My Friend Told Me This Story Pt. 2

Thank you Byeer McClinton for sharing your story…

Here are a few things:

- Towards the end of this, I meet a girl that I am not sure is human…Her name is her Birthday, and she has a talent for everyday of the year. Once she gets away from me, I realize she did not run to be chased, she ran to be free…

- My uncle is now my Step Father

- Hollywood Sound: The story of the Mythical sound that comes from the “Hollywood Hills” that if heard, would allow you to embark on any creative journey of your choice.

Although my father was a fighter, I never once seen him hit my mother, I mean he was fast with his hands. My Mother had self respect but she was small. A frail woman, that often thought of that as her personality. Bruises never stayed long enough for pictures, or for the book club to see. Dad had an aloe vera plant he got from Home Depot he kept out back. He uses the plant guts as ointment for my mom’s cuts. He holds my mom like a baby and puts it on for her, it’s the only time I saw my parents bond. She sometimes liked it. This was Dad’s version of a “spanking” followed with a bedroom knock telling you it was “Love.”

Mom was the child in the family. And she knew it. That home remedy often made mom forget about the police report. I was always scared for her. Everyone was. She tried taking care of herself with her “Extended Personal days...” I would sometimes run into her in neighboring cities after aau basketball games, right before she told me and Dad that she was going to Seattle on a work trip. I never said, I never told. That was the my talent show. It was theater. I’d walk in, see my mom, look at her like I never met her before, order my stuff and leave with a smile... she smiles back realizing I bought her something with the money dad gave me.

We bonded over the things we never said.

Mom hated dad. So did I at a young age. But we only expressed it on Friday nights. Once Dad walked down the street to have his handful ofbeers. Me and Mom would cook popcorn and smoke cigarettes in the back, gossiping like we were sharing nail paint. That was our doll play. Our tea party. This was our time to brainstorm. Brainstorm ways to put pop in jail. We took notes. Weighed options. And even acted scenarios out. It was the only time mom was herself. She was strong, not frail. And each Friday we got closer and closer to never ever having to see pop again. Once me and mom saw that “Ring doorbell” product come out on amazon we knew we had a case. Pop didn’t allow us to have one, but our neighbor Tarlov had jailbroke his. And lived directly across the street from us. He acted as our proxy. We never understood someone wanting to jailbreak a doorbell. But when he sent us the videos of my pop hitting my mom, we understood why he got fired from his government surveillance job. The video held up in court, but Tarlov got paid a visit. The judge was familiar with his work.

Once dad was gone we moved to Los Angeles with his brother “Uncle Stick.” He was different from pop. He was an artist. And he thought of my mom before he thought of himself. I remember growing up, Uncle Stick would look at mom with an “Army eye.” He looked at her like an inspection, eyeing every corner of her body trying to see if anything was off. But it never was. He liked her always. You can’t hide that type of eye for a person. They fell in love quick. I was okay with it. She knew I was. We were new to LA, so the neighbors just thought we were Uncle Stick’s new family. We were. So we kept quiet about our family tree.

Sometimes the greener grass on the other side is a little MUDDY

It was pretty “Sticky” for us early on. That was Uncle Stick’s joke for us when his money was low. He explained to us that he is a Indie Director and money came in waves and how it was different from my father’s steady bi-weekly income. Me and Mom weren’t used to it. Back with Dad we always had food. Materials. Sometimes extra. But with Uncle Stick we had snacks, sometimes not even that...Our Friday night brainstorm sessions turned into finding ways to get invited to free dinners hosted by Uncle Stick’s cast mates. After a while we got used to it...Our cups became half full. My mom was smiling on weekdays now. And I never once saw Uncle Stick hit my mom, I mean he was a really good guy...

Stick got his creative start in 1995 — He directed the season finale of Full House, and on that day pigs flew. He got lucky, the lead director Joel Zwick got called into jury duty. Joel said he never opened his mail. An excast mate that lived in the conjoining villa took pictures of Joel opening his mail and drinking coffee on his porch almost every morning.

Stick went on and directed 3 episodes of each: Malcolm in the Middle, Scrubs, The Waynes Brothers, Everybody Hates Chris, and Weeds. For most, this opportunity would’ve been the reason one may believe in god. But for Stick, it jumpstarted a very insecure journey.

