Winging It in Hollywood

By Benjamin Coakley

In my three months chasing Hollywood dreams, I faced it all: sexual perversity, confusing narcotics, free yacht living, heartbreak, and the relentless pursuit of a big break. Nights were dangerous, fun, and strangely obscure—my adventure in Los Angeles was a thrill.

 

Pics Throughout.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Benjamin Coakley
• Release date: Jun 16, 2024
• ISBN: 9798227856104

Book preview

Winging It in Hollywood

By

Benjamin Coakley

For Sam...RIP.

October 31st, 2013

The Ascent

I am a thirty-two-year-old actor who has spent the past six months saving up to travel to California, for a hopeful adventure in and around Hollywood and its film industry. The idea to go has been brewing for the last three to four years but was delayed due to unexpected family relations and personal directional issues. I had spent the last eighteen months sleeping in my dad's front room, in a retirement home where my belongings were all kept in a small cupboard. I was excited to be travelling so far away from anything familiar and wildly enthused by a country of people I did not know. With my flight booked, my three-month visa cleared, and three thousand dollars saved, the morning I flew out came around quickly...

'Wake up and go'!...And all of a sudden I was at the airport. As my dad parked the car, I grabbed my two backpacks and headed toward the entrance. My mind was flying in all directions and I felt anxious about making such a huge leap across the globe. It was the flight that started my fever of mild disarray, worried I might not be able to remain in charge of all my faculties during the flight; sanity being the main propagator of fear and trepidation as I have become an anxious flyer in the last decade. As I checked in with the staff from American Airlines, a rotund female of considerable scale sat behind her stale white desk poised to serve me. I was informed that two seats had been reserved for me, and both in the same name. Mild panic ascended my focus, more so for the wrath I shall receive from father for doubling the cost to his credit card at this most inappropriate of times. I was then swiftly redirected to another desk with equally large characters to help correct my twin booking. I informed my dad about the mishap and we engaged with the airline staff. They were very polite, helpful and confident in their assurance that he would not be charged for two flights, as it was simply a computer error and not mine for pressing the back key and then rebooking a minute later on the internet a month ago! Oops.

With the flight clear for takeoff and an escalator suddenly before me, I knew I must part ways with my father. We embraced and he advised me to 'take it easy on the sauce son,' at which point my eyes rapidly filled up and I didn't want to go anywhere but home with him to the comfort of familiarity. This not being an option, I faced the escalator and ascended to the plane.

And so I'm now grinning with excitement as I transcend through the long plane aisle to my seat by a window, just as I had reserved it. 38A was the name of my throne and my compadres were an elderly couple from Ireland, how fitting I thought. With polite muttering about national relations and race, I soon established that they were from Cork and so was my surname, at which point smiles were exchanged and comfort was promoted. All that was left to be done was to get this life or death situation out of the way with and experience 'Jet Lag' for the first time. I pulled down the shutter, secured my belt and removed the 'sleeping tablet' from my wallet. The solitary technological options before me were far too grand to miss out on and so I fiddled for some minutes, pleased to be distracted from my flight concerns. After a short period and with my headphones jacked in, I had lined up an ego-boosting thrill ride of a movie called 'Two Guns' with Wahlberg and Washington, both masters of their craft. And so delighted with my very own cinema, cellophane sealed blanket and pillow, I barely noticed the takeoff. The shutter remained down as I had moments of pointless concern about remaining in control of my anxiety in a confined space, 50,000 feet in the sky over the Atlantic Ocean.

The movie was humdrum in-depth and I was fully prepared for my long snooze with the assistance of Mr Tablet, but as I removed my wallet from my back pocket and eyed the pill I noticed the wizened air hostesses wheeling a trolley down the aisle, at which point the thought of my ever-hungry brother came to mind and I was not going to miss out on free grub!

As I paused 'MY MOVIE,' I received an offer of food and drink from the hostess' mumbled American accent, to which I smiled broadly and simply replied 'Yes', content as a pig in a clean sty. With the strange tasting food devoured sharpish, my piggy self became content and felt ready for sleep. Before I closed my eyes, dear old Maggie next to me offered me her untouched food and this continued throughout the flight on three occasions and prevented me from sleeping. The film was great and the flight was now descending through glorious mountains amid pure sunshine, with a city in the middle, at which point I realised that some sleep must have been caught, and with no feelings of fatigue, I became excited. The plane landed smoothly and I thought, 'Hello California!

