Use Somebody

by Beck Anderson

  “No can do, Mr. King. No messing with the guests. I could lose my job.” She shakes her curls. I like the blonde thing. The dyed-brown tips, I don’t get, but I like blondes.

  “Mr. King? That’s how we’re playing it? Then what’s your last name?”

  “Summerlin. Like Summerwind, but with an L. And no D.”

  “Miss Macy Summerlin, I wish you’d reconsider.” I smile and flash as many teeth as I can. People tell me I have a nice smile.

  “Mr. King, you have a nice night. I’m walking down to the river.” She turns and starts to walk that way when she stops for a second and turns around again for a minute. “And please, if you’re going to say something else about my booty, wait ‘til I’m out of earshot.”

  “Watch out for our moose friend.” I tip an imaginary hat to her.

  She salutes me with that bandaged hand. “Always.”

  I watch her walk away, I do admire that ass, and I wonder again how she sliced that hand up.

  She spoke to me, so that helps. She even told me her name. She didn’t seem too chapped about the comment at the front desk. Maybe I have a chance.

  I’m at a disadvantage here. In LA, my reputation precedes me. My money shows women I have power, and that usually gets some play, too. I can always tell if a woman is a wannabe actress, and depending on my mood, or how quickly I’d like to get laid, a would-be starlet is an easy date. A lot of times those kind of girls are no fun, though. I can see right through them, and I don’t like to be played for a fool because I may be a lot of things, but I’m definitely not anything close to a fool. I’m the smartest guy in a room. Always. I’d be done in my business if I weren’t.

  Anyway, some girl who thinks she can get some play with an agent by romancing him is the dumb one. It’s hard not to want to hand over some sort of pre-printed statement. It’d look like this:

  The man in front of you is an agent. Yes, he’s a talent agent. No, he’s not seeking any more clients at this time. No, not even if you give the best hummer west of the Mississippi. Still not taking you on as a client (not disinterested in the blow job, though, if you’re just giving them out). No, he won’t pass your headshot along to anyone else, either. No, he won’t introduce you to a director, or an actor, or a manager, or another agent. If you’re still interested in getting into his pants, let’s discuss that hummer.

  It’d save a lot of time, I’m not kidding. I could get a “Yes, I know Andy Pettigrew, and no, you can’t meet him” tattoo, too, which would also save a lot of time.

  But still, in LA I’ve got game. Here, I guess I’m just another guy with money, which, judging by the check Andy had to write to secure this private lodge for the week, is who this place caters to. Maybe something else will appeal to Macy. Maybe there’s another way in.

  I just need to find out what it is.

  I stroll back into the house, through my room, and go to find the other guys. Andy’s off the phone, done with his domestic check-in. Tucker stands over at the stove, managing two big pots.

  “What’s for dinner?” I didn’t realize I was hungry.

  Tucker lifts a spoon to reveal a noodle dangling from it. “Spaghetti. And don’t give me some paleo crap. We’re on vacation, and you can eat carbs. Don’t be a baby.”

  He’s usually the one worried about his intake, but he’s huge, so I try to keep the Tucker criticism to a minimum. Plus, if anything bad ever goes down on the red carpet, I want his instinct to be to shield me along with Andy, not push me out in front as a target.

  Andy pulls a stack of plates from the cupboard. “Where’s Todd?”

  “I was out on the deck of my room. Haven’t seen him.” If he were lost for the duration of our trip, it wouldn’t bother me.

  “How was the view?” Andy asks.

  “You want to hear about the moose or the girl?” I consider the girl. Macy.

  “A girl? Do tell.” Tucker feigns interest. He’s gay. He doesn’t care. Andy said he thinks Tucker might even be dating someone in LA, but he doesn’t pry. I want to know, and I have no problem prying, but Tucker’s never brought it up, so maybe Andy doesn’t really know what he’s talking about.

  Andy points to a chair. “That girl from the lobby?”

  I nod. “Macy.” I sit down.

  “You got a name, huh? That’s got to be a good sign.” Andy joins me. “Should we start the betting pool now? I’m betting it takes you three days to bed her, and one day after that for her to hate your guts. Tucker?”

