Barbara Payton at the Purple Dandelion

And a disembodied narrator says: 

He was in an LA club called The Purple Dandelion. It was 1967. Longhairs were dancing to the elastic music of The Chocolate Watch Band. He was sitting at the bar between a grubby little man who smelled of the street and Barbara Payton, who smelled of the street and too much perfume. 

His name was Jim Broker. He was a screenwriter. A failed screenwriter. At least so far.

The grubby little man sitting to his left slipped his fingers into his long greasy hair, first to scratch an itch, and then to mindlessly probe the slippery thicket. Eventually, he found what he was searching for and pinched a large louse from his hair.

“Gotcha! Ya little bugger!” he said. “Hey Mac, gimme a pencil,” he said to the bartender, Mac.

Mac handed him a pencil from behind his ear.

The grubby man stabbed the louse with the point of the pencil, killing it with three slow, sadistic stabs. He smeared the miniature murder scene to oblivion with his filthy hand then held the pencil toward Mac.

“Keep it,” Mac told him.

Then the grubby little man stuck his fingers into his hair and resumed probing.

The bartender slid Barbara Payton another mug of beer. She had seen better days. Her hair was thin, bleached, and tangled. She was missing a couple of teeth. She had also gained a lot of weight since Jim had watched her in Bride of the Gorilla (1951).

She caught him looking at her. “Hi,” she said.

“Hi. You’re Barbara Payton.”

“Thanks for the tip.”

“I’m sorry. You’re the first celebrity I’ve seen so far. I’ve only been in Hollywood a couple months.”

She forced out a dry chuckle. “Get out while you still can.”

“Get out?”

“This town is terminal.” She gave him a rotted grin.

Jim realized she was dying. Most likely drinking herself to death. 

She surprised him by saying, “I want to die paralyzed.”

He shook his head. “No you don’t.”

“Yes I do. I’m serious. Only emergency traction can save me now.” The dry laugh came back. She took a sip of beer.

She said, “I don’t usually drink beer but I need to get some nourishment in me. I haven’t eaten in a while.”

“I don’t think beer has much nutrition.”

“Are you gonna argue with everything I say?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Beer is nutritious.”

“Okay.”

“I want to be paralyzed.”

“That’s your prerogative.”

“That’s better. Now tell me…” She raised her eyebrows at him.

“Jim.”

 “Tell me Jim. You ever fuck a movie star?”

 “Well, er. No.” He felt heat suddenly rush into his face.

 “Ever thought about it?”

 He hunched his shoulders. “Well, sure. Sometimes, I guess.”

 “I’ll bet. Who do you think about?”

“Y’know, I’m not really comfortable with the gist of this conversation…”

“Cut the shit and tell me. Audrey Hepburn? Or are you a Brigitte Bardot man? Jayne Mansfield maybe? Y’like big tits?” 

“Jayne Mansfield is dead,” he said, glad she’d provided him with a chance to change the subject.  

“What? Since when?”

“Few weeks ago. Like last month.”

“I hadn’t heard that.”

“She was in a car accident. They say she was decapitated. Her dog died too.”

Barbara was quiet for a few moments, then she said, “I missed that. Jesus, I need to get out more. I live such a sheltered life.”

He chuckled nervously. 

“I think I just changed my mind about dying paralyzed.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Now I wanna be decapitated in a car accident.” She looked at him and smirked. “Now what do you think about that?”

He shook his head and shrugged. “I don’t know. Doesn’t sound like a very pleasant way to go.”

“No, I suppose not. But then, I think one’s death should be just as unpleasant as one’s life.”

“You find life that unpleasant?”

“No, it’s a grand pageant. A thing of beauty. Gimme a fucking break.”

“I think life is what you make of it,” he said and then immediately regretted it.

She snorted a laugh. “So do I. That’s the sad truth. So do I. How do you like what I’ve made of myself?” She smiled, showing her rotten teeth again. “Ain’t I glamorous?”

He’d had enough. He said, “Well, if you’re so set on dying, why don’t you take matters into your own hands. Commit suicide.”

“Because I’m stubborn. Too many fuckers would be glad to see me kill myself. I won’t give them the satisfaction.”

He threw two dollars on the bar and said, “Well, I gotta run. It was nice talking to you Miss Payton.”

“The pleasure was all yours.”

He started to get the hell out of there. The music was too loud anyway.

And the disembodied narrator says: 

And so, two lost souls meet one night at a club and find weary solace in the crowded din. Jim, a writer looking for inspiration, and Barbara, a faded movie star looking for redemption.

“Who’s saying that?” said Jim.

“That’s just the third-person narrator. Don’t mind him.” Barbara told him. “He’s an asshole.”

And that’s how it ends.