Charlie has abandoned her marriage to Duane Dupres, the filthy rich heir to the Florida Lawnmower Empire. After a lengthy solo cross-country journey of quasi-Kerouac self-actualization, Charlie has returned to Hollywood in hopes of reviving her once-thriving career as a primetime action-episodic series TV star. It hasn’t gone well. After her early “retirement” from Hollywood, she hadn’t just burned a few bridges, she’d blown them up.
Charlie secretly has taken refuge at the Geronimo Canyon Peak stilt-house of her very best friend, cruise ship choreographer, Ricky Fletcher. It’s a crash pad occupied by the very same lunatic LA types that seven years prior sent her screaming into the arms of her Kissimmee paramour. Adding insult to everything else, traffic sucks due to innumerable ugly roadway tangles statewide caused by frenzied lottery ticket buyers hoping to cash in on California’s largest winner’s pot of record. And the drawing is tonight.
Throughout, the Greek Chorus of local and international news emanating from Ricky’s giant Hitachi screen resounds with the type of bemused urgency that’d make Cassandra’s head spin off her marble shoulders. Yet the squabbles and confusions among Charlie’s ‘roommates’ dominate. When Ricky arrives unexpectedly, he brings with him an inconvenient and painful surprise: a “guest” whose very presence and ‘news’ challenges Charlie to her core, compelling her to face her most annoying and profound existential demons . . . or perhaps for once, just let that ship sail, and end it all. Be careful what you wish for, right? And maybe take some responsibility if the Fault lies all around you.