  Tucker brings a large pasta bowl with the tossed spaghetti. “No bets for me. I’d be betting against Jeremy, and he hates to lose, or against some poor innocent country girl.”

  Todd strolls in from the other room. “Something smells good.” He looks around the table and chooses the chair across from me.

  “Where’ve you been?” Andy hands him the salad bowl.

  “On the phone. Trying to get this next tour set up.” He shakes his head. “But that’s boring. What were you people talking about?”

  I prepare to stomp on Andy’s toes to keep the Macy thing from coming up, but he gets what I want without me using brute force.

  “What we need to talk about is tomorrow’s fishing.” Andy changes the direction of the conversation, and I relax my grip on my fork.

  How to woo Macy and not show my hand to double-oh-douchebag sitting across from me preoccupies me for the rest of the dinner.

  After dinner, Tucker pulls out his laptop, Todd goes out front to smoke, and Andy gets on the phone in his room to FaceTime the fam. I sit on the couch and read all the different news outlets on my tablet—Variety, Hollywood Reporter, all the online entertainment websites. I usually have Esther, my assistant, do a compilation and give me a brief on what’s been said about our clients the day before. If something big has happened (one of my clients drunk tweets about an ex, one of our stars slips up and makes an off-the-cuff remark about current events—it should be illegal for actors to have opinions about global politics), then I’ll make calls and get a publicist on it. Most of my clients have a team. I’m usually the lead, though some of them lean more heavily on their manager. Then they’ll have a publicist, a lawyer, a stylist, an accountant, and who knows what else.

  But when the chips are down or it’s money on the line, it’s all up to me. I negotiate. I make deals. I make movies happen for my clients. Most of the time, when an actor works with me, his only job is to do his job well and try not to screw up off-camera.

  Tucker chuckles.

  “What?” I’m curious. Most of the time when I see him, he’s all business.

  “There’s just a funny GIF my aunt posted. It’s a kid.”

  I shrug. “I’m not much for babies. I don’t like children much at all. Q’s the exception.”

  “It’s not a human kid, it’s a baby goat.” He smiles. “You wanna see it?”

  I look at him for a minute without answering. He stares back at me.

  When I don’t respond, he nods. “Right, I forgot. You have no sense of humor.” He smiles at me and goes back to his computer.

  I feel a little defensive. Not a lot, because God knows I’m not really known as the jokester of the group. If I’m not taken seriously, I’m out of a job.

  “I’ve been known to laugh at stuff.”

  Tucker doesn’t even look up. “Uh-huh. You keep telling yourself that.”

  “What’s it gain me if I’m Mr. Laugh Riot? Tell me that.” Now I sound a little defensive.

  Tucker stops and thinks about that for a minute. “A chance at happiness? A chance to make it past forty without a heart attack? I don’t know.”

  This is quite the dig. If it were Todd saying it, I’d use it as the excuse I’ve been looking for to punch his lights out.

  But Tucker says it, I don’t know, almost gently. Like it’s advice for me, or as though he might actually care about me.

  And he’s gigantic, so he’s a person I listen to. I listen for no other reason than he is someone who can skin me alive a
nd feed me to the bears outside the lodge. Not attending to him might cost me dearly. “Point taken. Sense of humor is helpful at times.”

  Tucker nods and goes about his business of baby goat videos.

  I sit staring at the screen in front of me, but only just. Happiness. I’m not sure I buy into the idea of happiness.

  Really. Think about it. What’s supposed to happen to make me happy? I find the right woman, and we settle down? How long is it supposed to stay exactly the same way that made me happy when I first found this so-called “love of my life”? And we’d have to change, because that’s what people do. So then, would we still be happy?

  Or maybe I’m supposed to be a “live in the moment, YOLO, savor the experience” kind of person.

  Whatever. Most of the time, the moment is so built-up, it ends up being a disappointment. I remember looking forward to my first major league baseball game. Then we got there, and there was a loud, drunk guy next to my dad and me, and he ended up getting in an argument with my dad. The guy was cursing a lot in front of me (ironic, I know) and got all bent when my dad asked him to stop. I had no moment to “live in”. There was no “YOLO-ing” going on. In fact, Dad was really worried that the guy was going to follow us into the parking lot and do something rotten.

