Stand-in Superstar

By Nat Gertler

Andy Vederman is an earnest young man and successful waiter in a Hollywood world that gives little value to earnestness and none to success beyond its own definition. When he gets the chance to live a true Hollywood
lifestyle, it becomes a wild and hilarious tale of sex, drugs, fame, and excess in general.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Combustoica
• Release date: Sep 26, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301639540

Nat Gertler

Nat Gertler is two-time Eisner Award nominee. His writing has appeared in comics from dozens of publishers, as well as on TV, in magazines. He is the author or co-author of dozens of books, including the popular Complete Idiot's Guide to Creating a Graphic Novel and The Peanuts Collection.

Book preview

1

The day was warm, but the breeze blowing over the beach was cool. The sun was bright. The girl rubbing Andy’s shoulders was a study in extremes – the biggest smile, the deepest tan, the longest legs, the goldest hair, and as decadently overendowed as Harvard Law School.

The two girls rubbing sunscreen on his legs, in contrast, were petite and lithe, charming twins from some Asian background that Andy couldn’t quite put his finger on… though he suspected that was the only thing about them that had such a limitation. The redhead holding his strawberry daiquiri was a bikinied delight of a different sort, and the lush Nigerian beauty holding his platter of cheeseburgers had a tight little grin and an arched eyebrow which suggested many an interesting thought.

The day’s conversation was begun by Daiquiri Girl. Oh, Andy, it feels sooo good to serve you, she opined emphatically. The topic having been introduced, Left Leg Sunscreen Girl stated "Thank you so much for letting me touch you…."

"…and rub you," concluded her sister, demonstrating what she was talking about, working the sunscreen higher, toward places where the sun did not shine.

Massage Girl leaned over him, as if trying to go eyeball-to-eyeball with his supine figure, but achieving more bosom-to-eyeball, with her long locks playing over his chest. "Oh, you’re so good, Jed, sooo gooood!"

Andy, corrected Andy.

Oh, Jed! You’re the best! screamed the blonde, letting forth a grunt that was loud. Too loud.

The noise pulled Andy right out of his dream. The tropic climate, the daiquiri, and the twins, oh, the twins… they all dissolved instantly, replaced by the dingy walls of an apartment where the paint did not conceal the seams of the inexpertly-applied wallpaper that lay beneath it. The bright sun no longer filled the sky, although bits of it did come in through the uneven venetian blinds. The tray of burgers was replaced by a lack of tray and a more conspicuous lack of burgers. Only the soundtrack remained the same: "..you’re King Jed! Oooh!"

Andy made his way across his cheaply but tidily decorated bedroom. Oooooh, oh yeah! continued female voice. As he opened the door, it voiced further encouragement. "You’re the best, Jed! The absolute best!" The living room was tidy, except for the open sofa bed, which was topped with some crumpled sheets, from under which various limbs, both male and female, stuck out at various angles. The whole pile was writhing, like some hideous blanket creature that would soon devour the sofa bed, and after that, the city. The creature’s voice was particularly female, and had switched to a rhythmic keepgoingkeepgoingkeepgoing which kept perfect time with the squeaky-squeaky emanating from the sofa bed’s springy support.

Picture this, Andy narrated in his thoughts, pulling up his best mental Rod Serling imitation (which was admittedly more an imitation of others’ Serling imitations). "Andy Vederman, a young man trrrrapped in the confines of his own bedroom, unable to exit because his roommate is having an early-morning romp in the living room. You are now entering ­– (Andy swung the door closed in timing with his thoughts) –the Andy Zone!"

Ooooooh, yes! cried the female voice, in unintended agreement. And Andy collapsed onto his bed.

Trapped in his bedroom and all-too-quickly dressed, Andy looked around for something to read. All he could find was a copy of a months-old Us Weekly, whose cover promised to reveal Jessica Simpson’s baby bump, Harry Hamlin’s deadly diagnosis, and the dark secrets from Julius Morton’s past, revealed by his former schoolmates. The issue had been originally brought into his room to be used as a spider-squishing weapon, and as memory served, it was no more effective in serving that need than in serving the need as an effective distraction. Andy pored through the periodical, looking for something, anything that would distract him from the metronome of sofa bed springs.

After about 28 minutes and 3360 individual spring squeaks (Jed was in shape, he had to grant him that), Andy gave up on the magazine and devoted his time to thinking about the injustice of it all. After all, he paid the larger portion of the rent, and thus got to sleep in the bedroom, with all of the comforts that that entailed. It was supposed to be an advantage over being stuck out in the living room each night. It was his reward for spending the money from his job waiting tables on his life, in contrast with Jed, who took the money from his job (waiting tables) and spent it on his career (acting). The money which Jed spent on head shots, acting lessons, and coaches didn’t in turn generate more money; the best it got him was parts in one-act festivals and a sketch comedy troupe, all made up of other non-income-generating actors, who were also chipping in money to pay for the space where they would perform for an audience almost exclusively made up of other self-professed thespians.

But it was this financial advantage that had Andy trapped; had Jed (and his current squeaky toy) slept in the bedroom and Andy in the living room, well then, Andy would be free to go to the kitchen, or to head out into the world. Instead, all of that freedom now went to Jed, who was clearly intent on not exercising it (not that there was anything wrong with the exercising which he was now doing.)

Musing on such injustice in the world proved a more effective distraction than the magazine had, giving Andy a nice hour of mock fury and genuine self-hatred before it grew too tired and he turned on his small TV to whatever the broadcast airwaves could provide (the larger set with its cable hookup being located - that’s right, you guessed it – in the currently sex-occupied living room). The TV turned on to reveal a desperately chippy blonde, who was in the midst of letting the world in on the information that a certain …starlet was seen dining with none other than box-office and award favorite, Julius Morton, and that the "interesting part was that Julius downed at least seven glasses of aitch-two-oh with his meal, which was of interest because doctors say that excessive water chugging can be a sign of" something that Andy would never learn, as he clicked the remote to find something - anything - else that might be worthwhile.

He bounced the TV across channels, discovering an odd little skit that emerged from the fragments of shows and ads he surfed across. But how can I tell Mom? (click) Serve her Alpo! (click) Not again! When that sport fell apart, he found two channels that were running the exact same infomercial, only one had started one second after the other, so he could create a fake echo chamber by bouncing back and forth between them.

The voice from the next room said Almossssst therrrre! One more minute! Jed, you’re the best!

Andy dug out a fingernail clipper and clipped his fingernails. And his toe nails. He unfolded the little metal emery board from the clippers and sanded down anything he could. He brushed his hair… the hair on his head, and any other hair that was likely to ever be visible. He checked his shirt for lint, checked his pants for lint, checked his socks for lint. He started looking around for a piece of lint