PART ONE — LAWYERS, DOGS, GARBAGE, & OSCARS
A distant sound of a garbage truck leaving the neighborhood was fading away outside a small house in Orange county. Brian opened his eyes. It was 4:34 in the morning. The way he saw it — nobody’s going to knock on his door or call on the phone for another six months. He just moved in and didn’t have any interest in getting acquainted with anyone. Not a living person knew his new number or address, not even his lawyer who just finalized his divorce paperwork.
“Hey, there’s life after divorce, buddy. You’ll get used to it. Don’t worry. Everybody does.” with a 280$-an-hour smile said a man in an old grey suit when a few days ago Brian signed his side of the page.
“Will mail it to you when it’s court-filed along with the invoice.” “Get drunk, get a girl!” sounded like the best idea for the money he just paid.
“Send it to my old office and I’ll collect it.” Brian said.
The funny part. Brian at his 48 was a divorce accountant. Most of his life he has been doing asset valuations and separations when people without prenuptial agreements wanted to split bank accounts and stocks. He was good at it, but for this one, he hired someone from outside His regular circles.
She took everything, the house, kids, his dignity and even the dog. “Kids love Jossy, so the damn dog stays with us. Period.” Those were exact words she used when she pushed his last box out of the front door.
No more cases, no more accounts, no more financial bullshit for at least another six months. He just turned a page in his life and it was blank.
Keel was on the passenger side in the garbage truck reading a script he found in the trash bin next to some second-rate porn star’s mansion on the Hill.
“Hey, listen. Listen to this. Katie was high enough to accept his invitation to a penthouse party on Fifth Avenue. She was ready to bend over and obey whatever the Grand Master commands. — The Grand Master? — seriously?! This is so lame!” he shoved it in the back when the truck did a U-turn on the roundabout.
“I still don’t get it, bro! Why do you have to read all the shit people throw away?” said the other guy behind the wheel.
“I am the GCC, man!” said Keel.
“It’s GCC — Garbage Collection Critic, amigo! I will do my online blog about stuff someday and get rich. Rich like Prince.”
“It’s called Rotten Tomatoes, man — and there are plenty in the back of this truck, stupid!” the driver laughed.
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