“OSCAR NIGHT AT WINCHELL’S DONUT HOUSE”
an original short story
by Lisa Maliga
All Rights Reserved
© 2005

Hillary Gibson arrived promptly at nine o’clock as she did every night. The slight woman with the helmet of white curls still retained her dignified bearing even though she was stooped from age and years of sitting behind a desk. Although she had been going to the Winchell’s Donut House on the corner of Melrose and Vine for over four years, she never was able to remember the names of the clerks who worked there. She knew them by sight, but couldn’t recall Luis or Rosa or any of the Hispanic employees’ Christian names. Hillary was from Vermont – a place where there was only her kind of people – WASPs.

She ordered her coffee with the gaudy red and yellow logo on the paper cup. Since it was Monday night, she thought it was acceptable to purchase a donut as a small treat. Frugal with her fixed income and careful with her diet, she rarely indulged in any sugar. The strawberry frosted donuts had just been set out and the tray of them sat there like an open invitation. The bubble gum pink color reminded her of her daughter’s sixth birthday party and the special cake Hillary had baked and frosted with pink buttercream that required her to buy food coloring. The girl had adored anything pink and purple – a true essence of femininity. Hillary spent her $2.36, counting out the exact change.

Her corner seat was taken, and she cast a disgruntled glance at the two black men who were sipping their coffee. They were strangers. Or if she’d seen them before, she couldn’t recall their names and stations in life. Of the half dozen two-seater plastic yellow tables, she opted for one without a view of the cross streets. If the men left soon she’d reclaim her usual position.

Disapproving glances at Bogie’s liquor store on the east side of the tiny parking lot made her remember what used to be there. Not a place where people stocked up on cheap booze, no. It used to be a residence. The owner was eccentric but harmless. She was one of Elvis Presley’s diehard fans. A Cadillac circa 1960 was parked out front, a blatant testament of worship. The car was presumably a gift from the famous singer. The owner of the vehicle sat out front most days penning her memoirs. What Hillary remembered was the four flat whitewall tires. The owner was too cheap or too attached to the car to alter a single thing about it.

Fish ambled in, smiling as usual. The middle-aged man with the stringy graying hair and the grubby olive green parka looked in her direction and waved. “Hi Hillary,” he said, his voice filling the small shop.

Her answer was a curt nod. The two black men got up and removed their empty cups. She watched them leave as she sipped her coffee. The woman was unable to relax as the man who’d just filled the place with his presence rarely stopped talking. She moved to the just-vacated table in the corner where she sat with her back to the windows. She no longer glanced in mirrors or windows that turned to looking glasses after dark. That was evident by her heavily made up face with the invariably crooked eyeliner and the tufts of white hair that grew from her chin. She realized she’d forgotten her uneaten donut and just as she was about to get up to retrieve it, Fish picked it up by the bottom so his hands didn’t touch it and put it on the table in front of her. “Thank you,” she said.
“No problem, Hillary.” He turned back to the counter where he spoke basic Spanish to the clerk. “Como esta Luis. Un café, un chocolate donut…”
The fractured Spanish continued for a few minutes. The clerk was doing a lot of slower talking, she discerned. But he seemed to enjoy the communication. At least Fish didn’t ignore him like so many did.

“Oscar night, 1989.” Fish commented when he sat down across from Hillary. He had a view of the windows. “Who do you think will win tonight?”

Hillary took a dainty bite from her donut and shook her head. She hadn’t followed the Oscars since color TV came onto the market. And even then sporadically. To quote from her favorite film, and one in which she had something to do with from behind the scenes, she didn’t give a damn. Those days at MGM were long gone. She no longer worked for Mr. Goldwyn, the head of the studio. Hollywood had been going to hell ever since the 1960s and it grew increasingly worse. Movies were extravaganzas of violence and/or sex. It was disgusting. Hollywood no longer made musicals. There were no longer films where intelligent discussions and witty dialogue filled the theatre.

“I have no idea,” Hillary replied.

Fish sighed. “ I bet it’s Rain Man. I was invited this year but I couldn’t go.”

