That's the first thing that strikes most of them. I'm pretty big, but they
always expect bigger. Much bigger.
We step outdoors into the cold black morning. I start walking. I walk
everywhere, or take the bus. I'm too large to fit comfortably in a car. I tried
a sleek little Mazda RX-7 once; three years old, 47,000 miles, drove like a
dream -- but it always felt like I was about to swallow my knees.
I figure the wind-chill has dropped the temperature to three or four degrees
below zero. Maybe I can shake this guy yet. After all, he doesn't have a fur
coat. Me, I live in mine.
"Why only one film?" he says. I grimace. These journalists are so predictable.
They'll ask one question, maybe two, about me, and then, inevitably, they'll ask
about her. "Don't you miss her? What did she mean to you? What do you remember
most about her? Do you still talk to her?"
So I state the obvious. "There's not a lot of opportunity for a guy like me in
Hollywood. I'm not exactly your typical leading man, you know?"
We walk into this tavern on Alexander Street, brush off the snow and sleet, and
take a couple of stools at the bar.
Vinnie the bartender comes right over. "What can I do for you boys?"
I pull a wad of bills out of my jacket pocket and start peeling off twenties.
"What's the line on the Bengals and the Jets?"
Vinnie looks at my friend.
"He's okay," I tell him.
"What's his name?"
"I don't know. What's your name?"
The guy looks ill at ease. I can't say as I blame him. "Parker Granwell," he
says, extending his hand to Vinnie. "It's a pleasure to meet you, sir."
Vinnie snickers. He's got this kind of wheezing emphysema laugh. He was shot in
the ribs a few years back. The bullet left him with an air leak and a limp, as
if he's got a permanent stitch in his side. "Where'd you find this nerd?"
"He found me," I answer. "What's the line?"
"Minus two," says Vinnie.
"Under-over?" I ask.
