Hollywood Ass. Read Free Page B

a feeling of camaraderie.
    I couldn’t shake the feeling that he was contemplating a divorce. After all it wasn’t the most uncommon thing in Hollywood for people to say, “I’ve had it with you and your obsession with yourself, your constant traveling and your absurdly elevated need for attention,” although it was a mirror image they were talking to. How could you make such a strenuous concept as marriage work in a world so demanding? There are obviously no secrets, only hard work, and my guess was that A had grown tired of working hard for the relationship, he wanted to see some results.
    “It’s very frustrating,” I said, feeling uneasy about being sandwiched in between their struggles, “We’re heading out now, I’ll see if I can talk some sense into her.”
    “Good luck,” A said without a hint of belief in his voice and returned to his Ferrari, a car that always performed flawlessly, something I’m sure he wished for in his wife.
     
    ***
     
    Runyon Canyon is the celebrity-prone park above Los Angeles, which has featured in countless of movies and series, especially from the 80s. The fact that it’s near high-end neighborhoods like the Hollywood Hills makes it possible to run into a celebrity at any time and if you were lucky you might even have stumbled upon the Johnsons taking an evening walk or a morning jog.
    I parked the black Range Rover and B walked out in her velvety blue Juicy Couture track suit and adjusted her pants and her hair. I had told her the outfit wasn’t in fashion anymore and that it made her look like a big baby in overalls, but she said she loved the material too much to let it go. And let’s face it, when your new claim to fame is vomiting on one of the bigger televised awards in the calendar year, showing up in a three-year-old tracksuit is not going to do much to your reputation. I was wearing a grey t-shirt with “Who let the dogs out” in big block letters, so perhaps it wasn’t the right time to be pointing out fashion mistakes.
    B started walking down the so called Star trail with verve, her long legs striding and picking up speed rapidly and her head focused forwards. She was apparently eager to shed both calories and inner demons and that was a positive sign. You go girl! I thought to myself in my inner gay voice. Every man has an inner gay voice, at least if you spend as much time around a woman (without sleeping with her) as I did.
    I jogged a few steps to catch up with her, “Aren’t you an eager beaver today?” I said, trying to keep my voice upbeat. She needed me to be on my A-game today and remind her the world wasn’t ending just because she had literally spilled her guts on TV.
    “I’m no beaver, I’m Barney the drunken dinosaur. Please keep the tempo with me, I can’t run into someone today. I just can’t.” B said, annoyed.
    She had a fire in her step while I was panting like a dazed Rocky Balboa after 15 minutes. It felt kind of humiliating that she drank alcoholic smoothies for breakfast and still was in much better shape than me, a warning signal to lose my morning chocolate croissant. Not that I would, but I considered the signal.
    “How are you feeling back there?” B said, likely noticing the increased intensity in my breathing.
    “I’m good, I’m good.” I lied, trying to sound unaffected. “How are you?” I threw right back at her.
    “I feel like I’m in a bad dream and I can’t wake up. But otherwise I’m fine.” B was in a sour mood which was very hard to reverse. She had been sinking for some time and it finally seemed like she had submerged herself entirely in misery. It would take a heroic effort to dig her up and to be honest with you, I wasn’t sure I was up for it.
    “Did you fart? Something smells nasty,” B said and wrinkled her face in disgust.
    “Small one. Sneaked out.” I raised my hands in the air to show my innocence.
    “You really need to stop eating all that cheese, Darryl, it’s not good for