Hillary wondered how crazy the man was. He was turning down a night at the Oscars for a night at Winchell’s donuts?

He noticed her quizzical expression. “I had a meeting over at Disney and it ran over so I missed out. You can’t go into the auditorium once the Oscars start, you know. They lock the doors.”

Fish looked over to his left to watch the entrance. There was that eager new screenwriter who was turning into a regular. That kid was so green it was laughable. What the hell was his name again?

Ronnie was from Eden Springs, Tennessee some little one-stoplight town in the middle of the state. He’d only been in Hollywood for a couple of months and lived in a tiny dump off Vine and Willoughby. Not owning a television, he wasn’t watching anything to do with the Academy Awards. An ‘aweshucks’ and ‘geez’ kinda guy, he kept Fish in his spinning yarns mood and listened to everything the older man said. The pleasant looking young man with the wide set green eyes and a scraggly blond goatee sat down next to Hillary at the nearby table. He greeted her politely and she returned in kind, glad to have such an un-jaded companion. He couldn’t have been more than 22 or 23 she mused. Young enough to be her grandson. A warm-blooded fellow, he only wore a green and white t-shirt advertising some Tennessee college football team she’d never heard of.

“Hi Ronnie!” Fish greeted him. “How’s it goin’?”

“A-Okay. Up to page 49 on the script. It’s just whizzin’ along!”

“Hey, did I ever tell you about the rewrite I did on Rambo 2?”

As predicted, Ronnie’s eyes widened. “You wrote the Rambo sequel?”

Fish was getting into the full swing of his upcoming monologue. Oh yeah, Ronnie was one of the freshest pieces of bait he’d seen since he arrived out in Hollywood to help Dennis Hopper rewrite Easy Rider.

As the minutes ticked by, Fish enlightened his captive audience about that night’s Oscar predictions.

“I want Tom Cruise to win for Born on the Fourth of July ‘cause I coached him in his role. See I was over in Vietnam back in ’68 and ’69…I was in Oliver Stone’s platoon.”

Ronnie almost choked on his coffee. Fish smiled and continued on, reeling the boy into his murky tale. “Yeah, me and Ollie…he was called Bill back then…we were best mates. I was the only other white guy in his platoon. And when he got shot, I saved him by carrying him through the jungle. And if it weren’t for me he wouldn’t have gotten his Purple Heart and I wouldn’t’ve gotten mine!”

“You have a Purple Heart?” asked Ronnie.

“With an Oak Leaf Cluster. Highest you can get. So me ‘n’ Ollie are good friends and I was helping him with the script. He should thank me tonight if he wins. In fact, I better get home just in case. I was gonna record it but my VCR just broke down and…”

Fish got up and left his coffee cup there. He saluted his donut-eating and coffee-drinking pals and left.

“I hope you don’t believe everything that man says, Ronnie. If fact, I hope you don’t believe anything. I haven’t met such a natural born liar in all my days!”
Ronnie laughed. “I don’t, Hillary! But it seems like most people out here think I’m stupid ‘cause I got this southern accent. They think I just fell off the back of a hay wagon like my granddad used to say.”

Hillary nodded. “I used to have to play stupid, especially around all those executives and producers and directors. All those powerful men – and they either drank excessively or…well they would receive visitors in their offices after lunch or at the end of the day.” Hillary looked down at her the remaining bite of her donut. “Oh my…” she blushed, and the dash of color on her sheet white complexion made her appear younger.

“You see Mr. Goldwyn, it was always Mister, not Samuel, would come back from the Brown Derby and then one of the manicurists would arrive.”
“He had a manicure?”

“That’s a term for a…certain type of sex. The manicurist would go in there and five minutes later come out and ask for a cup of water and drink it real fast. Some of them just left. They were all young, still in their teens, early twenties, and they were nicely dressed, but they weren’t secretaries. They were euphemistically referred to as manicurists. I had to go in there once to alert Mr. Goldwyn of a very urgent phone call. He had one of those ornate mahogany desks – solid. Nothing could be seen if I stood at the edge of the doorway. His desk was set very far back. But there was no sign of the manicurist. You would think if she were filing his nails she would be sitting next to him or at the smaller guest table. But she wasn’t visible. Then when she stepped out about five minutes later looking more flustered than ever, I knew for certain. She was soon replaced. He went through so many I lost track.”

