The old fool’s back at his keyboard again. This guy couldn’t realize a living, breathing fictional character if his Social Security checks depended on it.
You may recall that I’m trapped in the laptop of an old man trying to create a private detective story. I’m like his main character. Somebody shoot me.
He’s all “noir” these days. He thinks because he drives an internally rusting 10-year-old Toyota beater he understands anti-heroes. What does he know from lurking in the shadows? He eats English muffins — for God’s sake!
He keeps telling me if we’re going to sell our property to Hollywood, we (we?) got to cast a statuesque dame (his exact words). I told him they don’t make “dames” no more and if he don’t want to blow an endorsement from Oprah, he’s got to be careful about how he refers to babes. He promised to stay away from rapper words.
“What actress you got in mind as my romantic interest?” I asked.
“I’m thinking Julie Christie.” he said.
“A fine artist,” I replied, “but she ain’t the box office she used to.”
“Okay, Tuesday Weld then.”
“She dead.” I told him. He took that kinda hard.
“Well, who do you got in mind, Bulldog?” he asked me sardonically (for a private dick I got a vocabulary, am I right?).
So I says, “Scarlett Johannson.”
“You think we can get her?” he asked.
“By the time you finish this novel/treatment/screenplay — whatever the #?%$ you call it — she’ll be working dinner-theater. Maybe then you got a chance.”
His laptop’s got this built-in camera so I could see his face twist up. I knew right away I ticked him off. I watched his keystrokes with despair as he navigated over to Yahoo’s search engine and entered: k – a – t – h – y – b – a – t – e – s.
