Post by 1940svintage on Aug 28, 2015 12:19:58 GMT -5
So I told him, without going into too much detail, as I'm prone to doing, the entire plot of "Who Framed Roger Rabbit" as simply as I could: "The film centers around alcoholic P.I, Eddie Valiant, who is hired by animator RK Maroon to take compromising pictures of RK's star Roger Rabbit's wife Jessica "playing patty cake"- literally, as it turns out- with Toontown's owner Marvin Acme. But things get screwy when Acme's will turns up missing and Judge Doom and the Toon Patrol start accusing Roger of murdering Acme. Eddie has to also try to save both the Red Car line of trolleys and Toontown from destruction by a company called Cloverleaf, find Acme's will and clear Roger's name. In the end, it's revealed that Doom owns Cloverleaf, and is behind it all, and wants to destroy Toontown and the Red Car line to build a massive highway. He's also a psychotic Toon in disguise, by the way. Based on what you've told me, it's all true, and is going to happen in the next three days!"
He looked like he was struck by lightning. "If this is all true, you must get involved! Toontown must be saved at all costs! It's already 10 am, so if you want to catch that Valiant man, you'll have to do it now. Come," he said, getting out of his chair. "I'll drive you there on my way to work."
We both climbed into his car, a gorgeous '45 Pontiac Streamliner in white and blue, and drove the way I came (I can't remember much more than that. We were deeply involved in the following conversation, so I don't know which way we went).
"I wish I knew the best way to help you with this," George said, "But I'm not exactly an expert on Toontown, nor on Toon physics. No one is, with the sole exception of Toontown's owner, Marvin Acme. This isn't an exact science, you understand. Bringing a Toon into existence, and the mechanics the 'death' of a Toon are still a mystery. Some sort of psychobabble with quantum physics, or something."
After a long pause, I asked, "What does a Toon physically feel like? Do they have a weight? A texture? Or do they feel like the ink and paint they're made of?"
"It's difficult to explain. They have a weight to them, though, for some of the smaller Toons, it's very slight. They don't look two-dimensional, though. It's..it's really something you'll have to experience for yourself. It's amazing, actually. But they feel, too. They know what pain and heat and cold feel like because that's how they're drawn. They aren't really living things, but they're made to be like they are. Whatever the role demands of them, they do, which is how they can feel. We don't….project our own emotions onto them, but they already come with them. They're alive, and they exist, but not in the sense of you or I. They love, they hate, they feel emotions, but not like humans, because they're not….born. They're drawn, and whatever notes the animator makes on the concept sheets get incorporated into the design. That's why some Toons are good and some Toons are bad. It's really how they're drawn. It brings into question one's views about life as a whole, doesn't it?"
"That must be why they're a….basically a repressed minority now," I said, " That also might be why I had to go 68 years in the past to hear about them. Maybe the people of my own time didn't want people to know about them, because of the physically impossible things they can do that humans can't do: because people could be scared of some kind of stupid potential uprising. Can you imagine it?"
"I never really thought about it that way. But Toons are made to make people laugh. They're comedians. Actors. How can people think they'd start an uprising, or some other stupid thing?"
"Ask the people who don't allow Toons in most of the establishments in LA. It's segregation, really."
"I have to agree with you on that, my boy. But you know, they're near and dear to every American out there. They know how to make people laugh." By that point, we were almost in LA, and I didn't even realize it."Toons," he continued, "don't have much…footing in this world. They're, as you said, a minority. Laughter is what they know best. It's their tool, their weapon to be of some influence in this crazy world of ours. Without laughter, they're nothing, really. We're nothing, too. Laughs can make us human, if you really think about it."
"Maybe that's also why Toons die of too much laughter: because they're just not human."
We were quiet for quite a number of minutes. Nearly 20, before he spoke again.
