Continuing adventures in the gutter of Hollywood’s Golden Era, Episode 17
∞
Hollywood, 1955:
Things are getting a little hot at the laundromat. At just about the time Sergei finds himself with a romantic interest – for the first time since escaping from Soviet Estonia – Romance has seemingly found him, in the form of the boss’ wife, Mrs. Maxwell Kauffman (just call me Jude, sweetie).
It’s an unwelcome attention.
First, Sergei has declared – privately and on the strength of a single, awkward encounter – undying love and fealty to Nola, the Face of Poverty Row Studios. Jude Kauffman, undeniably attractive in a bawdy, buxom, laundromatic-kind of way, is no match for the sultry delights of the young actress.
Second, she is the boss’ wife. While it would be nice to think the big break in screenwriting is just around the corner, truth is Sergei needs his job – and his laundromat backup career, and his testicles – more than he needs an education with Jude.
But she is nothing if not determined. Cornering him out the back of Harvey’s, she’s got him frozen up against the wall pointing her pneumatic breasts – barely concealed under a thin blouse – like they are a pair of loaded pistols and she is the wild train robber who isn’t going to take no for an answer. “Maxie’s out for the rest of the day, sweetie, and Jude wants a white Russian. Whaddya’ say, honey?”
“Est, Estonian, muh, muh, Mrs. Kauffman.”
“Sure baby, but call me Jude, OK?”
Sergei tries to feint a move to one side of the admittedly fine figure of womanhood that is Jude Kauffman, but she pins him to the wall with those breasts. “How about we shut the shop for a while and oh, I don’t know, talk about your shift rota, or something, hmm?”
“Mrs. Kauffman, this is wrong. So wrong. I, I can’t, really, I mustn’t. So, so wrong.”
“I know baby, that’s what makes it fun,” and feeling something Sergei cannot control “Oh, what’s this?” She beams a bright smile. There is gold in those teeth and trouble is at hand. Sergei is about to be overwhelmed.
∞
“Sir I’ve got this script here I think you’ll love. It’s called: [He has a lot on his mind and for once Sergei is glad Nola is not around] The Deaf Seekers.”
“Hit me with it, my Russian friend, and lets hope it’s a good one. I’ve got a feeling about this. Something about you today, Matrossov. Something different. New aftershave? Or you grown a coupla’ inches, maybe? ”
Mel seems in surprisingly good fettle. Trying to get his thoughts on track, Sergei reminds himself – to succeed in Hollywood you have to turn every situation into an opportunity. “Sir this is indeed the one, I’m sure of it.”
“Attaboy Matrossov! Go get ‘em! You sure walked in here a man today. I like it!”
How does he do that? What – ?
“Give it to me kid. I can’t hardly wait to hear what you’ve got for me.”
“Picture a deserted wild west outpost in Arizona, but this is the near future, home of a cult of religious monks who take the ultimate vow of silence, cutting out their tongues and bursting their own eardrums…”
“Whoo! That’s one helluva start you got there boy. One helluva start. Keep going, keep going!”
“A young heroine named – ”
There is a silent pause. The future hangs in the thick atmosphere between producer and writer. A wall clock ticks out in quarter time.
“A young heroine named – ”
Still nothing. Dorothy outside, freeze-framed mid-pose, had been stirring coffee, now perfectly still. Even the coffee pauses it’s rotation. Mel K. Chive twitches an eyebrow faintly, ever so faintly. With gentle, fatherly encouragement: “Go on, boy. Go on.”
“A young heroine named – ”
“…named – ”
Hollywood seems to stop. Los Angeles frozen. The western world cocking an ear.
Nothing.
Sergei Matrossov wants to cry. The world is disappointed. Mel slumps in his chair.
“Leave it with me, kid. I’ll read it. You get yourself home. Maybe you pedalled too hard on that damn bike to get here. I’ll call you. DOROTHY! Show Mr. Matrossov out, will you.”
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