Animate Me

by Ruth Clampett

  “I wasn’t lying, it’s a black Armani tux.”

  “Make sure you comb that crazy hair too, you look like a rag-mop.”

  Gee thanks, asshat. At least I don’t have a receding hairline forcing me to go for the Bruce Willis look.

  “Yeah, I’m getting a haircut. Anything else?” I’m getting pissed and don’t know how much of this humiliation I can take.

  “Just don’t do anything stupid. If you don’t know what to say, stay quiet.” He folds his arms over his chest. “This is a big night for Brooke, and I want it to go well. I have no fucking idea why she thought you should take her…you seem to be her latest ‘project,’ but I couldn’t talk her out of it, so I’m just warning you.”

  Project? I feel a wave of panicked insecurity, but then remind myself that he doesn’t have any idea about what is between Brooke and I. My back bristles but I force myself to speak.

  “Warning me?” I grip the handles of my chair so hard my knuckles are white. “Is this a work related issue? If so, I think someone from HR should be here.”

  He gives me a threatening look and ignores my veiled threat.

  “Don’t fuck this up for my girl, Nathan. Do you understand me?”

  “Perfectly,” I say looking down so that I don’t give him the death glare. If I were the Green Lantern mister big shot would be on his knees now, blinded by the rays from my powerful ring. “Can I go now?” I ask as steadily as my fury will allow.

  “Yeah, get back to work.”

  The entire walk and elevator ride back to my cube I plot my revenge. The first gesture will be executed on company time.

  Too bad he won’t be seeing the caricature I’ve got planned for him. It will definitely be a pre-waxed Arnold in the Amazon, swinging from a vine with one hand, and a very small banana in the other.

  Animate Me / Chapter Thirteen / And the Award Goes to…

  “Every adventure requires a first step.” ~Cheshire Catxii

  Saturday morning I stand in front of a row of stores on Melrose Place confused. When I look to the right I see a designer’s store called Stella McSomething and when I look to the left I see another expensive looking clothes place called Marc and Jacob but I don’t see a fancy hair-cutting place. I study the address on the paper and look up again. Is this like Number Twelve Grimmauld Place in Harry Potter where you have to cast a magic spell for the buildings to slide apart and reveal your destination? Maybe it has a protective nerd shield. Perhaps it’s a sign that I shouldn’t be here.

  Just when I’m about to give up I notice an antique looking gate between the two buildings. I approach it and peer through, revealing a courtyard with a fountain and all kinds of exotic looking plants. Is this the place?

  I tentatively pull open the gate and step inside. Just on the other side of the fountain I see a wall of glass with busy haircutting people inside. I can almost hear Betty, the tiny woman that lives in my car’s dashboard and runs my GPS, say, “You have reached your destination.”

  The minute I approach the reception desk I realize my life is no longer my own. I also realize that I should’ve dressed nicer.

  “Hi, I’m Nathan Evans and I have an appointment with Bradley.”

  “Yes, of course,” the glamazon purrs before stepping from behind the desk. “Come with me.”

  I walk behind her marveling at how she balances in those ridiculous shoes. They have big platforms and a mess of straps halfway up her calves. Her skirt is short enough that she probably can’t bend over without a show. She stops in front of a door.

  “You can change in here.”

  “Change?” I sputter. Am I getting a physical exam along with my haircut?

  She squints and I can tell she’s trying not to roll her eyes. She opens the door and steps towards a fancy antique looking wardrobe thing. Reaching in, she pulls out a black robe made of a thin fabric—definitely not terry or flannel. I’m supposed to wear this? Maybe this is Hogwarts.

  “You take off your shirt and hang it in here, and then put this on,” she explains like I’m a candidate for preschool. “Can I get you a cappuccino or a glass of wine?”

  Wine? It’s ten in the morning. This crowd must like to get the party started early. “Actually, some water would be great, thanks.”