In 2005 Uncle Stick became who he wanted to be, briefly. He wrote and directed his baby (movie).

S: If this baby comes out with its nose, and all its toes. It will contribute to society on the highest level. This baby will be classic.

And it did. His film “Hollywood Sound” The story of the Mythical sound that comes from the “Hollywood Hills” that if heard, would allow you to embark on any creative journey of your choice”

The tagline “Did you hear the sound?” was on every lunch box in the country. In 2006 it became a classic overnight. And Stick celebrated every night since then. It was usually Buffalo Trace Kentucky Bourbon. The word Celebrate meant “depression” to Uncle Stick. He never saw much money from the success of his film. And the once “classic film” was slowly overshadowed by classics.

The girl I mentioned earlier…is strong but sensitive. Confident and never regretful. Her glass is always half full, never half empty and that’s because she knows where the water is…

His film was produced and owned by Lionsgate — He called them “Lying-Mate” because blah blah…Look, I never believed Lionsgate fucked Uncle Stick the way he said they did, I’ve watched him not read & sign whatever you put in front of him. He used to day dream and doodle his signature in his loose leaf, but when it was time, he wasn’t ready.

In 2015 I started assisting Stick with production work. I was tuff on him. He was my Uncle. Dad. Brother. And he allowed me elbow him verbally. He trusted my eye. I got respect, mostly because I was all he had. I will never forget …

…The evening of October 11th. I walked into his office, casually. Sat down. At this point Stick didn’t keep alcohol in his office anymore. I pulled out the two black label whiskey shooters. We drink. His head rested on his desk. Defeated. Earlier that day we got an email saying the commercial he was set to Direct got scrapped because the company was filing for bankruptcy.

S: What the hell are you smiling for.

I smile like a kid drew it on me. Ear to Ear. Taking sips between the curse words Stick spits out at me.

You really don’t like to read huh?

I take out another shooter. We drink. I twist his computer around to him. He finally reads the other email that’s been in his inbox.

Stick’s eyes start to glow. S: It’s from Lying-Mate.

A tear drops and settles. The same kid draws his smile. Uncle Stick finishes reading—then drops behind his desk, he SCREAMS, LAUGHS...I sit in silence, as I never do. This was the moment of winning the lottery right before you tell the world. A mix of “happiness & wow.” Uncle Stick begins to whistle. I know this whistle. He stands up and starts to orchestrate me like Carnegie. I catch it. I jump on the table. I am a wolf. The whistle sounds like a mixture of a marching band and a bed time story. I wish you could here it. We are in duet.

This is the HOLLYWOOD SOUND.

I didn’t realize how much of Stick’s happiness came from relevancy. Acknowledgment. He always wanted the face that skipped lines. The name that turned heads. If he had a Porsche, I don’t even think he would care if it had a steering wheel in it.

S: I’d rather be seen, than have the green. And until today; I realized that I never had either one.

Some people are like that. He liked the glam. It’s okay. If they’re your friends you cater to their happiness. I think all of this as I look over the banister, watching Stick flip through the scrapbook of press releases my mom made for him. Everything from 1995 till 2015. Mom rushes over with something fresh off the printer, she sits on his lap. He holds her without the aloe. A better sight of bonding from my parents. She smiles and hands him the new press release:

“HOLLYWOOD SOUND; Call it a REMAKE or SEQUEL we DON’T care, take it up with STICK JENNINGS” LIONSGATE presents HOLLYWOOD SOUND by the makers of…

…HOLLYWOOD SOUND

My job is now to keep Stick in his happy place. Make a good movie so the last 15 years never happen again. I want the Porsche for him, and he deserves for it to have all its limbs...

It’s day four with 48 more to go...

Stick is back in his director’s groove. I watch him demonstrate a scene to an actor. Animated. He made me a producer for Hollywood Sound, on

paper. But on set, I am still his assistant. His eyes and ears. Unlike the last time around, he is loved and cherished by the cast and other producers on set. He’s relaxed. But still creatively manic. We walk and talk on our way to catch the last bit of lunch.

