DON STROUD

adventures in screenwriting circa 1996

It all started with a sharp pain in my right testicle. I was still half asleep trying to ignore my cats who had just begun their morning ritual of annoying little antics to awaken me. This particular morning it was batting the window blinds. Simple, yet loud enough to be heard, irritating enough to be difficult to ignore, and far enough away to avoid any swipe or kick from me.

And then I felt it again. This time there was no doubt about it. I was having sharp, shooting pain in the last place a man want’s to have sharp, shooting pain. What’s a heart attack compared to testicular cancer. My eyes opened wide and I froze with fear as I could feel my heart pumping with adrenaline. Needless to say, I was now wide awake.

Jeez, you’re going along, day to day, living what passes for a life, then bang. It’s all changed in a flash. I had just turned 30. I’d just read two weeks earlier about some olympic cyclist who’d recently been diagnosed with TC. And this was a guy who biked 100 miles a day, had a resting pulse rate of 34, zero body fat, was just 24 years old and a vegetarian. I remember feeling bad for him. I remember thinking what’s the use in exercising and eating right if something like that could happen to a guy like him.

And now it’s my turn? Is testicular cancer the next big thing? My face seemed to be getting hot. I slowly reached down and felt for my testicle, terrified I was going to find something the size of a grapefruit which had somehow appeared overnight. Everything felt normal, although I must admit I don’t make it a habit of close inspection of my own balls.

Maybe it’s just stress, I’ve been under a mountain of it lately.

After five years of spec-scripts, treatments, rewrites, pitches, meetings, canceled meetings, countless unreturned phone calls, lies, true lies, freeways, smog, the riots, an earthquake, my car stolen, my relationship disintegrated, matchbox sized apartments with paper mache walls, a burgeoning drinking problem, and just an overall sense of malaise -suddenly my ship came sailing into the harbor!

Two weeks ago the head of development at Paramount calls me himself to tell me it looks like my romantic comedy is their next “go” script. He went on to mention certain A-list stars who would be perfect for it, told me how much he loved a particular scene, even gushed how I pulled off the 3rd act and nobody pulls off the 3rd act in a romantic comedy (or rom-com as he kept calling it).

As he rambled on and on (I thought these guys were busy?) his words started to lose focus. It gradually became all about him and how much pressure he was under for this and for that. He said I needed to trust him if he was going to trust me? I remember looking at my watch and noticing it was 2:12pm. Finally, he blurted out that we needed to get together next week to “hammer this thing out.” As I started to make some stupid quip about bringing some nails, he hung up.

I sat stunned. Did that just happen? Did Paramount Pictures just call me? Did my life just change? Is that guy crazy?

A writer. I could finally call myself a writer instead of telemarketer, waiter, dry wall hanger, lawn mower -whatever. Until you actually sell something it’s still just a dream. It’s just something you and half a million other dreamers raised on too much TV thought sounded so easy.

For three whole days after that call, I floated around. The ocean breezes felt fresher, the eucalyptus trees smelled sweeter, even the traffic seemed somehow lighter. The whole city was now bathed in a soft golden glow.

For the first time in months I took a long drive along the coast as the sun set, rolled all the windows down, smoked cigarettes, sang my ass off, and felt as truly alive and full of optimism as I had since I was 12 years old. I even allowed myself a brief jaunt through the hollywood hills, making mental notes of which houses struck me as suitable. Jesus, I was about to be handed the keys to one of the most exclusive clubs in the world -Hollywood.

And then on the 4th day my air pocket of euphoria was sucked out from underneath me in a matter of seconds after I picked up the latest issue of Variety and right there on the cover was a story on that same development executive who had phoned me personally. He was being sued for sexual harassment by three female co-workers at Paramount. He was put on immediate leave without pay. My throat tightened so severely I couldn’t swallow. I tried to read further but my vision blurred and the entire inside of that godforsaken 7-Eleven started to spin.

I lumbered stiffly, spaceman like out of the store and somehow made it to a pay phone. When I couldn’t reach my agent I jerked the receiver from the phone like the cord was made of licorice. I still had it in my hand when I walked into the gun store later that day and tried to buy a 9 millimeter.

You see, in Hollywood there’s an unwritten rule or code that states that if someone leaves, everything he or she was working on dies with them. No one wants to touch anything the previous person was working on for fear that the same damn thing will happen to them. And even if you did go ahead with any of their projects and one of them actually worked, they would get all the credit anyway. And if you went ahead with their stuff and it failed, well, don’t let the door hit you on the way out bozo.

I still try to console myself with the fact that I had 3 days. Three. Beautiful. Bliss Filled. Shiny Happy Days.

Another savage jolt of pain brings me back to my new reality. Maybe it’s just that Thai food I had the other night, cooked up by those sketchy looking punk rockers masquerading as chefs at that dump on Hollywood Blvd. I’m never eating there again.

I threw back the covers, got out of bed, fed the cats and did what I usually do about some minor ailment -nothing.

