This was written in response to a writing challenge: write a story about a New Year that may or may not have gone wrong.

The room was full of sweet-smelling smoke. The last few dancers were swaying against one another and the couples that had formed earlier had either left or found a quiet corner.
Out in the kitchen a lean dark-haired man was standing with a wine glass in one hand and a joint in the other. He looked from one to the other as if weighing up a tough decision, and put the glass into the already overflowing sink. He drew on the joint and watched the party as if detached from it. He’d come here with a girl who was an extra on god knows what series and he hadn’t seen her for over two hours.
“What the Hell. I can’t even remember her name.” He giggled to himself. “Shit, I have enough trouble remembering mine!”
He steadied himself slightly and went back into the main room. Someone had dialed the speaking clock and the crowd in the room was chanting:
‘Ten…nine…eight…seven…six…five…four…three…two…one…HAPPY NEW YEAR!”

“Yeah; Happy New Year.” He sighed to himself. This year he was going to turn thirty one and he was still trying to find out who in the hell he wanted to be when he grew up.
As everyone in the room started exchanging kisses he withdrew quietly and went up the stairs to his own apartment. He slipped in and checked that there were no squatters in the bedroom or refugee lovers in the bathroom. He gathered up a couple of coats that weren’t even familiar and put them out in the hall way. He shut the door and locked it.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror in the hallway – installed by a former tenant who had never been able to pass a mirror or a window without checking himself out. He was stoned out of his mind but still capable of seeing himself clearly. Tall; dark curly hair that had recently been cut short for a TV movie about a submarine; well honed muscular body kept in shape with healthy eating and a life-long habit of easy-going athleticism. His well-defined face was balanced and his blue eyes had the power to enthrall (not that he was aware of that). As far as he could tell the guy looking back at him in the mirror was ‘OK’; too hairy on the chest and too dark for the main-stream American idol; but he knew that he could act and what was more he knew that he had to act; and that was what had driven him to where he was now. And as “ethnic” was in fashion with guys like Hoffman and Pacino getting good parts maybe being Jewish would pull for him too.

He fell back onto the bed and finished the joint. The noise of New Year’s revelers in the building and out on the street echoed around him.
“Happy New Year; whoever you are.” He said to himself as he looked regretfully at the last tiny shreds of the roach between his fingers.

Who in the hell was he? He woke up at four-thirty and the question was running through his head. How did that song go? The one Leonard Cohen had adapted from the French Resistance anthem…” I have changed my name so often….” The Jim Croce song ran through his head too “but I’m living on dreams….”
“Yeah; but I’m not running away from anything. I’m running towards something and I can get it.”

He’d changed his name; and now he’d got it back. As a young actor he’d discovered that there was already a registered member of the union with the same name. The guy at the union office noticed the ‘M’ between first and last names. “Why don’t you use that?”
Why indeed? It was a name that seemed too old for him. He thought quickly and decided to square things with his cousin later.

“Sure. Michael. Put that down.” And he’d left with his precious Actor’s Equity card and a new name.

He’d worked on stage in New York with that name. He’d been in a soap opera, a couple of movies (one up for Oscars – but not for his role) and now he was working his way up from after-the-episode cast list to “Special Guest Star” above the titles. He was making steady good money and because money wasn’t new to him he didn’t throw it around. A few quiet investments and a modest life meant that he could probably rely on his “nest egg” for a long time if he hit a rough patch. And in this business; the rough always follows the smooth. A guy could win an Oscar one day and be in a flop the next. “You’re only as good as your last work” is the rule around here and so a little financial caution is a good thing. Besides there were plenty of people living in those houses that the tour buses went by who had got there just in this way. Steady regular work. Sure his ego wanted to be a star. He wanted to succeed because all his life he’d been driven by perfectionism. But he saw things clearly enough to understand that life rarely follows the dream. If all else failed he had a Masters and he could get a teaching job.