Watchdog shuffled in and the elderly homeless man in ragged jeans and a filthy black overcoat held out his unwashed hand. “Got any spare change?” he asked Ronnie, the easy touch.

“Oh, yeah…” Ronnie fumbled through his pockets, unearthing a couple of coins. “Here’s what I got…” he mumbled, more embarrassed that he didn’t have any more change.

“Thank you young sir,” Watchdog said as he turned and bought a small coffee. He added a couple of packs of sugar to the hot beverage and sat down at the next table so he too was looking out the window. “Lotta cars,” he pointed.

“Yeah, it’s Oscar night.” Ronnie reminded the man.

“Oscar? Who dat?” Watchdog blew onto his coffee.

“Oscar, you know,” Ronnie explained in a state of disbelief. Hell, even folks back in Eden Springs knew about the Oscars! “Academy Awards.”

Watchdog nodded, then shook his head. He added another packet of sugar and got up to pick up some containers of cream. He returned and sat down heavily.

Oscar, academy awards…he rich man?”

Ronnie sighed. “Yeah. Very rich.”

“You think he gonna stop by?” Watchdog opened up his container of cream very carefully. “Watchdog says send him by if he rich.” He sipped his coffee slowly, allowing it to warm him up.

Hillary and Ronnie looked at each other and rolled their eyes. Watchdog just wasn’t interested in movies.

The night manager from Bogie’s liquor store walked in and surveyed the donuts shop’s trio of losers. He was a hefty man with a beard and looked like he sampled his alcoholic products often. He ordered a couple of coffees and a bag of donuts to go. “Guess what I sent over to Paramount?” his loud voice filled the tiny place. “Two dozen cases of champagne to Simpson and Bruckheimer’s offices.”

“Simpson and Bruckheimer,” Ronnie commented. “Wow!”

“Yeah – wow.” The liquor vendor pocketed his change and took his coffee and dessert-filled bag with him, trotting across the lot.

Guido entered, looking over at Bogie’s well-lit exterior. He walked over to Ronnie. “Was that Eddie?”

Ronnie shrugged.

“Big fat guy with a beard and flannel shirt?”

“Yeah, that’s right,” Ronnie confirmed.

Guido sat across from the aspiring screenwriter.

“He’s such an asshole. Thinks he’s real hot shit ‘cause he’s night manager. Tried ripping me off.” Guido slammed a fist into his palm. “I could smash his face in.”

Watchdog looked up. “Watchdog get in a heap o’ trouble if he scraps too much.”

Guido glanced at the homeless man. “You fight a lot?”

Watchdog stared at his almost empty cup. “Done use to. Don’t fight much now.”

Hillary got up and put her neatly folded napkin into her empty cup. She put her trash into the nearby container and said her good-byes. She always had a sense of timing that had been instilled in her since youth. ‘Always leave at the height of the party’ her mother told her. Even when she visited the donut shop she sensed trouble percolating like her favorite caffeinated beverage. She stepped outside into the chilly spring night and saw the first fleet of stretch limousines.

Like a flock of pigeons, the black limos commanded her attention as she waited for the ‘walk’ sign to light up. So close she was able to touch the nearest of the long cars, Hillary looked east on Melrose and with her diminishing vision saw an endless array of headlights. Were they all limos? She was vulnerable out there alone on the curb; an old pedestrian. Even though she had worked for one of the founding fathers of Hollywood, it no longer mattered. Whoever was in those limos had Oscar statues or had seen their friends and enemies collect that coveted golden award. The celebrities were hidden from ordinary folk such as Hillary.

Watchdog got his free refill and watched the parade of limos and town cars. Most of them were black, but there were also white ones.