I hastily left the cabin, bidding farewell to my fellow country folk. The airport was surprisingly quiet and I passed through customs quickly, with only minor doubts coming from an overly dramatic cop deeply questioning my lack of luggage for a three-month stay. With his shades neatly tucked into his short-sleeve shirt cleavage and with a sturdy look, he asked, 'this is all you have?... For three months.' His tone was inquisitive and keen, so I paid him due respect about my poor devotion to fashion and simply replied, 'Yes.' This was my first taste of America and its devotion to drama.

With shiny eyes and a thirst for unknown adventure, I called my first 'Couch-surfing' host, who was picking me up from the airport, and I waited by the road for collection. This is a great website that allows travellers to meet and stay with locals of any city in the world in exchange for culture and companionship. He pulled up and immediately took a photo of me as the car came to a stop. This was unusual, but thoughts of hostility were far from my mind. His name was Benjamin too, and he was friendly, going in for the big hug as soon as we met. Once in his car, the conversation was interesting and constant as we drove along large freeways toward West Hollywood for the Halloween parade, of which I was very keen to be part of.

After a few hours of walking around the busy, people-filled streets and drinking I was worn out by the eccentricity of the people, their outfits and enthusiasm. With a few beers in my gut and some random meetings with young minds, the last being an offer of a party in Beverly Hills, from a girl with big breasts overtly displayed and an empty-headed gay man with a yearning for crystal meth, I was fit for bed. At midnight we finally set off for Long Beach in South LA in Ben's car, feeling tired yet thrilled at the three months ahead. His hygiene was less than attentive, with long fingernails, a whiff of bio and bad breath, which gave me enough warning to place both of my bags against my bedroom door when we got back. This was after the surprise of walking into his house to be greeted by a seated mom and an investigative dad, wearing goggles and a light on his head, like Egon from The Ghostbusters, but I was too tired to care and jovially thought, 'only in America!' as I fell asleep rapidly.

The next morning was gleefully sunny and warm. I had a microwaved coffee and two slices of toast, feeling a little uneasy about my new friend and location, but this was ultimately outweighed by the possible delights that lay ahead for me on this first Friday in Los Angeles.

We drove many miles into Hollywood that day and wandered around experiencing all its shiny fare, stopping once only for gas. We meandered along the 'Walk of Fame,' with street slabs adorned by names of famous movie stars, musicians and television celebrities, each encased in a golden star. It was now early evening and the glitter of Hollywood was in full bloom. Ben showed me into the 'Dolby Theatre,' where the Academy Awards (Oscars) were now held and I sat at the bottom of the grand steps outside a coffee shop checking my email, hoping that some stranger on CS (CouchSurfing.com) would offer me a place to stay in the coming days. As we sat at a steel table outside the coffee shop, amid the tourist frenzy a girl came over and offered us tickets to see Sarah Brightman in an hour, inside the Dolby, for free! And because opera is not my thing, but the location was famous, we joined the girl and her friend on a private balcony to take in this epic show. After ten minutes the overly bright show was wearing thin, and I was not going to buy another half-pint for eight dollars! So we all decided to venture over the road to the Roosevelt Hotel on Ben's suggestion, although this was not before Ms Brightman gracefully sang Nessun Dorma, ('None shall sleep’), an aria from the final act of Giacomo Puccini's opera Turandot.

We left the concert and descended the famous steps, adorned by red carpet once a year, for the grand film awards. We crossed the road and paused for minor star-based chit chat outside the hotel entrance. As we paused, a tall man in a tuxedo entered ahead of us and informed us that there was a free bar upstairs, which I heard as 'follow the English guy to the party we are holding in his honour'. The celebration was strangely not for me or about me and so I quickly got over this by requesting two glasses of champagne from the bar, as I thought four would be suspicious of this freeloader. Within a sip I was tapped on the shoulder by a bouncer requesting to see my wrist acceptance band, quickly followed by a hand gesture to follow him out of the 'free booze show,' which in a brief moment I discovered was called the 'LA Film School Graduation Celebration'. With my English accent poised and a European posture displayed I was ready to lie my ass off to stay, but the task was already fully taken in hand by the large and boisterous girl companion from the theatre. I now had my ticket to ride and surely a debt to repay, the least I could do was get her a drink. But after Ben and I wandered around for five minutes the girls were surprisingly absent from the fun and were nowhere to be found. We ventured down to the outside pool and bar area, which thrilled me no end as this felt very much like Hollywood glitz and was the original location for the Oscars back in the 1920s.