"Quite true. It's an almost godlike complex, making these Toons come to life. They're like children, pure, and innocent, and made to convey something pure and innocent. If people took advantage of something like that, where would the world be? It would be wrong. It would also be like taking advantage of ourselves, which we successfully manage to do anyway, in this second year of the atomic age. Laughter does make us human. It's what makes us…well, us. If we had no laughter, no joy, or happiness or love, would we still be human? Maybe that's the reason for these cartoons. To make us laugh, and make us feel human. To recapture that essence of pure love and joy when we were children with cartoons. The love and security and the laughter. If that very essence of humanity were taken away, where would we be? People need to laugh, and be happy. That's why Toontown is as important to us as we are to it."
Maybe that's also why Doom wants to destroy Toontown, I thought. In addition to his plot to destroy the Red Car line- LA's public transportation system of trolley cars- and make way for a freeway where Toontown currently stands.
"It's a grim thing to be thinking about," he continued, "It's also something that can really make you question the boundaries of life and all that philosophical stuff. Not something I really want to think about before I head to work. Speaking of, we're almost at Valiant and Valiant's," he said, pulling to a stop at the intersection of South Hope Street and 11th avenue.
"Do you need any money? Do you feel all right by yourself here?" he asked, concerned.
I said that I'd be fine, and as far as money was concerned, he didn't have to, but I would take whatever he could spare. He handed me twenty dollars. You, dear reader, must be thinking what a cheapskate my great uncle is for giving me twenty bucks, but you have to remember that a twenty spot went a very long way in a year where public transportation was a nickel and most meals were 50 cents.
We parted ways, and he drove over to Disney Studios in Burbank. The street was crowded, bustling with people and gorgeous old cars, so it was a bit of a challenge to make it to what I recognized as Eddie's building. It really did look the way the movie portrayed it, South Hope Street. Everything bathed in midmorning sunlight, the people going about their business, and the Red Cars clanging along the tracks.
I, admittedly, felt scared, being all alone in an unfamiliar city, 68 years in the past at that… But I felt a sense of duty to try to help as much as I could, so I soldiered on towards the building where Eddie Valiant's office was. Now, I would have called ahead, but I don't think Eddie would have been in his office at that time. He was probably headed to the Terminal Bar on 6th avenue and South Hope Street, where his girlfriend, Dolores worked.
With incredible luck, I saw who I presumed was Eddie Valiant (He was very nearly the spitting image of Bob Hoskins! The movie producers sure got an A-1 lookalike to play him in the film!) heading into the Terminal Station Bar after throwing his mail in a nearby trashcan, and crossing the street.
I thought I could pass for someone older than I actually was, especially with how I was dressed, so I don't think I'd get kicked out if I went into a bar. Heck, even though I was only 17, I doubt the patrons would have cared. Dolores might, maybe, but she'd be too distracted demanding what happened to the second half of the hundred dollars Eddie owes her, or griping about someone wanting continuous re-fills of their beer.
With mounting confidence, I crossed the street and climbed the stairs, under the flickering neon sign for the bar. Just as I was up the stairs, the ceiling lights sparked and flickered and a trolley roared by. God, how could these guys stand it here with all this noise, I thought to myself.
Soon, Eddie stormed past me just as I was about to enter. Well, hello to you too. Guess I'll talk to him later. I entered the bar, and arrived just in time to see what made Eddie mad: Angelo, an obnoxious mechanic teased Eddie about working for Toons. "What's his problem?" asked Angelo, chewing the rest of the hardboiled egg that Eddie shoved in his mouth.
"A Toon killed his brother", said Dolores, glumly stepping forward, watching Eddie as he stormed out. The patrons gasped, and Delores continued, "Dropped a piano on his head."
Dolores had on her yellow and brown waitress' uniform, which was a bit rumpled. Her hairstyle, a bouffant, touched here and there with strands of gray, puffed along the top of her head, cascading down to form a messy roll by the nape of her neck. Both her dress and her hair were at least a few years out of fashion. Her face was weary, and her eyes looked like they'd seen happier times. She had on bright red lipstick, which only made the lines around her eyes stand out, but the one thing I couldn't help but notice was her deep laugh lines that formed creases by her mouth.