S: What did you think of the new scene? I want to shoot it after lunch, Lionsgate is leaving at 2:30.

I didn’t agree that he should do it. Lionsgate did not approve of this scene + the new scene involved a car crash. I thought we should play it safe... we are only on day four. But I didn’t say any of that. I smiled and told him “Let’s do it,” and fuck it, let’s make the car a Porsche. The way he continued to describe the shot settled me. And his plan to give a random Girl a bunch of lines to throw off the lead actor so this scene could be 100% reactive, was genius.

After Lunch

I grab the new script pages from the supervisor. The Girl is in the makeup trailer. I never barge in, I think of it as the Women’s bathroom. Right as I knock, I feel a brush of air on my neck, it almost felt like the air came with some type of sparkling theme music. It was somewhat magical. I turn around. And right when I did, I wish I could do it again. Seeing her face instantly felt like something I wanted to do for the rest of my time.

The Girl: Are you the producer?

I wasn’t used to that title.

Yes, are you the extra?

The Girl: I am the star.

The Girl takes the script pages right out of my hand and twirls away. The little kid drew me another smile, but this time it lingers. I’m in awe. She reminded me of “Along came Poly” without the clumsiness. She was loose. I’d never been around someone that made all my senses tingle all in one sitting. Her smell was her signature and I wanted her autograph.

I watch her scene. Forming dimples I didn’t even know I had. She is amazing. She read this scene at the end of lunch, lines she didn’t even know she was going to get... Doesn’t miss one beat. I look to Uncle Stick, he looks as if he was looking at a new born baby. The rest of the crew shake their heads in disbelief, as she sends all of us through a roller coaster of emotions. She smiles at me. It was easy to smile back. A smile for her was my default. I looked at her with an army eye. I just knew I need a mental picture, not for my bedside plan, but because something this great needs to remembered in dreams.

The Girl hops in the Porsche as the lead actor runs beside it, we were supposed to split these shots up, but she eyes Stick to keep the camera rolling. The lead actor is now hanging onto the Girl’s car, his feet drag creating a dust storm... She smiles and picks up the speed. She knows where the camera is, she knows what we want — just as she rolls up her window, the lead actor falls in the dust.

The Girl: And if I can’t have it nobody can!!!

She picks up speed — Switches the car into neutral — Hops over to the passenger seat and looks right in the camera & WINKS. The car is driving herself, I cannot believe my eyes. No one can. The lead actor watches with no ego. The Girl puts on the break — turns the wheel slightly as it screeches — Opens the door and literally walks out of the car. I wish I could say it better, but the only way to explain was to witness.

Right after, she pops in a cigarette and sits down... She just doodles on her script smoking as if this was her fortieth time.

Superb acting. A standing ovation. Stick cut the day early to rush home to write more scenes for her...

WAIT BUT WHAT’S THE GIRL’S NAME??

Once we got home Stick got an email from Lionsgate saying they need to see the scene we shot today. A crew member snitched on us because he’s a bitch. Mom’s words not mine. But I agree. I walk into Stick’s office, he’s drinking, looking at clips from the shoot with his glasses off. Glasses only come off when he is confused out of his mind. I watch his wires cross as he moves from clip to clip. I ask what’s wrong.

S: How did we not get one shot of her? I just can’t understand, look at this. We can’t see a thing.

If I had glasses they would be on the floor. I don’t understand either. Stick moves through the clips pointing — We see everything but her face HOW? Didn’t she wink into the camera? I remember because of my butterflies. Stick pauses the scene. He zooms in. Her face is ghost like. Brightened. It looks like that same kid now erased the most important parts. Her nose, eyes... Nothing’s there but a head and maybe a nose and maybe some lips. Was that on our end?? Did we fuck up, even if we did, would it look like this??

S: And you’re the producer, and you didn’t even get The Girl’s name? Did she sign a release? Go find her.

I go and call every agency, every management in the country. Nothing. Nothing because I don’t have a face nor a name. All I have is my mental picture. But that’s mine. She could show up tomorrow to set and relax our panic. But I don’t have that feeling, it almost doesn’t seem possible to see her again. It was day four and Stick was losing confidence. I had to do something.

