Tales From the Hollywood Bus Stop - Tracy Williams

Tales from the Hollywood Bus Stop by Tracy Williams

TALES FROM THE HOLLYWOOD BUS STOP

by

Tracy Williams

This short story is a work of fiction. The names, characters, businesses, events and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events or organizations is

entirely coincidental.

© Copyright Tracy Williams 2010 1


March 8th 2009: I’m waiting for someone at the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel, poolside

in the afternoon, waiting like I always did in Hollywood. The Los Angeles sky is its

usual flawless blue, as if some cosmetic sky surgeon has removed all clouds and

creases of grey. Palm Trees reach upward for rain which will not come, not for at

least nine months. Star after star after star will stay pink and dry on The Boulevard.

That’s Hollywood Boulevard to those of you who have not lived through it. We, the

survivors, haughtily refer to her as ‘The Boulevard,’ as if there were no other street in

the world.

Where is he? Look at this crowd. I know what he’d say about them too: “How

can there be so many goddamm beautiful women in this town? Do they realise how

long they’re gonna last in Hollywood? They’ll last til eleven o’clock in the morning,

when the bus brings the next girl to replace them. Goddamm primadonnas.” That’s

him speaking in 1994, during the making of The Hollywood Bus Stop. His name was

Gilson Simoes and he was the strangest man I ever met, who changed my life in

Hollywood.

‘Los Angeles, give me some of you!’ And that’s Arturo Bandini back in the

thirties. But John Fante’s Los Angeles was different to mine. I wonder if any of these

perversely good-looking posers read Ask The Dust. At the nearest table sits a peroxide

blonde with a painfully powdered face. She is starvation-thin, save for her huge,

unwobbling breasts. On her lap sits a tiny white poodle. In her mind, she’s Jayne

Mansfield.



I came to Hollywood on June 1st 1994. Marilyn Monroe would have been 66, had

she lived, on that day. Her star is outside McDonalds. Gilson walked over Marilyn

every day for thirty years.

Star after star after pink star. Back then the Boulevard was awash with flyers.

‘Actors Wanted/Models Wanted.’ Casting Scams pinned to lamp posts; a clichéd

Hollywood rip-off. Gil never advertised. He couldn’t afford the paper. And he

claimed he never took their money unless they had it.

I, apparently, had it... But this story is not about me.

Gilson, give me some of you! Come back here like I have come back for you, you

mad lizard in the stars, you hater of Hollywood, you toothless clown! I’ve come back

to write your story, you goddamm primadonna, talk to me!

Diary Entry June 1st 1994: Hollywood Boulevard: Worst disappointment of my

life. Star after star after pink star sparkling in the sun. Only the homeless and the

hopeless are on Hollywood Boulevard. High expectations smashed to smithereens.

Marilyn Monroe is outside McDonalds.

With the Casting Directors section open in the yellow pages I put my bold

finger down at random:

Gilson’s Casting, 7060 Hollywood Boulevard: 213-851-----. Bold random

action set in motion a rollercoaster ride of adventure, Hollywood style.

“Where are you honey?” the strange voice asked.



“I’m at the La Brea Motel.”

“Honey you can spit at me from there! Come on over.”

At a black desk sat a little lizard-like man whose eyes scrutinized me from behind

triple-glazed glasses.

“Do you mind if I smoke?” he asked. The cigarette, however, was already lit.

“So you’re from England, huh?”

“Yes.”

“Does it bother you if I drink?” He pulled a brown paper bag out of a drawer and

began sipping warm beer.

On the wall behind him was a picture of Jesus Christ.

“What brings you to Hollywood?”

“Well, I was wondering how I might get a part in a film.”

Gilson Simoes turned to Jesus Christ, “You gotta ask this guy.”

I laughed, and so did he, amused by himself.

“Can you act?”

“Yes and I can sing too. I have a demo tape.”

“Another prima-donna,” he said.

Gil had been asking the same questions for the past twenty five years to every

wannabe superstar who wandered off the Boulevard and into his office. But for some

reason, when he met me, he believed he had discovered a superstar.