And then two days later it happened again. Sharp, shooting, almost knee bending pain in the same testicle. Something was definitely wrong. So I did what any educated person with no health insurance would do -I went to the bookstore and tried to form a self diagnosis. (This was pre-internet days folks.) I figured it was either TC or PC (prostate cancer), the Big 2 for men. Not like one was more preferable than the other. They both could kill you, or in an almost best case scenario you live and are either deformed (one lone testicle!) or simply can’t get it up anymore. Why was this happening to me!

I checked first for the prostate thing. Pain when urinating, a weak flow, constantly feeling like you need to go to the bathroom. I felt a small sense of relief. No electric jolts to the balls in the whole book. But then I realized I may have answered my own question. I felt my face flush as I picked up a book on Cancer. Just saying the word kind of took the air out of your lungs. Cancer was what other people got. I was always ridiculously healthy, rarely even got colds. But hey, if Mr. Olympic cyclist can get it, then I guess anybody can.

Sore throat, fatigue, swollen limp nodes -the usual suspects were listed. Cancer wears so many hats and disguises. After reading on and on until I got a headache, I eventually slumped out of the store in a daze knowing I had to see a doctor.

A week later I’m sitting in my first urologists office. I remember thinking I must actually be an adult now if I’m waiting to see a urologist. The fact that it was a swank, upscale office somehow made me feel better. I’d made it a point to pick one who was in Beverly Hills. I figured if it had anything to do with my balls they deserved the best. No bottomfeeder from the fucking Valley with his cheesy offshore degree was going to determine the future of my family jewels, or my life for that matter.

I’m led into one of the back rooms by a girl who is way too cute to be handing out plastic cups to fill with piss, when she hands me a plastic cup to fill with piss and tells me the doctor will be with me soon. I’d envisioned this scenario happening (hey I’m no idiot, just a screenwriter) and had loaded up all morning on coffee, orange juice and water. I could have filled a mason jar if I had to.

I placed my impressive looking sample on the counter and awaited my fate. What does a urologist look like? Bald, paunchy, glasses, mid-50’s, seemed the most likely to me. Suddenly the door opened and this long haired, good looking guy (kind of like Richard Lewis the comedian) comes waltzing in. Welcome to healthcare in Beverly Hills.

But he was in no mood for jokes, and within minutes I was standing before my doctor the comedian with my pants around my ankles as he inspected my damaged goods. I kept awaiting a groan or a moan indicating trouble. And what’s the turn your head and cough thing do anyway? How do my balls know if my head is turned or not? So I cheated on the turn to the left, I looked straight ahead.

“Well, I don’t feel anything unusual,” never sounded so good to me. Yes, I was going to be OK! I wanted to tell him he was one of my favorite comedians, that I even liked his acting work (which I’d always made fun of as stiff and contrived). But then he mentioned something about tests and radiology, “just to be sure.”

My sense of relief lasted all of ten seconds. I wasn’t going to get this resolved today. Of course there must be tests, and waiting for the results of those tests, then more tests if those are inconclusive. Then more doctors, other opinions, and maybe even hospital stays. This was merely the beginning of a long nightmare. I remember gazing outside at a palm tree as it swayed gently in the breeze, thinking that that palm tree would be alive on this planet longer than I would -when I heard something about my prostate.

“When’s the last time you had your prostate checked?”, the comedian asked seriously. Well, never, but it’s not my prostate. I then tried to impress him with my 30 minutes of extensive research I’d already done on this matter. “Well, you’re here and you’re at that age where you can’t be too careful.” I wasn’t finding this guy very funny at all.

So now I’m bent forward onto the ice cold stainless steel table with my bare ass exposed like some porn star in the Valley awaiting her big scene with Peter North or Justin Case when I glanced behind me as Richard donned a rubber glove and lube. This was really happening. I averted my eyes forward, all I could find was my impressive urine sample to stare at. I couldn’t help but smile because I’d purposely filled the small cup too high, causing whoever were to grab it to spill it. Ughhhh, he was in. Strange, unusual, disgusting -and yet slightly soothing in a weird kind of way.

And then it was over. Everything but the tests. And the pain in my testicle, which seemed to be happening with more and more frequency. Who needed tests, I knew what was wrong with me. I was doomed.

Two days later I’m at St.Johns hospital wandering the halls looking for radiology. I kept thinking this is where Elizabeth Taylor had her hip replaced, or was that her lung? I should be so lucky, what’s a hip or a lung to a ball? And I’m not even married yet. It’s not like I have some loving, understanding wife who already has a few good years of lovemaking in the books with me. No, I’ve got to prepare for the shocked look on some girl’s face as I try to explain I was scuba diving off the great barrier reef when this shark came out of nowhere… radiology, I’m here.

The waiting room was almost full -of really old people. I was the youngest there by at least 20 years. Was radiology the last step before the final cliff? Why were all these seniors getting x-rays anyway? What good was it going to do at this point?

As I made my way to the counter feeling like some underage high school kid in his first bar, I saw the sign in pad. When I picked up the pencil on a string to add my name to the soon to be deceased list, right above the next blank space printed in big, block all capital letters was the name DON STROUD. No way. I quickly glanced around the room looking for him. Nope. Not the same Don Stroud. Like I said, nothing but senior citizens here. I signed in and took a seat.

