldn’t string two words together, slurred and grunted and wailed his way through the script. Turns out his mouth was full of Red Man, you ever tried talking through that shit? Wouldn’t spit it out, no one could understand a fucking thing. In the end they threw him out on his ass, didn’t give a fuck who he was or who he knew. That left just me and the little fat dude.
No way, I thought. Me and Big Guy, at least we had some screen time to put on our résumés. He’d already been in a couple of movies, big at the box office. I’d only been in that one, but it had grossed a few bucks. We had experience, knew our way round a movie set. We had fans, for Christ’s sake. But Shorty? He was a nobody. Shit, it was obvious as soon as he opened his mouth. He couldn’t act, his diction was terrible, he had no presence. With Big Guy gone, I was a shoo-in. Right?
Wrong. As soon as the director saw that little asshole, I was toast. ‘We’ll let you know,’ they said. If you’ve ever been involved in the movies, you know what that means. It’s the kiss-off. Next thing I know, I’m out in the parking lot, wondering where do I go from here. There I am, no work, rent to pay, belly to fill. That part should have been mine but they give it to that no-account jerk-off. But what can you do? I spent the next few years pumping gas, waiting tables, frying burgers, just to make ends meet.
While I’m working my butt off, Shorty makes it really big. I’m green with envy. But after that, nada. Next thing I know, Big Guy’s back in the limelight, reprising the part he played in his big break. Me? You know the song – nobody wants to know you when you’re down and out? Well, that’s how it was. OK, there were a couple more movies later, but the money was never as good and there wasn’t much job satisfaction. I always played the same part, just like Big Guy. Good parts, sure, but not one fucking line of dialogue.
The trouble is, it’s always easy to typecast actors from minority groups. We always play the same fucking parts, over and over and over. Remember Bela Lugosi? All they ever wanted him to play was Count Dracula. No wonder he went nuts. Smith, Murphy, Freeman, they always play the same characters, don’t they? But African-Americans have it easy compared to people like us. Shorty? You won’t be able to name more than one of his movies – and that’s because there haven’t been any more. And he was the goddamn star, an overnight sensation, a household name. I mean, can you name anyone else who was in that movie? Of course you can’t. But that was it for him. Fucking finito. His cousin did a couple movies with Big Guy later on, then that was it for him, too. That speech problem must be hereditary. Hey, bartender – another round of drinks over here. Fuck it, make it whiskey. Leave the bottle, man.
So yeah, I’m pissed. The whole thing left a real bad taste. I’ve gone from Sunset Strip to minimum wage in less time than it takes to say ‘Ridley Scott’. Before I know it, Shorty’s fallen from grace faster than Fatty Arbuckle, except he didn’t even need a fucking scandal. Big Guy’s OK for a while, then he’s gone too. And that’s it. The three biggest minority stars of our generation, and we’re all royally screwed. By fashion.
Then one day – it’s years later, by now I’m a fucking golf caddy, would you believe – there’s a call from a studio. They’re doing a sequel and would I be interested? Interested? I bit the guy’s fucking hand off. Next I meet the director for lunch, he gives me the script, I read it. And what is it? Yeah, that’s right. A fucking reprise. Only this time I have to play around a hundred different versions of the same goddamn character. And that’s a lot of hard work for no extra pay. I don’t even get the lead – they give the only good part to a broad I’d never heard of, which I assumed meant some chick fresh off the casting couch. Really fair, huh? But let’s face it, I was lucky to get even that. Hey, it wasn’t so bad. The money was better than I could make in ten years of kissing ass and eating shit in the service industry. And I admit, it was a blast. There were fringe benefits. That chick I was telling you about? Turned out she was older than I’d thought she would be, a gorgeous mature broad, a regular MILF. No, I didn’t, if you must know. She was a real fucking man-eater, no way was I gonna get tangled up with a bitch like that. But man, she had me drooling.