"Nasty business, all that." I said, casually, taking Eddie's vacated seat. "Never mess with a guy who's as hardboiled as the egg you're about to eat."
"He's been through a lot, my Eddie," said Dolores, taking away Eddie's abandoned shot glass to wash it. "He hasn't had a very happy life."
"We all have our stories, Miss…," I trailed off, uncertain of her last name.
"Verne," she supplied, "but just call me Dolores. Every other drunk around here does. Now, can I get you anything, or are you just going to sit there and stare at today's specials?"
"I'll just have a Coca-Cola with a lemon wedge. I don't drink, and I don't intend to start."
I said, "Tell me, my dear Ms. Verne, er …Dolores, rather… what do you know about Eddie Valiant's latest case?"
As she filled out my order, she said, "If you're going to deal with anything involving Eddie, you may as well start drinking now." She slid my drink across the table, Western movie-style. "I don't know much. Say, what's it to you anyway, buster?"
"I think I can help should he ever need it."
She poured Angelo a refill of his Corona, and said to me, dryly, "Well I don't think he's looking for a new partner, but he sure does need some help, all right," earning a few snickers from the other patrons seated at the bar. She glared stonily at them.
I sipped my drink, feeling more and more like an actor in a film noir flick, "I'm looking for work and I'll take what I can get."
"Eddie throws out his bills in the trash. Do you honestly think he'll hire anybody, regardless of how much he needs the help? I'd offer you a job here, but stuffing olives isn't exactly exciting. And the Terminal Station Bar is in danger of closing, and soon, too."
"Come on, doll-face," said Angelo, nursing his beer, "You're the heart and soul of this joint! Only reason I come here every day is to see your shining face."
"Ha!" she laughed.
"I wish you the best of luck keeping this place open if Cloverleaf takes over the Red Car line," I said, wanting to divert the conversation back to Eddie, still hoping I could find my way in through her.
"You mean when it takes it over. I'm guessing you saw the big sign out front. It's not exactly hard to miss." She said, sourly.
"No. I mean if. There's a way out of this mess. I feel it in my gut. Speaking of the fate of the Red Car line, I hear rumors that Cloverleaf also bought Maroon Cartoons and are interested in Acme's properties."
"Well, I didn't hear that anything about that." She noticed I finished my drink, and she said, "That'll be thirty cents."
I handed her the twenty spot that Uncle George gave me, and Angelo whistled. "Whoo! You some kind of high roller, bub?"
Dolores counted out my change and handed it back to me. "Quit it, Angelo. Leave the guy alone."
Angelo backed down and sat back on his bar stool as I put my wallet in the inside pocket of my suit jacket. I awkwardly thanked her for the drink and decided to leave. Maybe Eddie was ready to approach now.
I approached the stairs, and walking down, I thought to myself how that went nowhere fast. Then I realized how stupid I was. I could have seriously altered the timeline just then! Heck, my being here was changing things! Well… I thought uneasily as I crossed the street to head to Valiant's office, maybe it won't be too drastic. Maybe it'll turn out for the best. Maybe my actions here are the reason why certain scenes and characters were deleted from the film: because I was there! Because I, who wasn't supposed to be there was there….. I could play the guessing game all I wanted after this was over. I scolded myself for getting distracted as I mounted the stairs to the main entrance of the building.
I hesitated before pushing the door open. He must be in there. Where else would he be? He won't take those pictures until later, so he's probably getting ready. With my knowledge of what would happen, I walked up to the third floor, and knocked on the door of Valiant and Valiant, room 710.
Just as Eddie was about to open the door, I wondered what I was doing here, really, since Dolores told me I wouldn't get a job helping him with his case. Then, it opened a crack, disrupting my train of thought. Eddie poked his head out of the door.
