He realized almost immediately that she didn’t see him as she passed—again, maybe it was the sun or something—and normally he would’ve said something, a good line thrown back over his shoulder about her hair or her outfit, then jogged down to speak with her. But not this time. Oh no, not today because she was already with someone. She was walking along and chatting up this guy he knew—well, he’d seen all of his movies—this writer-slash-director that he’d been interested in working with for some time now. This guy had had a semihit over in Europe—at Cannes or Venice or one of those, had won a Golden something—and had also made a big, silly action-slash-buddy-slash-road picture for Paramount-slash-Miramax that had somehow sparked at the box office and done a hundred million or so. Maybe more (twice that on video and DVD). In other words, he was doing just fine, thank you, and here he was, totally out of place up in the canyon with his Prada alpine garb on, but talking to this girl-slash-woman in short little staccato whispers that made her smile. She’d been smiling, in fact—almost laughing, really—when they’d passed and that’s how she’d missed him. The two men actually made eye contact, recognizing each other from publicity stills or magazine articles, and the European fellow glanced back for a moment. The two artists locked eyes in silence, but then on they both went in their respective directions—the writer-slash-director still whispering to this actress as they disappeared down an incline. The irony of this—this girl-slash-woman incident—was not lost on him and he laughed to himself at the absurdity of his thoughts, his career, his life. He looked back one last time—really only hoping for a final ass shot—then turned around to face the rest of the climb while keeping an eye out for dogs and their owners. After all, summer was nearly here. It was time to get serious.

He smiled and surged upward, thinking of all the possibilities that a city like this—spread out behind him like a children’s pop-up book—had to offer. Maybe this year I’ll go with a black one, he thought to himself. Or even an Asian. He wasn’t sure, of course, but he was open to the day and what might lie ahead. Ahead up there somewhere, just around the bend-slash-corner.

Acknowledgments

My name alone on the title page belies the efforts of a number of terrific people whose encouragement, craft, and inspiration made this book possible. You know who you are and I thank you all.