Washed Up and Laid Bare

1. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. .......... Chapter One - Washed Up 'Fortune knocks at every man's door once in a lifetime, but in a good many cases, the man is in a neighbouring saloon and does not hear her.' Mark Twain. Robert Swanson drew on the cigarette, blowing smoke out into the air, before it caught the wind and disappeared off the balcony. His phone beeped at him. That thing had been driving him crazy from the moment he left the Buddhist retreat. What had happened to phones with actual buttons? Now, they looked like something from a Philip K d**k story, futuristic and infuriating. He considered throwing the damned thing from the balcony, but it wouldn't do him any favours, not where public image was concerned. Or his recent attempts at anger management. He tried to switch off, knowing that in Hollywood you'd have better chance of seeing a pig sailing by, in free flight. Leaving the plush grassy confines of the Freedom Retreat, expertly maintained and serenely silent, had been a stupid ill thought out idea. Thailand never seemed so far away, and if his bank account co-operated a little more, he might have been able to stay longer. Maybe even live there. No constant noise, no booze, no drugs, no women. He had many vices, and at thirty seven, many of them were starting to become obvious. It had been two years since a stylist had coiffured his trademark 'Bed Head' style, and now his locks were lank and dull, hanging by the side of his face, threaded with silver. His tan still intact had the sunnier climes to thank, and all the hiking he had done, rather than a sun bed or a chatty make-up artist with a spray gun. As he stubbed out the cigarette on the cheap aluminium bistro table, the phone buzzed again. 'Lenny can you get that?!' He'd arrived here with his agent, his assistant long gone and pursuing a s****l harassment suit. No family met him at the airport; no friends waiting patiently, ready to run open armed. Those kinds of things happened in the films he used to make, and not in real life. The fare of Rom-Coms and slushy Chick Flicks. Once upon a time he was hot property, and appearing in at least two films a year. All phoned in performances, relying on his looks rather than his acting ability. To think he'd once come close to winning an Oscar ten long, drug addled years ago. The phone continued to buzz and he fought every urge to hurl it as far as he could, hoping it hit one of the blasted paparazzi who'd been relishing his demise over the years. 'Lenny I swear to God, if you don't shut this damn thing off....' He cut off as Lenny Carradine, his long-time agent walked out onto the balcony. His silver hair lit by the sun, it almost looked like he had a halo, which some would say he did. He'd stood by Robert's side through every lawsuit, every DUI, every fight he picked with some scrawny loser with a camera. He knew it was a favour for his father, the great Michael Swanson. Beloved star of Westerns and later, director of the Oscar winning film, 'The Faded.' Lenny swore, as Michael lay on his death bed that he'd steer Robert back onto the right path. Of course he himself was nowhere to be seen. If he had to hazard a guess at where he'd been the night Pops died, he'd probably say passed out in some dingy room with three models, or wannabe actresses. Cocaine would have had its part to play. No doubt about that. Lenny picked up the phone and pressed a few keys. 'You've had The Entertainment and Gossip Weekly trying to contact you since yesterday evening. That's gotta be them.' 'But it's a new phone? If you can call it that!' he scoffed folding his arms over his body and glaring at Lenny. 'Who gave them my number?' Lenny pulled out the chair opposite him, and sank into it, sighing. 'These people used to be your friends, they were the ones that made you and they can change your fortunes again.' He rose from his chair and leant against the railing. 'They were never my friends. When times are good, sure they kiss your ass, they treat you like some deity and the second, the very second something s**t happens they turn on you.' 'You've got yourself into some bother over the years' Lenny pointed out. 'You're a public figure. You put yourself out there, then you're bound to have this....hassle sometimes.' Robert shook his head in disbelief. He wasn't going to go crawling back to anyone, they owed him an apology. They drove him away. He was just a casualty of this messed up made up world everyone called Hollywood. Nothing was real, nothing was forever, and he wasn't going to flirt with fakery any longer. 'I'm back here because I have the house. Because I missed you Len, and because I know I'm gonna be due in court sometime soon and I don't want to be a fugitive in Thailand and face doing time. Been there, done that.' Lenny rubbed the bridge of his nose; Robert could give him a migraine like no-one else. 'We have no money Robert. You're officially bankrupt. This house is the last asset you have, and unless you sell, I'm gonna have to resign and you'll be on your own. I promised your Dad that I'd be there for you but how can I, if you won't listen.' 'I'm not doing any shitty reality TV series, I'm not starring in some low budget Seagal flick and I'm not guest starring in some tedious cop show. Okay?' Lenny tossed his front door key onto the table. He'd been watching the place since Robert's assistant resigned. Walking back into the house he called out to Robert, his tone exhausted and exasperated in equal measure. 'When are you gonna cut the bullshit and realise I'm right? You're on your own Robert.'