" I gave at the office. I'm not interested in a new vacuum, and yeah, I already heard the Good News. I don't talk to salesmen." said Eddie, gruffly. His shirt collar was undone, revealing a few scraggly chest hairs, turning gray, slightly. He needed a shave, and the stubble was also sprinkled with a touch of gray. His suspenders were dangling from his pants, and his tie was loosened almost to the point of being undone. He looked extremely disheveled.
"I'm not a salesman, Mr. Valiant. Although, by the looks of it, maybe you do need a new vacuum for your office."
He glowered at me, and was about to slam the door in my face when I said, "I came to ask if you were looking to hire anybody. I'm looking for work and I'll take what I can get."
"Well, I sure as hell ain't hiring. Now beat it, buster. I'm in the middle of a case."
He came this close to closing the door in my face, so I gathered up the guts to stop it and walk in.
"I can help, you know," I said, as I walked in. "With your case."
"It's just a quick little snoop job. I don't need help to take a few pictures, kid. Now get the heck out of here already. And close that damned door behind you when you go."
"All right," I said, as I wrote down the address and phone number for Uncle George's place. "If you ever need help, my offer still stands." He didn't take the paper, so I set it down on his desk.
I lingered at the door, still debating whether or not to say anything more to him. Then, a really good, but also what I felt was a really bad idea popped into my head: I would wait till he headed back to Jessica's dressing room at the Ink and Paint club (assuming that the deleted scene from the movie was true), and follow him, to see if I could help!
That wouldn't happen until much later (Tomorrow, as a matter of fact), so instead, I walked around town a while. I bided my time, working out the details of the plan for several hours while window shopping until George picked me up, as he agreed on, where he dropped me off, and we drove home.
George and I got home at around 7 o'clock, and were met with a nice dinner, cooked by Margret, a kind woman slightly shorter than her husband, who bore a slight resemblance to my Pop-pop. She was beautiful, too. A roundish face, with wide lips with deep red lipstick. If you knew these types of things, you'd know she had a very eastern European face.
She wore a pink and white gingham housedress and had her short, curled hair tied back by a red scarf. All she needed was the strand of pearls around her neck to look like a flawless housewife. Regardless, she was just as welcoming as her husband, who had only told her that I was Rudy's cousin visiting from New York
We exchanged small talk. How did I like Los Angeles. How was New York, and the family. How long I'd be staying. George inquired whether or not I got the job at Valiant and Valiant, and I told him, tactfully, that Mr. Valiant would be thinking it over. I went to bed, exhausted, at around 10 o'clock, and woke up the nest morning, Friday, August 15th, almost the same as I felt last night. Time travel sure takes a lot out of a guy.
The next morning, I woke up to find myself not in my room, not in my own house, and not in my own time. Then I remembered I was in the guest bedroom of George and Margaret's house. I checked my vintage watch on the nightstand, and saw it was 9:30. I heard movement in the kitchen and saw my great aunt and uncle making breakfast. Aunt Margret beat the eggs, and Uncle George prepared the bacon while I set the table. When breakfast was finished, Aunt Margret asked me, "Do you need any new clothes? I saw you have only one shirt and one suit. We could go shopping later today."
"You don't have to-"
"I insist. Please. Anything to help Rudy's cousin." She said, as she smiled sweetly.
I was about to say no thank you, but I stopped, remembering she and Uncle George never had any children. Maybe this was her way of being a mom for 's probably just the English student in me looking for symbolism in every sentence again, though. I'd only known the lady for a few hours, so I didn't think I could jump to conclusions yet.
"Bullock's opened at 9. It's on 7th and Broadway," offered Uncle George from the next room.
"I'm not one for shopping, usually, but all right. Count me in." I smiled.
We drove in her car, and several hours later, I walked out with a full 1940's wardrobe: one new suit, a few dress shirts, underclothes, and a few wide silk ties printed with geometric designs.
She and I drove back to Thousand Oaks, when we were greeted by Uncle George who was just about to head to work. He mentioned, distressed, that Marvin Acme was murdered last night, and that the morning paper was on the dining room table should we wish to read more about it.
