temario: puesto a consideración se aprueba en general,

4 PM. I’ve just come from seeing Wesley’s house. I had been expecting grand but I was unprepared for what I saw. It’s Jack LaLanne’s old house, high up in the Hollywood hills; it’s a movie-star house from the 1930s. God, it must have cost a million dollars.

I knew Wes was a successful screenwriter, yet I didn’t realize how big the payoffs could be. Naturally, I can’t help comparing myself to him, and I think my anxiety about it caused my vertigo and insomnia last night.

And I suspect I must look like pretty much of a super- failure from Wes’ vantage point. Is this meeting, like an episode of a TV sitcom, going to put me in one of those “reevaluate-your-life-in-light-of-your-more- successful-friend” funks?

Well, I’m not sure. But if I can use this to grow, it will be a valuable experience.

I spotted Wes from the narrow, winding Las Presas Drive, as I parked the car. At first he didn’t recognize me; he remarked that I’d gotten so thin and changed so much, he would have passed me by on the street. He introduced me to his kids, Jake, 4½, and Sam, 3, and the inevitable Hispanic maid. And Marla came out on the way to spend more of Wes’ money (so he said); we kissed and said hi. Both of them still look very young.

There were about 25 workers all over the house, which clearly needs a lot of fixing up and which is getting it. All of the details of remodeling are lost on me, but even an ignoramus could see that all those contractors and painters and plasterers and

carpenters were doing expensive work.

The house was grand but kitschy, and Wes said they were trying to do away with the nouveau riche effects. Hell, I don’t even have the vocabulary to describe this stuff.

The views from the terraces and windows and lawns and pools were breathtaking: on a clear day, Wes said, you can see the Pacific (people are always saying that, I expect, and the clear day never comes).

Anyway, we sat out by the pool for a couple of hours. Wes and the family actually were in Fort Lauderdale for four months this winter. He’s the screenwriter for

Cape Fear, and he said if only he’d known I lived

there, we could have gotten together. They even filmed scenes, of course, at the building I work in at Broward Community College; I’d known Marty Scorsese was filming, but not that Wes was involved. Actually, I’m glad he didn’t know I was living with my parents; then I’d really seem pathetic. Of course, Wes said he himself was depressed lately. The very first script he wrote was going into production in San Francisco today, and he’d been taken off the film by snotty kid director.

I can’t remember the name of the movie, but Wes said Richard Gere and Kim Basinger were very difficult to work with (Uma Thurman was great). I know I read something about this in the gossip columns.

Wes not only wrote True Believer and DOA but also fixed up Arachnophobia and other films. The whole problem in the film industry seems to be control, and Wes wants to avoid getting the blame for stuff the director did – the way critics skewered his

screenwriter friend Steve Zaillian for stuff he fought tooth and nail with the director of Awakenings, Penny Marshall (Wes’ next-door neighbor) to take out of the movie.

Let me just freewrite here. Wesley was hard to read. Obviously he likes me and wanted me to hook up with him as an old friend, but I have no inkling of the

kind of world he moves in, and I have a horror of anyone thinking that I’d want something from a successful friend.

I’ve never been interested in writing for Hollywood, though of course it’s very glamorous to be

interrupted – as we were by the pool – by a phone call from Marty Scorsese. I couldn’t really tell if Wes was trying to impress me or to do the opposite, be down to earth.

Maybe I overdid it, telling him about my going to law school in the fall and how I’ve lived these past years, down to my bankruptcy. “Richard Disgrace-on,” he said jokingly, and “So you’re a schnorrer.” And, to be honest, I have no idea if his final “See you soon” meant just that or “Don’t ever call me again.” Stuff I can make use of: As we looked at the view, Wes remarked that it was a good incentive to keep him from divorcing Marla, because then he’d lose the house.

He said that Jake, the older boy, is very attached to Marla and totally Oedipal: when Jake hurt himself while I was there, Wes came in and Jake said, “I want my mommy.”

“What’s wrong with Daddy?” Wes asked, and Jake screamed, “Go away, you stupid old man!” and Wes stood there, stunned.

Wes explained to be how he got started: his friend Howard (the arrogant guy I met in Manhattan years ago, a classmate from Berkeley) got into screenwriting and sold some scripts that were never made. Howard told Wes to forget about New York book publishing, where people are always thinking up reasons to turn you down, and to come out to Hollywood, where they need people who can tell a story even just reasonably well.

So Wes and Marla came out here to stay with Howard and they saw LaLanne house on sale and loved it. Three houses and several years later, they bought it from the couple who got it from the LaLannes and who really couldn’t afford the upkeep (hence the disrepair).

Wes also told me that his father retired but got bored and is now touting some electronic keyboard artist I think Lou is managing.

When I mentioned to Wes that the former mayor Gainesville told me he liked Wes’ work and that the guy wanted to be a screenwriter, he said, “Don’t give him my number.” I had hoped Wes would know me better and know I’d never think of doing something like that.

Naturally, despite what I told Tom, I never intended to show Wes Tom’s little screenplay and at this point I

don’t think I’ll tell any other people that I even know Wesley Strick.

Lindsay just came in to play, with me, and I’ve got to pack and get ready for dinner. – Well, it turns out we’re not going out to dinner but eating here at home, which is fine with me. I slept only four hours last night because I was so dizzy (I just realized I never took my Triavil).

I’ve just been playing with Lindsay in the car and babbled on to Libby, who was peeling potatoes, about Wes and his home. Rachel, the Israeli girl across the street who wants to be a writer and who’s read some of my stories, came over to say hello.

We talked about my writing and her writing, and when she said goodbye, she added, “Good luck with. . .” and I jokingly finished, “. . . my pathetic career.”

And so my little trip to California comes to a close. What with rush hour traffic tomorrow and the car rental return, I have to be out of the house by 5:30 AM if I’m going to make my plane.

If I can get five hours of good sleep, I’ll be happy. Bonine and Drixoral seem to have alleviated my worst vertigo.

Hey, look: I’m a success just because I have great friends and have been able to make this trip to be with them. It’s really been an interesting experience for me.

Whether it’s in Tallahassee or Gainesville, now I think I can handle going to law school on my own. I know I’ve got a unique life and a unique perspective.

Once I get on the plane, I’ll have hours and hours to think. On Friday I’ll be back at BCC teaching

composition for $20 an hour. Hey, stop it! As Peter keeps telling Alice, money is not life’s report card. I’m the last one who should need to be reminded of that.