Beautiful Mess

by Herrick, John

  “Sometimes I wonder why they would want me,” she said. “I’m not extraordinary. Is it fate? Luck of the draw? I mean, a girl I worked with, another waitress, tried to make it as an actress, too. We covered each other’s shifts whenever one of us had an audition. Why would they chase after me and not her? What makes me so special?

  “Would you believe I was happier during that indie season?” Nora held his gaze a moment before shaking her head. “That must sound silly. Maybe I’m just not cut out for this.”

  Del reached out and stroked her shoulder which, beneath the far-too-big robe, felt bulky to the touch. “Don’t worry, I went through the same thing. You chase after that elusive opportunity and can’t make it happen. Then, one day, you wake up and discover you’ve entered another world. That project you worked on—the one that felt like all the others, the one where you showed up and did your job like any other day—that project turns out to be a rocket that propels you into another stratosphere. Everything changes. You can never go back to the way you were.” He chuckled. “Trust me, you don’t want to return to the way you were, living paycheck to paycheck.”

  Nora watched him as he spoke, lifting the coffee mug to her lips without appearing to realize it. When Del paused, she responded with a slow blink, a single flutter of her eyes, the speed of a dying butterfly giving its wings yet another flap as it lay helpless on the ground.

  “I’m being ridiculous, aren’t I?” she said.

  “Not ridiculous. You’ve entered a new world and you’re trying to find your place.”

  At that, Nora drained her coffee, rinsed the mug, and placed it in the dishwasher. She turned to Del and bunched the edges of the robe closer together, concealing the milky porcelain of her chest. With a subdued smile, she rose on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek.

  “I’d better get dressed. Thanks for the coffee.” She winked. “And the robe.”

  “My pleasure,” Del replied, sipping his now-lukewarm coffee and peering out the window.

  When Nora reached the entry threshold, she paused and turned. “Thank you for listening, Del.”

  Del caught a glimpse of a smile at the corner of Nora’s lips, the wisp of an afterthought. And with a lingering glance, as if she were giving him a second consideration, she turned and left the kitchen, still wrapped in his robe.

  CHAPTER 7

  THE LAST FEW YEARS, Del had come to dread his meetings with Grant Pevely, his accountant. Yes, Del hired the guy to keep his books intact, but Pevely interpreted it as getting paid to worry. Del appreciated his efforts, but his accountant approached life from the opposite end of the positive-negative spectrum. He could picture Pevely as a teenager in the backseat of his car, a girl melting beneath a romantic, full moon, waiting for his hands to cup her breasts. Pevely, ever the pessimist, would sit there and list a host of reasons why the moon didn’t look as bright as it would if it hung lower in the sky. Meanwhile, the girl was pulling her top back down. His point was accurate but he’d squandered life’s latest opportunity.

  Every day, without exception, Pevely wore a suit and tie to the office. He wore his tie in the same double-thick knot he’d worn years ago—the same plaid ties, too, if Del wasn’t mistaken—and a black pin-striped suit. Balding in the back, the accountant maintained an otherwise-full head of gray hair and, to this day, spent countless hours at his desk. His eyes appeared dark and heavy, droopy like a bulldog’s, and his jowls had grown more prominent. The man always looked one week away from a heart attack. He was a gem, though. They had done business together since Del’s heyday and had, over the course of time, developed a semblance of friendship. Or trust.

  The accountant spoke in an even tone that dripped with rationality. “Del, I’ve been going through your books, preparing for tax season…”

  Here we go again. The annual spiel. At the other side of Pevely’s desk, Del sank back in the visitor’s chair, the cushions of which felt like foam infused with newspaper scraps. Del shielded his eyes with one hand and began to massage his temples with the thumb and middle finger of his other hand.

  “Do we have tax issues?” Del interrupted.

  “No, you’re in good shape in terms of taxes, the legality side. Being selective with the roles you choose has limited your employment income. One benefit that brings is to reduce your adjusted gross income, but—”

  “It’s not a bad thing to owe less in taxes, Pevely.”

