by Lisa Ferrari
Sexpot? Me? “Nowhere. I’ve, um, never studied acting. I studied English Lit. Remember, I said it earlier?”
“Never ever?” Aaron asks. “Ever? How can that be? I’ve seen Academy Awards given out for less.”
As we all sit down and pick up our champagne flutes so that Rami can refill them, I’m still flummoxed from hearing myself referred to as a sexpot.
“I’m a writer,” I say. “I try to get into the heads of my characters. I try to feel what they’re feeling. I try to make it real. Like, say you have a scene where a girl invites a guy in for a sandwich, what’s the scene about? It’s not about the sandwich. It’s about her feeding him, which is a maternal thing that goes all the way back to breastfeeding. It’s very primal. Then you have her making the sandwich. She’s gotta get everything out of the fridge and get the bread and put the mayonnaise and mustard and she has to wash a tomato and some lettuce and then slice the tomato and put them on the bread and then put some meat and cheese. Or maybe it’s just a PB-and-J, you know? Maybe she’s broke and not real sophisticated because it’s hard to be sophisticated when you don’t have any money and you’re barely making your rent and the car payment on your shitty little Toyota that started making funny engine noises a few days ago so that can’t be good.
“And the whole time, the guy is just sitting there. What’s he doing? What’s he thinking? They’re going to be having a conversation, right? What are they talking about? Something important? Or something mundane? And this is probably the first time he’s been in her place, so he’s checking things out, looking around, sizing her up. And the whole time he’s thinking, ‘Am I going to get laid? Does she like me?’ And you know he’s looking at her ass each time she opens the refrigerator and bends over to get something for the sandwich. And you know he’s looking at her boobs while she’s standing there making it for him. And is he even hungry? He might’ve eaten half an extra-large pizza a little while ago. Or maybe he hasn’t eaten since breakfast, which was coffee and a cigarette because he’s broke, too. Or maybe he just got off an airplane and he flew first class and he ate Kobe Beef filet mignon and here he is in this girl’s tiny little apartment and she’s slinging Oscar Mayer bologna all over the place. And when he actually eats it, does he enjoy it? Does it taste good? He’s gotta be nervous, right? Because this is the first time she’s prepared food for him. What if it tastes like crap? What if he hates mayo but is afraid to say anything? Is he going to lie and say it’s good even if it isn’t? What if it’s crap and they both know it but they pretend that it’s great? I always figured that’s what good acting is. Feeling it. Understanding it. Living it like it were real. It’s easy when it’s real because then you’re not acting, you’re not pretending. You’re simply living. Like Joey said, ‘Acting is reacting; this does not mean acting again.’ But I’ve never studied acting or actually done it so I could be wrong.”
Silence. Just the distant subsonic whump-whump-whump of the club’s speakers vibrating through the walls.
Rami and Aaron look stunned. They sit with their mouths open.
Uh-oh; what did I say?
“Claire,” Aaron begins, “that was the single most lucid and erudite deconstruction of modern drama I’ve ever seen. Where did you learn all that?”
“Nowhere….”
“Nowhere? You just pulled it out of your ass just now?”
“I guess. It’s just common sense.”
“That is it,” says Rami. “That is exactly it. You are exactly right. It’s not about the sandwich. The sandwich has nothing to do with it. Amazing. Can we hire you as a co-producer or something? Do you need a job? What are you doing now, presently, for employment and for money and survival and to acquire sandwich-making paraphernalia?”
I remember what Kellan said before to the nice man in first class with us. “I’m in the hospitality industry. I work at one of the premier country clubs in northern California. When women in the area come to us for their dream wedding, I make sure they get it.” This is, of course, unmitigated horse manure, and part of me feels like an out-and-out liar and a phony for saying it, but it’s too late now.
Rami smiles. “Aww…. That is so sweet. A romantic at heart.”
That much, at least, is true.
Our conversation drifts back toward the project and the script in our hands. Rami orders another bottle of Dom. I must say, it is spectacularly delicious. Similar to what Kellan and I drank on the plane but a bit sharper. Certainly much better than the cheap swill we serve at work.
