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Gnarly Waves, Green Drinks, and Hair Plugs…
Hudson Finch - Malibu, California
The thing no one tells you about life in Hollywood is how rare it is to see a clear blue sky. It’s almost always smoggy, occasionally there are clouds, but that pure blue that lets you see all the way from Malibu to the Channel Islands? Almost never happens. Which is why giving shit news on a day like today should be outlawed.
I glance out at the perfect swells of the Pacific, itching to grab my board and run out into the water while my agent, Paul, prepares to give me whatever bad news he’s got coming for me. I can tell by the ‘too bright’ smile that has been plastered on his face since he strolled through my front door with a tray of green juices for him, my brother/manager, Gershwyn, and me. Paul is a total health nut, and I sometimes wonder if it’s because he likes it, or because he’s trying to normalize the whole L.A. body-obsessed lifestyle for his clients. Keeping us in shape makes his job a lot easier. But maybe that’s me being cynical, which isn’t my norm. Although, if any place on earth will bring out the cynic in you, it’s Hollywood. Everybody’s lying about everything all the time. And I’m no different.
“Say, Hudson, you might want to change out of that wetsuit. This conversation is going to take a minute,” Paul tells me, settling himself on my tan leather sectional.
I glance out the wall of windows just in time to see a barrel wave roll toward shore, feeling like a broke kid standing outside a candy store. In about an hour, the barrels will be gone and I’ll be left with ankle slappers not worth getting wet for. “Can this wait, Paul?” I ask, pointing to the ocean. “I know you drove all this way, but…”
“Wish it could, bud, but it’s really important.”
My gut tightens and I glance at Gershwyn, who looks as dumbfounded as I am. He has a sip of his juice. “Is this about the Lightningman reboot? Because we already knew they were looking at McAuliffe for that one.”
“Yeah, you don’t have to break it to me gently, Paul,” I add. “I’m totally okay not donning a pair of tights to pretend I can shoot lightning bolts out of my dick.”
Paul scrunches up his face. “I think it was out of his fingertips, but glad you’re okay with it because you didn’t get the part.”
Nodding quickly, I say, “Yup, totally fine with it. In fact, I’m great. Don’t mind taking a break from acting for the next few months. Maybe do a little surfing…” I give a head nod toward the ocean.
“It’s not just the Lightningman thing. It’s also the whole Beach Cops III flop and…” Paul says, rubbing his forehead. “Why don’t you sit down?”
I suddenly feel like I swallowed a twenty-pound kettle bell. My wetsuit tugs as I drop onto my Eames Lounge Chair, the high neckline pressing against my throat. Oscar, my mini-dachshund, gets up from his bed and trots over, pawing at my leg. I reach down and scoop him up, then give him a scratch behind his long, brown ears. In exchange, he gives me a couple of licks on my chin with his tiny tongue. “Lay it on me, Paul. What’s going on?”
“There comes a time in every actor’s career when we need to have the talk.”
I grin at Gersh, then back at Paul. “I already know about the birds and the bees.”
He offers me a polite smile, then his face grows serious again. “You’ve had a great run as the wild, fun, daring young guy, and I mean, let’s face it, the ladies love you. Love you…”
“You don’t have to sugarcoat it,” Gershwyn tells him. “Hudson’s not one of your clients with a porcelain ego.”
I offer my brother a nod. “Thanks, Gersh. I appreciate that.”
“No problem, bro.”
We both turn back to Paul who stares at me for a moment before he blurts out, “Your leading man days are over.”
What the actual fuck?! “Okay, you could protect my ego a little. I’m not made of stone.”
“Sorry, but it’s better to rip off the Band-Aid,” Paul answers.
“What are you talking about?” Gersh asks him. “He just wrapped a movie with Margot and it hasn’t even come out yet.”
“Yeah, well, the testing isn’t going as hoped.”
Uh-oh. Here it comes. “What do you mean?”
“The audience isn’t seeing you as ‘that guy’ anymore. I don’t want to get into specifics, but the studio is thinking of shelving it.” Paul picks up his juice and sucks down a few gulps while I sit with my jaw somewhere around my knees. “In fact, they are shelving it.”
Shelving it. The two worst words you can hear as an actor. One shelved movie can make you a pariah in Hollywood. Oh fuck, is this seriously happening? My mind races to figure out how the hell this happened until I key in on Paul’s comment about not wanting to get into specifics. “Be specific.”
“Yeah, Paul, be specific. Otherwise, how will we know what to fix?” Gersh asks.
Shaking his head, Paul says, “This isn’t something you can fix. It’s just … part of aging.”