  “—but, that benefit is a technicality.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning you can’t consider it a permanent fixture in your life, Del.”

  “I’ve survived this way for thirty years. The money’s there.”

  “Unfortunately, it’s not there to the same extent it was thirty years ago—”

  “The bills are getting paid.”

  “Yes, but the question is, how long can you afford to pay them?”

  “We have this conversation every year, Pevely.”

  “I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t make you aware of this.”

  “And your expertise is duly noted,” Del volleyed in return. “Hollywood is a cutthroat business, but I’m a survivor.”

  “I understand that, and I certainly respect where you’re coming from.” Pevely pinched the bridge of his nose before putting on his reading glasses, the half-height type that allowed him to peer over the top of their black frames as he spoke. He removed some paperwork from a manila folder and gave a few pages another perusal. Then he laced together his fingers atop his desk and looked up at his client. His forehead creased.

  Del saw hesitation in the man’s eyes. That wasn’t typical.

  “Del, do you know what other people your age are doing right now?”

  “Where?”

  “Anywhere.”

  “Give me a place, Pevely.”

  The accountant sighed. “Rapid City,” he offered with a halfhearted wave of one hand.

  “South Dakota?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “So these are normal people.”

  “Yes. Average, everyday people. Do you know what they’re doing right now?”

  “Playing shuffleboard at a retirement home?”

  “I’d imagine some are doing that, if it makes them happy. But many others are taking advantage of each year, living life to the fullest. They’re cruising around the Caribbean, traveling to Europe, venturing state to state to explore wineries. These are happy people, Del. And they don’t have financial concerns. At least, not beyond the norm. These people worked regular jobs in an office or business their entire careers, yet they live their lives in a way they never could while they were working. They maintain the same standard of living to which they’d grown accustomed before they retired. And do you know how they can afford to do that?”

  “Beats the hell out of me. Investments? Good advice from an accountant, I suppose.”

  “Yes, and that accountant advised them to plan ahead—not simply the next few years, but for the decades to come. On a gradual basis, they conserved funds, made wise investments, spent less so their nest egg would last the rest of their lives.”

  “Look, I understand what—”

  Pevely lifted a hand. “Just hear me out. Please, Del. As you know, I’ve recommended a similar strategy for you since you were sixty-five years old. Steps you could take that would allow you to maintain a standard of living to which you’ve grown accustomed. But Del, you’re no longer sixty-five. You’re seventy-eight years of age. And you’re in terrific health, which means we can expect you to look forward to many happy years ahead—but you need finances intact to do so.”

  “The royalty checks haven’t stopped coming in.”

  “True, but those films are older now, and less in demand. The royalty checks have continued, but the dollar amounts have decreased. Inflation, meanwhile, continues to rise, which increases your cost of living. If this trend continues, royalties alone won’t be sufficient down the road.”

  “That’s why we made all those invest
ments—real estate, for example.”

  “Yes, but as you might recall, we had a couple of recessions the last twenty years. And the recession of 2008 continued for many years. Some would argue we still hadn’t recovered eight years later, despite the White House’s spin. When the housing bubble burst, it didn’t just affect home values and families. People spent less. Businesses contracted, they stopped hiring, stopped expanding. They weren’t renting or buying as much property. Remember, you chose to sell many of those real estate investments at a loss—against my recommendation—in order to obtain an inflow of cash to last you for the foreseeable future, rather than accept those project offers from Hallmark.”

  Perspiration broke out along Del’s upper lip.

  Pevely paged through more paperwork. “You also liquidated a large percentage of your savings, which was built primarily upon your royalties, which is the reason you don’t have as much to fall back on today.”

  “So what are you telling me, Pevely?”

  “You need to cut back,” his accountant replied, emphasizing each word. “Significantly.”

  Del felt heartburn settle in. His neck felt feverish. “Look, Pevely, you and I both know the entertainment business is unpredictable. People have comebacks.”

