He headed to a set of empty stools at the bar, not that there was a shortage of seats. A few patrons gathered in tight knots or sat forlornly over a glass. The Curb might have once been a comfortable neighborhood pub, but years of smoke, sweat, and general district decline relegated her to a booze hound's joint. Seven years hadn't done much but add another layer of grime to the mirrors behind the long bar. Rickety glass shelves held bottles of cheap liquor for inspection. A giant flag took up the back wall while broken down booths lined the other side. A single pool table, felt having seen better days, hulked in the middle of the narrow room.

The barkeep looked up from his book as they settled onto the stools. That guy, Jason didn't remember as part of the décor. "Two Millers," he ordered. The Curb only served Miller or Bud. If you wanted fancy you went somewhere else.

Removing his jacket, he slung it over another vacant stool as the bartender snagged their beers from an under counter fridge. Jason dropped the money for the first round on the mottled orange surface of ancient shellac. He took his beer, ignored the change, and took a deep swig. The first drink always tasted the best.

The wall of framed headshots reflected in the mirror, Jason realized hadn't changed at all. Maybe six dozen stuntmen, fight coordinators, and swordmasters hung in rows. They stared out into a smoke-stained tavern paneled in fake mahogany. In the seventies, The Curb had been the place for the rough and tumble guys and gals in the trade. Even drifting down, as the studios moved into the Valley and productions went on location instead of being shot in back lots, stuntmen kept up the tradition of The Curb. You knew you'd made it when Alphonso, the owner, asked if you had a picture for his collection.

After a few swallows, Jason stared at his beer and broached the subject he really didn't want to discuss. "So, ah, how's what's his face? The studio exec."

"Okay," Ernie shrugged. "I guess."

"You guess?" Snorting, Jason glared at Ernie. They were at The Curb, they were drinking, they both knew where they'd end up at the end of the night, even if they pretended not to. Ernie glossing the fact they'd likely cheat on whoever Ernie was with didn't help matters. Jason didn't have anyone to cheat on.

"Well, our relationship sorta went downhill a while back." Another shrug as Ernie picked at the label on his beer bottle. "Like with the house."

Not enough drinks had gone down to lay the confusion at the feet of Jason's sobriety. "I'm not really understanding you there."

A tight smile blew across Ernie's face. "You know he had that nice place up in Malibu and we just, sorta, I guess, lived there together for awhile." Jason only knew about it through scuttlebutt: rumors that hurt like hell. Even if he was the one who'd broken it off, well, being forgotten sucked.

Oblivious to Jason's memories, Ernie continued, "The area burnt out a while back. It missed the house, but the hillside was just bare. Then the rains hit and thwoop, right into the canyon. We moved into this little studio for a while and realized we couldn't stand each other any more." Another swig went down before he added, "That was a couple years ago. Haven't been serious with anybody for a while."

"Oh, wow, I'm sorry." Jason was and wasn't sorry. Inhibitions loosened by the beer, their last fight, welled back up. He'd been angry. He'd been hurt. Hate hadn't been part of it, though. They'd both fucked around. Exclusivity never really mattered to Jason. Still, there was an open relationship and then there was fucking everything that moved during a sex party. That he couldn't deal with. It just wasn't him. Risky, stupid behavior.

Ernie'd called him a tight-assed prude when he'd confronted him. Bug-chaser, slut, candy ass ... several other hateful names passed Jason's lips during that go-round. He shoved Ernie out the door, yelling at him never to come back. Problem with those types of statements ... occasionally, people take you seriously. Next thing he knew, Ernie pops up at red carpet premiers escorting second-string starlets and drinking champagne on yachts in Newport. All of it without Jason.

Somewhere between bitter and uncaring, Ernie growled, "Don't be. Steven was a pencil-dicked shithead." He downed the remainder of his bottle in one go and gave a high sign to the bartender to start another round. "So with the writers' strike ... how you faring?" Switching out the dead bottle for a new one, he added a redundant question. "Working?"

Silence and pain of seven years filled with questions. Had to start to reconnect somewhere. Jason dropped his own empty on the bar. "Well, I had a great gig on a regular action prime-time show and a sometimes gig on a reenactment docudrama." He huffed out the frustration. "Then the writers walked out. We had three scripts for the new season. Shot those. Then they laid us all off. The educational shit dried up a little bit after."

"That sucks."

More drinking ate up time. Jason half finished his beer before he asked, "You?"

"I've got a few movies in the pipes that were in pre-production prior." Ernie watched the beer swirl in the bottle for a while. "Those are still going forward. CGI's stealing a lot of screen time. Five hours of work here and there in front of a blue screen just doesn't have the thrill. And it's not as steady or as fast as I'd like, but it's work."

"I hear that." Both downed the remaining beer and stared at the empties. "Like old times? Tequila?" They'd always finished off a night with the Old Man with a round of shots.

"Great." Ernie waggled two fingers at the barkeep. "Two shots, Cuervo." When the drinks came, gold liquid fire in chipped shot glasses, they turned and raised their drinks to the wall of headshots. Somewhere, three or four rows up and across, their own, younger, faces stared out at them. The Old Man's was there, too, higher up and in a frame darkened by time. They slammed back the tequila.

Ernie dropped some cash on the bar while Jason shouldered into his jacket. Jason realized Ernie'd never removed his coat, the bomber jacket he'd liberated off a set. Probably figured they wouldn't be there very long. Sunday nights ranked low as party time for most people. While they were inside the rain had started back up. Jason followed Ernie's run to his car. A damn nice and fairly new Nissan X-Terra beeped and unlocked itself when Ernie punched the key-fob. Hell of a lot better ride than Jason's twenty-year-old Jetta.

Sliding into an interior that still smelled vaguely of new car, Jason gave himself a moment to wallow in jealousy. Newish vehicle, high-end clothes--things Jason didn't usually see except on Talent. As he yanked the door shut, he tried to rationalize. Ernie'd always been better at the high paying gags, super risky stunts that gave you the bump. Then again, Ernie also knew how to hustle for jobs. He had the knack for showing up on set about the time some idiot got booted off filming. It was almost a second sense. And, once you were known, you were known. Hard core hustles were for stuntmen who didn't have a rolodex full of connections.

"You know," Ernie slammed the driver's door, then twisted the key in the ignition, "I could use something to eat."