On the front page- the full front page- was the story accusing Roger Rabbit of murder, Eddie of "fanning the flames of jealousy" with his pictures, and Acme's murder in grisly detail. Doom and the Toon Patrol were also quoted extensively in the article. Margaret, who knew Acme through George's work, suggested that we go to Acme's funeral, which was to be held later that day, to pay our respects. All the studio executives and top animators would be there if they could, and since George was swamped with work, we should go in his stead. I agreed, to possibly see if I could contact Eddie there.
He looked like he was struck by lightning. "If this is all true, you must get involved! Toontown must be saved at all costs! It's already 10 am, so if you want to catch that Valiant man, you'll have to do it now. Come," he said, getting out of his chair. "I'll drive you there on my way to work."
We both climbed into his car, a gorgeous '45 Pontiac Streamliner in white and blue, and drove the way I came (I can't remember much more than that. We were deeply involved in the following conversation, so I don't know which way we went).
"I wish I knew the best way to help you with this," George said, "But I'm not exactly an expert on Toontown, nor on Toon physics. No one is, with the sole exception of Toontown's owner, Marvin Acme. This isn't an exact science, you understand. Bringing a Toon into existence, and the mechanics the 'death' of a Toon are still a mystery. Some sort of psychobabble with quantum physics, or something."
After a long pause, I asked, "What does a Toon physically feel like? Do they have a weight? A texture? Or do they feel like the ink and paint they're made of?"
"It's difficult to explain. They have a weight to them, though, for some of the smaller Toons, it's very slight. They don't look two-dimensional, though. It's..it's really something you'll have to experience for yourself. It's amazing, actually. But they feel, too. They know what pain and heat and cold feel like because that's how they're drawn. They aren't really living things, but they're made to be like they are. Whatever the role demands of them, they do, which is how they can feel. We don't….project our own emotions onto them, but they already come with them. They're alive, and they exist, but not in the sense of you or I. They love, they hate, they feel emotions, but not like humans, because they're not….born. They're drawn, and whatever notes the animator makes on the concept sheets get incorporated into the design. That's why some Toons are good and some Toons are bad. It's really how they're drawn. It brings into question one's views about life as a whole, doesn't it?"
"That must be why they're a….basically a repressed minority now," I said, " That also might be why I had to go 68 years in the past to hear about them. Maybe the people of my own time didn't want people to know about them, because of the physically impossible things they can do that humans can't do: because people could be scared of some kind of stupid potential uprising. Can you imagine it?"
"I never really thought about it that way. But Toons are made to make people laugh. They're comedians. Actors. How can people think they'd start an uprising, or some other stupid thing?"
"Ask the people who don't allow Toons in most of the establishments in LA. It's segregation, really."
"I have to agree with you on that, my boy. But you know, they're near and dear to every American out there. They know how to make people laugh." By that point, we were almost in LA, and I didn't even realize it."Toons," he continued, "don't have much…footing in this world. They're, as you said, a minority. Laughter is what they know best. It's their tool, their weapon to be of some influence in this crazy world of ours. Without laughter, they're nothing, really. We're nothing, too. Laughs can make us human, if you really think about it."
"Maybe that's also why Toons die of too much laughter: because they're just not human."
We were quiet for quite a number of minutes. Nearly 20, before he spoke again.
"Quite true. It's an almost godlike complex, making these Toons come to life. They're like children, pure, and innocent, and made to convey something pure and innocent. If people took advantage of something like that, where would the world be? It would be wrong. It would also be like taking advantage of ourselves, which we successfully manage to do anyway, in this second year of the atomic age. Laughter does make us human. It's what makes us…well, us. If we had no laughter, no joy, or happiness or love, would we still be human? Maybe that's the reason for these cartoons. To make us laugh, and make us feel human. To recapture that essence of pure love and joy when we were children with cartoons. The love and security and the laughter. If that very essence of humanity were taken away, where would we be? People need to laugh, and be happy. That's why Toontown is as important to us as we are to it."