The wannabe screenwriter noticed the big cars headed due west on Melrose, with a few turning right on Vine.

Guido, a tough 33-year-old New Yorker looked angrily at the stream of fancy, oversized vehicles. “Going to Swifty’s over to Beverly Hills, Chasen’s…” he pointed to a car turning onto Vine Street. “That one’s headed to Spago’s on Sunset.” His voice was filled with jealousy.

Luis was watching the unusual number of limos. “What’s goin’ on, homes…Lakers?” Guido just shook his head, not bothering to answer.

“Never seen so many limos in all my born days,” said Ronnie.

For nearly five minutes nothing was said. No one budged. The donut house was quiet with the three customers and perplexed counter boy.

Suddenly a black limo made a right hand turn into the miniature lot. The men watched with great interest. Would a famous person step out and buy some java and donuts? Or was it for Bogie’s? The limo didn’t stop it just went through the lot and turned onto Vine. It took an illegal short cut.

“Bastard!” snapped Guido. “Rich assholes think they can do whatever they want to.”

Watchdog laughed loudly, showing his few remaining brown stubs. “You right ‘bout that boy!”

“All those fuckin’ limos out there. Lookit ‘em go. It’s sick. And you know what’s goin’ on INSIDE ‘em! Just think of all the booze and drugs and sex. Right now…buncha sick horny drunks.” He pointed to a black limo, all freshly glistening waxed paint and tinted windows. “Some bimbo rent a whore from the Valley’s down on her knees taking care of some asshole nominee who’s pissed he didn’t win. It’s a sick business. Sick, sick, sick.”

Ronnie didn’t say anything. He spun the gold foil ashtray around on the tabletop. “Wish I had an agent,” he said.

“No you don’t.” Guido replied angrily. “Agents are good for one thing. Taking money. All my agents did that and left me with a tiny, tiny check. The Shane Blacks and Joe Eszterhas’s of the industry are known because they earn so much money. They’re rare. Real rare. Most schmucks who sell screenplays only see $4,000 – if they’re lucky. $4,000 for a feature length film – you believe that shit?”

“What ‘bout those figures in the trades? $350,000 for first screenplay?”

“Bullshit. They get that $4,000 upfront. Then if they do a rewrite that someone likes they get another percent. Usually another schmuck does the rewrite ‘cause the original screenwriter’s too busy getting’ it up the ass. When it goes into production, there’s another percentage given, but most don’t go into production – it’s just a lotta talk. Now if the film’s actually made and makes it to the theatres, the screenwriter gets more money. Plus sometimes he gets points which he never sees. Just looks good in the contract.”

“You’ve sold screenplays?” asked Ronnie.

“Nah, but I’ve had plenty of ‘em stolen. Along with several hundred ideas. Almost had a TV pilot make it. Then some bozo comes along and steals that from under my nose. Never trust those bastards over at Fox – they’ll steal you blind.”

“I sent a script over there last month.”

“Ain’t heard back yet have ya? Shit, just kiss it good-bye. You won’t. And if you do, look at your script real carefully. Last one of mine that did come back had light pencil marks in the margins. Not on every page, mind you, just the ones with plot points. In about a year I’ll be able to go to the movies, plunk down my $7.50 and see a rewrite of one of my scripts up there.”

Ronnie looked dejected.

“Lighten up, man. At least you’re not an actor. Hear about the actor who was over at Warner Bros. and saw Lawrence Gordon go into the bathroom? Know what he did?”

Ronnie shook his head. “No, what?”

“This actor was having lunch in the cheap commissary, y’know for all the regular people who work at the studio. It’s right next to the executive commissary which is where Gordon was dining of course. So he sees Gordon, the guy who produced 48 Hrs. and Die Hard?”

“I know. I sent a script to him and it came back ‘cause there wasn’t a release form.”

“Typical. Anyway, the actor, some no-name wannabe who’s been trying to make it since the 70s rushes into the men’s room and tells Gordon how much he likes his movies. Now Gordon’s trying to take a dump and who the hell wants to be bothered when they’re in the crapper? The actor knows he’s got him, even tho’ the door’s shut. So he slides a few of his glossies underneath the stall.”

