Interior: Nearly empty fern bar in L.A., late afternoon, Jack drinking a beer, writing in his notebook, only other patron a woman around forty in a yellow dress—sun dress?—three stools down, sipping a pina colada from a straw. Bartender tall and skinny, little green stud in his earlobe—gay?—leaning near cash register reading People magazine.
I close the notebook and pocket my pen for now. I’m on my third beer, feeling very tan, sunglasses atop my head. “Excuse me,” I say to the woman in the yellow dress.
She looks at me. “Hm?”
“I couldn’t help noticing you’re almost through with your drink there, and I was wondering…”
“Sure, go ahead. Buy me a drink.”
Remaining smooth, I tell the bartender to bring this lady here another pina colada.
She thanks me.
“The name’s John, by the way,” I tell her.
“That’s a very pretty name.” I consider adding, For a very pretty woman, but that seems a little worn, and anyway she isn’t very pretty.
We talk.
She works part-time in an insurance office: Allstate.
“The good hands people,” I say, smiling, cupping my hands.
“Mm,” she says, nodding, looking rather bored with me already.
I tell her I’m out here from the Chicago area gathering raw material for a screenplay titled Going Native, tapping the large red notebook next to my beer.
She laughs, then apologizes and explains that everyone in L.A. is writing a screenplay, don’t I know that?
Tapping the notebook harder, I tell her there’s a part in here for Bob DeNiro that fits him like a glove.
“Bob DeNiro,” she says, looking amused. “Well.”
“Like a fucking glove,” I repeat.
She lowers her head and sips her drink from the little straw.
I lean towards her along the bar: “Tell you a secret. This is part of the movie right here, the two of us talking. In fact, me telling you this secret is part of—”
“I have to go now,” she says, standing up.
“Well … hey. Finish your drink anyway.”
“I have to feed my dog.”
“Your dog?” I say, showing interest, wanting her to stay and tell me about her dog. “You have a dog, Angela?”
I ask her its name.
“It’s … Fido,” she says.
“That’s a very appropriate name for a dog. What kind are we talking about?”
“Big dog,” she says. “With huge teeth. Thanks for the drink.”
“Finish it why don’t ya.”
Purse across her shoulder, she wishes me good luck with my screenplay.
I ask her, “Ever done any acting? Because I’ll tell ya, there’s a part in here would fit you like a—”
“Bye, now.” She heads for the door.
“Hey, Angela?”
She turns.
“If your dog ever came after me, know what I would do to him? Do you want to know?”
She sighs and walks out of the bar.
I return to my beer. “I’d gut him like a fucking catfish.”
I light a cigarette and set it in the ash tray, open my notebook, pluck the pen from my shirt pocket, and get it all down, about Angela and her sad yellow dress, her pina coladas in the middle of the afternoon, her dreams of movie stardom, and her only real friend in the world, her dog Fido.
I close the notebook. “Yo,” I call out, lifting my empty bottle.
Angela’s attitude threw me off a little, but now that I’ve got her in my notebook I’m feeling okay again, feeling pretty good in fact—about my growing screenplay, about the thirty dollars in my wallet, the eight hundred dollars in my room, about my suntan, about the night ahead.
The bartender manages to drag himself away from his People magazine long enough to bring me another Heinekin.
I compliment him on the beautiful weather out here.
“Thanks,” he says.
“Know what it’s prob’ly doing in Chicago right now? As we speak?”
“No idea.”
“Snowing. Wind-chill factor, twenty below.” I give a laugh. “Worst weather in the world.” I raise my hand to God. “Literally. In the world.”
“You might be right.” He takes the empty bottle and drags his bored, weary ass back to the register.
“I might be right? I’m from there, okay? Suburb, anyway.”
“How ’bout that,” he says.
“Yeah, how ’bout that. Born and raised, pal.”
He opens his People magazine again.
“‘City of the big shoulders,’” I quote. “Ever hear that? It’s from a poem by Carl Sandburg, called ‘Chicago.’” I try to remember some more of it, but I can’t, and take a drink. I ask him if he’s aware that Chicago has the tallest building in the world. I raise my hand to God: “Literally. In the world.”
He nods, continues reading.
This fucking guy.
“Tell you something else we got,” I say to him. “The best damn people in the world.”
He turns a page, without comment.
“Nice people. Friendly. Know what I mean? Always a smile and a big hello: ‘Hey there, how ya doin’? How ‘bout those Cubbies?’”
He goes on reading.
“Those Cubbies,” I say quietly, looking off, my eyes filling up. And I can’t help it, I start singing, not very loud at all: “‘Myyy kind of town, Chicago is, my kind of town, Chicago is, my kind of people too, people who—’”
“Hey.”
I stop.
He stares at me for a long, hard-assed moment, then returns to his magazine.
I sit there nodding at him: Fine. Have it your way, pal. I pluck the pen from my pocket, open the notebook and get it all down:
JACK (singing quietly, with deep feeling): My kind of town, Chicago is my kind of town …
BARTENDER: Hey, you. Shut the fuck up.
JACK (singing louder): Chicago is my kind of people too …
BARTENDER (crosses to him): Hear what I said, buddy?
JACK: People who smile at you and eeeeach time I roam …
BARTENDER (pointing finger in Jack’s face): I’m warning you, pal.
JACK: Chicago is calling me home, Chicago is …
BARTENDER (pulling out a pistol from under the bar): Does this make things any clearer?
JACK: The Wrigley Building, Chicago is …
BARTENDER (cocks gun): You gonna stop?
JACK: The Union Station, Chicago is …
BARTENDER: Three … two …
JACK: One town that won’t let you down …
BARTENDER (lowering gun, nodding in admiration): You got guts, mister. I’ll give ya that.
BOTH (singing together): It’s myyy kiiind of town!
(They laugh and embrace, not sexually. Fast fade.)
I close the notebook. He’s still reading his magazine. “Yo,” I call out amiably, waving my empty bottle, giving him another chance.