Maybe that's also why Doom wants to destroy Toontown, I thought. In addition to his plot to destroy the Red Car line- LA's public transportation system of trolley cars- and make way for a freeway where Toontown currently stands.
"It's a grim thing to be thinking about," he continued, "It's also something that can really make you question the boundaries of life and all that philosophical stuff. Not something I really want to think about before I head to work. Speaking of, we're almost at Valiant and Valiant's," he said, pulling to a stop at the intersection of South Hope Street and 11th avenue.
"Do you need any money? Do you feel all right by yourself here?" he asked, concerned.
I said that I'd be fine, and as far as money was concerned, he didn't have to, but I would take whatever he could spare. He handed me twenty dollars. You, dear reader, must be thinking what a cheapskate my great uncle is for giving me twenty bucks, but you have to remember that a twenty spot went a very long way in a year where public transportation was a nickel and most meals were 50 cents.
We parted ways, and he drove over to Disney Studios in Burbank. The street was crowded, bustling with people and gorgeous old cars, so it was a bit of a challenge to make it to what I recognized as Eddie's building. It really did look the way the movie portrayed it, South Hope Street. Everything bathed in midmorning sunlight, the people going about their business, and the Red Cars clanging along the tracks.
I, admittedly, felt scared, being all alone in an unfamiliar city, 68 years in the past at that… But I felt a sense of duty to try to help as much as I could, so I soldiered on towards the building where Eddie Valiant's office was. Now, I would have called ahead, but I don't think Eddie would have been in his office at that time. He was probably headed to the Terminal Bar on 6th avenue and South Hope Street, where his girlfriend, Dolores worked.
With incredible luck, I saw who I presumed was Eddie Valiant (He was very nearly the spitting image of Bob Hoskins! The movie producers sure got an A-1 lookalike to play him in the film!) heading into the Terminal Station Bar after throwing his mail in a nearby trashcan, and crossing the street.
I thought I could pass for someone older than I actually was, especially with how I was dressed, so I don't think I'd get kicked out if I went into a bar. Heck, even though I was only 17, I doubt the patrons would have cared. Dolores might, maybe, but she'd be too distracted demanding what happened to the second half of the hundred dollars Eddie owes her, or griping about someone wanting continuous re-fills of their beer.
With mounting confidence, I crossed the street and climbed the stairs, under the flickering neon sign for the bar. Just as I was up the stairs, the ceiling lights sparked and flickered and a trolley roared by. God, how could these guys stand it here with all this noise, I thought to myself.
Soon, Eddie stormed past me just as I was about to enter. Well, hello to you too. Guess I'll talk to him later. I entered the bar, and arrived just in time to see what made Eddie mad: Angelo, an obnoxious mechanic teased Eddie about working for Toons. "What's his problem?" asked Angelo, chewing the rest of the hardboiled egg that Eddie shoved in his mouth.
"A Toon killed his brother", said Dolores, glumly stepping forward, watching Eddie as he stormed out. The patrons gasped, and Delores continued, "Dropped a piano on his head."
Dolores had on her yellow and brown waitress' uniform, which was a bit rumpled. Her hairstyle, a bouffant, touched here and there with strands of gray, puffed along the top of her head, cascading down to form a messy roll by the nape of her neck. Both her dress and her hair were at least a few years out of fashion. Her face was weary, and her eyes looked like they'd seen happier times. She had on bright red lipstick, which only made the lines around her eyes stand out, but the one thing I couldn't help but notice was her deep laugh lines that formed creases by her mouth.
"Nasty business, all that." I said, casually, taking Eddie's vacated seat. "Never mess with a guy who's as hardboiled as the egg you're about to eat."
"He's been through a lot, my Eddie," said Dolores, taking away Eddie's abandoned shot glass to wash it. "He hasn't had a very happy life."
"We all have our stories, Miss…," I trailed off, uncertain of her last name.