I had been in Gil’s office for an hour when Shack arrived. I was smoking this

lizard’s cheap fags and wondering whether his insane offer to live in his office for the

fee of $30 which I suspected would not get me a part in a film was perhaps the lesser



of two evils when he got a phone call and got excited and said to me, “hun’,” for he

had called me hun’ from the get-go and that, now, would be my name for the next few

days, “Hun’, I want you to stay and meet a friend of mine, he’s gonna come over and

shoot the shit with me for a few hours and I want you to stay ‘cos you’ll love it.”

So in came Shack. Seven feet of black muscle, sipping Jack Daniels, smoking

Dunhill cigarettes with a voice as deep as hell and American politics on his mind.

“Shack,” Gil exclaimed, “You miserable nigger.”

Then he got up and hugged Shack. He looked like a munchkin by the black man’s

side. “Honey, this is my best friend in the whole world. Shack, I wanna introduce

you to my new star. She’s all the way from England, the greatest country in the

world.”

“What the hell are you doing with this guy, little lady? He’s crazy!”

Gilson laughed, rapped on the desk, lit a cigarette and was off.

“Show him your money honey. Shack, look at dis... She’s got English money.”

I procured a five pound note and watched as Gil fawned over the queen.

“The pound is so superior to the dollar,” he said

“Man, what the fuck are you talking about?”

“Look at it Shack, craftshmanship. Look at it – this money has got class, you

know?”

“Man, the dollar is the most powerful currency in the world,”

“Are you outta your fucking mind?”

“No disrespect to your money honey, but the dollar is more powerful than the

pound. Don’t you think?”

I agreed with him. “Great Britain is a contradiction in terms nowadays.” I said.



“Hey Gil’, you got an intelligent woman sitting in your office for once.”

“Motherfucking sonnovabitch,”

“Gil!” I shouted

“Oh don’t mind him, little lady, we known each other too long.”

They argued for hours about world superpowers and every now and then I joined

in and I was enjoying every minute, the way they blared at each other, Gil calling

Shack a fucking lazy nigger and Shack calling Gil a spineless cracker who didn’t even

belong in the states.

When the politics grew thin, they turned to the far more important matter of the

industry.

The Industry. Let me explain something. In Hollywood, there is only one

Industry – the entertainment industry. There is no need in Hollywood to explain this.

Every one refers to it as ‘The Industry’ and that is what Shack and Gil were doing

now. I listened. The Industry was fucked, Gil was saying. It had all gone bad. He

wasn’t making any money, the Union was ruining it for guys like him. Shack was a

member of the Union, an advocate of it too.

“SAG are a group of gangsters, snakes, vipers, they’re fucking me in the ass every

goddamm day Shack!”

I said, “What is SAG and what’s The Industry.”

Gilson’s face morphed into adoration, “isn’t she beautiful? Can you see why I

love her? Come here, you beautiful gorgeous angel!” Gil was reaching out to touch

me, but I back away and he laughed, “Ah but she is a coldhearted queen.”

They explained it all to me as if I were a child and they relished every sentence of

clarification because there is nothing people like to talk about more in Hollywood than



The Industry. SAG stood for the Screen Actors Guild and if I wanted to be taken

seriously as an actress in the industry I had to be a member of this union.

“Bullshit! Don’t listen to him hun’ The union are gangsters, sucking money out

of actors and making it impossible for the rest of us to make a buck.”

“Don’t listen to him little lady, he don’t know how to play the game. My SAG

card has got me two Schwarzennegar movies so far.”

“So how do I get one?”

“You better ask this guy,” Gil pointed to Jesus again and laughed to himself.

Shack and I left the building a few hours later. We got into the elevator together.

For some unknown reason, some desire to expose himself, he took his sunglasses off

for the first time that day. His eyes were fresh of the Terminator. Then he reached out

for the red emergency stop button and the elevator grinded to a halt. He came

forward, put both arms around my waist and lifted me up to his face as if I were a doll.

He said, “You know, little lady, I might be getting me a wife back home in Texas, but

you say the word and I’ll marry you instead.” His face was right up close to mine. I

could smell the Jack Daniels and I liked it – so much. I could almost taste it. But I

was terrified of the gentle giant breathing the fumes. I said, “well, I’m British, so you

have to slow it down a bit for me. This is a bit sudden, you know. We’re less forward

in England.” His glassy wild eyes looked up to consider my proposal, he nodded,

“you’re probably right, okay. I see what ya mean.” Then he put me down and the

elevator continued.

