Chelsea Sound Stage Continued
Unlike poor Hiroya—who’s gone on, by the way, to that Great Bohemian Flophouse In The Sky–once I get into my apartment, I’m usually able to ignore distractions, and just focus on my writing. The walls are thick, after all. But one night, Hollywood came knocking, and like a fool, I answered the door.
It was a girl in her mid-twenties, blond, with tattoos. “Hey, you want to be part of a movie?” she said, very chipper. “We need to use your room for a couple of hours. We want to shine some spotlights down on the street so we can film an outdoor scene. What do you say?”
I thought about it, very briefly. “No, I don’t think I want to do that. I’m busy right now.”
“Aw, come on! It’ll be fun. We won’t bother you at all. We’ll just move our crew in here with the spotlights, and you can go about your business.”
“I’m really not interested,” I said.
“We’d pay you $25.”
“No thanks.”
She made a face like she couldn’t believe my stupidity. I tried to close the door, but she still wanted to talk. “Who’s in this room right here,” she asked, indicating the room to my right.
“That’s Mr. Greene.”
“You think he would do it?”
“I seriously doubt it. But, I can’t really speak for him.” I knew there was no way in hell. Mr. Greene was rather reclusive, and he hated the film people as much as anybody I knew. I heard him stirring behind his door, listening in.
“What about this other room?” the girl asked, pointing to the door to my left.
“Transients,” I said. That’s just what we call people who are staying for a few days, guests, in other words. No negative connotation is intended.
But the film girl didn’t know that; I got the sense that she was picturing junkies or similar lowlife. She wrinkled her nose in disgust.
“They may very well need the money,” I said, playing along.
The girl knocked on Mr. Greene’s door. I took the opportunity to shut my own door. I could hear her out there banging away for several minutes. Perhaps she had been instructed not to return without an affirmative answer. She never did try the transient room.
After several minutes of silence, I thought she was gone. I had just gotten back to work when I was startled to hear the banging again, this time on my own door. When I opened it there was the girl again. “What will it take to make you change your mind?” she asked.
“I really don’t want to do it.”
“Everybody has their price.”
“I wouldn’t do it for any amount of money.”
“Oh come on, just name a figure.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Come on. What can it hurt.”
I thought about it. If she was going to keep bothering me I might as well make some money. “Alright,” I said. “Five-hundred dollars.”
“That ain’t gonna happen!” the girl almost yelled at me.
I closed the door on her. For the next few minutes, I half expected the girl, or perhaps her superior, to return and grudgingly fork over my exbortionate price, but apparently they had their limits. They must’ve got someone to go along with their plan, however, because soon the street outside was lit up like a Christmas tree, and it stayed that way long into the night. (Copyright 2006 Ed Hamilton )
Click here to read more "slice of life." Next week: "Sid’s Room." Just in time for the anniversary of that notorious crime.