With free beer in our hands, we chatted to Nico, a tall guy with an abundance of tattoos, of which one was a skeletal hand covering his right hand. It was a nice break not to chat to Ben anymore and have to suffer his poor hygiene, and so Nico and I chatted about rock n roll for a short period, spying rich attractive girls all around us. After twenty minutes Ben and Nico went to the 'restroom,' and I pounced on the two hot blondes to the right of me, perched on a low couch with soft cushions. 'Excuse me, ladies, do you have a lighter please?' were my first words and had worked a treat when I have been on holiday before as a subtle way into the conversation. I was invited to take a pew and giggle along with these hotties. The guys came back and contributed to the flirting but the girls from Idaho were tickled with my company most and the drinks remained constant. After an hour or two, Nico suggested we leave the fanciness of the Roosevelt and stroll around the corner to a bar called the 'The Woods' for a pint of Guinness. I am a big stout drinker and was unimpressed when a pint of the 'black gold' consisted of a can being emptied in front of me into a three quarter pint glass, discarding the rest and charging me 8 dollars! Well, at least the bouncer was cool about me not having my passport at the door, as this city is strict about carrying identification. The fun and laughter continued in the bar but Ben was becoming a drag, while Nico's horn was up and I was game for the foursome, especially as the girls had a room booked at the $300 a night Roosevelt Hotel. After we all left the bar it got as far as the girl’s bedroom door with Ben dragging behind and ruining our chances, according to Nico's organ, and I was kind of indifferent to it as Amanda, my soon to be ex-girlfriend was on my mind whenever females were around. As I write this blog, (21/11/2013) she wore me down emotionally and I foolishly was deceiving myself and my sexual desire. Anyway, the girls became cold and swiftly disappeared into their quarters, while Nico went home after we exchanged numbers.

We then finally reached Ben's car after two frustrating hours dragging him drunkenly away from almost any stranger or dumb bouncer feeling mighty at the opportunity to spout their ego. I kicked my seat back and slept on the way home on his suggestion. When we arrived I woke and he begrudgingly told me he had sexually assaulted me, and with a confused rage, I punched him in the face numerous times. But only a few punches were vicious because I didn't truly hate the guy. I did quickly think that of course, I would have woken up should he have unzipped my jeans and maybe he just groped me, which may have been out of order but nothing dreadful. So with a fucked up end to the second day he suggested I call the police on him but I did not need added drama to this exhausting day. After a calm period on the street in the dead of night, we went into his house, where else was I to go, and I simply barricaded my door and slept. I hastily slept, knowing that I was being picked up in the morning by Susan, Amanda's dear mother and driven to a hostel in Venice. I was done with Long Beach.

The Venice Beach Hostel

After a day of good food and curious questions from Susan, I was ready for bed when I was dropped off at the hostel. We pulled up to a huge old wooden house on Vale Street, off Washington Blvd, that was welcoming as I entered just as the LA sunset over the beach. A tall, blonde woman with a curvaceous body and a wise smile called Inge greeted me in the kitchen. I was happy to be in charge of my destiny, at least for the next two nights. I was given the low down on Venice beach and its delights, her immediate words being 'the beach is fifteen minutes walk straight down that way,' was enough for me. So as soon as my bunk bed was nominated, and a quick nod to a cute girl in the dorm and my show off tweed jacket on, I was off for a stroll and whatever else life had in store for me that night.

The air was warm, with a playful breeze blowing directly toward me from the ocean. Life felt fine and my weary state was no longer the driving thought of my hungover day. Wearing my worn-out cowboy boots would have to be exchanged for a softer shoe if walking far was going to be a future option, I thought as the dark beach came into view and the rock bars bustled with white folk. I strolled past a busy one called 'Hinano's' and decided it was my kind of place. But maybe not tonight as I felt worn out and would not shine brightly enough to make the best impression on any future buddies. The beach was sandy and desolate with a pier that went out to sea for at least 100 metres, lit up by tall lamp lights and ending in a concrete circle with two benches in the centre, hosting one sleeping hobo and two other men heartily discussing something or other whilst swigging out of a bottle. I circled the pier and went back inland, then gently strolled parallel to the sea along with the Saturday vibe of Venice, eyeing up my future stomping ground that included the basketball courts from the film ‘White Men Can't Jump’ and the well known outdoor gym, ‘Muscle Beach’. After another mile or two of this vast city coast, it was time to retire, so I gave in to my weary state and headed back to the hostel for a good night's sleep.

