L.A. Success by Hans C. Freelac Page A

the ocean. It got so bad that all I could think about was the tail pipe of the car in front of me and how I was breathing all that in. I started feeling better when I pulled off the highway.
    The studio didn't have any public parking, so I found a place a few blocks away near a Starbucks. When I got to the front gate, I couldn't see any ticket prices to tour the place. I asked a security guy what was up, and he said they didn't do tours because they didn't have sound stages or lots there, just animation studios and offices. He recommended Paramount on Melrose.
    “What if I need to talk to someone in this place?” I asked. He looked at me suspiciously.
    “Does anyone in this place need to talk to you? Because if they do, your name will be on my list. Should I check?"
    “You can check next time I come here, smart guy,” I said and started walking back to the car. Maybe I was going to have to wait for Spieldburt to contact me after all.
    I couldn't bear getting back on the highway so soon, especially now that it was closer to rush hour. If I left immediately, I'd just spend an extra hour blocked in traffic sucking on someone's tail pipe, so I wouldn't get home any faster than if I sat around at the coffee place for another hour and then left.
    The Starbucks was swarming with people. I got in line and within a few minutes there were so many people that the line behind me was all the way out the door. As I stood there, I was thinking about how I was going to order without Max, my usual coffee guy. I couldn't remember exactly what he had made for me, and if I told this new guy to make me a P.I. coffee, I'd be pissed off when it didn't taste the same. I figured I'd change and ask him for something new.
    The guy at the register's badge said his name was Daniel and that he was the manager. He looked really straight-laced. Everything about him said he made a conscious effort to make everyone think he was clean and organized. His hair was clipped short, his clothes were wrinkle free, and his smile came and went with every opening and closing of the cash register.
    “Hey,” I said when he was ready.
    “Hello good sir. I hope you're having a fine day. What can I do you for?” he said so fast that I had to let it replay in my head before I could register everything.
    “Um...here's the thing. My normal guy at the other place always makes me stuff—”
    “Well sir, we have all the same excellent drinks you've come to love at any of our nation-wide chains. Would you like to step aside a moment and consult the menu?” he asked and directed his gaze at the next customer.
    “No,” I said, scooting in front of his glance. “Here's what I'd like. You know that guy who works down the street—that E.T. director guy?”
    “I always liked Jaws myself.”
    “He did that, too? Damn...Well, if you were going to make a coffee for that guy—and I mean for his E.T. side—what would you make him?”
    “Sir, there's a long line here. I'd like to help you, but you're going to have to tell me what you want,” he said nervously. This whole creative aspect to coffee making was overloading his dollars-and-sense brain.
    “Just give me a Spieldburt, minus the razor-sharp teeth and plus some freakishly long alien neck.”
    He took a small cup and turned toward all the coffee machines. He put the cup under one dispenser and then moved it to another. He was about to pour the coffee when he snatched the cup back up. He looked back over at me and the line of now-hostile customers, and then up at the menu. He nodded and shook his head as he tried to find the right one. Then he stepped back over to me and leaned over close.
    “I really, really don't know what you want. But...” he stopped speaking and his eyes lit up as he caught sight of something behind me. “But that guy back there, he's one of the director's assistants.” He pointed discretely at a wormy-looking, dark-haired, pencil-thin kid who was texting away on his phone. “He gets