Once I woke up, Stick was gone to set. I look over to grab my phone, he left a note. “Find her.” I lay back in bed. Recalling all of my feelings from yesterday, retracing my emotions. As her face is so clear to me.

What about the script she doodled on?

I rush downstairs, I rip through my bag looking for that script. I always pick up the loose pages off the set floor so nobody get’s confused about scenes when we arrive the next day — I found it!! Of course her hand writing is protractor perfect. She wrote the words:

“Why do I have to wait another 5 years if I am so good at it?” “When I change my name, it will be better than Marilyn Monroe.” “And how did I learn how to drive like that? It was so Foxy Brown of me.”

I chuckle and turn the next page. A drawing. She doodled a picture of herself with a cigarette in her mouth with a thought bubble above saying:

“What do I do now?”

The pages smell like her. I like her humor. This feels like her diary and I feel like I am in violation. I wish there were more words. Something more to understand her brain. How do I go about this? And does she even want to be found? I scan the doodle of her face. It’s amazing. Everything she does seems to be amazing, maybe that’s her frustration. I click send, and I send her “picture” to every casting director and modeling agency in the country. That’s all I can do, when Stick said “find her,” how creative did he want me to get? We don’t live in some small amish town. This is LA, we use helicopters to find people.

LATER

I check my Apple watch. I only have this for Uncle Stick. He has one too, we linked them together so I can always check in on his heart rate when I am away from set. His numbers are high. Lionsgate must be at his neck. I usually call once his numbers rise. But he needs to fend for himself, since I have to.

It’s 6 p.m. Friday night and I need a drink. And when I do, I rather it be theatrical. I rather sit at the bar with long day energy and say shit like “Keep’m Coming.”

I walk into a bar on Sunset. The bar across the street from all of the popular ones. I wanted to be alone, but around people. I put one earphone in with no music to scare off the talkers. Buffalo Trace Kentucky Bourbon, neat. The bartender slides it over to me. I drink it quick. Another please. I drink that one. Another please. But this time on the rocks... I relax with this one. I sip in deep thought. I pull out the script she had from set…

I look at her doodled face like architectural specs.

The scent from her pages become stronger. Like it’s really strong. The Piano player that plays in back of the bar becomes louder. And my sips become a little less spaced out. The Piano is matched with a voice. A singing voice and a smell. That same brush of air hits my neck, this time the sparkle lingered. I know it’s her, but I don’t turn around. I just listen. I never heard a voice so calm and rhythmic. I wait for her to get into the song before turning around.

There she is! She doesn’t see me. The thoughts of her being my property that I needed to retrieve instantly left my brain. I just wanted to hear her. Admire her. I don’t even want to tell Uncle Stick I found her. The Piano player plays as if they do this weekly. Everyone in the bar is now glued to her. She’s a Phenome. She’s not scared of a thing. I know people smell her too because of how immersed they are in a stranger. She has special affects.

But then she stops:

The Girl: Does anyone have the time?

People: We all have time for you baby.

I turn my face away and say “It’s 10 minutes to 9.”

Off that, she runs out of the door. I slap $100 bill on the bar and run out after. Well, I waited a beat. But once I ran, I ran fast.

I turn the Sunset corner. I see her skipping down the street, cigarette ash in her shadows. She’s not just wandering, she is trying to get somewhere. She has somewhere to be, I scream “HEYYYY” as she runs up a hill. I run faster.

The street’s dark and I’m starting to understand what this looks like. I pop in a cigarette to look more casual. Offsetting this picture a bit. I lose her. Then I find her, she is behind a tree, I peek.

She seems to be taking off her shoes, her shirt. Is she homeless??? I get closer, I don’t care about the compromise anymore. She puts her cigarette out. But then she sees my smoke. She looks me right the eye.

The Girl: Why are you following me producer?

I get closer. Like the newly comfortable pup. I ask: “What’s your name?”

The Girl: I don’t have one yet. What time is it???

I just want to know who you are? We want you to come back to the movie that you were in. You remember, don’t you? You’re the best I’ve ever seen.

We think you’re—

The Girl: I can’t come back. It doesn’t work like that. What time is it?

