And as he gave me this compliment, we stopped outside the bar Cesar had intended for us. He motioned to me to head inside.
The place was called “New beginnings”. I shook my head, chuckled and opened the door.
***
I don't know how I got into bed, but I woke up a few hours later with B breathing in my ear. She was lying next to me for some reason, hot like a desert sun (I’m talking temperature here) and cramping my space. I picked up my mobile from the nightstand and found out it was seven in the morning. I wasn’t feeling as bad as I thought I would, the buzz of “new beginnings” were still vibrating inside of me and it felt pretty relieving.
Still, having B so close to me stirred emotions I had promised myself to block out. Why was she in my bed? After the storm of hatred she had thrown at me yesterday, it was very confusing. Had she tried to suffocate me with her pillow and fallen asleep while doing so or had she changed her mind completely?
I watched her snoring for a little while, her face smudged with make-up and her hair smelling of cigarette smoke and hair care products. I slowly got out of bed and tucked her in. I guess I would get an answer to why she was there when she woke up, but until then I needed some time for myself.
After a hot shower, I got out and walked two blocks to the nearest Starbucks, where I ordered a large cappuccino and a flavored sparkling water to go. I was feeling a spring in my step as I wandered the remarkably quiet morning streets. I thought of what Cesar and I had talked about and on this crisp spring morning it all made sense to me. It was time for Ch-ch-ch-changes! I hummed the classic Bowie song to myself and felt...slightly relaxed.
I found a small park with an empty bench and took a seat, probably with a silly little smile on my face, because despite everything, I was feeling gooooood. An elegant woman with abnormally long and skinny legs beautifully displayed in a mid-length skirt and tugging a small white terrier on a leash, stopped not far from where I was sitting. She looked like the kind of woman who does everything with class and never takes no for answer, the kind of woman who rules the world and could make any man feel exactly like that little terrier with just the snap of a finger. It’s an attractive look, someone so seemingly in control of herself and her surroundings and I couldn’t help but look at her. While I did, the fuzzy little dog sat down and took a shit on the ground with a content look on his face. I noticed it was looking right at me while doing so, almost like it was thinking: Yeah, right. I‘m shitting right here on the ground and this elegant lady, which they call my “master”, will have to pick it up. Ha-ha! Like humans rule the world...
...And the dog was right of course. When it had finished defecating, the elegant long-legged lady took out one of those small, black plastic bags from her jacket and picked up the turd. And in a way the action reminded me a bit of what my job had been a lot of the time, B shat on the floor and I picked it up. It wasn’t weird that I was getting tired of it, because let’s be honest here, even beautiful and famous people’s shit smell.
In retrospect, I think I needed to force myself to see my job and B in a different light to be able to let go. I had been saving her ass from loads of mini-disasters over the years and gone beyond my call of duty to make sure she was happy. Like that time when she let out a loud fart at a reception and I claimed it was mine or when she was about to cut her hair depressingly short and I talked her out of it thanks to carefully collected images of women who went short and ugly, or all the arguments between her and A I’d managed to mediate away from bigger blow-ups. I’d been putting up quite a performance over the years, and although it had been fun and somewhat rewarding and all that, I hadn’t given much thought to my own life. I’d been completely captivated by the celebrity glow, the lifestyle, the expense card and that something she had which you couldn’t really put a name on. That something that, no matter how difficult she was at times, made it seem worth it almost every single one of those times.
But with her marriage collapsing, B on the brink of breakdown and the strong possibility of another man lurking in the wings, it wasn’t hard to see that quitting my job would be a logical option. How to practically go about it was a completely different story and something that churned around inside my brain when my phone interrupted me.
I was very surprised to hear Jorge, the estate chef, on the other line. Especially since he had never ever called me before.
“Jorge! Long time! How are you?”
Jorge’s deep, booming voice made my iPhone vibrate and images of James Earl Jones pop into my head, “Sorry if I’m calling at a bad time, Darryl. But I really need to talk to you. You’re in New York, right?”
“No problem. Yes, I’m in New York. We all are. It’s been a crazy week. What’s up?”
“It’s my son again. He’s gone off to New York to audition for American Idol. I told him not to, but as usual he ignored my advice and he is staying with my brother in the Bronx this week. I know this is a lot to ask, but I would really appreciate if you could meet up with him and talk him out of it.”
Now this is a twist I couldn’t have foreseen, “Talk him out of it? Why?”
“You know how those blooper reels are, they’ll make laughing stock out of him and it will break my heart. I can't just stand by and watch my son get hurt on national TV. But he doesn’t listen to me, he thinks I don’t understand what he’s trying to do. And that’s why I would be very, very grateful if you could talk to him.”
If I had been in a more sound state of mind, with less thoughts flying around my head like papers in the wind, I’d probably said no, but hearing Jorge’s desperate voice made me feel there was really no way I could turn him down. I guess I have always had this strong need to be needed and maybe that was why I ended up like an assistant.
“I don't really see what I could contribute though, why would he listen to me? I don’t know anything about the music industry.” I said, hoping the conversation would end there.