"Verne," she supplied, "but just call me Dolores. Every other drunk around here does. Now, can I get you anything, or are you just going to sit there and stare at today's specials?"
"I'll just have a Coca-Cola with a lemon wedge. I don't drink, and I don't intend to start."
I said, "Tell me, my dear Ms. Verne, er …Dolores, rather… what do you know about Eddie Valiant's latest case?"
As she filled out my order, she said, "If you're going to deal with anything involving Eddie, you may as well start drinking now." She slid my drink across the table, Western movie-style. "I don't know much. Say, what's it to you anyway, buster?"
"I think I can help should he ever need it."
She poured Angelo a refill of his Corona, and said to me, dryly, "Well I don't think he's looking for a new partner, but he sure does need some help, all right," earning a few snickers from the other patrons seated at the bar. She glared stonily at them.
I sipped my drink, feeling more and more like an actor in a film noir flick, "I'm looking for work and I'll take what I can get."
"Eddie throws out his bills in the trash. Do you honestly think he'll hire anybody, regardless of how much he needs the help? I'd offer you a job here, but stuffing olives isn't exactly exciting. And the Terminal Station Bar is in danger of closing, and soon, too."
"Come on, doll-face," said Angelo, nursing his beer, "You're the heart and soul of this joint! Only reason I come here every day is to see your shining face."
"Ha!" she laughed.
"I wish you the best of luck keeping this place open if Cloverleaf takes over the Red Car line," I said, wanting to divert the conversation back to Eddie, still hoping I could find my way in through her.
"You mean when it takes it over. I'm guessing you saw the big sign out front. It's not exactly hard to miss." She said, sourly.
"No. I mean if. There's a way out of this mess. I feel it in my gut. Speaking of the fate of the Red Car line, I hear rumors that Cloverleaf also bought Maroon Cartoons and are interested in Acme's properties."
"Well, I didn't hear that anything about that." She noticed I finished my drink, and she said, "That'll be thirty cents."
I handed her the twenty spot that Uncle George gave me, and Angelo whistled. "Whoo! You some kind of high roller, bub?"
Dolores counted out my change and handed it back to me. "Quit it, Angelo. Leave the guy alone."
Angelo backed down and sat back on his bar stool as I put my wallet in the inside pocket of my suit jacket. I awkwardly thanked her for the drink and decided to leave. Maybe Eddie was ready to approach now.
I approached the stairs, and walking down, I thought to myself how that went nowhere fast. Then I realized how stupid I was. I could have seriously altered the timeline just then! Heck, my being here was changing things! Well… I thought uneasily as I crossed the street to head to Valiant's office, maybe it won't be too drastic. Maybe it'll turn out for the best. Maybe my actions here are the reason why certain scenes and characters were deleted from the film: because I was there! Because I, who wasn't supposed to be there was there….. I could play the guessing game all I wanted after this was over. I scolded myself for getting distracted as I mounted the stairs to the main entrance of the building.
I hesitated before pushing the door open. He must be in there. Where else would he be? He won't take those pictures until later, so he's probably getting ready. With my knowledge of what would happen, I walked up to the third floor, and knocked on the door of Valiant and Valiant, room 710.
Just as Eddie was about to open the door, I wondered what I was doing here, really, since Dolores told me I wouldn't get a job helping him with his case. Then, it opened a crack, disrupting my train of thought. Eddie poked his head out of the door.
" I gave at the office. I'm not interested in a new vacuum, and yeah, I already heard the Good News. I don't talk to salesmen." said Eddie, gruffly. His shirt collar was undone, revealing a few scraggly chest hairs, turning gray, slightly. He needed a shave, and the stubble was also sprinkled with a touch of gray. His suspenders were dangling from his pants, and his tie was loosened almost to the point of being undone. He looked extremely disheveled.
"I'm not a salesman, Mr. Valiant. Although, by the looks of it, maybe you do need a new vacuum for your office."
He glowered at me, and was about to slam the door in my face when I said, "I came to ask if you were looking to hire anybody. I'm looking for work and I'll take what I can get."