  “And I don’t disagree, but you can’t count—”

  “These roles come unexpectedly, and circumstances turn around for the better with the right film. It happens in a heartbeat—”

  “Del.” Pevely’s voice remained steady, but Del noticed something unusual in its force: resolve. Severity, perhaps?

  Del stopped talking and watched his accountant like a hawk.

  Pevely removed his reading glasses and folded them. He glanced down at the paperwork once again, tapped it with the edge of his frames, then focused his attention on Del. Pevely looked exhausted.

  “Del, how long have you and I have known each other?”

  “Forty-something years. Why?”

  “And in all that time, I’ve met you halfway. Even when you opted against my advice, we found a way to make it work. But I’ve always been honest with you.”

  “Of course you have.”

  Pevely leaned forward and pursed his lips. “I’m telling you this as a friend, Del.” He placed his palms flat on the desk, which was Pevely’s typical gesture whenever he was adamant about something. It was Del’s signal to listen up. The accountant kept his voice reserved yet firm. “You need to cut back. Drastically. Not next year. Not tomorrow. Now.”

  CHAPTER 8

  DEL SHIFTED in his seat. The conversation was beginning to scare the hell out of him. “And this sudden turn of events is because…” he prompted.

  “It’s not a sudden turn of events. Unfortunately, it’s the byproduct of disregarding your accountant’s advice year after year. And each time you chose not to listen, I warned you. Pleaded with you. I told you, ‘These issues will augment over time, and they will result in catastrophe.’ Do you remember me telling you that?”

  “Of course I do, but accountants are paid to say that, aren’t they?”

  “I wish I had better news, Del, but I don’t.”

  This couldn’t be happening. Fear spiked through Del’s veins. He began a desperate mental search for a detail Pevely might have overlooked, or better yet, evidence that this discussion was nothing more than a bad dream.

  He was Del Corwyn, after all. An Academy Award-nominated actor with a reputation to protect.

  Sure, people went broke—or whatever Pevely claimed he was tracking toward—but that occurred at the bottom of the entertainment food chain, didn’t it? These hassles happened to the Gary Colemans of the world, who rose to stardom as kids, before they plotted strategies or established artistic visions. But Del Corwyn?

  Then Del froze.

  Oh, shit—the media would smell blood. His face would show up on the tabloids at the supermarket. He’d look like a seventy-eight-year-old fool.

  “Maybe I should get a second opinion,” he mumbled.

  “They’ll tell you the same thing. This isn’t good. You’re in dire shape, Del. If you don’t make changes now, you will run the risk of declaring bankruptcy before you die. Is that something you want?”

  Del’s accountant had slugged him in the groin. Del exhaled but couldn’t seem to breathe in again. A cold sweat burst through the surface of his scalp. He removed a handkerchief from his pocket and patted his brow.

  He hadn’t faced defeat since he was in his late twenties. Not total annihilation, anyway. When bad news hit, he could spin it to a degree that rivaled the greatest publicist.

  But not today. This time, his good looks, wit and charm failed him.

  When he spoke, the words escaped one notch higher than a murmur.

  “What do I need to do, Pevely?”

  “Downsize. ASAP.”

  “As in?”

  “Your home, for starters. It’s an immediate way to liquidate some assets and will free up significant resources for the future.”

  “Leave Malibu? I’ve lived in that house for—”

  “I’m not talking about downgrading to a condo, Del. You can live in a large home and remain in the Los Angeles vicinity. If you expand your radius to include—”

  “I’m not moving to fucking Corona!”

  “Corona is a very nice option. Plenty of people like yourself have made their homes there.”

  Deflated, Del sank back in his chair like a kid sitting in the principal’s office. His accountant wasn’t doing his standard tap dance. No doubt about it: Del was in trouble.

  Big trouble.

  “Look, if I stay in town, everyone will know what happened. But I need to be available for work. That perfect role might be around the corner.”

  “Air travel is always an option. Many people live outside of California. You can find even better home values elsewhere.”