“Well, I’ve told him I know someone who works in the business and could listen to his stuff. I thought you could be that person and let him down nicely. I’m sorry if I put you in an awkward position, but I didn’t know what to do. He’s my son, my everything and I can’t have something happen to him that will hurt his self-esteem for life.”
“So you want me to pretend like I'm some kind of music mogul and tell him not to audition for American Idol?”
“Something like that, yes.” Jorge’s massive voice was down to a whisper.
“And you're sure he would listen to me? Because it sounds to me like he's made up his mind and won't take no for answer, even from a fake record label executive or whatever I'm supposed to act like. What if he just thinks I'm a dick and decides to go ahead and do it anyway?”
Jorge seemed to ponder this, “I know my son pretty well and I know he won't listen much to me, not these days anyway, but he usually takes outside people to heart, especially if they’re experienced. It’s definitely worth a try.”
This was something alright. Here I had walked the streets, thinking that my days of weird assignments were coming to a close and suddenly I needed to don a suit and play a record label exec for a 19-year-old kid who thought he had talent. Life works in mysterious ways.
“Okay, I'll do it,” I said at last, “When do I need to meet him?”
Jorge was quiet again. He was obviously embarrassed to ask, which I thought was a nice personal trait. B was never embarrassed to ask me anything, but of course she paid for it.
“The whole thing goes down next week, so the sooner the better. All I want is a chance to protect my son’s feelings.”
How do you argue with that? How do you say no to a father with a bleeding heart?
“Give him my number and tell him we can meet at Bar Pitti in the West Village at 5 pm today. I don’t have much time, so I better take care of it straight away. I'll try my best to play the part, but I can’t promise you anything.”
“I know I could rely on you, Darryl.”
I imagined Jorge smiling on the other end of our conversation. On my end? Not even a grin.
***
My day had done what it sometimes did, turned on a dime. Suddenly I needed to rehearse a plan to imitate a record executive. What first came to my mind was that B knew a big fish at one of the major labels. His name was Barry Waldruff and I had said hi to him twice at parties. B had told me he had a crush on her and I thought that maybe I could have used that angle to get a meeting with him. But I didn’t have the time and I wasn’t sure that kind of expertise was needed to fool a teenager with stars in his eyes. I just had to look serious, talk serious and pretend to know what I was talking about. I had done that before.
A text message from Julianne popped up on my iPhone. It read: “OK magazine cover. WHO’S THAT GUY?”
OK magazine? What kind of rotting corpse could they have dug up now? I thought to myself. The upcoming divorce should have been well-kept under wraps, so anything along those lines seemed unlikely. I opened up my phone browser and typed in okmagazine.com.
What met me on the first page was exactly the same thing which met my eyes the night before - an image of B and Matteo eating together. The photo was slightly blurry, taken from the outside and through the glass with some super lens, but you could see them alright. I got a jolt in my stomach and an unpleasant tingling saying: I knew something like this would happen. I clicked the post and found more pictures of them eating, smiling towards each other, and exiting the restaurant with dreamy looks on their faces. They looked like a couple in love and I hated seeing it. What was she thinking?
The article wondered pretty much the same. It talked about an affair and the possibility of a divorce. It was guesswork, not journalism, but was bound to blow up to become the truth very soon. I knew the retaliation from A would be swift and that things could get nasty fast. As I slalomed the streets downtown I came to the conclusion that things had finally gone beyond saving. I needed to talk to B and tell her about the article and about how I felt, I needed to set things straight.
But she didn’t pick up the phone, so while I waited I decided to ask Cesar for help in fooling a lost teenager.
***
Cesar saw no problem in tagging along with my so called “prank”, but of course he’d always liked practical jokes, which was kind of how he saw this “assignment” from Jorge. He had even been kind enough to borrow me his second suit, an ill-fitting grey apparition with a no-name brand. It was too tight and it looked like it had been hanging in Cesar’s closet since he got his first dreadlock, but I had no time nor desire to head back to my hotel room and bump into B or possibly even Matteo, so I said I could live with it.
“So what should we do? Good cop, bad cop? Or we both try to be as gentle with him as possible?” Cesar was “working” from that day (another perk of his new job) and was definitely more into this than any kind of work task he was supposed to do. He had realized my life could provide plenty of entertainment.
“I'll help you with that,” I said and helped him tie a classic Windsor knot. He was looking pretty dapper for a guy who a few days before could have been mistaken for a Rastafarian albino baby.
“I'm getting more and more handsome by the day!” Cesar exclaimed as he was eyeing his new, polished look in the mirror. “What was I doing to myself before? I could have been on that show - How Do I Look.”
“Yeah, I should have tried to get you on it. And the first thing they would have thrown away are those jeans you just stepped out of. Aren't those the same goddamn ugly ones you had at university?”
“Don’t be mean now. I know your heart is breaking and all, but those are my favorite pants dude, my lucky pants.”
“How can they be lucky pants when you never got lucky in them?” I said, looking at the washed out heap of holes and stains, but Cesar didn't reply, he was too busy studying his features. Without the massive locks of hair, you could actually see them. He was right that I wasn’t in my best mood, those pictures of B and Matteo were still at the center of my being, but I tried my best to focus on the task at hand.