I inch a bit closer, It’s 1 minute till 9.

The Girl: SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT.

I don’t understand

Wait, what am I hearing?? Not her panic. But that sound. I know that sound. I know that whistle. The mixture of a marching band and a bed time story.

It’s the HOLLYWOOD SOUND! It’s real…?

She’s frantic. The sound gets louder. She covers her ears. And right as the clock hits 9 p.m. she grabs my hand.

The Girl: Don’t let go!!

Off those words we literally drop underground. “WHAT IN THE FANTASY” is going on? How is this happening? We fall about 100 feet, we are in some kind of tunnel. I SCREAM and CRY, convinced this is my death. I look to her; Just another Friday night for her. Iv’e never been so scared, and comfortable in my life. Half of me doesn’t want this fall to end.

The Girl: This going to be weird. But when we land, if you talk my body will explode. Give me your earphones I will talk to you.

I’m not really sure what to do with that. But I shake my head with no words. And close my eyes. About 3 minutes later we “land.”

We are in a closet. I look to my left, to my right trying to find her. She’s gone.

I look to my hands. Wait wait wait wait wait...These are her hands.

Am I inside your body?? Where’s my body?

The Girl: Yes you are, don’t talk I said. I’ll explain everything. But it is better for you to see. No humans are allowed down here, you can see what I see... Just be quiet.

This became normal to me a lil bit too quick. I follow suit. As “we” change our clothes into some type of academy uniform. I finally see my body, it’s off to the far left, my body looks a lot longer when it’s lifeless. I swallow my nervousness, a mental picture that I hope I don’t dream about. She puts in the earphones, I guess to offset the visual of her looking crazy while talking to the man in her body.

We walk out of the closet. And I don’t even know where to start to describe. But it looked like a scene from Monsters INC. Futuristic with the feeling of home. Some type of underground academy. I have so many questions, I need her to talk to me.

The Girl: This where I live. This is the“Hollywood Sound Academy.”

There’s hundreds of people. All ages. All different looks. Everyone seems to have the twinkle in their eyes just like her. The twinkle of talent. I look closer. Everyone has a date that virtually hovers over their head. I see people with dates from May 2015 all the way up till December 2085. I turn left to see a room. A group of opera singers, they practice like militants in front of an instructor.

The Girl: Each of us have a specific date that we will be launched into Hollywood. We are being groomed to be the best. To be stars. Celebrities not being “born” but “made” is real because I am literally looking at it. On to the next room. A group of actors being taught aggressively. To the next room, stand up comedy. Next, a room full of athletes. Then a room full of dancers. Singers. Every high earning, or artistic occupation was being taught in this academy.

All I wanted to know is which one she was apart of.

The Girl: You asked me my name. I don’t have one, it’s a date. My date is

May 23rd 2020. I have 5 more years until it’s my turn.

She’s answering questions but I have more specifics ones. Like how is she allowed to come in and out of this place... Is she the only one?? What is

her artistic gift? It must be all of them? I notice she is slowing down her pace. She takes out the earphones quickly once she see’s one of her instructors. I look behind the instructor —

Man: “Caught another, he must of fell through somehow.”

Instructor: May 23rd. Where have you been? Your night class starts like now.

The Girl: You mind if I skip tonight, I am not feeling too well…

Instructor: You didn’t feel well last night. 5 years is going to go by fast. Is it your stomach again.

Extra: Yes. I mean no.

The Instructor puts his hands on her belly and begins to massage it. I don’t like this guy. There’s always a creep in this business, even if we are beneath it. I begin to shake. It’s starting to feel like he knows I am in here. I try not to make a peep. I’m trying to do what she said. But his hands are hurting me.

Our body begins to tighten.

Then It feels like when you squeeze an avocado. I wish I could see her face right now. I know she’s scared. I know she must want him to stop. We begin to shake. Like a burp is fighting for freedom. I am going to SCREAM. In a second it will be uncontrollable. Right before I do. I look behind the instructor — A Man is carrying my lifeless body like It was foldable. How? I swallow my nervousness again as someone says “Put him with he rest…”

She whispers…

The Girl: Hey hey, don’t worry about that… We will get your body back, we just have to make it through the night.