Orson Wells whispered into my ear: "You will never be a writer. You will never write anything. Never!" And I just was stunned, and I looked at him, and I said, I said, "You don't know me! You don't know who I really am, you don't know if I will or will not write." And he goes, "No, it's just my responsibility to tell you that - because those are your odds." He said, "Those are your odds in Hollywood." I look up and find myself at the corner of my street. To my left is a gang of women, musical instruments held aloft, smoking cigarettes and standing and leaning in the kind of posture you usually only see in magazines. I briefly wonder if I'm witnessing performance art, before turning to the other corner and heading to the ATM. The loud buzzing of the overhead light is drowning out the sound of my phone, and I take a break from listening to put it in my breast pocket. I withdraw my usual amount of money, one-hundred and sixty dollars, making sure to jiggle the card reader and cover the last digits of my credit card when I insert it in the slot. Of course I use my wallet to shield the keypad as I enter my pin, but the thought occurs to me that if there was someone watching, they might be clever enough to discern my pin from the initial placement of my fingers on the buttons. I make a mental note to consider my hand placement the next time I withdraw money. I take the cash without counting it; who would even believe me if I said that the machine had miscounted? Certainly not the bank. I place the cash in my wallet, behind the small collection of folded up receipts that I'd accumulated since the last time I cleaned it out, and place it back in my rear right pocket. Walking away from the buzzing of the electric light, I find myself faced with the hip gang again. They haven't moved. Instruments still held in their arms, they smoked in a graceful lean. Suddenly struck shy, I find myself utterly unable to speak to, or even make eye contact with that group of smoking statues as I walked by. I run a quick venn diagram in my mind of the topics that we each would be interested in having a discussion about; the overlap is such a small sliver, shining in the darkness, and as I peer inside of it I find myself drawn inside a warm, all-encompasing light. It surrounds me, and before I know what's happened I'm back at my desk, writing this review. I place my headphones on, and begin where I left off on the Organist podcast. And I said, I said, "You don't know me! You don't know who I really am, you don't know if I will or will not write." And he goes, "No, it's just my responsibility to tell you that - because those are your odds." He said, "Those are your odds in Hollywood."
Reviewed on Apple Podcasts