I awoke at eight-thirty the next morning and leapt straight out of my top bunk, glad to be greeted by a warm November morning. The early wake ups would soon become a regular occurrence and always felt natural to be up and active. I strolled around the area and went for my first swim in the Pacific Ocean which was brief as the waves were strong and scared my overly cautious mind but more so my tobacco weakened lungs. When I got back to the hostel I asked Inge about where I could buy some trainers, as I intended to walk a great deal, taking in the sites and sun as much as possible and my cowboy boots were highly inappropriate. I left the hostel after getting directions. I walked up Washington Boulevard and soon forgot what she had told me as every sight and sound was differently new. After heading north in a hazy fashion with no fixed itinerary, it simply felt good to be on my own and entirely free to do anything I wanted. After a vague amount of time, I stumbled upon a small shop selling just what I needed, comfortable and cool looking trainers. I chose a red boot with black laces as they were subtle in style and only cost thirty-two dollars, about twenty-five quid. The assistant was enthusiastic and attentive to my needs. I tried on the right boot without laces and stood up for a look in the low mirror. They looked just dandy, so I asked her for the left and would wear them home, in true child fashion. She brought it and asked if I was fine lacing them up myself. I said yes, but the child in me wanted to say, 'I don't know how to' and maybe start crying a bit. The extreme American enthusiasm and overtly kind ways had yet to impact upon me, so I was taken aback by the attendant's ridiculous question and I laced them up with glee and smiled as I paid. She then asked 'how have you laced them up?’, then came around from behind the counter and exclaimed 'oh, awesome!', much to my surprise as I had laced them up in the most basic way, with a simple across and up style. Her jolt of passion shocked me but left me grinning as I strutted out the door in my new Vans, ready to walk the ass out of them and this city.

The night came around quickly and at sunset at around five, it became mildly chilly (16C) as I wandered to my local 'Seven Eleven' convenience store to purchase some beer. I paused for a moment outside to count my cash inconspicuously and a Latino man hurriedly left the store and passed in front of me with a freshly purchased bottle of vino in a brown paper bag he held scrunched at the head of the bottle, when suddenly "SMASH!’’. And the pavement was rough, somewhat like his face. I did not make the same mistake when buying a six-pack of Rolling Rock bottled beer, choosing to trust the strengthened card handle. I supped at the hostel for a short time before taking another stroll to Venice. I met a German guy named Colin on the Boardwalk who did not know where he could get a beer. And I could do with a beer and he looked cool enough for company, of course assuming that two loners in this area should drink together. We purchased our beers from nearby and sat at the basketball courts sipping and smoking, being mindful of LA cops, as it was strictly illegal to consume alcohol anywhere in public! During the next two hours, drugs were often solicited to us by passing dealers, of which one of them looked homeless and keen to chat. I was surprised to hear that our new companion used to live in London and could speak German fluently and again I jovially thought, 'only in America'. After the beers were drunk Colin and I ventured onto Main Street, it was three blocks from the beach and was where the nightlife all moved to when the sun went down, as I was previously informed by the lovely Inge. Feeling a little oiled, Colin and I had a taco each from a fast-food restaurant. Mexican food was plentiful in this town. We then hit a bar nominated by the random Australian man who picked us up a mile down the road and drove us there out of sheer kindness. The bar's atmosphere was kind of dry and so we began talking to what looked like a couple, although as soon as I opened my mouth the guy got up and left, much to her surprise, so we camped in and enjoyed a pleasant conversation about sport for twenty minutes. After the mood settled Colin bought us all a beer, at which point she informed me that her male friend left sheepishly because he thought she was sweet on me! We discussed this oddity openly and five minutes later she went to the restroom, not to appear for over twenty minutes, at which point Colin and I decided to depart for his car, back at the courts and head to my hostel for the last drink. The last one for him was brief and we said our goodbyes and exchanged numbers to speak again soon. I then drank for another hour with a Japanese guy who was pleasant enough for such an hour and occasion. The bed I hit and to sleep I went.

The next day came around quickly and it felt like a more wandering adventure was of prime importance. I walked toward Marina Del Rey with my Brando autobiography and a bottle of water in my backpack, with no real focus but with this kind of weather who needs one. I set out and passed all manner of great stores like a Harley Davidson factory, hotels with fake waterfalls and many Seven-Elevens before Passing the Marina containing hundreds of docked boats. As I progressed toward what looked like a dead end on the map I came across a boat sales company with huge yachts sitting on steel supports with metal steps leading up to the boat's entrance for potential buyers to look around. What a treat if you were homeless I thought to spend the night in warmth on a luxury boat. This was too rich an opportunity