Short Story: Casting Call


Jesse is from the Midwest, his hobbies include jumping and collecting sombreros.  What a fucking idiot.  A pile of Jesse-type resumes and head shots lay in front of me.  A pile of want to be reality stars for a new show where they will compete for chance to compete in an egg toss, or if Jesse is lucky, jumping.

Without asking the bartender brings me another Vodka rocks.

Debbie works as an exotic dancer.  She considers herself conniving and nice and believes she would be a good player for the show.  Plus, she has great tits.  Her words.

Reading her bio reminds me of the other day I was walking on Venice Beach, looking out at the sunbathers.  Ten years ago there was  study that showed at any given time one out of every ten women on Venice Beach were active or had done porn.  Last year this same study was revisited and found that the number was now five in ten.  Alarmingly High!  Thank you Mr. Internet.

I drink another vodka rocks.

I drive my car, an older BMW with a tree deodorizer hanging from the rear view mirror.  I find Jesse first.

Jesse is living in a bungalow in Marina Del Rey.  When I come to the door all I have to say is I’m with casting for the show and he lets me in.  He offers me drink, food, anything I want.  The desperation is sick.  We sit on his couch, a soiled piece of furniture that leans to the right.  Jesse explains his motivation for being on the show, believing this story matters he is full of passion, but it’s not real.  How can it be?  We’re talking about reality television here.

He shows me his sombrero collection, I try one on, when he puts his hands up to straighten it I grab him and throw him to the ground, take the sombrero off my head, and strangle him with the string of his own sombrero.  He tries to jump, but I use my weight to keep him down, then there is nothing.

Debbie is dancing at the Seventh Veil on Sunset Boulevard.  When I get there she is dancing on the main stage, I grab a seat and put a dollar in her G-string.  Working the pole: slide up, then down.  She crawls slowly toward me.  Purring.  Licking her lips.  Rod Stewart’s “If you think I’m sexy” is playing.

After her three songs, Debbie offers to give me a private lap dance.  Once she finds out who I am she offers to fuck me in my car.  It will be days before anyone notices she’s gone.

My next stop is on Crenshaw Boulevard, to see Timmy.  He is gay and wants to use the show to show his fierce side.  We are talking in a bar, he excuses himself to use the bathroom and I follow him.  Timmy is startled when I open the stall, and even more surprised when I knock him off the toilet.  I lift my foot, ready to come down on his head when I feel a nudge. It’s the bartender.

“Closing time, do you want another one?”

I nod.  He looks down at the stack of Jesse-type head shots, now covered in my drool.  “Any good ones in there?”


About Pulp Scribbler

The Writing of David S. Grant View all posts by Pulp Scribbler

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