  I’m sorry, but I’m not a big believer in the “here I am having a snow cone, oh look I just snapped a pic of it in the light of the sunset while I happened to be wearing a fashionable floppy hat” kind of bullshit. Those people are lying. Instagram and Tumblr are full of people who are miserable pretending to have wonderful “YOLO” lives. I’m pretty certain 90% of them live in their parents’ basements and drive shitty little broken-down cars and work at the mall in retail, getting treated like the gum on the bottom of their customers’ shoes.

  Tucker sighs. Maybe he’s happy. Maybe I’m over-thinking it.

  But I’m going for content. Content means “in a state of satisfaction.” I like that. I can be satisfied. A good meal satisfies me. A good lay satisfies me. Driving a nice car, living in a nice house, closing the deal, scoring the client.

  I can live with content.

  I can hear Andy finishing up with his FaceTime in his room upstairs. Todd comes in from the front porch, smelling of cigarettes. Tucker appears to be nodding off in front of his laptop.

  This might be a moment when I am content. I don’t feel the need to be anywhere else, and I don’t want to scream or kick anyone’s ass, and I’ve had a good meal. It might be a sign to call it a night before the contentedness is lost. Come to think of it, sleeping makes me content.

  “Gents, I’m headed to bed.”

  Tucker rouses a bit. “Good night.”

  Todd gives me a salute. Andy passes me on the stairs, coming down to the great room as I climb to the balcony and the bedrooms.

  “Jeremy, no run in the morning. We’re up at first light to eat and get on the river.”

  I shrug. “Not sure what kind of vacation involves waking up at dawn, but okay. See you then.”

  I crash out in my room, marvel at the absolute quiet of the night beyond my four walls, and settle in. I’m able to keep thoughts of business at bay, and just as I’m about to drift off, I count myself as content.

  The next morning we’re all up and out early. Ass-crack of dawn early. Breakfast was eggs and bacon at an ungodly hour, but I can’t eat when I’m not fully conscious.

  I have a piece of toast in the zippered pocket of my fishing vest. So shoot me (don’t, please, we’ve been through this, remember?).

  “Could someone turn that down a bit?” I push my Wayfarers up on the bridge of my nose with my forearm as I make my way outside.

  “It’s called the sun, J. It’s what’s behind the layers of smog in LA. Purty, ain’t it?” Andy’s got his hands full, too—rod in one hand, fly box in the other, and he’s added a float tube to the mix, slung over his shoulder by its web straps.

  “I’m assessing whether I’m a vampire or not. That’s how searing the sun is right now. Jesus.” It takes me two deep cleansing breaths to not scream with all this brightness assaulting me.

  “You wore sunscreen, right?” Tucker’s a couple strides behind me. Todd disappeared again about fifteen minutes ago, said he had a phone call.

  “Yes, Mom, I wore fucking sunscreen.”

  “You’ll be glad for the sun when we get on the river. I checked the river temp this morning. It’s 54 degrees, nice and brisk.” Tucker, ever the logician.

  Andy comes around the house to a clear view of the river, and I’ll be damned if there aren’t already four white-haired guys downstream about fifty yards from us.

  “Did those guys sleep in the river?” I stand next to Andy.

  A sweet voice speaks up behind us. “That’s not dedication, that’s old guys. They go to sleep after the five o’clock buffet.”

  Macy. I turn around, and there she is, blonde hair with the brown tips braided into two pigtails over her shoulders, suited up with waders, a tank top underneath, rod in hand, sunglasses on. She is damn cute.

  “You fishing today?” I take a step to her.

  “I’m guiding today, Mr. King.”

  I don’t follow. “What?”

  “Your gracious friend engaged a guide for the day. I’m it.” She points a thumb in her own direction. She’s got fingerless leather gloves on, kind of like driving gloves, and her fingernails sparkle pink.

  I shoot Andy a look. “Did you know?”

  “I did not.” He smiles and walks away, picking his way down the gravel path to the water’s edge.

