Ride (in development)
The Hollywood dream is in its ‘end-crawl’. Fade out. Lights up. Production is elsewhere. Jobs are going. The great working class of Movieland, families that built their lives ‘below the line’ — whether actors or caterers, sets designers or Teamsters — aren’t sure now they can stay in the Golden State. In 24 hours, Willow will know if everything she believes is a dangerous lie. But first she will make a miraculous journey.
I’m sweating and running, my head turning back and forth. I see lots of cars but not Willow. I spot a mound of steamy dung at the corner of Sycamore Drive and Silver Court. My heart skips. I can’t be far behind. I race forward. Suddenly, I hear dogs barking. Big dogs. Thankfully, I wore my Teva sports, not my flip-flops. The extra Velcro strap across my heels lets me sprint hard.
I find Willow at Coral Gum Lane. She sits on the big white horse easily in the two-lane street. Cars move in both directions. Two monstrous German Shepherds are barking at Yankee, blocking his way to the house. Their bodies are mostly tan, but their faces are dark black which makes them look like wolves.
Willow says, “We’re close. Bobby Lee lives on the block. He runs an on-set catering service. As good as anything on the Food Channel. But now he’s selling off his catering trucks. Nothing’s being shot in L.A. these days. He’s scared. But he loves Yankee. And he has a backyard with real grass and a kiddie pool Yankee can drink from.'”
But I won’t take my eyes off the dogs. They growl low, like distant thunder.
Yankee remains still and stoic. Until I notice his ears twisting back and forth independently. I didn’t know horses can do that. Maybe he’s not so calm.
“Is he okay?” I realize Willow is scared because she isn’t yelling back at the dogs.
“Sure. He’s used to noise. he got wrangled into Hidalgo when he just two. Flicka, War Horse, Jockey, Wind River, Vikings and a couple episodes of Yellowstone. he’s seen it all.”
The dogs stop yelping suddenly and look back at the house expecting someone to reprimand them. I see an open chain-link gate. I assume they’re only supposed to challenge people from inside the yard.
Willow whispers to me out of the side of her mouth. “Don’t move. Someone inside will call them back.” We wait for their owner to realize they’re out of the yard. No one comes. Yankee suddenly emits a low moan, squeaky as a little girl.
I whisper, “Does that mean something?”
“He’s not happy.”
The dogs start barking again even louder. Two dragons guarding the Palace Gates of a Chinese Emperor. They terrify me. I want to turn around and tippytoe away. Usually, I would. I’m not brave. I hate pain. But not in front of Willow.
One dog darts forward and nips at Yankee rear left leg. Mistake.
Yankee kicks out both rear legs and bucks Willow in the air. She slams onto his back, and he does it again. I don’t know how she stays on.
“Easy boy.” But his bucking grazes the dog. It retreats. But their barking now sounds more furious. Attack mode. My hand sweeps my pocket. I feel the Cliff Bar. I dig for it. Rip it open.
“Shut your stupid snouts, you obnoxious boneheads.” Am I really walking towards them? Holding out the rectangular chunk. The dragon-dogs are so startled, they shut up. Willow gapes mouth-open at me. I can’t believe I’m walking closer to them, pointing my snack like a wand, “Want this? You Nazi canines.”
Willow speaks softly, her teeth clenched. “That’s a little too close, dude.”
I make eye contact with Willow and it snaps me out of my hero masquerade. What am I doing? I freeze. I am really, really close. “Can you walk Yankee past them now?” She’s already trotting Yankee around the corner, cutting over a thin strip of lawn. I’m stuck here with the zombie dogs. Snap. One dog darts his snout at me and swallows the Cliff Bar whole. Not a chew. Just gone. I yank back my hand checking my fingers. The other beast-dog is drooling. Not happy about being left out. As soon as I turn my back, they both start barking again. Damn, that’s loud. I fight to control my feet. Walk slowly. Everyone knows that. If I run, they’ll charge. Take me down from behind and rip me open and tug my intestines in one long sausage length. Two more steps and the barking sounds right behind me. I can’t help it. I scoot around the corner, tensing for the stab of sharp teeth ripping into my flesh.
I make it into Bobby Lee’s backyard without any puncture wounds, just in time to see Willow prompting deep, cross-leg bows ‘movie’ bows from Yankee. Bobby, his wife Hannah and their twin 10-year-old girls applauding. One of the twins sees me.
‘Who’s he?’
Without any logical reason I hold my breath and feel my whole life might depend on her reply.