I don't remember how I met her. At a party maybe. She was this rich beautiful Japanese woman, aristocratic, stoic and strong. She brought me back to her apartment. It was 1975. I was in LA, a young pup trying to make it good pitching movie ideas to movie moguls. I'd spend the day looking for where the next industry party was, and find a way to sneak into it. It was simpler back then. A good wash, some nice clothes, and a few good lines would get me in every time. My favorite was passing myself off as the son of Howard Hughes. The poor guy was in no shape to say otherwise, and I looked enough like his younger version to sell the lie. 

I don't remember her name. She loved the color green. Her Jaguar was green. Her clothes were shades of green. The things in her apartment were green. Her skin was a shade of olive that was almost green. I'd been with oriental women before. I loved their whole allure. She sat me down on the floor in front of a line on a glass table. I'd only done Angel Dust once before, and I didn't like it at all. I ended up forgetting my name in some diner and twisting a perfectly good pair of sunglasses into putty to relieve the panic.

She assured me it wasn't strong and I believed her. Next thing I know I'm leaning over the toilet puking my guts out and feeling terrible. I followed her home to have sex, and this must have looked really sexy. She laid me down on a small bunk bed, high off the ground, in a little room with floor to ceiling windows overlooking other buildings. There was another bed in the room, a children's room probably. She laid on the other bed and I fell asleep with my stomach all queasy.

She woke me up somehow asking me if I felt better. I was numb all over, in a twilight, but horny as hell. We each took off our clothes. I was always fascinated by how big and thick oriental nipples were. She climbed on top and used me for what seemed like hours until daylight broke. I was hard as a rock and I never came. I was soar and hungry and frustrated. She never finished me off, and told me it was time to go.

We drove to a restaurant serving breakfast on Sunset. We were alone except for a couple and a baby sitting on a high chair. She was telling me how she had this important job and couldn't be seen with the likes of me. That she couldn't let people find out she picked up strange boys and that if we ever met again she wouldn't know me. All that while having eggs benedicts.

Then the couple behind us started screaming at each other, and the baby began to whale, and whale, and whale. I turned around to see. It was Jon Voight, the actor. I remembered him from Midnight Cowboy. It was all too creepy. So I didn't dare say anything. They were having a shouting match at 9 AM, in a public place, just as if we were not there, and the rest of the world did not exist.

All I wanted to do was convince my cruel Asian princess to change her mind, but the baby kept on crying and would not stop, shrieking so loud we paid the check and we walked out. She got into her Jag and that's the last I ever saw of her. But I always remembered that baby and felt so bad for the poor kid. Years later I saw "Hackers" and asked myself who that girl was with the big pout. Now she's staring at me from the cover of the new Starlog, guns blazing, as Lara Croft!

That day I went back on Sunset looking for the next party and did it all over again, until one day I got so paranoid from all the bad drugs I feared aliens and the CIA wanted me dead. So I packed a bag in a hurry and hitched back to the East Coast, leaving all my movie scripts behind. By the time a friend had a chance to go by my apartment to pick up my stuff, it had been broken into and everything stolen. For years after that I would see my ideas on the big screen. I was a little guppy in a sea of sharks. Today the most vivid image I have left of Hollywood is that baby crying. That baby was Angelina. You go girl!

2001 © Remy Chevalier, Econolodge of Zebulon