Jake Ashville was the kind of man who drank incessantly. Half-filled bottles of Jack Daniel's Sipping Whiskey decorated his room, following nights where sipping was not the weapon of choice. Crumpled copies of coffee stained novels written by fellow functional alcoholics were crushed between his box-spring and cum stained sheets, the product of nights of debauchery; nights like this one. Jake was the kind of man with a predilection for wasting his mornings curled up in a ball trying to open his bloodshot eyes to the sun drenched world. Only at night could Jake open his eyes fully.
9:00 P.M. Marmont Bar. Jake liked to drink at chic L.A. nightspots, the type that were seen on VH1 Behind the Music. Jake always felt that Behind the Music was television's recurring magnum opus for the generation born after the generation who really lived life, but it made for good hangover watching. During his twenties those hangovers became longer and longer and Jake decided one drunken evening to write them down. Six months and two hundred pages later, Jake took his tan Volvo station wagon across to Los Angeles. While trying to sell his novel to the masses, Jake began to indulge in the less-than-angelic lifestyle that characterizes many residents of the City of Angels. Coke filled mornings and whiskey filled nights became the norm, while Jake's book became a pile of yellowing paper marked by glass rings and water marks. This morning Jake woke up; it was his birthday and his book was still not sold.
During his delusions of grandeur Jake would stroll Sunset Boulevard or go to the Roxy, waiting patiently to be noticed for the poetry reading he had at the Crescent Cafe last October. But this Wednesday, it was time for self-loathing in the cliched village of Hollywood's decadent past.
The scotch was ridiculously ripe and potent that evening, rivaled only by Ashville's cigarette stained fingertips; which tapped nervously at the crystal glass at his hand. Earlier in the evening he had received his third rejection letter since moving to the city he often called a purgatory littered with discontented souls.
The first letter came at the hands of publisher Julian Ziegwald. A publishing executive at L.A.'s top independent literary distributor. Upon reception of the letter, Jake could feel the grease from Ziegwald's fingertips on the corners of the paper. Jake's novel was too raw for their tastes.
"Bullshit," the words sprang from Jake's dry mouth as his head shook and gaze lowered to the Marmont's dark oak bar. The second rejection was from a movie studio. Ashville had written a ninety-page screen play outlining Ernest Hemingway's life in Cuba. In the tradition of Hunter S. Thompson and Charles Bukowski, Ashville felt an obligation to the literary masses to fill his pages with alcohol fueled sins, unrepentant adultery and narcotic infused reflection. For this reason, he chose Hemingway as the subject of his entrance to Hollywood. Unfortunately Jake's screenplay was thrown back in his face, citing a lack of market appeal or something of that diluted nature. Jake never understood a system which green-lit Sex and the City 2.
"Another Macallan sir," asked the twenty-something bartender who looked like a star but spent his nights serving them.
"Yes, easy on the ice" Jake replied "and it's the Macallan" he stated as his voice trailed off.
As Jake's knuckles cracked in anticipation, the bartender poured the Macallan in the glass slowly, added three droplets of water and two ice cubes.
"Thank you mon frere," Jake said and took a long sip. As soon as his lips pursed, Jake's eyes shot across the room at a beautiful Asian woman sitting inside a six person booth alone. The leather melded into her crossed thighs. She twirled a toothpick in her left hand, sticking her leg at points. In her right hand, she clutched an empty martini glass with a light pink residue.
Jake's face turned away to a couple at the opposite end of the bar. The young man could have been no less than twenty-two and no more than twenty-seven. His date, exponentially more attractive, looked like she had just graduated college and was fresh to all cruelty of the world.
The third rejection, still fresh in Jake's jean pocket, was from his former fiancee Rachel. Feeling especially depressed one evening, Jake's drinking left his lips numb. Unfortunately, his fingers did not get that luxury. Sitting at the computer table which was once the thrown of many a brilliant but unrealized idea, Jake e-mailed his former flame. A random stream of misguided but eloquently written words followed, citing misty memories and broken dreams. But, as this letter proved the dreams were not the only thing broken.
"Excuse me," spoke the Asian beauty as she brushed against Jake.
"No problem." Jake made sure to let he fingertips brush her thigh as she passed. She smiled.
Later that evening, as a raspy voiced piano player sang cliche Billy Joel tunes while drinking Guinness and destroying whatever voice he had with Marlboro Reds, Jake and the Alyssa the Asian beauty began to talk.
"So Alyssa, when did you begin your journey in this cesspool of human dignity?"
"1981."
"So you were born here? I feel sorry for you"
"Ah, the Los Angeles hate monger. A special breed. Would that be why you are hitting the scotch so hard? Where are you from, New York?"
"Not New York, New Jersey in fact."
"Ah the armpit of America," she said
"I'll only accept that due to many a hate-filled diatribe on your home city, but in fact Jersey's a hidden gem. History, the beach, cities and farms all within a couple hours of Philadelphia, New York and Washington D.C. We are at the epicenter of living baby."
"Without being the epicenter," she replied.
"The spoils without the pressure of choosing a sports team or worrying about a terrorist sweetie."
"Ok enough about geography Jake, what do you do for a living?" Alyssa asked as her beautiful form moved in towards Ashville's muscled by worn frame.
"I write... screenplays and novels"
Jake watched as Alyssa processed the information. This could go one of two ways, either Alyssa could process the information and ask questions or she could be that L.A. girl looking for superstardom, with the sight of a one-night stand as the first step to superstardom. He hoped for the latter.
"Wanna fuck?"
"Ok."
As Alyssa's sheet strewn body laid on Jake's bed, he restlessly turned thinking of Rachel. His mind was flooded with memories of fights and fucks, idiosyncrasies and conflicts over the placement of kitchen pots. Jake stood up and walked naked to his desk. Instead of turning to the laptop he grabbed his grandmother's Smith Corona; the type that didn't allow for mistakes.
He began typing...
