Devilcountry Read Online Free Page B

  Every chat at the watercooler.   Every quip about the boss’s bad tie.  Every
emotional bond formed with another person while on the job.  It all
becomes elixir shucked down the throat of all who fall prey.   Like the word itself.  Ten letters stuck together like
old socks covering up the holes in a given reality.
                  I tried to pee in Tom Arnold’s soup.
                  That was the basis of my dismissal.
 He had it coming.  He made a waitress cry.  I didn’t like that.
 She was nice.   Blond, truck-drivery, and the only
waitress who was willing to speak to me.
                  Since most servers anywhere in
Devilcountry are out of work actresses in search of their break, they use the
following sentence as a daily affirmation: “ I am a worthy person and I will
not talk to anyone beneath me, otherwise I can kiss my film career goodbye,
because I’m here to work, and if I waste time chatting up the drivers then I’ll
lose tips and lose the tables where the actors and casting people are, so I
will shut out all subcreatures.   Like in that Meisner exercise from
my acting class with my ex- where I believe in the emotion so deeply but I keep
my face blank and my scene partner will do the rest, that way he won’t initiate
any conversation but he’ll still like me enough because he might have an uncle
who is an agent, and just remember:  I always cast myself as the
lead in any Breakfast at Tiffany’s revival because I’m my own greatest
casting director, unlike that agent I dated whose cock bent to the side.”
Pause.  “I love me and know who I truly am.”
    None of them wanted anything to do with me.
 She was nice to me. Treated me with respect.   She
who braved a gauntlet of cheap, jerko actors, blond, shapely, older and sexy. A true waitress in the old style.  Nurturing my
desire to sip at the endless cup of coffee.  Sit.  Watch the night
fly by.
                  Al, the manager, walked
into the toilet as I was attempting to soil the famous actor’s Matzah Ball
soup.  I was having difficulty holding the bowl and trying to pee
at the same time. (It looks so easy in the movies.)  Celluloid heroes had
it so much easier.  The bowl slipped as I whirled around and I almost
burned my wiener.  I told him that I was just trying to cool it off.
    He didn’t buy it.
    He was actually nice about it.  He handed
me a towel.  His voice char-broiled from forty
years of smoking and smoked fish. His keys did the plant manager jingle as he shifted
his weight from foot to foot.  He was a true deli-man who had seen more
stars come through his store than Darryl Zanuck’s pimp.  We delivered a
catering platter to the Universal Amphitheater together one time.  He made
it a point to come personally because it was for Bette Midler, an old friend.
 She wasn’t there.  He was disappointed and sat in the passenger seat
like a broken-hearted dad.  I stayed quiet all the way back home.
                  So here we were.  My dick in hand,
ready to pour out steaming ladles of penisy-justice, but Al wasn’t having any
of it.  “Look, I know the guy’s an asshole but that’s not the way.
 Waitresses who work around actors know the drill.  Actors are some
of the worst humans on the planet, and the worst tippers. But the waitresses
have to tough it out.  I once had two waitresses fist fight over who would
serve Humphrey Bogart.  I made them Indian wrestle in the parking lot. Man
that was a hoot!  Turn in your apron.  I’m sorry, but you gotta go.”
                  I can’t blame him. I zipped up, handed
the soup to him, and  I tearily exited my way out
the front.
    Making exits was never my thing.  But the
TV made a hell of an entrance.

 
 
 
 
 
 
    A
VISION OF THE FORMULATION OF A MID-MORNING TALK SHOW PILOT AND HOW IT CHANGED
MY LIFE...

 
    I
was witnessing a vision on my TV.  It was coming to me in the form of a
new