Scott sighed, his right ring and index fingers tapping the ‘0’ and ‘N’ buttons on his laptop in rhythm, trying to drown out the pounding in his brain and give the illusion that he might possibly, maybe get something done today. Working in Hawaii wasn’t without its perks; the sun, the surf, beautiful beaches, even more beautiful women. An entire state designed and marketed to provide relaxation to the masses flocking towards it, and Scott was here, deep in the heart of it, with nothing on his mind but movement. It just wasn’t in his nature to stay still; ever since he was a kid, he had needed to be in motion, climbing on furniture, skateboarding, surfing, eventually being sated by his work, acting, writing, directing, anything and everything. In any other life, Scott truly believes that he would have been branded a workaholic, would have never come home from the office, been promoted to CFO before he was thirty, and sacrificed every chance for a healthy relationship in the process. In Hollywood, that is the norm; if you’re not married and divorced twice by the time you’re 40, you probably have to give up part of your pension. Scott’s never been married, but he’s been through enough bullshit in relationships to know that he doesn’t de-compartmentalize well. The day he finds the person who can live with that is the day they get married. Until then, he’s happy with what he’s got. Besides, actually having the time to write and plan new projects instead of rushing around to different events and doing interviews was as relaxed as Scott could get.
That is, relaxed when he could actually figure out what to write. Scott stretched lazily, bringing his hands up to clasp behind his head, leaning back in his chair, his faded skate shirt riding up ever so slightly, tan skin bordering denim. His blonde hair was unkempt, happy to be product-free for a few days, and Scott couldn’t help but run his hands through it, a compulsion he’s had to suppress since taking on the role of Danny “Danno” Williams, whose own slicked back locks do not allow for personal scalp massages on set, unless you wanted to inflict the wrath of ten hot-iron wielding hair stylists. Hawaii Five-0 was, without a doubt, one of the best decisions he’d ever made, career wise. Two years in, and the show had provided him a mass market appeal, a number of intriguing opportunities, not to mention a Golden Globe nomination; the awards might be bullshit, the winners often being bought and paid for, but it never hurts to have the moniker follow you around on press releases. It had all necessitated, however, a fairly permanent move to Hawaii, meaning that for the better part of the year, Scott was confined to the island, his beach house in Diamond Head his up-market Alcatraz. He wasn’t one to play the poor little rich boy angle, particularly when his experiences on Hawaii Five-0 have been nothing short of incredible, but the environment just did not lend itself to creativity. Not Scott Caan’s brand of creativity, anyway.
So that is how he spends his day off; staring at his computer screen, his eyes crossing at the stark whiteness juxtaposed against the jumbled mess inside his head that aches to be released and formed into something. It drives him insane, and at the end of the day, when all he has managed to write is one page of dialogue, he can only consider it an achievement, before diving off his balcony and straight into the pool.
He doesn’t intend to drown himself, but he can’t pretend it wouldn’t help.
Scott gives up early today, close to mid-morning, although considering he hasn’t slept in over 24 hours, it might as well be midnight. He clears away a layer of clothing from his floor, tossing it all in the laundry basket for later, moving to the kitchen, clearing away the empty beer bottles and take-away boxes plaguing every available surface. Scott has a cleaner, but she only comes twice a week; Scott can generally be left to look after himself, but when the days come and he has an idea for a story, his standards start to slip, particularly when the idea doesn’t want to manifest itself into words. He finds his dog, Dot, the beautiful black and white mutt, curled up on his balcony, ready to nap after a morning running around the back yard, amusing herself since her owner was too deep in his own head to take her out on a proper walk. Scott loves Dot; she is the perfect roommate, one that offers love and affection and none of the emotional distress. The only mess he’s found himself in during this relationship has been taking a walk without plastic bags. He doesn’t really care how fucked up it might be, it works for him.
The thing is that since leaving L.A., however many bikini babes approach him, he hasn’t felt the pull for anything long-term. He hasn’t exactly been celibate; shooting a primetime drama on an island the size of a postage stamp has many benefits, he’ll be the first to admit. But even the one night stands are becoming stale. Scott mentally and physically punches himself every night for his stupidity. his self-imposed orgasms not as satisfying as they should be. He wished desperately he knew what he wanted. There was only so much laundry a guy could do before a 3am call time.
