I’m waiting for the light to change at an intersection. School just let out for the day, and a group of kids cross in front of my car. The girls wear knee-high boots, caked-on makeup, and carry fake designer bags. They walk to a Carl’s Jr. parking lot, where a much larger group of girls, most dressed like their favorite Hollywood celebutants, are hanging out. If these girls knew what adulthood has in store for them would they still be in such a rush to look grown up? The light changes and I cross the pull into the Sexual Deviants parking lot, across the street from the Carl’s Jr.

A procession of official-looking men streams in and out of the Sexual Deviants office. The ones leaving the office carry boxes of files, which they load into the back of an SUV. One of them holds the door for me.

In the reception area, a man in a vintage “STYX WORLD TOUR” t-shirt plays grab ass with a woman wearing pig tails, knee socks and a backpack. Laugh lines etched into her face by a lifetime of acidic tears give her age away.

I say to the man, “Are you Kiran?”

He says, “Yeah, and who are you?”

“Tyler Knight. Alex passed me some bad checks. I want my money.”

“You need to learn how to read.” He points to a sign on the wall:

Talent checks may be picked up only on Tuesdays between the hours of 2:15-2:20 pm. Failure to follow the rules may result in permanent ban from Sexual Deviants Studios.

I glance at my watch: 2:28.

“Fuck that, get me Alex. Now.”

He says, “I’m sorry, but you just missed him. He left for Europe this morn--”

I take the bad checks from my wallet and hold them up. “I’m not here to fuck around with you. These check bounced enough times and for enough money to be a felony. Either you pay me right now, or not only will I see you in court, I’ll make it impossible for you to book talent from several agencies. The grief will cost you more than the value of the checks.”

Kiran says, “Hold on.” He leads the girl by the hand into the inner office.

More men walk in and leave with boxes.

He returns with a three-to-a-page checkbook.

I say, “I don’t think so. Cash.”

He leaves again. When he returns, he’s got a brick of hundred-dollar bills in his hand. He tears off the paper band and counts out my money. “Don’t spend it all in one place. Alex says you’re not worth your rate, and you’re not worth having to book two weeks in advance.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I say, “‘The food is terrible and the portions are too small...’”

I take a counterfeit money marker out of my pocket and draw on a bill. The line turns yellow and fades.

I say, “If you really want to impress me, deposit that money in your bank account and pay your goddamn bills.”

On the way to the car I roll calls to the directors who sometimes shoot me for this studio, including Dana Devine, and I tell them all to beware of bad checks.

While driving home from Sexual Deviants, I decide to swing by Eris’s motel room. I couldn’t tell you why, and I’ve no idea what I’m going to say to her. As soon as I knock on her door, I find myself hoping she doesn’t answer. She doesn’t. The clerk at the front desk says she’s moved out and does not know where she went. There’s a feeling of relief.

Before I sit in my car I notice something on the floorboard, glinting in the sunlight. A dog hair. I remove it from my car and shut the door.

I’m cruising along the freeway, windows down, radio off, listening to the 350 V8 rumble, when in typical LA fashion the traffic ahead of me slows to a crawl for no apparent reason. I step on the brakes.

Nothing!

Red tail lights come up on me fast; pumping the brakes doesn’t slow me. I thread the needle through slower traffic while stomping the brake pedal onto the floorboard. I don’t bother with the horn because it doesn’t work. Heart pounding, I pull the emergency brake, glide to the right side of the freeway and down the exit ramp. Coordinating driving, sobbing to Christ and stopping with the hand brake, I pull off into a side street and kill the engine before the car kills me.

I sit still. Cars drive past me. People walk along the sidewalk. I wipe my face on my sleeve, and then reach for the crucifix where it should be hanging from my rear view mirror, but it’s not there because I ripped Jesus down. He’s neither under the front seats nor on the back seats. He’s not in the glove box, but the pink slip is there. I write a note on the back of a traffic ticket explaining that the foot brakes do not work, and I toss the note and the pink slip on the front seat. Leaving the windows rolled down and key in the ignition, I get out of the steel sarcophagus and walk.



Amanda and I are napping on the sofa when the mailman knocks on the door. Amanda gets up from the sofa to greet him. She hands me the mail: bills, junk mail and more bills. No checks.

Even though the last of the exposed people have been cleared from the quarantine list, the moratorium has been lifted and my phone hasn’t stopped ringing, I’ve yet to step foot on a set. Among the work I’ve turned down, a director who wanted to shoot me in a premeditated sex tape with a celebutant. I hung up without even asking who.

Amanda and I haven’t put much thought into what I’m going to do for money going forward. We’ve got money saved to last for a little while, but then what? The mailman will keep bringing bills. At least we have each other...things will work out.

We put our shoes on and take a walk to the ice cream parlor down the street. We finish them on the way back home, and when we return home we sit on our steps and watch the kids play.

My phone rings. Work. I let the call goes to voice mail.

Amanda says, “Go ahead and call back. When you’re done, we need to talk about how it’s going to be from this point forward.”


End.