I moved to Los Angeles aged 24. It was the early 60s and California seemed like the centre of the whole universe. I was born in Boston, to a line of trawler-men stretching back 3 generations. But with every day older I grew the stronger my resolve to locate the escape route intensified. Movies were my passion and I had my heart firmly set on acting. Everyone I knew said I looked like a young Marlon Brando, and that all I had to do was head west to the land of the stars and I'd soon ascend into the same constellation.
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I hit the road on the Greyhound, riding the rickety route cross country. A couple of my fellow passengers, as luck would have it, were guys my age who were also heading to Hollywood in a hopeful bid to realise their dreams. There was Jack, who shared the acting aspirations that I did, and Bobby who was a writer, his suitcase crammed full of draft scripts hammered out over the years whilst growing up. The world was ours, every revolution of the bus wheels taking us closer to our true calling.
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The first years were promising; I secured an agent on my third day in the city - something I took great pains to laud over Jack for the years after (he took 8 days) - and soon landed small parts in various mini-series, commercials and ill-fated pilots. It wasn't much but it just about covered the rent, and besides, I was confident my big break was languishing just around the corner.
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After a while, the gaps between auditions and filming began to grow like a steadily receding hairline, and I started working on the side as a waiter in a fancy West Hollywood restaurant. It was the kind of place where big-time movie producers would have business lunches and discuss new project propositions over countless Bloody Marys. All the while I felt like I was there on the fringes, ear pressed up against the wall but without the helping hand or a ladder tall enough to see me scale it. One particularly painful situation stood out when, as I was serving drinks I overheard a sharp-suited executive gushing to some generic bright young thing about how he could be "the next Marlon Brando".
As the years wore on and the glorious 60s dissolved into the grim 70s, I parted ways with my agent and the auditions and opportunities slowly dried up. I once again craved the same escape route I had needed out of Boston, only this time there was no where further to go, and steadily I found that exit in drink. Women came and went out of my life - my looks still had their advantages. Gradually they too began to fade and wear; no longer were the Brando comparisons made my way.
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The Hollywood streets were harsh, and the studios and big names gradually fled to Burbank or further afield, leaving only a sidewalk full of stars in their wake. But I was determined not to give up on my dream. I attended more and more auditions but to no avail. They could sniff the desperation on me, almost as pungent as the cheap booze on my breath, and eventually my calls and follow-up enquiries were met with nothing but a firmly closed door. The wall had grown to a height far beyond my reach.
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Now my life is spent hauling my trolley along the sidewalks. A trolley full of my meagre possessions bound in dirty plastic bags. My skin is tattooed with years of grime, I've not shaved in I don't know how long. My clothes are ragged and torn, with years of piss and shit engrained in the stitching. I spend most of my time beneath a Downtown overpass where the closest I have to friends huddle round a trash can full of flames, on a good night passing between us a bottle of liquor or cheap wine. We recount our endless stories of how we arrived in LA all those decades ago, with our eyes ablaze with ambition. The city was kind to many who made the trip; we were the ones to whom it was not. These guys are just the same as me and I find a warm catharsis in that knowledge. They were aspiring actors, writers, directors, musicians, who spent years racing round corners chasing that big break and be rewarded with the life of Beverly Hills estates, premieres and adoration. In the end the only thing to break was our resolve.
I've not heard from my Greyhound buddies in a while. Last I heard, Bobby was down and out over on Venice Beach. That guy was the best damn writer I ever knew. He maintains to anyone who'll give him half a chance that a handful of his scripts were picked up by various studios and minor alterations made that cut him out of any entitlement to the shows' success. Jack I've not heard about in a long time. There were rumours he'd fallen victim to the needle but I can't be sure. If it wasn't the needle it would likely only have been something else.
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But me, I hold tightly to the belief that fame and fortune can come to a man late in life. My Indian summer is surely just behind the next band of rain clouds. Out there in the movie company production offices in the steel and glass high-rises, a new project is being conceived and blueprinted. A new kind of performance is required, and a new kind of actor to deliver it. The film business is as turbulent as white water rapids and the audiences who bankroll it all are fickle in their demands.
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Some day soon the conveyor belt of plastic starlets and pretty-boy hunks will stagger to a halt and then it'll be my time to rise to the fore. The premieres will await, with tuxedos, champagne and limosines, and I will be sure to linger long in the warm glow of the spotlight. And it'll be everything I thought it would be. And it'll all be worth this perpetual waiting.
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