Goodbye, Yellow Brick Road - 1. Coming Down

Andy stared into the mirror. “What have they done to me?” he asked himself, not recognizing the person he saw reflected; though, if he were honest with himself, Andy would admit he hadn’t known exactly who the man in the mirror was for some time.

“Come on, Andy,” his co-star pleaded, “it’ll be fun. You can show off your new hair.”

“That’s not really selling the idea,” he said. “I hate it.”

“Blonds are supposed to have more fun. Come out with us and see if it’s true. We need to be celebrating. The show’s already got great buzz, and we’ve barely even begun shooting.” Skylar, a petite brunette who, unlike Andy, was pleased with the extreme undercut the director had requested for her said, “Please, Andy.”

“Isn’t there a hurricane coming?”

Skylar rolled her eyes. “You know it’s not. It’s just a tropical depression. Everybody says it’s no big deal. Even if it were….don’t you want to go to a hurricane party?”

“Fine,” Andy sighed, 'just give me minute to get all this makeup off.” He glared at his image in the mirror again. The large cast had spent the past few days filming flashback sequences. His flashback scenes, requiring his normally shaggy brown hair (his signature feature in his Tiger Beat days), were wrapped. Thus, the bleach job makeover deemed necessary to demonstrate his character’s journey had been done this afternoon. His scalp still ached from the process.

His ego also ached. Lighting his scenes, in which he played a teenager, had taken forever, and as had his time in the makeup chair. Andy had overheard a discussion between the director and director of photography about whether or not they would need to CGI his flashback scenes to make him look younger. They had decided in the end, that he looked good enough with practical effects. And god knows he wasn’t a 17 year old anymore, but still.

But he was lucky to have this job, and he had acquiesced to the creative team’s various requests with little more than token resistance. And, as per his new agent’s orders, Andy had begrudgingly documented the bleaching process for his Instagram, feigning enjoyment. Andy’s failure to maximize social media to Jessie’s expectations was one of the sources of friction between them. But considering how difficult it had been to procure a new agent after a string of professional failures and years of non paying gigs, Andy considered himself fortunate to have representation at all. And if it weren’t for Louise, Andy would have neither his agent nor his current job. Although he was grateful to her, Andy chafed under the necessity of depending, yet again, on his best friend for his survival. It had become too much of a trend.

“Cool,” Skyler squealed, and left the bathroom of the apartment that they were sharing in the Garden District of New Orleans for the duration of filming.

She was so young, Andy thought, as he began slathering his face with cold cream, barely 18. His own eighteenth year felt so far away, and at 24, he felt like an old man already.

Face half smeared with cream, he stared into the mirror, trying to see the enthusiastic 18 year old he had been, but he saw no trace of him. It wasn’t just the platinum blond crop; it was the tired, defeated look his eyes. Sure, the show was getting a decent buzz as the newest project of a popular novelist/screenwriter and her first Netflix series, but Andy had been part of too many projects whose potential had fizzled long before their release. Too many pilots that hadn’t been picked up, too many indie films that had never found distributors, too many meetings with executives, too many pitches that had gone nowhere, too many demos no record company would produce.

Andy sighed, and continued wiping his face, scrutinizing it for any hint of crows feet. His only offers in the last six years had been for teenage and young adult roles, including this one, and he couldn’t afford to start showing his age, not if he wanted to eat. Maybe going out for a drink or two and forgetting his troubles for a while wasn’t the worst idea in the world.

In a bar in the French Quarter, Will Harte wiped the counters and straightened bottles. Besides his friend, Bruno, the bar was empty. Not surprising. It was a Monday, so no boys would be dancing on the bar, and the promise of heavy rain from the depression hovering the Gulf was enough to deter his regulars. The rain had started up in fits and starts a couple of hours earlier; it had paused, but its threat hung heavy in the cool air.

“Well,” Bruno said, putting down his glass and glancing at his phone. “It’s after midnight. I need to be heading home.”

“Thanks for coming down and keeping me company.”

“No problem. With Waylon out of town, I was just rattling around an empty house.”

“When’s he coming back?”

“Day after tomorrow.” Bruno looked around. “It is worth staying open? It’s a still a while before the storm is supposed to hit, but I doubt anybody else is coming in tonight.”

“Not really my call,” Will said. “I just work here…” before he could finish, the house phone rang. He put down the glass he had been polishing and picked it up. “Le Coq, this is Will speaking…”

Will stopped, interrupted by the voice on the other end. “Hey, Will it’s Paul. How's business tonight? Slow, I suppose?”

“Dead,” Will. “I only have one customer, and I called him myself to come down.”

“I figured. Look, no point in you hanging around. Lock up and get home now before the rain starts. I’ll see you on Wednesday.”

“Thanks,” Will said. He hung up and turned to Bruno. “You must be my lucky charm. That was the manager. He said to lock up and head home.”

“Do you need any help?”

“Not really. The cleaning crew will be here in the morning, and it was so slow, the bar’s already ready for the next shift. If you could just put the stools up and grab the lights in the bathrooms, I’ll take the till to the office and do my paperwork. Should only be five minutes.”