Sighing, Scott grabbed his board and decided to head down to his stretch of beach, technically part of the Diamond Head Beach Park, but private enough that he could wipe out without it being caught on a hundred camera phones. He figured that if a little thrashing in the Hawaiian surf didn’t get his brain moving, nothing would. With one fleeting look and a middle finger to his laptop, he was gone.
A clear, sharp whistle pierced the air, followed by a cheery “Hey, Scotty!” in a deep, Australian-accented voice. Scott blew the salt water out of his nostrils, his body aching from tumbling through wave after wave, his board floating nearby. Grabbing it, he heads for the beach, where he finds Alex O’Loughlin, his best friend and co-star, sitting on the shore in a t-shirt and shorts, squinting up at him in unadulterated glee. With a high five and a hello, Scott leans against his board, and asks, “What, you come down to see me get my ass kicked?”
Laughing, Alex stands, wiping the sand from his cutoff jeans. “You should have told me you were heading out, I’d have come with.”
“Oh no way, you’re like some tanned surfing idol,” Scott mocks. “I’d probably have hit my head on a rock or something, while you, you would have ridden the wave all the way to the shore without getting that pretty little head wet.”
Alex throws his head back with a laugh. “What do you mean, you’ve been surfing for your entire life, mate!”
“Doesn’t matter, you’re Australian. That’s the trump card.” Tucking his board under his arm, Scott fell into step with Alex as they headed up the beach towards Scott’s house. Proximity and circumstance had made it necessary to get along, but thankfully, as their first week and one very long night at the Hawaiian Hilton had them inseparable, praying that the pilot would be picked up so they could come back and get paid to hang out on the regular.
“So what’s up? I thought you were incommunicado until tomorrow, I thought I’d see you on set.” Scott shifted the board to the other arm as they climbed up to the house, passing through the back security gate seeing them into Scott’s backyard. Dropping the board entirely, Scott flopped down on a deck chair, scratching Dot’s ears as Alex settled down across from him.
“Dana got me out of a few interviews today,” Alex said, referring to his publicist. He leaned back as Dot made her way over to him, hopping up on two legs to paw at his chest like she did her owner. Laughing, Alex rubbed her down, continuing. “They were only phone-ins, total bullshit, nothing they couldn’t get from the other guys. Just thought I’d pop over, see how the script was going.”
Scott’s face darkened at the reminder. The surf had done nothing to get his ideas out, the only beyond the realization that putting Lindsay Lohan in a bikini might not spell “box office success”. Or…any kind of success really. Now he was just bummed out.
“That bad, huh?” Alex, seeing the turn in Scott’s demeanor, supplies sympathetically. “How long have you been stuck?”
Scott sighs, “You’ve been away a week, so…6 days and 22 hours? I don’t know man, it’s like I have this idea of where I want to bring it, but the character isn’t letting me bring him there. This is the problem with being an actor and a writer, nothing is ever realistic enough.”
“Does anything help?”
“Well let’s see,” Scott kicks his feet up, leaning back in his chair, and counting off his fingers. “Surfing didn’t help, jogging didn’t help, writing everything that popped into my head didn’t work, though I think I came up with a good 'pineapple, pickle, and penis' joke.”
Alex laughs, covering his mouth apologetically as Scott sighs, “I don’t know man, it’s like nothing’s filtering through. The script is a work in progress stuck in progress, I should just toss it and start again.”
Alex, sitting up, reaches across to pat Scott reassuringly on the shoulder, gripping it tight and shaking loosely, as though to sift the doubt from his friend’s mind. “Come on, don’t give up yet. You just need something to get you going again.” Narrowing his eyes as though in deep thought, Alex stood, “I’ll put my mind to it, don’t worry. Now though, I came here for a reason. Beer?”
Scott nodded, watching Alex head for the kitchen, Dot in hot pursuit. As his two best friends padded away, Scott tapped his fingers on the soft, worn wood of his chair. It was reassuring knowing that at least two sentient beings had his back, even if he did feed one three times a day. He only had to feed Alex twice, tops.