After that, every few years someone would make another sequel. When that phone rang, I swallowed my pride every time. Like I said, the money was OK. I invested in real estate and Silicon Valley, made enough dough to set me up for life. I even starred with that chick a couple more times, but she made too many demands – parts as extras for her kids, must have been thousands of the little fuckers, only shoot her good side, yadda yadda – and she became unreliable, thought she was the new Monroe, for fuck’s sake. You can’t piss off people like that in Hollywood, you know? Not the movers and shakers. Besides, she was getting a little too old for the action scenes. And, I hate to say, she was losing her looks, and that’s practically a death sentence for a broad in the movie business, especially if you’re not good enough at acting to do character roles. There are another couple of movies coming up. She’ll be lucky if they wheel her out for a cameo as her own grandmother.
Where was I? And where the fuck’s that bottle? Yeah, another two fingers for me. Down the hatch, bottoms up, whatever. Anyway, things were looking up. Big Guy comes out of retirement – he’d become a personal fitness coach in Beverley Hills, working for rich dames who liked to be put through their paces, if you get my drift – for another sequel, with two more in the pipeline. That was a real break, and I was pleased for him. He’s OK, once you get over the hypertrichosis and the speech impediment. And us minorities got to stick together, right? So we start to hang out. Man, we had a few wild nights on the town to celebrate our return to the big time. One night last summer, we’re at this bar in Downtown LA, we have a few drinks, snort some Charlie, he says he wants to get laid. I’m so stoned I think that’s a great idea. So we drive down to Fairfax and Melrose, check out the goods. Nothing on display that floats my boat but he sees this hooker he likes, skanky Hispanic babe with big tits and a skirt that barely covers her panties. He rolls the window down, invites her into the car. She looks at him, eyeballs me, shakes her head, says she doesn’t do threesomes. Well, that’s what she says – but what she means is she doesn’t do our type. Hey, I don’t mind. Heard it all before, no big deal. You guys know where I’m coming from, right? I’m not gonna bust a gut over it. I try to smooth things over, tell her I’m not interested in anything that kinky but she’s not listening, shouts at someone standing in an alley. Out comes the pimp, long leather coat and fedora, fancy waistcoat, gold chains. Looks like Huggy Bear, only he’s the wrong colour and way too short. Then I check out that face, the neck, the belly, the legs. Fuck me if it ain’t Shorty.
He pretends not to recognise us. Flips back his coat so we can see the Glock in its shoulder holster, the knife handle sticking out the waistband of his pants. He tells us his girls don’t do no funny stuff, but he’ll get us a second girl for another fifty bucks. By now Big Guy’s noticed him, spits on the sidewalk, tries to talk, say hello, I don’t know, I can’t understand a fucking word. Next thing is we’re looking down the barrel of that Glock and Shorty’s telling us to go home, only not so politely. Big Guy, he don’t like that, no sir. Starts bawling and hollering, gets out of the car, wants to make something of it. Shorty reaches, draws.
Hey, who’s telling this fucking story – me or you? Yeah, and don’t you forget it, asswipe. Anyway, before Shorty can pull the trigger, I make with my party trick, snatch the gun right out of his hand before he can blink. Then Big Guy goes up to him, makes like he’s gonna beat on him with those big, hairy fists. Man, I can hardly bear to watch, it’s gonna be so one-sided. The hookers are screaming, I start to panic. Then Shorty looks up at Big Guy with those big baby eyes and says something about getting this walking carpet out of his way. Takes me a few seconds but the nickel drops. He’s been bullshitting us all along. ‘Fuck you, penis-breath,’ I say. Big Guy figures out what’s happening, says some crap like someone’s a goddamn robot, I don’t know, I can’t make it out. Could be quoting Joseph fucking Conrad for all I know. But it’s funny. Then we’re all laughing and saying lines from our favourite movies. When we’ve calmed down a bit he tells his girls to take a hike and that leaves just the three of us.