The Don Stroud I was looking for was an actor. He usually played a heavy, or the best buddy of the lead. In Hollywood speak he was a character actor. He was big without being brawny, good looking without being pretty. He was the kind of guy the ladies really went for, but men liked him too because he was a real guy. A man’s man. And he had this voice that was somewhere between a whisper and a threat. When I was a scrawny 10 year old kid and the movies started to take me away, I remember thinking that when I grew up I wanted to be a lot like Don Stroud. Nobody fucked with Don Stroud.

Don Stroud

I kept looking up from my People magazine to see if the real Don Stroud would show up. After all, this was Liz Taylor’s hospital, I was in LaLa Land. There was one guy who was standing in the corner wearing a baseball hat, glasses, windbreaker, black sweat pants and army boots that might be him. No way. This guy was only about 6 feet tall, and was just too old, almost frail looking. Oh well, no star sightings today. I went back to my article on Cher’s new macrobiotic diet when I heard it -Don Stroud’s voice.

There are only a few things in this world in which I’m really good at: afternoon naps, parallel parking, procrastinating, day dreaming (see afternoon naps), and identifying voices. When I see a television commercial with some star slumming for an extra hundred grand doing the voiceover, I can name them in a matter of seconds. Of course, like all my other skills, this is basically a useless gift. If there ever is a game show where they play audio tapes and ask you to name that voice, I’ll soon have that mansion in the hills that I’ve always dreamed of.

It WAS the guy in the corner. He was at the counter now asking the nurse how much longer. I heard her ask him his name. “Stroud, Don Stroud,” Don Stroud said. Oh my God, that is him! But what’s happened to him? I always thought Don Stroud was at least 6'4" or 6'5"? And this guy was old, easily 60. And his face, it seems to have fallen slightly on one side, like he’s had a stroke or something. As Don Stroud went back to his corner I couldn’t stop staring. Jeez. Don Stroud got old.

I looked around the room to see if anyone else picked up on this. There wasn’t a person in the room who hadn’t seen Don Stroud on television or in the movies several times. But no, no one else even noticed that one of the great character actors from the 70’s and 80’s was standing right over there in the corner.

I was thrown for a loop. I did some quick math. If I was 12 in 1970 and he was say 30, yes, that could make him near 60 now. Wow. Life really is a blink. I wasn’t so young anymore myself. But what happened to him? Did he in fact have a stroke? And why was he here today, is he dying? I’d forgotten my problems completely and had focused on one of my childhood heroes over there in the corner who was now an old man. And not only that, nobody even knew who the hell he was. The futility of life pounded at my head.

And then Don Stroud left his corner and walked out into the hallway. I waited a few seconds then decided I had to say something to him. I wanted to tell him how much I appreciated his work, how much I liked him in “The Choirboys” and “Coogan’s Bluff”, how when I was in high school I used to comb my hair across my forehead just like he did, hoping to look as cool as him, how in some way, he was one of the reasons I was out here now, trying to do what I was trying to do. I wanted to tell him something.

When I reached the hallway I saw him get into the elevator. I ran the few steps to beat the now closing doors. As I settled into the opposite corner, it was just the two of us. My mind raced to all the people who had stood the same three feet from him acting out their lines: John Wayne, Clint Eastwood, Paul Newman, Raquel Welch. But there were only 4 floors in the building so I didn’t have much time. When I looked over at him, his eyes met mine with that classic Don Stroud glare and I knew I was done. He was in no mood for conversation. I held his gaze for a moment, then simply nodded man to man to him. And he nodded back. He knew I knew. And you know what, that was all that needed to be said. The door opened on the 4th floor and he was gone.

I took my tests and my good luck returned. All I had were kidney stones, they would eventually pass naturally. The sharp pain gradually subsided, then went away entirely in just a few weeks. I was lucky.

I wonder if Don Stroud was.

• Authors note -I wrote this story about 20 years ago when some girl asked me (rather dismissively) if I wrote anything other than screenplays. “Sure,” I lied, “I also write short stories and essays.” All these events had basically just happened to me the previous couple of months, so I sat down that night and eventually this story came out.
• And yes, Lance Armstrong was the olympic cyclist I was referring to (guess it only takes one ball to cheat).
• And no, my romantic comedy never did get made. But I did write and direct the award winning independent film “Joint Adventure” a few years later.
• I never attempted to publish this story anywhere, but as a recent admirer of Medium.com -it has inspired me to share, and to write.
• I got to thinking about Don Stroud recently when his name came up in Dead or Alive? I am happy to report that Don Stroud is indeed still alive. He’s 73 now. And after doing some research I found out the reason I thought he had a stroke or something back then was because he tried to break up a mugging he witnessed in New York City in 1992. He was stabbed 6 times, including once in the eye, eventually causing him to lose the eye. He also suffered permanent nerve damage to parts of his face.
• In his career, he has acted in over 100 films and 250 television shows.
• Keep on going Don Stroud, you still inspire me.