Author Bio:

Rich Leder

Screenwriter—Novelist—Publisher

 

Rich Leder has been a working writer for more than two decades. His screen credits include 18 produced television films for CBS, NBC, Lifetime, and Hallmark and feature films for Paramount Pictures, Tri-Star Pictures, and Left Bank Films.

 

He has written four funny novels to be released in 2014: McCall & Company: Workman’s Complication, McCall & Company: Swollen Identity, Juggler, Porn Star, Monkey Wrench, and Let There Be Linda.

 

He has been the lead singer in a Detroit rock band, a restaurateur, a Little League coach, a literacy tutor, a magazine editor, a screenwriting coach, a commercial real estate agent, an indie film director, and a visiting artist for the University of North Carolina Wilmington Film Studies Department, among other things, all of which, it turns out, were grist for the mill. He resides on the North Carolina coast with his awesome wife, Lulu, and is sustained by the visits home of their three college kids.

 

Rich loves to hear from readers and writers. Please don’t be shy.

 

You can write him directly at rich@laughriotpress.com

 

Or you can visit him at www.laughriotpress.com/richleder

 

JUGGLER, PORN STAR, MONKEY WRENCH

 

My parents stood by the front of the stage, staring at the glowing songwriter with wonder and awe. They weren’t as used to seeing famous people as we all were.

Once you’ve seen George Hamilton buy apples at Gelson’s, looking tan and fit for someone one-hundred-sixteen-years-old, the thrill dissipates to some degree. But this wasn’t just some run-of-the-mill famous person. It wasn’t Heather Locklear or David Spade. It was a glowing global legend. My mother was grasping my father’s arm with a superhuman adrenaline rush of strength normally reserved for women whose small children are trapped beneath parked cars. I thought to intercede on their behalf and escort them over to meet the man in the flesh, but as thin as Barry was, I was afraid my mother might break him in half.

Ally Kramer’s interest appeared to peak now that Barry was here. I imagined calculators clicking furiously in her head. If Barry Manilow was doing the music, she could raise the budget by twenty million. Think of the soundtrack album! Think of the international appeal! Talk about reaching the cabaret demographic! Why make a movie for one hundred seventy-five million when you can make one for two hundred million? I saw her nodding with approval and whispering into Cathy’s ear.

Behind me, Royal T and Boogie had sprung into action. Boogie had created a mellow blue hue around Barry’s table, dimming the lights elsewhere in the church while throwing three azure pin spots on Barry himself. It was a remarkable effect and I thought if Boogie is this good on the fly, the staged reading should really be something special. To complement the lighting, Royal T had cross-faded Ry Cooder’s Buena Vista Social Club with Barry’s Trying to Get the Feeling, and the whole room had a sunset on the beach kind of vibe that was warm and electric at the same time.

And then the door opened again and Dr. Alvin Yee, wearing a purple tuxedo and tails, a purple top hat, and purple Puma Clydes stepped into the church with Caroline on his arm, and everything stopped.

My sister saw him first and froze. Phil followed her starstruck gaze and his jaw dropped open. Then my parents saw him. Then Eddie and Gloria and Cletis. Then the porn people. Then Barry and his entourage. Finally, everyone in the Colonel’s studio was staring at Dr. Yee and his granddaughter.

Yee’s long white beard was done in three separate French braids, as was his hair, which spilled out of the top hat and reached all the way down his back. Caroline was a vision of loveliness in a beautiful blue evening gown, her skin perfectly porcelain, her hair a glossy shimmering black.

For all the money and time and blood and sweat spent trying to catch lightning in a bottle, the truth is not much magic is found here in Hollywood. It’s a town of smoke and mirrors and gummed up gears. So when genuine magic walks through the door—say, dressed in purple from head to toe—legends and losers and icons and idiots alike stop and stare, not exactly recognizing it as magic per se, but sensing an unusual wave in the groomed LA sand.

Boogie dimmed the blue lights on Barry and wrapped a soft white curtain around Dr. Yee and his granddaughter. Royal T, who no doubt had some magic in his Watusi history, cross-faded to Hendrix’ Are you Experienced? but kept the volume low. Everyone looked at the wizard as if waiting for a signal that all was well with the world.

Dr. Yee stood there for a long moment, letting the vibe wash over him, then held up the peace sign. An audible sigh of relief, or possibly a gasp of wonderment, echoed through the space, Boogie brought up the blue light, Royal T came back with Barry’s Even Now, and Yee and Caroline walked into the room. I met them at a table just beside the Colonel’s raised La-Z-Boy platform.

“You look beautiful,” I said to Caroline, who smiled and hugged me hello. “Tell your grandfather I’m glad he came.”

Caroline translated, and Yee said something in Chinese.

“He says he never misses a coming-out party,” Caroline said.

“Tell him I don’t understand what he means,” I said.

She did, and he smiled, singing his answer.

Caroline translated. “Lucky you. It’s a surprise party.”

Before I could press him on this surprise coming-out-party business, Colonel Bill Curry strode onto the stage with all the confidence of a madman who has found a way to bend reality to his will instead of vice versa.

“Ladies and gentlemen. You are humbly invited to take your seats,” he said.

 

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