I fell asleep again. How? Detoxing from the Santa Ana Winds. Whatever’s in those fucking winds makes my eyes burn. How does anyone in Los Angeles stay sane? They’re always under threat of the big one. Sorry, The Big One. An apocalyptic earthquake that will rip the entire state of California off the mainland United States and confirm the prophecy of Mr. Maynard James Keenan, lead singer of the prog metal band Tool. The day I see you in Arizona Bay is the day I give up the ghost (not the one sitting behind me), because if you think I have problems with Los Angeles, wait until you hear me go off on Arizona. I’m kidding. I’ve been to Tempe and it’s nice. Hot, but dry. A dry heat. I remember it was 110 degrees and I could wear a trench coat. This was very important to me because I had just come from… Los Angeles… and was excited about the coat. I got it at a Goodwill. And then I found out how overrated In ’N’ Out Burgers are.
But that was years ago. Now, here, now—I’m sitting in a room, I mean, in a plane, with Edward Norton… he’s still fixed in his seat, down to the last 50 pages of The Count of Monte Cristo. He’s the most locked-in motherfucker you’ve ever seen. I wondered if he was preparing for a role, or researching a part, or thinking of directing another movie. I never considered that he was reading a 1000+ page novel for pleasure, but he’s of that age. I’m of that age. I guess you are, too, if you’re reading this and have gotten this far. Honestly, 300 words in, there’s probably very little I could do to make you give up. You’re sort of with me until the end here. I mean, you’re already almost close to a third of the way through the piece. You’re going to keep reading. You’re trying to figure out how long this stupid game is going to continue, and you’re wondering if I consider myself a “comic novelist,” and since you’re still here with me I will tell you. I’m not a “comic novelist.” I’m just funny.
But I was jealous of Mr. Norton and his fancy book. Oh, I had a book with me: the fat John Steinbeck novel I bought at the airport and I Lost it at the Video Store, an oral history of the VHS era by Tom Roston. That one was short enough to save for the ride home, and the Steinbeck? Couldn’t get into it. I decided to start following David Mamet’s advice and just read crime novelists from the 1930s like Horace McCoy, supplementing with some Joseph Wambaugh, some nice Joseph Wambaugh. I wonder what Edward Norton thought of Joseph Wambaugh—he was, after all, that age. But he was busy reading Dumas. I didn’t want to interrupt him. But I did want to join him.
Edward Norton was reading The Count of Monte Cristo on a plane. I wanted to be reading The Count of Monte Cristo on a plane. It would’ve been so easy, if only I had a copy… if only there were a book store onboard… if they sell alcohol, why can’t they sell classics of the 19th century?… A flight attendant came up to me, a new one, blonde: “Sir, would you like anything to drink?” I wasn’t sure what to say, for some reason. I wanted a Ginger Ale. But instead I said, “I’ll have what he’s having,” while pointing up at Mr. Norton. She was a little confused. “Who’s… he?” I told her it was Edward Norton. She smiled and said, “No, that’s Breckin Meyer. He’s on my route all the time. Would you like to say hello? He likes fans.” I told her thanks but no, I’d corner Mr. Meyer and praise his performances in Rat Race and Clueless some other time, perhaps whenever I came back to Los Angeles. Damn, Breckin Meyer?
We landed without incident. I wondered how Breckin Meyer could afford first class “all the time,” but then I remembered that Clueless is a classic and everyone in classic movies gets monthly stipends for the rest of their lives. That’s why we’re all here anyway: chasing paper, chasing glory. After I sell a script—some version of the Quibbitses—I’ll be set. I’ll get my monthly Hollywood classic stipend and coast on that for a few decades. Then I’ll pivot into finance and watch CNBC all day. I thought about asking Edward Norton for his thoughts on margin loans, but then I remembered that he wasn’t on the plane, and neither was I: halfway back to Baltimore, I realized I had no memory of deplaning or getting my bags. I asked the driver if I had my bags. He was confused, then a bit grumpy. I was disoriented and asked, “Do… you… uh… do you have anything in the trunk? I mean, do I—do you—is my shit in your car?” He shook his head. “No, man. If you want to go back to the airport I’m not driving you back. Meter is off.” See, this is why taxis are going extinct. “You’re in a Lyft, idiot.” Hmm. I was. This was getting kind of confusing. I still gave the guy a $20, which he was totally fine with, and when we got back to the airport I ran back inside and was promptly tackled by half a dozen TSA agents. Don’t play around at the airport.
—Follow Nicky Otis Smith on Twitter: @NARCFILM