Blake Wilson; a man of thirty-two, his girlfriend; Joanna, and her younger brother of twenty-one; Olly, are having breakfast in this their run down, hardly ever tidy apartment in Skid Row, Los Angeles.
Blake and Joanna are dressed for work; He's a Junior editor in a book publishing house, while she's a secretary somewhere else. Olly's dressed for classes at college, his backpack hangs on his chair. He's a Computer Science undergrad at UCLA; There on a merit scholarship. Although, he wishes he could get more girls … or just one, even.
Blake’s pressed for time as the new management for his office is coming in today and they’ve already advanced show-up time by thirty minutes---Although, why doesn't he just adapt his whole routine to fit the shift? Maybe he's just always tardy.
Joanna and Olly themselves know something about ‘new management,’ from back when they were little kids, and their dad’s office got that ‘new management,’ and their dad was downsized and out of the job so quick, he still had a full two week subscription for the bus to work— So Joanna and Olly sort of brace Blake, telling him his job may be hanging in the balance. And Blake shrugs them off, confident that if something like that we’re about to happen, he would be one of the first at the office to know; he would have known by now.
So now, Blake hauls ass, heading out, and taking their only car, the Two Thousand and Two Camry, of which it’s Joanna’s turn to have for the days commute, and she's really pissed about Blake contriving to take it. And coupled with the fact that their neighbor from right across the hall, Abie
age 34
was talking down to Joanna as she hitched a ride with Blake, and they both blabbingly urged the car away, leaving Joanna in her seethe.
Fifteen minutes later, Blake gets to the office, and just as he was hinted, the new management’s actually downsizing, and he ends up being one of the victims, and he’s utterly devastated.
And as Blake stole the car from Joanna, she now has to take the bus to work. And in the bus, she’s squeezed in beside some dirty, creepy guy that won't stop looking in her cleavage, and doing all he can to get a good feel of her side boob and sundry. All in all this, she has real good reason to keep seething about Blake stealing her car.
Meanwhile, Olly’s arrived UCLA campus, riding his bicycle, headed for class. And in some reckless, adverse humor, some guy named Steve, driving his girlfriend, and another lady friend, in his Two Thousand and Seven Mustang Convertible swerves and charges up to the oncoming, bicycle-riding Olly, running him off the road, and he and his girlfriends guffawing about it.
The shocked, off-roaded, shaken Olly straightens himself up and chases the car to where it parks in a lot. He confronts Steve, who’s really big and hunky, and both men eyeball each other, with Olly furiously screaming in the face of Steve about what just happened. And Steve couldn't be apologetic, he just holds his ground, glaring Olly in the eyes.
Then, Olly decides it ain't worth the trouble of a fight, and he puts in a good last word of how stupid and idiotic they really are, and rides his bike away.
He spends the whole day cursing at himself for why he cannot turn away from his evil ways. He'd neglected the value of something he once had because of trivial, unhealthy urges to get a feel of women other than the one he was married to. ‘How could I have been so blind?! How could I have been so stupid?! What did they have that she didn't? Coupled with the fact that she had what they didn't.
Whatever came over me as to make me so idiotic and self destructive? Why didn't anybody tell me any better? Hell, people did. I was warned. She herself did when she started having suspicions. Even one of the call girls did, when she saw Emily's photo on the night stand. But someway, somehow, I was too blind to see what they meant. A spell had been cast over me to not see that I was putting the only sacred thing I got in jeopardy.
And now, what do I have? Utter dissatisfaction. Despair! What I actually needed was to draw closer to my wife, instead, I didn't think better of it and did everything with repercussions as to drive her away. How stupid could one really get? Hell of a way for a man to get hypertension. And now, I'm using that as an excuse to keep on the stupidity. To keep frolicking with prostitutes … prossies! What the hell is wrong with me? Where did my mama go wrong?
And my own son isn't helping matters, that no-good, good-for-nothing, reckless rascal. He'd much rather bring random women to the house to bang than try and get his mommy and daddy back together. If only he could get his head outta his ass and help me get mine outta, well, every other woman's ass.
Then, maybe things will start to move in the right direction again. Right now, you could call me a sex addict, add the drugs to that mix, and what have you? A ticking bomb? A man standing on a mine, yet to relieve just that little bit of pressure, setting it off, blowing himself to bits? Damn! Damn me to hell.’
This is Henry Dwight Cassidy. He's the program director at ‘Ent,’ a satellite TV network with it's headquarters in Universal City, Los Angeles.
The network specializes in reality programming based on celebrities and fashion. Mr. Cassidy, a man of 6 feet 3, and obese dimensions, is a looming figure of a man. His exiled wife used to call him big bear. But during heated arguments, her and her son would rather just call him ‘fat ass.’ His weight doesn't bother him, though. It's all he's ever known. And besides, stress is a killer.
Except for the fact that his wife left him, he thinks life is still worth a shot, and he actually loves his job at Ent, and it's just about the only thing keeping him from blowing his brains out. 'Or is it?’ He turns to the side and takes a long look at the sleeping call-girl he's sharing the bed with… He takes her again.