  After she closes the door behind her, I pull off my hoodie and T-shirt and hang them up. As I slide on the robe I stop to look in the mirror noting that those new crunches and bench presses Curtis showed me are paying off. When Brooke put her hand on my chest Thursday night, I didn’t flinch from embarrassment but welcomed it because I know working out has been worth the effort. Curtis has had me on a regimen for years, initially in the hopes that I would be able to defend myself when people picked on me. But I kept it up because it relieved the stress of bending over an animation table all day.

  I tie the robe shut and venture outside. Another woman approaches me. She has her eyebrow pierced, light blue eyes and the blackest hair against her pale skin.

  “Hi Nathan, I’m London. Let me take you to Bradley.”

  He must be the king of this castle because the throne-like chair she leads me to is in a private area facing the garden. Bradley sweeps in right after her and shakes my hand.

  “So you are Nathan.”

  I nod.

  “Morgan asked me to take good care of you. You are taking Ms. Brooke to the Emmy’s tomorrow, yes?”

  Ms. Brooke? I nod again, still overwhelmed.

  He tips his head, examining me. I can tell there are a lot of thoughts running around in there that he won’t be sharing, but I’m used to that feeling when people meet me.

  “I looooove Brooke, so I am going to make sure you’re the hottest guy at the event.”

  Really? I think skeptically. Well, good luck with that.

  He steps behind me and watches my reflection in the mirror as he runs his hands through my hair, lifting and watching it fall.

  “Can I show you something?” I ask, remembering my plan.

  “Sure, do you have a picture of a cut you like?”

  “Not exactly.” I pull out my old glasses and put them on, then press my hair over my forehead. “This was my old look that Arnauld suggested could be improved. I thought it would be helpful for you to see it.”

  Bradley coughs and London hands him his bottle of water. He is pressing his hand on his chest and can’t seem to talk, so I continue.

  “Can I ask your opinion? I mean, is it really that bad?”

  “Well, let me understand,” Bradley asks once he has his voice back. “What is this, some kind of pseudo-intellectual, geekazoid grunge, pre-Mia Farrow-Woody Allen, ‘I’m too busy thinking deep thoughts to do anything as frivolous as getting my hair cut’ look?”

  I stare at him, blinking repeatedly, stuck on the creepy Woody Allen reference.

  “Was any part of that what you were going for?” he questions.

  I dig in my pocket for a folded paper and I open it carefully. “No, I was patterning myself after Roy Orbison in his later years. I hold up a picture of the singer who was popular in the fifties. “See the glasses and how he wore his hair swept down. He was so cool when he toured with the Traveling Wilburys.”

  Bradley holds it up and studies the image. “You think this is cool?” he asks, not hiding the disbelief in his voice. “Wait a minute, isn’t this guy dead?”

  “Yes, but…” I begin to argue before he cuts me off.

  “Oh no! I don’t do dead guy styles or Justin Bieber haircuts. I draw a hard line there. We all have our limits and those are mine.”

  He folds up the paper and gently removes my glasses and sets both on a side table.

  “Nathan, did Morgan explain that I’m the best?”

  “Yes,” I lie. Morgan only told me how much he cost, which of course would imply that he’s either the best, or people with money are stupid.

  “You need to trust me Nathan. I am going to make you look hot. You have great hair, a great face…you need a style that compliments both.
”

  “Okay,” I say weakly. “I’ll trust you. Just do what you think is best.” Hair grows back after all.

  “You’ve made a wise choice,” he says dramatically. “You’ll be glad you did.”

  I take a deep breath, glad that without my glasses everything is a little fuzzy when London takes me off to wash my hair. The full impact of what I’ve agreed to won’t hit me until I leave the salon.

  I can’t imagine why it takes so long to cut my hair; I’m not Rapunzel or anything. But Bradley seems pretty damn serious about his work, taking steps back to consider his progress every few snips. I sense that we are done when London comes towards me with an oversized paintbrush and starts dusting me off like a knick-knack.

  Immediately following he swings the chair face forward, and they both step on either side of me to study my reflection.

  “Wow,” sighs London. Her intonation is full of admiration, so I figure that’s a good thing.

  “Yes,” Bradley agrees, nodding. “Yes.”