“Cool, and I’ll give you a ride home.”

“Thanks, I appreciated it.” The tall, muscular bartender, pulled out the cash drawer from the register and pulled out his receipt as his friend started putting stools on tables and the bar. Will had just finished his report when Bruno knocked on the door of the office.

“Don’t worry I’m done, “ Will called out, as his rose and opened the door.

“I think we have a problem,” Bruno said as his friend emerged from the office and gestured for Will to follow him to the hallway that led to the restrooms.

“Oh shit,” Will said. “Is the toilet clogged again?”

“No, that’s not it,” Bruno stopped before reaching the restroom doors and gesturing toward the battered purple pleather loveseat that sat in the passage. “This is the problem.”

“Goddammit,” Will said, looking at the man with blond hair apparently asleep on the sofa.
“Hey,” he said. “Hey,” he repeated more loudly grabbing the guy’s upper arms and shaking them. “Wake up!”

The stranger opened his lids. Will caught a glimpse of deep brown, unfocused eyes. For a moment, the man seemed on the verge of awareness, then he convulsed suddenly and vomited. Will managed to jump back in time to avoid being hit, but the foul liquid splashed on the drunk’s own t-shirt, soaking it.

“Good god,” Will said.

“Calm down,” Bruno said. “At least he’s alive. And from the smell, it looks like he’s just had too many hurricanes and isn’t O.Ding. Help me get this off.” Together, they gingerly wrestled the befouled t-shirt off.

“I’m going to rinse this out. Grab a wet towel and wipe off his face. Maybe that will help sober him up,” Bruno said.

Grumbling, Will fetched a couple of clean bar towels that he dampened and a plastic bag to put the shirt in and returned. Mercifully, Bruno appeared to have been correct; as Will wiped the guy’s face and and Bruno, back from rinsing the shirt, applied one of the towels as a compress, the stranger seemed to be rousing. He mumbled something that sounded like “sorry...sorry...:”

“He looks familiar,” Bruno said, “but I just…..can’t place him. Do you know him?”

“No. Hell, I didn’t even see him come in. He must have done it when you helped me grab the beer from storage.”

“I know,” Bruno announced. “I saw him at the shelter the other day. He didn’t have the blond hair then.”

“He’s one of Shane’s teen runaways? He’s pretty young, but he doesn’t look that young. But if he is, Shane’s gonna be pissed at him.”

“No, he wasn’t a resident. He was with a group Shane was showing around. I was just dropping something off, so I don’t know what they were doing, but he definitely wasn’t a client. But what are we going to do? He seems pretty gone.”

Noticing the stranger’s now opened eyes, Will said. “You awake? Can you tell us where you live?”

“Hey, dude,” the blond slurred. “Can I get a hurricane or one those...what was it? Torpedo….bazooka…..?”

“Do you mean Hand Grenade?” Will said.

“Yeah…..one of those would be good.”

“I think you’ve had enough of those. What you need to do is go home and sleep. And where would home be?” Will said.

“Yeah….sleep would be good,” the blond said, closing his eyes and making as if to lie down.

“No, no,” Will said, grabbing the guy’s biceps and pulling him back up to a sitting position. “Not yet.”

“Okay,” blond guy said. “I’ll just sit here then. But I have to close my eyes because the room’s spinning.”

“Fuck,” said Will. “I guess I’ll have to take him back to my place. I can’t just leave him on the street. He’ll get mugged or worse. And even if I knew where he lived, I’m not sure it’s safe to leave him alone in this condition. Besides, if he knows Shane, he can’t be that bad.”

“Are you sure?” Bruno said.

“Yeah, I’m sure. I’ve dealt with enough drunks to know how to handle him, and he seems docile enough. Here, let’s see if we can get him up.”

With a bit of effort, the friends managed to get blondie up on his feet. In fact, the movement seemed to help him, and by the time, the group reached the front door, he only needed Will’s support. Luckily, though he was quite lean and fit, the blond guy was shorter and weighed less than Will’s own large frame.

“Wait here, I’ll go grab my car,” Bruno said after locking the bar for Will. “I’m only a few blocks away.”

The movement and the cool night air seemed to have revived blondie. His eyes were opened, and he was actively clinging to Will, both arms clutched around the bartender. They stood under a street lamp, and Will was able, for the first time, notice how cute the other guy was. Regular features, sharp jawline, smooth golden tan, and deep chocolate eyes.

“You’re really nice,” blondie slurred, smiling drowsily up at Will. “Really, really nice. But I still want a Hand Grenade.”

“I’m sure you do,” Will sighed, smiling down at blondie in spite of himself. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed movement across the street and turned to look at a gaggle of young women talking excitedly. A couple of them pointed their phones at the pair and began snapping pics.

“What the fuck?” Will yelled just as Bruno pulled up. “You’ve never seen a drunk guy before? Get the fuck out of here, assholes,” he continued as he and Bruno bundled blondie into the back.

As the sedan pulled away, one of the girls pulled up her twitter feed. “OMG” she typed. “You’ll never guess who I saw coming out of a gay bar in New Orleans!!!!!!!!!!!!!”