The Hollywood Guy Read Online Free Page A

trembled with fear; Mary Ann held his hand and he was okay.
    Then, presto-change-o, Little Petey’s magic summer was over. No more swimming at Little Deep, or tubing down the Esopus, no more playing with Boomer, or Carl rocking out on guitar, no visiting Bellows’ cabin for Coca Cola and baseball. He thought summer would last forever, now it was time to return to the city and start a new life.
    On Little Petey’s last day, Mary Ann led him up the back stairs to her attic bedroom. Dappled sunlight, stuffed animals; the walls were painted yellow. “Let’s take off our clothes,” she whispered.
    “Everything?”
    “Like our moms.”
    “We don’t have hats.”
    “We don’t need hats, this is just us.”
    Neither shy nor ashamed, they undressed and hugged as only two innocent children can.
    “I love you, Petey.”
    “I love you, Mary Ann.” There was that strange feeling again.
    Pete treasures that memory, keeping it safe from sexual fantasy, free of desire, devoid of sweaty passion. It flutters on gossamer wings, pure and innocent. Mary Ann Downing had left this earth, but her memory has lost none of its potency. Why, Pete wonders, didn’t he kiss her?
    Returning to LA, Pete’s friends can’t believe he’s checking out, shit canning a career in Hollywood to buy a run down motel in Woodstock. Ridiculous. In a city where delusional is the norm, why try to explain one’s feeling of irrelevance. The last pitch meeting he had was with a twenty-six year old exec at T-Mobile, developing five-minute content pieces for smart phones. Pete told the kid he couldn’t take a shit in five minutes and walked out. It was a no-brainer; it was time for Pete to embark on the next phase of his life whatever that may be. So long Los Angeles, howdy Woodstock.

CHAPTER 2
    T hree years later the locals call the new owner of the Streamside Motel the Hollywood guy because he was successful in the film industry, mostly television. What they don’t understand is he could no longer book a job. Doesn’t matter, Pete Stevens is Hollywood to them.
    Today he’s on his hands and knees in a flowerbed cleaning up the damage left in the wake of tropical storm Karla that edged the Catskills the night before and left behind hot, humid, unseasonably warm weather and a roaring muddy stream. Pete, a steady, focused worker, has no real skills so he’s lucky to have José helping him.
    His assistant from Puebla, Mexico speaks broken English enthusiastically. “Place looking good, boss.”
    Pete stands, he needs a shave and his long hair is mostly gray. After three years of hard work and more money than he planned to spend, the Streamside Motel has come back, not completely refurbished, but almost and he’s in the best shape since he stopped playing basketball thirteen years ago. He surveys his modest spread with pride. “There’s still shingling on three units, painting, plenty of stuff to do.”
    “I see this old place down other side of creek. For sale cheap, needs fixin’ up.”
    “Jose I am not in that business.”
    “What you call what we do, boss?”
    A mud spattered PT Cruiser rolls past the Roses Of Sharon blooming like crazy around the entrance, parks. An athletic young woman uncoils out of the car. Her dark hair sticks out from under a Red Sox baseball cap, she wears green twill Patagonia shorts revealing scratches on her well-formed legs and her lightweight hiking boots are mud encrusted, obviously a camping victim. Stretching like a runner, she checks out the Streamside through utilitarian metal frame glasses. “Late for roses.” She flashes him an engaging gap tooth smile.
    As the owner of the motel Pete does as he pleases and it doesn’t please him to be charming or informative with check-ins, especially Red Sox fans but Jamie his manager is off today. He wipes his hands on his jeans. “Roses love the heat.”
    “Manager around?”
    “That’s me.”
    “Any vacancies?”
    “A few.”
    “What does a room go for?”
    Pete