  I squint, and so London hands me a large hand mirror.

  Wow, I look really different. “Hey, that looks good,” I say, surprised.

  “He looks hot,” London says to Bradley.

  “Sizzling,” the master insists. “Now, Nathan…I’m tempted to not give you those glasses back because they must not be worn…ever again.”

  “Don’t worry, I have contacts and new glasses Brooke picked out from L.A. Eyeworks.”

  Bradley smiles; I guess he approves. I leave my tips and thank them. Heading out, I’m so stunned from the whole experience that I almost leave with my robe on. Luckily I catch myself before I make it to the front desk.

  The glamazon looks flustered as she runs my credit card. She keeps staring at me. It makes me uncomfortable, but there’s nothing I can do about it now, the hair I always hid under is gone.

  Once home, I end up taking many opportunities that day to stare at myself too. I put in my contacts so I can continue to break them in, and consequently every time I look in the bathroom mirror, I get a clear look of my new haircut. I’m less surprised with each glance, until by the end of the day, I think I like it.

  • • •

  “Ah, Mom,” I sigh as she fusses over me.

  She puts her hands on her hips and shakes her head. “All the times I’ve tried to get you to cut your hair, and you refused.” But then she smiles. “It was that lovely girl…Brooke, wasn’t it? You did it for her, didn’t you?”

  I nod, my face turning red. “I just hope she likes it.”

  “Oh, she’ll like it,” Mom responds with no hesitation.

  “She’ll see it tonight. Remember, he’s taking her to the Emmys,” Curtis explains.

  “Are you wearing your tux?” Dad asks.

  “Yeah, I’m so glad I have that tux, Dad.” I watch him grin with satisfaction and nod his head.

  “Outstanding! It looks like our calculated investment is showing the potential to pay off far beyond our original projections,” he says rubbing his hands together happily. “And one can never underestimate the potential impact of an impressive personal presentation with a desired mate.”

  “Yeah, you’re going to look so hot she’s going to be all over you, dude,” Curtis confirms encouragingly.

  I can’t help but blush and grin at their support. I know that they genuinely want me to be happy.

  “Well, you must call when you get home and let us know how it goes,” Mom insists.

  “If it goes well, calling you is the last thing he’ll be doing,” Curtis snickers.

  I can’t get my hopes up like that, but the thing I know for sure is that I’ll get to see Brooke in that dress again and be her date. Anything beyond that is icing on the cake.

  Back home, I spend a couple of hours roughing out pages for the next B-Girl issue. I’m glad to have my time occupied until it’s finally time to get ready to go. Once I’ve showered, fixed my hair with that stuff like Bradley showed me, and gotten dressed, it all hits me.

  I’m taking Brooke to the Emmys.

  As I study myself in the mirror I realize, for perhaps the first time in my life, that I’m not bad looking at all. Since these plans were made, I’ve desperately wanted to believe that I could look worthy of being with her tonight. And with my final glance, I actually believe that I do.

  My stomach flip flops the whole way to the florist, because it means I’m that much closer to being with her again. As I park I wonder if she’s nervous too. Once out of the car, I slide the tux jacket off the hanger from where it’s hung in the back seat, and pull it on. I wish I could have sorted out my bow tie, but I’m sure Brooke will do a better job with it than I could. I roll my shoulders back and clear my throat before I ring the doorbell.

  She buzzes the gate, but I’m all the way down the stairs before she pulls open the door. I stop in my tracks. Her hair is swept up and she’s wearing the dark red dress, the fabric fluttering around her legs in the breeze.

  She’s a vision, and tonight she’s mine.

  “Nathan!” she gasps. “You’ve cut your hair.”

  I nod, noticing that her cheeks are flushed and her expression’s bright. Her eyes move over me, from my hair, to my eyes—now unhindered by glasses—to the tux. “Oh my God, you look so handsome,” she says slowly, each word pressing into me. I can tell she means it. “Wow,” she whispers.

  I’m speechless and while I’m searching for the right response, I manage to hold out the bunch of flowers.