  Todd saunters down the path from the house. He has a cigarette between his lips, a porkpie hat on. “Did I miss the big fish yet?”

  Tucker brings him into the fold. “Todd Ford, this is our guide for the day.” Tucker puts out a hand to Macy. “I’m Tucker.”

  She gingerly offers the fingertips of her right hand. “I’ve got stitches. Sorry. Macy.”

  Tucker gently shakes, and Todd worms his way in front of him, hand outstretched. “Macy. Nice to meet you. I’m Todd. Todd Ford.”

  “Mr. Ford, nice to meet you.” She smiles at him. I’ll kill him.

  “And we’ve met.” She turns to me and smiles a different smile, and now I don’t care what Mr. Cheeseball’s doing next to me. The smile I’m looking at—it might be brighter than the sun this morning.

  Damn. “Yes, we have. A moose introduced us, I believe.” I reach out to shake her hand, touch her, and she hands me a plastic box. And grins.

  “Your flies for the day, Mr. King. The caddis are hatching. It’s gonna be a good day of fishing.”

  I give her a nod and take the box from her.

  We make our way down the gravelly path to the river.

  “Watch your footing, gentlemen.” Macy leads. I watch the back of her neck. It’s smooth, with wisps of hair lit in the morning light. I’d like to trail a finger down that graceful curve.

  I want her to notice me, look at me. Like me best. I go for humor. “Unlike your typical guest, we’re not a hundred years old.”

  She turns her head, just enough to comment over her shoulder. “All the more reason not to land on your butt, then.”

  Todd laughs. “You just got served. That took, what, two tenths of a second?”

  God, I hate his guts.

  “The lady is welcome to tease. I like it.” I smile.

  She shakes her head. “Let’s talk casting. I think it’ll be a much more gratifying discussion for all of you.”

  Except for Andy, we’re not dressed to wade, but Macy is. She strides into the water, turns to face us.

  “In the next day or two we’ll all fish from a drift boat on the river. It was a dry winter, so the river’s down now, but they’re going to release runoff from Palisades Dam tomorrow or the next day, so the South Fork flows will be too high to wade. Right now, I want your full attention on the cast, so you’re on shore for the morning.” She pulls the line through her fingers, gracefully turns the rod in her han
d until the tip is pointing straight to the sky.

  Listen, hot girls are one thing, but a good-looking woman who is gifted at something? That is pure sex. Have you ever watched a really good female bartender? That is hot. So is a pilot, or a musician, or a painter, or a glass blower, or, gee, I don’t know, a fly fisherwoman.

  Talent is sexy.

  Macy’s talking, and I’m not paying attention. “Mr. King, was it?”

  “Huh?”

  Todd laughs again. “Dude, are you deaf?”

  “What?”

  “Can you show me your basic cast? Ten to two, nice and easy. Don’t even worry about where the line goes.”

  I straighten my shoulders. This, my friends, is why I’m always prepared. I took lessons in LA. I always know what I’m doing. Sometimes it’s just barely enough to be competent, but I’m never caught looking stupid. I hate looking stupid.

  I pull the line through the eyes of the rod, feel the slack in my hand, and try my best to pull back to ten o’clock and over the top to two o’clock.

  To be honest, besides casting off the rooftop deck of my house, the best preparation for this moment was watching Brad Pitt and Tom Skerritt in River Runs Through It. I love movies so much. You can learn a lot from some careful watching.

  Our guide holds her rod across her chest, watching me.

  “That’s not a bad start. Try not to force it. If the rhythm’s right, the line will sail along with you. Don’t push it too hard, or it’ll pile up behind you.”

  Tucker nods. “Physics. I could get into this.”

  Of course the bodyguard is a part-time science geek. I thank my lucky stars he’s gay. He’d be impossible to ever compete with. He’s a kind man, the size of a mountain, a decent cook, and, apparently, into physics.

  I smile at Macy as she turns her attention to Tucker’s casting. I keep practicing for a minute. I’ve been known to kind of get a little competitive (okay, I’m rabid), but today I’d especially like to be a star pupil.

  Then my mind wanders, drifting to thoughts of star students, teacher-student relationships, then Van Halen, and that one video about the hot teacher, and then—