  Hold on. If Del stayed in town, he would face the humiliation of admitting defeat—and possibly forfeit his chance at a comeback. No A-list filmmaker wants to hire a desperate loser. He had to spin this. Find a way to make this look like he’s the one in control.

  Air travel. Maybe Pevely had a point.

  Then it hit him.

  “Florida,” Del said.

  “Florida’s nice.”

  “If I buy a home in Florida, I can keep the upper hand. I can make it look like I’m escaping the rat race of Hollywood and reaping the rewards of a solid career.”

  “Desmond Child lived in Florida.”

  “The music producer?”

  “Even while he was in high demand,” Pevely nodded. “Some people want the climate and culture, but also the breathing room. Their own space to be creative.”

  Still discouraged, Del stroked the stubble on his chin as he pondered that idea. The notion of selling his Malibu house sickened him. It was his home, after all. He adored California and never wanted to leave. Grief settled into his soul.

  But if the other option was to die penniless…

  “Fine,” Del sighed. “I’ll do it.”

  CHAPTER 9

  TRISTAN ALBRECHT ZIPPED ALONG a busy suburban street in Oxnard in his Chevy Impala. At thirty-three years old, he could convince anyone he was ten years younger. He bobbed his head to an odd track of Mexican rap music that blared from his stereo by way of Bluetooth and a playlist on his phone. A market existed for every desire. Give them what they want.

  The midmorning California sun radiated upon his arm as he hung his elbow out the window. He held the steering wheel in a loose grip with his right hand. From behind his sunglasses, he watched the traffic light turn red at the intersection ahead, eased to a stop, and sipped his café Americano. He pinched the flesh above his waist. Although he’d managed to keep his waistline trim, early signs of a muffin top horrified him.

  Once the light turned green again, he made a sharp left and veered into his neighborhood, tires screeching into a parking spot in front of his first-floor apartment. He cut the ignition, hopped out, and headed insi
de. His next-door neighbor sat cross-legged and shirtless on a yoga mat in the grass, wearing sunglasses and shorts that exposed far too much thigh for Tristan’s heterosexual taste. Tristan gestured hello with his coffee cup to the schmuck who had his hands at his sides, each thumb and forefinger connected. The dude offered no response, so he must have had his eyes shut, too busy drifting between Mars and Venus or wherever those people traveled. Tristan enjoyed slamming his car door shut to see if the guy flinched. He never did.

  Heading into his apartment, Tristan shoved his keys into the pocket of his jeans, kicked off his flip-flops, grabbed his laptop from the coffee table, and shuffled to a small patio outside his living room. Another pull from his Americano as he logged into his email and changed his identity to Russell Merritt.

  Russell Merritt, wellness coach.

  When you’re online and faceless, you can become anybody you wish. A market existed for every desire.

  In the case of his latest email message, the desire resided within a lonely housewife in Beverly Hills. The woman had interacted with him for the last few years, a sporadic client who, Tristan suspected, contacted him whenever her hormones got out of whack. But he was no doctor, so who was he to judge?

  According to her email, she’d followed his advice and continued her steady use of herbs and traditional supplements—little tidbits he’d discovered online when he first started this venture. Tristan hadn’t noticed changes when he himself had tried them and didn’t believe they made a difference, but he’d noticed when his clients popped them, they could convince themselves a positive change had occurred in their bodies, which gave them a renewed sense of self-control. Feeling stressed? Try some chamomile tea and take a magnesium tablet before bed.

  The woman claimed her name was Jennifer. When it came to a go-to name like that, Tristan suspected it represented a higher proportion among his faceless clients compared to the general population. Last time they chatted, this particular Jennifer had sought help finding a therapeutic hobby. According to the notes he’d saved under her client ID in his makeshift database, she’d expressed an interest in colors and perspective. Why not try painting? Tristan—that is, Russell Merritt—had suggested. Jennifer soon reported newfound freedom after picking up some basic supplies at the store and channeling her emotions onto a canvas. According to her latest email, however, she’d hit a snag and wanted to know if he had time to contact her.