Outside on Hollywood Boulevard the sun was still glaring. I looked up at Shack

with a sweet smile. “Little lady, you are gonna LOVE L.A.” he told me. His words



sent a shiver of anticipation through my body. I mention this now because when

Shack told me that I wanted to believe him and, fifteen years later, I can honestly say

it is quite astounding just how wrong he was.

Gilson insisted that one day he was gonna make a great movie about his life on the

Boulevard. None of us believed him, of course. He did nothing but drink and smoke.

THE HOLLYWOOD BUS STOP (WINTER 1994)

EXTRACT FROM FILM (unscripted)

GIL sits at his desk smoking. A middle aged woman from Texas is opposite him.

GIL: So you’re an actor, right?

WOMAN: Yes I am, sir.

GIL: Okay, so cry for me. Right now.

Long silence as WOMAN attempts to force herself to tears. She raises a hand to her

face, saying ‘oh no, I don’t believe it.’

C.U. on GIL who FROWNS at the camera, then back at the ‘actress’

GIL: Are you outta your mind?

WOMAN: I’m sorry?

GIL: Honey, stop! You’re terrible. I mean really. I can’t take your

money. You don’t have it.



CUT—

1ST June 1994:

“There’s something you need to know about me” Gil told me. “I am a whore.”

To enforce this declaration he opened his arms dramatically and, in doing so,

obscured Jesus Christ.

“I am a whore! I admit it. I don’t do anything for free! Pay me fifty bucks and

I’ll see what I can do for ya.”

I was unconvinced.

“Lemme tell you something about Hollywood, hun’.”

A profound fact paused to take flight from his tongue.

“Hollywood is full of snakes and vipers and rats and cheats and liars. The lowest

of the low, they’re all right here in Hollywood. And here you come, looking for

yourself in it. Without me to protect you? Are you outta your mind? You don’t know

how to play the game. So pay me fifty bucks and we’re in business.”

I started to cry.

“Where you staying, hun’?”

“The La Brea Motel.”

“Motel Hell? Are you outta your mind? There’s nothing but pimps and pushers

over there.”

I started to laugh, then cry, then laugh again.

“You gotta outta there, man! And quick! Why don’t you move into my office?”



Diary Entry June 6th 1994: I must not spend any more money. Gilson may be

strange but I know he won’t hurt me. I am going to take a chance and stay in his

office. If I never write again, know that trusting ones’ gut is wrong.

6th June 1994:

Just as I was laying down in this strange sofa bed, the door opened and I thought

he was going to attack me.

“Don’t sleep in the nude, hun’.”

My heart was screaming, but my voice was calm. “Why not?”

“This is Hollywood, honey! There might be an earthquake! Keep your shoes by

your bed in case we need to escape.”

Then he went back to the other room. I layed down with my trusty gut. There

might be an earthquake. You might be shot, stabbed, raped or ripped off. Or you

might make a million bucks. One of those stars might be yours, one day.

June 10th 1994:

It was already dark outside. He kept stalling me; he had some important thing to

tell me. When I threatened to walk, he got up from his desk, went to the filing cabinet

and carefully procured a jar. He held it up in front of me. Inside were false teeth,

unworn. I squinted.

“Hun’ I want you to know why I never take you out to dinner. I have no teeth. I

just wanted you to know because we’re friends now.”

He held them to his chest like an academy award. Sometime later, having

procured no cab fare from him as promised, I stormed out. Less than an hour later I



got knocked over by a car. Three months later I had a lucky escape from a near-fatal

life of fame. But this story isn’t about me.

Diary Entry July 16th 1994: My lawyer wants $100,000 from the driver who (and I

quote) “has ruined my life forever, destroyed my looks and turned me into a recluse.”

March 2009: I step over Marilyn to get a cheeseburger. Imagine chewing it

without teeth, Tracy. Gil’s body left Hollywood without its teeth and tongue. He was

rendered incomprehensible, spurting invective without form at the lonely

speakerphone. Cancer of the tongue. No funeral, no memorial. Only The Hollywood

Bus Stop remains - and I’ve got the footage. Am I outta my mind? I’m crossing star

after star after pink star, sparkling in the sun. Lemme tell you something about

Hollywood, hun’. Without me to protect you? You don’t know how to play the game.

-THE END-


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Tales From the Hollywood Bus Stop - Tracy Williams