  “For me?” she says, stepping forward. “That’s so sweet.”

  I watch her take them and look down into the swirl of dark and light pinks. “Peonies,” she sighs. “How did you know these were my favorite flowers?”

  “I did my research,” I answer grinning.

  She smiles, tipping her head as she studies me. I can tell she’s impressed.

  “Brooke…” I start.

  “Yes?”

  “You’re so beautiful…I mean, you look so beautiful tonight…well, I mean both—you are beautiful and you look so beautiful tonight…but then you always look beautiful, not just tonight…” I ramble, horrified. I’ve apparently lost all verbal ability, thereby making a complete idiot of myself.

  She steps closer and touches her fingers to my lips, stilling me.

  “Thank you.” She pulls her fingers from my lips, yet still lingers close to me. It almost feels like she’s going to kiss me, but then she turns towards the foyer.

  “Here, come on in.”

  She turns and heads into the kitchen and I follow, noting that she’s barefoot. She pulls out a vase, fills it, then deftly unwraps the flowers and quickly arranges them before pulling back to admire the results.

  “No one has ever brought me peonies,” she says wistfully. “Until you.”

  I smile, excited about how well things are going, but just then the doorbell rings.

  “Can you get that? It’s the driver; tell him I need a couple minutes.”

  The driver assures me it’s no problem, and I go back inside to find Brooke bent over the couch struggling with her shoes.

  “Ugh, I can’t seem to get the hook thingy to fit in the little hole!”

  “Can I help?”

  “Please. These are the only shoes I have that will look right with this dress.”

  I kneel down in front of her and remove the high-heeled sandal and examine the strap. “Damn, those are tiny holes. Here let me give it a try.” I slip her beautiful foot back into the sandal and thread the delicate strap into the buckle, and then carefully press the prong into the hole. It takes some force, but it finally pops through. When I finish I wrap my hand around her ankle and softly stroke her skin.

  “How’s that?”

  She leans forward on the couch and looks down. I can’t help put peek at her lush cleavage. I swallow hard and struggle to focus.

  She smiles. “Perfect. Can you do the other one too?”

  I repeat the action, but when I’m done I let my hand trail hi
gher up her calf and back down marveling at her beautiful legs. When I look up at her she’s biting her lip as she watches me. I lift up on my knees so my face is level with hers and our eyes meet. Can she feel how much I want to pull her into my arms and kiss her? But before I can, I feel her hand sweep along the side of my face.

  “Thank you.” She pauses as if she wants to say something else, but then sighs. “We better get going or we’ll be late.”

  I nod, and slowly stand up and then take her hand, helping her off the couch. Right before we get to the door she stops me, “Hey wait a sec, I need to do your tie.”

  “Oh yeah,” I stammer, embarrassed. “I’m no good at these things.”

  “Well, I am,” she says softly as the steps up close to me and begins maneuvering the two strips of fabric.

  I look down at her. She’s so focused on what she is doing that it gives me the opportunity to stare. Her skin is luminous and her shiny lips slowly part as her hands flutter with the bow tie just under my chin. I’m so drawn to her that I don’t know how I’m going to get through a whole evening without touching her continuously.

  When we arrive, Brooke’s movie star beauty is apparent to everyone. As we step out of the limo one of the security managers tries to usher us into the red carpet line. We notice our colleagues heading directly into the theater and we end up having to convince them that we aren’t actors and aren’t supposed to walk the red carpet.

  Right before we step inside we are led to an area where we pose for press pictures. I gently slide my hand around the back of Brooke’s waist until I wrap my fingers along her side and pull her closer. I feel incredibly proud to be here with her. My smile is genuine as the flash captures us right as she looks up at me and smiles.

  The energy in the air’s exciting but once we’re seated and the ceremony starts it gets dull pretty quickly. I don’t watch much TV so the nominees and shows don’t mean much to me. I only spark up when it’s announced that the animation category is coming after the commercial break.

  “Are you nervous? I know we’re favored to win,” I say, searching her face for anxiety. If I were her I’d be a wreck.