I’ve said some mean things about executive producers before, but I was having a drink or three with Aaron Goldstein (not his real name) at the Frolic Room on Hollywood Boulevard and there was no friction whatsoever between us, especially after we had slurped down a couple of After Eights (sweet tooth!) and did a line in the men’s room.
The next thing I know we’re zooming down the 10 toward Santa Monica in his Pagani Zonda, at a speed only possible when you’re too far gone to value your life or, more importantly in the case of the Zonda, the life of your car.
“Let’s drop in on Susan (not her real name) and Tim (not his real name),” Aaron says.
“My God, not them,” I say. “They’ll never let me in. She hates me.”
“I won’t tell her you’re with me,” Aaron says.
“They’re in that new ritzy development. It’s gated. And they’re not too crazy about you, either.”
“I’ve got a project,” Aaron says. “They’ll kill for it.”
At the gate, the guard makes the call, listens, and shakes his head at us.
“What!” Aaron says, revving his engine to ear-splitting levels. “Did you tell them I’ve got a project for them?”
“They said, well, they said no, in so many words,” the guard says. “I’m sorry, Mr. Goldstein (did I mention, not his real name?).”
“Try em again.”
“Should you even be driving, Mr. Goldstein?”
“I can drive as far as their place. That’s it.”
“I can’t let you in, Sir, I’m sorry. Why don’t you step into the security center here and let me call you a cab? I’ll have one of the yard boys drive your car home.”
The security center featured a pleasant living room-like area and a big kitchen/dining room setup. We took seats at the table and a maid or cook or suchlike brought us beer, chips, and a bottle of #4 Bombay Sapphire gin to fortify the brew. As we sat there drinking and waiting for the cab, Angelina Jolie (not her real name) came through a door from the back of the building. Her hair was mussed and her lipstick smeared. Wasted as we were, we could tell she’d been busy, presumably with one of the security detail. She froze when she saw us.
“What are you bozos doing here?” she said.
“Where’s Brad (not his real name)?” Aaron (NHRN) asked with a grin.
“On location in France. Look, guys…”
“Baby,” Aaron said, “have I got a project for you.”
She sat down. The minion brought her a brew and a glass. She poured, then added some gin. “I’m listening. Just so long as we’re understanding each other here.”
“Boogie Nights meets 127 Hours,” Aaron says. “You’re the one has to use the knife.”
“I like it,” she says.
“I’ll do the screenplay,” I say, quick as can be.
“Forget about it,” she says. “Creep.”
“I’m sitting here, aren’t I,” I say, going dark on her. “I’ve got eyes in my head.”
“All right,” she says, “but Aaron, this idiot screws up just once, with my underwear or anything else, and it’s off, no matter what you clowns think you’ve seen.”
Aaron just grins. Angelina stands up.
“For this,” she says, “I deserve an encore.”
And she goes back through the door she came out of.