So there were people who called him “Mike” and people who didn’t – his family; his buddies from way back – even in the business he had friends who had known him before Mike was born. It was kind of amusing to confuse people sometimes.
Now he had his name back. Well how confusing that turned out to be. Now he was Mike to some and Paul to others and the ones who only thought they knew him called him “Paulmichael” like it was all one word. Plus the casting directors had to make the jump – “This is the guy I saw in Fiddler?” “He’s the kid from the summer stock that impressed me so much back east?” “So he’s new to the business isn’t he; this Paul Michael.” “He was in a daytime soap? For how long?”

It could be tough going and for someone with a short fuse and a tendency not to suffer fools gladly – and this is a business full of fools – he knew he had to be careful. Hone the diplomatic skill – well he would have, but he hadn’t got any! So he relied on the photos and the resume and crossed his fingers. At least he was no longer waiting table.

He crawled out of bed and went for the pouch and papers.
Outside the party was finally over. A second wave of night owls had arrived around one o’clock and now they too were leaving.
He looked out of the window and saw a familiar figure. He concentrated on where he’d seen the guy before while he sat on the bed and rolled his first joint of 1974.

The blond was familiar. Then it came back.

When he’d first arrived in New York he went to a party in the Village – not far from the house shared with his old college buddy and his new wife. Bruce had already established himself in New York (and joshed his friend that it had taken him so long to catch up. “I know; what with being out of action after the accident and then pissing off to England; how could you graduate when I did. But did you have to go and do Post-grad?!” The quiet answer was “Yeah”).
So there they were in this slightly sleazy bar at a party full of weirdos when “X” came in. Bruce nudged his friend. “See him? His name is ******* and he has very unsavory habits. He hangs out with Andy and friends. I see has a new toy. I hope the kid knows what he’s doing.”
They watched as “X” led his pretty boy across the room and started to dance with him.
“He is pretty. Struggling actor?”
“You don’t watch the TV do you?”
“Not unless I have to. Hey I have enough of that crap with the good doctor!” They laughed about his latest success; breaking home-maker’s hearts in a daytime soap.
“Yea; well just remember that the doc is paying your bills. Anyway; if you watched the TV you’d do what every red-blooded American does – you’d watch and you’d wonder who is “The Covered Man”…”
His friend was convulsed with laughter. “The what?”
“The Covered Man. Come on Paul, you do read Variety don’t you?”
“Only the want ads.”
Bruce laughed and went to get their glasses refilled. His wife turned to Paul and kissed him – “still got your innocence I see.”
When Bruce returned he went back to the topic.
“The Covered Man. He sings (not what you’d listen to but you always were different) and he never takes off the mask…won’t take it off for interviews. He says he wants to be known for his music. Well I guess the music doesn’t pay the rent – because you get the scoop – you’ve seen him without the mask…and it means zilch to you!”
The three of them were almost hysterical. They didn’t notice ‘X’ and his uncovered toy leaving.

Since then he’d seen the blond kid again. They’d both been regulars at Joe Allen’s; the blond got picked by Renee Valente; he didn’t (looking back he wasn’t disappointed either). Then his own career had started to pan out and although he intended to go back to New York; it seemed that he was stuck here for a little while longer.

He sat bolt upright. Stuck here! No he wasn’t; he was supposed to be moving out today.

He struggled into jeans and a sweater and started throwing his few belongings into bags and cartons. He moved the one or two pieces of furniture that belonged to him as close to the door as he could.
He checked the kitchen and threw out the long-dead contents of his fridge; made a pot of the last of the coffee and put the rest of the stuff into a couple of bags and a carton.
An hour later his life was packed and ready to move on. He skipped down the stairs and went to his faithful old Mazda. He’d driven across the country in this thing and scruffy though it was he kind of loved it. The back was littered with tennis rackets and socks and a couple of empty water bottles. He drove over to U-haul and rented a small trailer. He was whistling as he drove back to the apartment that was no longer ‘home’.
Trying to keep it quiet so as not to wake up the other tenants he schlepped up and down the stairs with his stuff. One last glance around the place to check that nothing important was forgotten - “shit; nearly forgot my pot-plants” - and he was off. He removed his name from the mailbox and slipped the keys in.

