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Hollywood Jock
365 Days, Four Screenplays, Three TV Pitches, Two Kids, and One Wife Who's Ready to Pull the Plug
By Rob Ryder HarperCollins Publishers, Inc.
Copyright © 2006 Rob Ryder
All right reserved. ISBN: 0060791500
Chapter One
Welcome to L.A.
Pookey's late. But so am I, striding along Melrose Avenue through the great saucy mix of hipster Los Angelenos -- every size, color, and flavor -- tattooed and pierced, the young women showing all that skin between their ya-yas and their lowslung jeans. I fall in behind one -- a long artistic tat running across the girl's back right above her ass crack. I slow my pace and stay behind her for a block. Grrrrwl.
I find the entrance to Pookey's office, 7551 Melrose, pound up the ratty stairs and stick my head into a threadbare office. A beautiful, exotic, tawny-skinned, long-limbed creature sits sorting press releases at a desk. I can just imagine the tat across her lower back.
"Are you Maya?"
"No. Are you?"
"No." I stare at her. She stares back with big black serious eyes.
"I must be in the wrong place," I say.
"Again?" she asks.
"Yeah, again," I say, then add, "My whole life."
She suddenly smiles wide, revealing a great set of white teeth and a glint of braces. "I'm Rasha," she says. "She's Maya."
I step inside the office and spot a second beautiful exotic woman. A couple years older perhaps. Acouple inches shorter. Straight black hair, copper skin. She's talking into a headset, typing on a laptop. She's wearing a white shirt with that one extra button undone that can make a man's day. She's got a cast on her foot. She looks over and sees my eyes move from her buttons to her cast.
"Wild sex," she says by way of explanation, and I know I'm in the right place. Look, people have to work for a living -- we all know that. But it takes a guy like Pookey to understand let's at least put some juice in it. Spice it up a bit. Rasha turns out to be Egyptian, Maya, Indonesian. Welcome to L.A.
Pookey's got it going on. African-American, five foot three, literally, and one of the best ballers to ever come out of SoCal. He played at Ventura Juco with Cedric Ceballos, then went on to Seton Hall before blowing out his knee.
Now he's back on his home turf, hustling for a living. Travel, real estate, entertainment. He's been producing an event called "Chocolate Sundaes" at the Laugh Factory on Sunset every Sunday night for a couple of years now. Hosted by his childhood friend Chris Spencer. Yeah, that Chris Spencer of the talk show Vibe who was the best example of how tough it is to host a talk show until Magic Johnson came along and made Chris look like Johnny.
Anyway, years ago in my never-ending search for basketball players for the movies, I'd been given Pookey's number. I'd call him from Charlotte (Eddie) -- he'd give me a couple names. I'd call him from Seattle (The Sixth Man) -- he'd give me a couple names. I'd call him from Santa Monica (White Men Can't Jump) -- ditto. Like I said, Pookey's got it going on.
That's why I'm sitting in his office. I'm trying to revive my last-gasp screenwriting career. And Pookey's gonna help me. (Only he doesn't know it yet.) So are Maya and Rasha. 'Cause they're sharp, these two. They're impressive, and so is Pookey for hiring them.
Maya hits Pookey on his two-way. He's 20 minutes out, finishing up a renegotiation on a TV deal. I'm happy to wait -- in the company of these two women; Pookey can take his sweet black-ass time. Rasha and Maya and I hit a nice riffing rhythm between phone calls, fax replies, birthday reminders, and ticket requests.
And these things I learn; Pookey's got an LLC (limited liability company). He's got a lawyer, but does a lot of his own negotiating. He's just finished talent-producing two TV variety shows. He's working on something new with the William Morris Agency. He's a true showbiz entrepreneur with great connections to black entertainers. He's also into real estate -- owning houses in South Central and New Jersey and points in between. He's working on an elite, all-inclusive L.A. travel package. He's looking to launch his own comedy club. And he's still the same old Pookey.
Then we hear him on the stairs, shouting up, "Honey, I'm home!" He appears in the doorway. I rise to greet him. He truly is five foot three -- wearing a sleeveless denim shirt, baggy jeans, a big smile. He's rough, Pookey. He's not some smooth-polished dude. But I've had enough of them the last few years, black and white. I'm looking for an ally who gets things done.
We shake hands and share the obligatory one-shoulder hug. Then he pulls back and looks me up and down.
"Rob, my man, what've you got?"
"Two things," I say. "Let's sit down."
Continues...
Excerpted from Hollywood Jock by Rob Ryder Copyright © 2006 by Rob Ryder. Excerpted by permission.
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