“Where are we meeting the kid? I’m hungry.”
“Bar Pitti.”
“They got some great sandwiches there.” Cesar said and adjusted his tie one more time, then he turned to me and gave me a serious look, “So what’s the news on your love? You told me the cameras caught her last night?”
“Well, the news is that it’s news and it looks pretty bad. It’s all over the Internet.”
“I know it might hurt, but doesn’t that make it easier for you to move on? Let’s face it, she doesn’t seem to be a person you want to be in love with.”
I didn’t know what to tell Cesar. You didn’t choose who to fall in love with, you just fell. A part of me of course wanted to move on, let go of B and her crazy life, and one part couldn’t because I cared for her too much.
I was in limbo.
“You know what?” Cesar said, sensing I was in no mood to talk about it, “let’s make some peanut butter and jelly sandwiches to start our appetites.”
Cesar snobby? Fuhgeddaboutit.
***
We were at an outside table at Bar Pitti, the sun was shining and it was too hot to wear a suit. I didn’t feel like taking my jacket off though, because I had collected two onion ring-sized sweat stains under the armpits of my light blue shirt, so I left it on. I prayed that everything would go smooth and fast so I could go back to pondering my bleak future.
“Can that be the guy?” I turned around and saw a Latino-looking guy in big jeans, white t-shirt and some kind of puffy west. As a matching touch he wore a few gold chains around his neck, a Jay-Z style Knicks cap, a black leather Adidas shoulder bag and fake diamond studs in his ears. I couldn’t spot any tattoos, but I’m sure they were there somewhere.
But just when I was going to walk up and reach out my hand, the guy strode past the restaurant with confident steps.
“I could have sworn that was him,” I said to Cesar.
“Just because you wear gold chains and a Knicks cap doesn’t mean you’re a rapper. You’re quite stereotyping for a black dude, Darryl.”
“Shut your hole, albino boy,” I said and looked at the crowd passing by our table. It was five to five, which meant the guy was soon going to be late and there was no fashionable way to be late when you were trying to score a record deal.
After two more minutes of nervous waiting, a tidy-looking guy in a white shirt and a navy pullover came up to Cesar and asked whether we had a meeting with Luís. The guy looked more like an Ivy League college boy than a rapper, so I thought maybe it was one of Luís friends, the “Carlton” of his entourage. But I of course stereotyped wrongly again, because the elegant young man with short hair and glasses was indeed Jorge’s son. This raised my hopes when it came to relating to the guy.
The confident Cesar took the lead, “We sure are. And you must be Luís,” he said. They shook hands. Luís sat down opposite us and put his leather laptop bag on the wooden table. “Eatin’ or drinkin’?” he said.
“Drinking, but order some food if you want, it’s on us.” Cesar said, like he’s been playing this part all his life and was paying.
“Sweeeet,” Luis said and scanned the menu.
“So you’re quite a musician I hear?” I said, trying to sound in control.
“Artist.”
“Artist. What music do you make? Did you bring a sample?”
“I’m in R&B, hip-hop, I sing, rap and dance. I got you some songs to check out.”
Luís unclasped his brown bag and brought out an iPad, which he started clicking around on, “I made this video with a friend of mine, he’s an independent film producer, B-reel. I hope you dig it.” He handed us the gold-black headphones he was wearing around his neck and the iPad.
“Order two beers and I’ll listen first, okay?” Cesar said to me and put on the headphones.
I waved to the waiter, ordered two Heineken and looked at Luís who replied: “I’ll have the
Toscano panini and a fresh grapefruit juice.”
“You don’t want a beer?” I asked him.
“I’m 19, dude. I ain’t breaking no law.”
I chuckled nervously. I completely forgot we were dealing with an underage person.
“What’s the name of the song?” I looked over at Cesar who was in deep concentration, like he was trying to count the pixels on the screen or something. He should have been an actor, not a computer programmer.
“Bornastar. It’s about the feeling that you just know, you know?”
“Know what?”
“That you’re destined for greater things. That God has put some bigger plan in your hands.”
Yeez! I don’t remember ever feeling this good about myself, especially not when I was 19 years old, but my second reaction was that Luís might have just the right amount of arrogance to go places.
While Cesar was listening to the song, my phone rang again. It had been one of those days with endless requests for communication. Not a single one of them uplifting.
“Hello?” I said as I rose from our table.
“Did you know about this?” I didn’t recognize the voice at first, but it soon hit me - it was A and he didn’t sound happy.
“What do you mean?” I said as a reflex, while I walked a few steps away from the table in an effort to find a quiet spot on the street.
“Don’t bullshit me, Darryl. You know what I’m talking about. The Italian guy she went to dinner with last night. I’ve been wanting to ask her about it, but she’s not picking up the fucking phone!”
When I said he didn’t sound happy, I meant he sounded furious.
The first question that came to my head was whether I should try to save her ass? Did she really deserve it? In the end I thought: yes. “He’s a friend of hers and he’s actually both gay and harmless. I met him in Rome.” Why do you worry anyway? I thought to myself, you’re the one filing for divorce.
Hollywood Ass. Page 13