The drive up Laurel Canyon was lovely; the smog hadn’t got here yet – and he hoped it wouldn’t. The little house he’d rented was in one of the winding roads off Laurel; he’d chosen it for the seclusion; the views and the tiny garden that he couldn’t wait to redesign.

The stuff was all unloaded and he took the empty trailer back to U-haul; just in time to only have to pay a half-day’s rental. On the way back he stopped at the local store and stocked up on juice and milk and yoghurt: there were fresh walnuts and good sun-dried figs too; he selected eggs and a chicken and some fresh vegetables and salad. He finished the purchases with a couple of bottles of good Napa Valley wine.

He spent the rest of the day pottering around the house; arranging and re-arranging the furniture. By four thirty he was exhausted. He poured himself a glass of wine; gathered up his cigarettes and let himself flop into the hammock that he’d suspended between two trunks of a double eucalyptus tree.

“Happy New Year. Happy New house. Happy New me.”

“What this house needs is a dog!” he said to himself as he made coffee . He had already been jogging in the hills and was freshly showered and at peace with the world.
He grabbed the ‘phone book and looked up the address of the animal shelter – one week after the holidays and there would be plenty of unwanted gifts to be adopted.

The animal shelter was a heart breaker. He’d always had dogs as a kid but over the past few years his life had been a bit too much of a gypsy existence to really keep one of his own. Now, even if he was only going to give it another six months, he was relatively settled in his life and if he went back to New York he’d have to find an apartment big enough. He looked at all the dogs and cats vying for the attention of the real animal lovers who had come to rescue them from the death sentence that unthinking others had preordained them to when they’d chosen the ‘perfect gift’ for… some kid who pulled its tail and cried when it scratched back!
A cross-breed caught his eye. He went over and rubbed its head. Two unmatched eyes – one blue one brown – looked up at him and he knew that this dog was the one. He went over to the attendant and asked all the sensible questions. Is the dog vaccinated? Yes Neutered? No (He’d see to that PDQ). What breed is it? Husky crossed with some kind of European shepherd – probably German. He paid the ‘contribution’ and bought a couple of dog bowls; dog food and a leash. “Come on; you ‘re a wanted dog now.” The dog bounded behind him and jumped into the car with no problem. “Dunno why; but your name is Max.”

The days followed one after the other. Auditions came and went but he wasn’t too bothered. One rare rainy day he and a few friends went to the movies. It was Clint Eastwood day – one movie after another from Leone to Harry. He recognized the blond from New York in one of the ‘Harry’ movies and thought: guess he doesn’t need an ‘X’ any more.

More quiet times. He and Max ran in the canyons. He played tennis with friends and dutifully showed up at auditions his agent sent him to. He bought a motorbike.

One day his agent sent him a script and told him to read it and get himself over to Fox where Spelling Goldberg was casting; he looked at the pages and grimaced. A cop show!
“Oh well I guess a bit of fresh film is due!”

He fell asleep outside the studio and they almost forgot him. He read and went home.

The ‘phone rang and a guy called Naar asked him to come for a second read. He grabbed a handful of nuts as he left the house and drove over to Fox.
He walked into the studio and stopped dead. The blond kid was grinning at him.
Naar introduced “David Soul; we already cast him as Hutch.” The other guy held out his hand, “I wanted the part they’re giving you; but come to think of it maybe you would be better.”

They swung into the scene. The walnuts came in handy and by the end of the action one thing was certain in Naar’s mind. These two had to work together.

The two of them wandered over to the Commissary to grab lunch.
“This is crap. I hope they don’t think they’re gonna make a series of it!”
The blond smiled. “It could be worse. Hey they want us to shoot a few episodes in case – what do we have to lose?”
“Our dignity.” Is what he wanted to say. Instead he grinned and said “OK better get used to it – I’m Starsky; you’re Hutch.”

Fate was about to deal him an ace of hearts.
He was driving home when the lights a Santa Monica and Beverley turned red. Something made him glance at the car next to him and he fell in love.
He pushed a cassette into the deck.
“I got a name. I got a name……………”

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