Turns out he don’t give a shit that his movie career stalled. He says being a pimp was easy work, the money was great, and he had pussy on tap. Best career move he ever made. And I have to say, he sure did look pretty happy. I’m thinking maybe he’s an OK guy after all. So he takes us to this bar a few blocks away. When we get there, it’s full of folks like us, guys who were either between projects or had just plain gone out of style. Plenty of familiar faces, a few new ones, some old-timers I hadn’t laid eyes on in years. There’s another of Shorty’s cousins, did nine fucking series of that thing with the two Feds, not one word of dialogue even though he fucking carried that show. Over in a corner, sucking up a pint of Jack all on his own, there’s the big dude with the wild hair and beady eyes, the funny mouth. We worked together one time, that thing with the booby-traps and the fucking ice. Man, that was cold, damn near froze my balls off. I nod, he ignores me, same as always. Asshole. There’s a band playing – Big Guy’s worked with them, he chews the fat with them between sets, they have a new singer, that bald chick with the funny ears, you know the one? Talk about lady sings the blues. Great voice, great body. So I’m watching her and thinking to myself I wouldn’t mind a piece of that, maybe two pieces, when there’s a commotion at the door. I take a look, do a double take. It’s that broad, the one with all the fucking kids. And who’s her date? Believe it or not, the lucky guy is that ugly fuck who never looks the same from one minute to the next, makes you puke just to look at him. Another one-movie wonder, until they made that stupid prequel and brought the piece of shit out of the fucking retirement home for it. Shit, all that ice. I hate ice. But – and you didn’t hear it from me – there will not be a third movie. Take my word. Why? OK, they always like to say ‘no animals were harmed in the making of this movie’, don’t they? Keep the soccer moms and animal liberation nuts happy, yeah? Well, you know that scene with the dog? Yeah, you got it. That’s exactly what happened. That scene was for real. Poor mutt. What kind of asshole does something like that to a dumb animal? I mean, I left that fucking cat alone, didn’t I? Anyway, I heard he did the same thing on the latest movie, during pre-production. They kept it quiet but the way I hear it, he messed her up real bad. That’s one wannabe starlet who won’t be gracing the silver screen ever again. Still, at least now she’s safe from the real predators in this fucking town, right? Right. Damn fucking right. In LA no one can hear you scream.
That guy and the bitch are not popular people. One way or another they give us minorities a bad name. And that dog-killing bastard can’t hold his liquor, you wouldn’t believe what kind of fucked-up shit he does with a few drinks inside him. They’re not people people, know what I mean? So, they tell him and the bitch to stay the fuck away. I thought it was gonna turn ugly but the guys on the door were not the kind of dudes you wanna fuck with. Remember that found-footage movie where they trashed New York? That guy was one of them, the other was his stunt double, his stand-in. These are dudes you do not fuck with.
And that’s the problem. That’s why we go in and out of fashion so fast. I mean, we’re all immigrants, huh? Go way back, everyone’s an immigrant, even the Native Americans, even Donald Trump and Sarah Palin. But there’s immigrants and immigrants. Wetbacks are a problem, but they don’t make people shit their pants. No one gives a fuck about Jamaican taxi drivers, Indian doctors, whatever. OK, there’s the Muslims, but that’s different. You get my point, right? People like us, we have a hard enough time being accepted as anything other than the characters we play in the movies. People don’t know squat about us so they’re scared of us. All except for Shorty and his cousins, of course – their problem is that they don’t have charisma. Big Guy’s got this cuddly image, so he’s OK, the kids love him, next he’ll be doing fucking Disney. Me? People take one look at me and expect me to be exactly like I am on screen. Sure, sometimes I’d just love to give ‘em what they expect. It would serve the motherfuckers right. But that isn’t the person I am. Yeah, it’s partly my own stupid fault. Maybe I should have let the world and his wife know that I volunteer at animal shelters, that I like country music, I’m a member of the NRA, I vote Republican. I go to fucking church. Been here forty years, I’m an All-American boy now, nothing to fear from me. Maybe I should do some interviews, let the public know that between jobs I used to be a clown for kids’ parties.
OK, maybe I should keep quiet about the clown thing. Stephen King and John Wayne Gacy got a lot to answer for, you ask me. But you know what I mean. I may look different, but I’m an ordinary Joe. I’m a patriot. No beard, no turban, no suicide belt, capisce? Hey, maybe that’s why I don’t get so many parts. Maybe I should beard up and get the wrong kind of religion. A lot of good parts for terrorist rag-heads these days, right? Mind you, I’d need two fucking beards.
Another bottle? Sure, why not? Then maybe we can split this two-bit joint. I want to eat.