Free L.A. Success by Hans C. Freelac

bet he was doing the same thing, because even after twenty seconds we were still going strong. And then I noticed something. I could feel a fine mist hitting my flip-flopped feet. I had no idea whether this mist was coming from me or Old-Birkenstock Jerry, but either way, it was pretty clear that my feet were getting peed on. This was one of those things in life that I'd never be able to ask about, no “Hey Jerry, you aren't peeing on my feet, are you?” especially because if I could feel that, he had to be feeling the same thing, if he was paying attention. No wonder those sandals of his were smelly. I finished up and got out of there.
    Maybe I was imagining it, but as I rounded the corner and headed outside, I thought I could feel my feet stinging. I looked down at them, stopped paying attention to where I was going and walked right into someone.
    “Oh god, sorry,” I said and looked up into the eyes of Gertie Elliot.
    She was wearing a green miniskirt and a pink, frilly blouse. She was showing a lot more leg and cleavage than I wanted to see, and that was saying a lot since those were things I usually didn't complain about seeing too much of. The thing was, she managed to set everything up so that you didn't have a choice but to look at her action. And when you have the impression that you're being forced to look at something you normally try to look at, you ask yourself why, and then you get really confused about the whole thing instead of just enjoying the view. So what I finally decided was that I wouldn't have normally wanted to look at her because she was out of my age group. It gave me the feeling I was doing something weird, looking at an old lady like that.
    “Slow down there. Lucky for me there's a little cushion,” she said and put her hand on my belly for a second. Her breath floated over to my nose, and I could tell that she had been a life-long smoker. The smell was like a mix of old tobacco and rotting meat. This again gave me a weird impression. It was like she was hiding a bunch of nastiness behind an artificially sexy facade. But the stuff she was hiding kind of poked out all over, like the little whiskers she tried to cover up with foundation. I couldn't help imagining that if you took off all her clothes, everything would come loose and she would turn into a greasy, red-haired sea lion. One that would try to do you.
    “Sorry about that. You okay?” I asked.
    “I've bumped up against harder things than you,” she said and gave me a wink. She continued over to the counter to order a coffee. I went outside and sat down with the writers. After a few minutes, she strolled by us on her way over to her office, her rump swaying to the rhythm of her high heels. I watched her go down the sidewalk and into her office.
    I looked over and noticed that Pocket-Watch Eddy was fidgeting more than usual. He had a desperate look on his face. He started hitting the keys harder than normal and was breathing like an animal. The other writers noticed it too and stopped working.
    “Eddy,” said Hat-Guy Leonard, but Pocket-Watch Eddy just continued banging away at his laptop. “Eddy!” he said again, louder.
    “No no no, not now,” said Pocket-Watch Eddy, and he continued to hammer away. “I was just not thinking big enough—I'm changing directions. Bigger, better, more modern. Going with what people like. Everything's flowing fast now.”
    “Eddy,” said Hat-Guy Leonard, “you aren't working on that idea that you told us about last week, are you?”
    “I've made changes, lots of changes. It's okay now,” he said. He looked hysterical as his fingers tapdanced all over the keyboard.
    “No Eddy, it's not okay. Just go back to the themes Sony is developing. Give them what they want,” said Hat-Guy Leonard.
    “To hell with their themes! I can't write in a box, Leonard! They're holding me back, killing my creativity. No, no—I won't do it!”
    “What are you working on, Eddy?” asked USC-Shirt Jake, but it