In Search of Newton Sawtelle

Episode two

By Jim Priest

      I love Los Angeles. I don't love it because I think I'm going to "make it" here. I'm not. It's not the weather that makes me love L.A. The weather is boring. Contrary to the
nervous natterings of non-natives, L.A. does have four seasons. Bitchen, really
bitchen, incredibly bitchen and Oh My God. Boring.
      But there's some thing that lives here with me that keeps me thrilled to be here. It’s as if some ancient Chumash god escaped the onslaught of the blue eyed devils
who ran off all the Chumash and he hid out, maybe in Runyon Canyon, maybe
Elysian Park. He hid out and waited to be worshipped again but the Chumash never
came back. So he sits here still. Unknown and unworshipped he draws fame
seekers from all over the planet into a swirling vortex of anonymity.
      Or maybe I just dig the chicks.
      Every little town the world over has that one hot girl. The one who's not just pretty but somehow striking. The one who makes all the guys say "ouch" when she walks
by. She could just be happy to be the hottest girl in town, marry the captain of the
football team and drive all the menfolk crazy with dreams of passion and
possession. It's a good life. Unless of course she takes a drama class in high
school. Then forget about it. Once she and her home town get the idea that she can
parlay her pulchritude into something more substantial it's all over. They bundle her
up in write-us-soons and break-a-legs and send them like tribute, like sacrificial
virgins to appease a god whose name they'll never know. That god lives right here.
      And there's a new crop getting off the bus every day.
      I hadn't seen my friend in a few weeks. I was a little worried about him at first, but
there were so many distractions. My latest distraction was named Fiona. Her eyes were luminous azure orbs perched regally atop cheekbones sculpted by Noguchi. Neurotic, alcoholic and totally narcissistic. Just the way I like 'em.
      I'd been reasonably certain that I wouldn't get sucked in this time. The inherent unavailability of the actress (or if they're really pretentious, actor) makes for the
perfect short term relationship. The more she says she loves you the more you get
the feeling that she is, after all, acting. Unfortunately I always seem to forget that
the minute you buy the performance it's time to move the show. I'd been through
this before.
      But one must do one's part for the arts. The headshots, the classes, going over
sides at the 101. It's all very fun in an optimistically desperate sort of way. She was
telling me, between bites of slightly seared cow flesh (no fries, thank you), that she
was leaving me for the guy who directed Mario Brothers The Movie.
      Check, please. Maybe someday she'll get the part as Sonic the Hedgehog's love interest. Oh well. I never liked those swanky dumps on Larchmont anyway. Larchmont Village itself has a stink about it that I never could get used to. All those gaunt little
women weighed down with shopping bags and rouge, accompanied by curly-haired bald-spotted men clutching leashes with nervous little rat faced dogs at the end. F.Scott was right about the rich, but I'm not sure he knew the half of it. So when I saw my long lost pal shambling towards us on 1st st., I felt like Gilligan watching a C-130 transport buzzing the lagoon. I almost knocked over the table to greet him I was so happy.
      "Dude!"
      He stopped dead in his tracks, but he seemed not to see me. He was clenching and unclenching his fists and mumbling something menacing through gnashed teeth.
       "Dude! 'Tsup?!"
      "It's the bricks." he said.
      I was a little hurt. No "Don't call me dude" no "Can ya help a fellow American who’s down on his luck?" Just "It's the bricks." He said it again and again, with the same
tone and intensity. I had no idea what he was talking about but he was starting to
scare me. I looked a little closer. He was definitely in some kind of a blackout. He
looked terrible even for him. There was an infected wound oozing on his neck and
his right hand was bloody and swollen. I had to get him to county in a hurry.
      "C'mon, let's get you a drink."
      I remembered to breathe through my mouth as I shepherded him onto the bus. I wonder if Fiona thought I was coming back to pay the check.

To be continued…