“What?” asked an amazed Ronnie. “He really did that?”

“Yeah. So Gordon yells real loud, cursing up a storm telling him it’s a shitty thing to do…security comes in and hauls him out. Heard Gordon ripped up the pictures and flushed ‘em down the toilet!”

Guido got up and left without saying anything. He looked over at the liquor store and turned in the other direction, over to the Pavilion’s supermarket across the street. His apartment was nearby but he was in no hurry to return. The flow of limos lulled him into fantasizing that one would stop for him and the famous passenger would recognize him. He’d be whisked off to one of the parties and mingle with the faces he admired onscreen. Beautiful young women would be clamoring for his attention and he would go back to his Hollywood Hills home where a new party would be borne that would last until daybreak…

Watchdog took his half empty coffee cup with him and he went back to his post just outside Winchell’s Donut House where he leaned against the Los Angeles Times vending machine and observed the thinning stream of limos driving past. Soon they’d all be gone and then the regular traffic would populate Melrose, that too thinning as the p.m. turned to a.m. Later he’d go back to the alley behind an apartment building and snuggle up into his cardboard box and filthy Army blanket and imagine he was curled up in a king sized waterbed with satin sheets.

Ronnie looked at the paper cup with one last sip of coffee remaining. He swallowed it and crumpled it in his hand. He smiled at Luis. “Gotta be headin’ back now. ‘Night.” He tossed his trash into the can and walked out and back to his apartment.

“Night man. Later homes.” The young man smiled and waved as Ronnie left and a drunken yuppie stumbled in, shading his eyes against the glaring light. Luis sighed and glanced at the clock, hoping the last half hour of his shift hurried by.

On his way down Vine to his studio apartment, Ronnie wished he hadn’t gone to Winchell’s that night. He attempted to ignore the limos that passed him by. He wished he’d worn his jacket as it was getting cold. Ronnie knew that his screenplay about people who hung around a Hollywood coffee shop shooting the bull probably was worthless. He’d written action movies but those had been repeatedly rejected.

The sound of each limo zooming by made him dream about his alternate reality. There was Barry Levinson’s limo, and he was having a meeting with the director of Rain Man. No he wasn’t, he told himself. It wouldn’t happen. He’d never make it in Hollywood. There wasn’t room for another wannabe screenwriter who was too poor to afford a computer. There wouldn’t be any lunches at Le Dome or dinners at Chasen’s. No meetings at the movie studios or at the big agencies. Above him he saw the glowing white HOLLYWOOD sign. It was within reach – only about three miles away – but it wasn’t.

Inside his apartment it wasn’t quiet. Although he owned no TV and the only source of noise was his Smith-Corona electric typewriter, the cacophony of crying, shouting, dogs barking and Latin music greeted him. His nose detected odors of which he’d never smelled until he moved to L.A. The stack of scripts next to his folding table was impressively high. The piece of paper in the typewriter had nothing on it yet – only the number 50 in the upper right hand corner. Several pages were face down on one side of it, all containing verbatim conversations of his Winchell-filled evenings. On the right side was a ream of crisp white paper he’d just purchased last weekend.

He went over to the minuscule kitchen. Next door he heard a steady thumping of a metal object against the wall and knew it was the bed-frame and that his neighbors were making up after their most recent fight. Soon it would stop. Maybe around two or three a.m. there’d be some silence.

What did he have to look forward to? His absurd job working in a warehouse? A promotion he was promised but hadn’t been made official – and probably wouldn’t? He flicked the oven on. Ronnie left the door open. He took his writing chair, his one luxury, into the kitchen and sat in front of the oven. He glanced out his window and was able to see Vine Street if he cocked his head to the left. A black limo drove by. Ronnie got up and pulled the cheap mini-blinds shut and resumed sitting in front of the oven. That was the last limo that Ronnie would ever see. He stared into the oven and let the fumes wash over him and thought about the Pacific Ocean that he’d only seen once…

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