L.A. Success Read Online Free PDF Page A
Author: Hans C. Freelac
except that he was wearing thin, white linen pants. I could see his neon-purple unit sling through them. He had a white tank top on and around his neck he had a tiny purple scarf, I guess to go along with the underwear. He was one of those guys who can shave in the morning and have a five o'clock shadow by lunch. He had black hair and was furry like a gorilla. His skin was tan and looked oily. I guessed that was because of tanning lotion, because he had a lawn chair with a beach towel on it there in the courtyard. Some kind of enormous black poodle was at his feet having a sniff at me.
“Hello to you,” he said. He looked at my Arnold and then followed the treasure trail with his eyes. That’s what I call the strip of hair leading from my belly button down south. Helen used to make fun of me and say it was more like a treasure hunt.
“Hi. I'm the gay that called you. Guy. Guy, I mean, who called about the house sitting.” I felt pretty stupid right about then, but he was a good sport about it.
“You think I went too far?” He pointed up and down at his outfit. “I'm trying out some new looks, but I don't know if I pulled this one off right.”
I didn't really know what he wanted me to say here.
“Well, I can see your package, pretty much,” I said.
“Of course you can. But what I mean is do I look too 'nouveau gay'?”
I was thinking right then that my cup of Starbucks wasn't going to be the skeleton key I had hoped it would. I was going to have to say stuff.
“I don't know too much about this sort of thing, but when you opened the gate, I was thinking you were trying too hard,” I said, worried that I'd piss him off and not get the job.
“Hmm...Why don’t you come in and sit down. It's so refreshing talking to someone who will tell me his honest opinion.”
I walked into the courtyard. As he was shutting the gate, the big poodle made a run for it.
“Stay! You're going to get yourself run over!” he yelled, sounding like the voice on his answering machine. “I just got this dog. He's almost full grown, but I don't think anyone has ever trained him,” he said, switching back to the deep chick voice.
We walked over to the front door and went in. His house wasn't very well decorated. I liked it a lot, but I thought that a guy who was like this guy would decorate different. He had some black-and-white photos of far-west landscapes on the walls. He didn't have a lot of furniture, but what he did have looked like it came out of a bachelor pad: black leather sofa and love seat, wood coffee table, kick-ass entertainment center, a collection of nature magazines—that kind of stuff. He invited me to sit down on the couch.
“Would you like a beer?” he asked.
“That'd be great.”
He went into the kitchen. I reached over and picked up a hunting magazine from the coffee table. And then I realized what was up. This guy must have been pretending to be gay for some kind of mission. Maybe some wife thinks her husband is cheating on her with a man, and Dennis here is gonna get naked with him and then, right before the doing, whip out a camera and spring the divorce papers on him.
He came back with a couple of Buds. That did it—now I was sure.
“Are you on a secret-agent thing, where you gotta pretend to be gay?” I asked. “Your phone message said you were 'in the field'. Is this your undercover persona?”
He looked kind of sad all of a sudden. He sat down on the love seat, took a big swig of beer and stared up at the ceiling. Then he started talking in his answering-machine voice and never went back to the other one.
“Nah, I quit the business a few months ago. But I did something like what you described, except I didn't have to disguise myself. A client hired me to follow and take pictures of her husband because she believed he was hiding his homosexuality. I started following him around—I have the three very different cars you saw outside so that I don't get caught when I tail someone. I
“Hello to you,” he said. He looked at my Arnold and then followed the treasure trail with his eyes. That’s what I call the strip of hair leading from my belly button down south. Helen used to make fun of me and say it was more like a treasure hunt.
“Hi. I'm the gay that called you. Guy. Guy, I mean, who called about the house sitting.” I felt pretty stupid right about then, but he was a good sport about it.
“You think I went too far?” He pointed up and down at his outfit. “I'm trying out some new looks, but I don't know if I pulled this one off right.”
I didn't really know what he wanted me to say here.
“Well, I can see your package, pretty much,” I said.
“Of course you can. But what I mean is do I look too 'nouveau gay'?”
I was thinking right then that my cup of Starbucks wasn't going to be the skeleton key I had hoped it would. I was going to have to say stuff.
“I don't know too much about this sort of thing, but when you opened the gate, I was thinking you were trying too hard,” I said, worried that I'd piss him off and not get the job.
“Hmm...Why don’t you come in and sit down. It's so refreshing talking to someone who will tell me his honest opinion.”
I walked into the courtyard. As he was shutting the gate, the big poodle made a run for it.
“Stay! You're going to get yourself run over!” he yelled, sounding like the voice on his answering machine. “I just got this dog. He's almost full grown, but I don't think anyone has ever trained him,” he said, switching back to the deep chick voice.
We walked over to the front door and went in. His house wasn't very well decorated. I liked it a lot, but I thought that a guy who was like this guy would decorate different. He had some black-and-white photos of far-west landscapes on the walls. He didn't have a lot of furniture, but what he did have looked like it came out of a bachelor pad: black leather sofa and love seat, wood coffee table, kick-ass entertainment center, a collection of nature magazines—that kind of stuff. He invited me to sit down on the couch.
“Would you like a beer?” he asked.
“That'd be great.”
He went into the kitchen. I reached over and picked up a hunting magazine from the coffee table. And then I realized what was up. This guy must have been pretending to be gay for some kind of mission. Maybe some wife thinks her husband is cheating on her with a man, and Dennis here is gonna get naked with him and then, right before the doing, whip out a camera and spring the divorce papers on him.
He came back with a couple of Buds. That did it—now I was sure.
“Are you on a secret-agent thing, where you gotta pretend to be gay?” I asked. “Your phone message said you were 'in the field'. Is this your undercover persona?”
He looked kind of sad all of a sudden. He sat down on the love seat, took a big swig of beer and stared up at the ceiling. Then he started talking in his answering-machine voice and never went back to the other one.
“Nah, I quit the business a few months ago. But I did something like what you described, except I didn't have to disguise myself. A client hired me to follow and take pictures of her husband because she believed he was hiding his homosexuality. I started following him around—I have the three very different cars you saw outside so that I don't get caught when I tail someone. I