"Well, I sure as hell ain't hiring. Now beat it, buster. I'm in the middle of a case."
He came this close to closing the door in my face, so I gathered up the guts to stop it and walk in.
"I can help, you know," I said, as I walked in. "With your case."
"It's just a quick little snoop job. I don't need help to take a few pictures, kid. Now get the heck out of here already. And close that damned door behind you when you go."
"All right," I said, as I wrote down the address and phone number for Uncle George's place. "If you ever need help, my offer still stands." He didn't take the paper, so I set it down on his desk.
I lingered at the door, still debating whether or not to say anything more to him. Then, a really good, but also what I felt was a really bad idea popped into my head: I would wait till he headed back to Jessica's dressing room at the Ink and Paint club (assuming that the deleted scene from the movie was true), and follow him, to see if I could help!
That wouldn't happen until much later (Tomorrow, as a matter of fact), so instead, I walked around town a while. I bided my time, working out the details of the plan for several hours while window shopping until George picked me up, as he agreed on, where he dropped me off, and we drove home.
George and I got home at around 7 o'clock, and were met with a nice dinner, cooked by Margret, a kind woman slightly shorter than her husband, who bore a slight resemblance to my Pop-pop. She was beautiful, too. A roundish face, with wide lips with deep red lipstick. If you knew these types of things, you'd know she had a very eastern European face.
She wore a pink and white gingham housedress and had her short, curled hair tied back by a red scarf. All she needed was the strand of pearls around her neck to look like a flawless housewife. Regardless, she was just as welcoming as her husband, who had only told her that I was Rudy's cousin visiting from New York
We exchanged small talk. How did I like Los Angeles. How was New York, and the family. How long I'd be staying. George inquired whether or not I got the job at Valiant and Valiant, and I told him, tactfully, that Mr. Valiant would be thinking it over. I went to bed, exhausted, at around 10 o'clock, and woke up the nest morning, Friday, August 15th, almost the same as I felt last night. Time travel sure takes a lot out of a guy.
The next morning, I woke up to find myself not in my room, not in my own house, and not in my own time. Then I remembered I was in the guest bedroom of George and Margaret's house. I checked my vintage watch on the nightstand, and saw it was 9:30. I heard movement in the kitchen and saw my great aunt and uncle making breakfast. Aunt Margret beat the eggs, and Uncle George prepared the bacon while I set the table. When breakfast was finished, Aunt Margret asked me, "Do you need any new clothes? I saw you have only one shirt and one suit. We could go shopping later today."
"You don't have to-"
"I insist. Please. Anything to help Rudy's cousin." She said, as she smiled sweetly.
I was about to say no thank you, but I stopped, remembering she and Uncle George never had any children. Maybe this was her way of being a mom for 's probably just the English student in me looking for symbolism in every sentence again, though. I'd only known the lady for a few hours, so I didn't think I could jump to conclusions yet.
"Bullock's opened at 9. It's on 7th and Broadway," offered Uncle George from the next room.
"I'm not one for shopping, usually, but all right. Count me in." I smiled.
We drove in her car, and several hours later, I walked out with a full 1940's wardrobe: one new suit, a few dress shirts, underclothes, and a few wide silk ties printed with geometric designs.
She and I drove back to Thousand Oaks, when we were greeted by Uncle George who was just about to head to work. He mentioned, distressed, that Marvin Acme was murdered last night, and that the morning paper was on the dining room table should we wish to read more about it.
On the front page- the full front page- was the story accusing Roger Rabbit of murder, Eddie of "fanning the flames of jealousy" with his pictures, and Acme's murder in grisly detail. Doom and the Toon Patrol were also quoted extensively in the article. Margaret, who knew Acme through George's work, suggested that we go to Acme's funeral, which was to be held later that day, to pay our respects. All the studio executives and top animators would be there if they could, and since George was swamped with work, we should go in his stead. I agreed, to possibly see if I could contact Eddie there.