I thumb through the script, glancing down at the front page where it reads UNTITLED ALIEN ADVENTURE MOVIE.
“No title?” I ask.
Rami drains his glass and burps politely into his fist. “It’s a work in progress, Claire.”
Aaron adds, “We have some titles but we’re still debating. Maybe Foreign Love or Alien Love or Space Love, you know? That way, it’s science fictiony for the guys but it’s got love, too, for the ladies.”
I take a sip of my champagne and think for a moment. Then I have an idea. “How about Forever Love? And you could have one of those trailers where you show the two main characters standing there in the jungle, looking at their wrecked space ship. And there’s a big sign on the back that says JUST MARRIED. And they’re sweaty and kinda dirty, like they’ve been there awhile. The jungle looks kinda weird but we’re not sure why, it’s kinda Avatar-ish, but different, so you get the sense they’re not on earth. And the camera slowly zooms out like on Google Earth, and you see a big, long swatch of jungle that’s been demolished by their ship in the crash. And you zoom out more, and they get smaller and smaller and smaller until you see the planet in the blackness of space and the continents are weird and you realize it’s definitely not earth. It’s not even our solar system. And these two people are in deep, deep shit.”
Aaron leans forward. “Ooh, I love that. I think I just came in my pants. Kellan, who the hell is this woman? She’s a genius. She’s a natural storyteller. I love it.”
“Oh, God, that’s perfect!” says Rami. “That’s exactly what we’re going for. Yes! That’s it.”
Rami pours more champagne. “What’s your number, Claire?”
I tell him and both he and Aaron add me to their contacts. They say they need to get home but they’ll be in touch.
I don’t know if this is legit and they will actually call me or if it’s just typical Hollywood talk with nothing behind it.
They speak very quickly, explaining how they’re in post-production (which they refer to simply as “post”) on their current picture, and once it’s finished they’ll be able to devote all their time to this new project, and they already have their lawyers forming the LLC and their location people are out scouting and deciding where to shoot because every state has its little advantages for tax credits and whatnot, and it’s a shame the once-great state of California, where Hollywood was born, has become so political as to be fiduciarily unfriendly toward filmmakers and the very industry which has made it one of the crown jewels of the entire world.
“Why shoot in L.A. for 150 mill if you can do it in Georgia for 135?” Rami says in a rhetorical way. “15 million is 15 million, right? That can be the difference between A-list talent and B-list talent. Unless everyone works for scale, which is only for little indie jobs which are great but that’s not really what Aaron and I do. When we go, we go big. And each time out, we try to go bigger than we did on the last one. This is going to be our biggest yet. We want Kellan to be our boy.”
I’m awed by the figures he’s throwing around. “135 million dollars, really?”
“That’s a starting figure,” says Aaron. “We’ll see how it goes.”
I’m about to poop myself at the prospect of Kellan being in a 135 million-dollar movie.
And maybe…maybe…me, too?
Holy crap.
How could I possibly do such a thing?
How could they possibly want ME?
We say our goodbyes. The guys tell K
ellan he looks huge as always, that they think I might be it, maybe tighten me up a little, not to be indelicate, but you know how it is, showbiz and all that, Kellan wishes them luck on the premier, and then we depart.
I don’t know what to think.
BY THE TIME we exit the club, it’s almost 2:00 a.m. and the club is closing.
You wouldn’t know it by the amount of traffic on Sunset Boulevard.
People are pouring out of the club. And then hanging around on the sidewalk.
The valet guys help us into the Aventador and Kellan gives them a ridiculous tip. I’m pretty sure I see him hand the guy a hundred. About a thousand smart phones come out and take video of the whole scene. I’m blinded by the LED flashes.
We drive east, toward our hotel. The night air tosses my hair and feels good on my face. Is it always this nice in L.A. at 2:00 a.m.?
I can’t help but wonder if everything in the club actually happened.
Did I just audition for a movie?
Was I just offered a job?
BACK AT THE hotel, Kellan and I both lie down on the bed, just for a minute to rest until we get up and get ready for bed.
It’s been a long day.
One of the best days of my life. For certain.
Kellan is gently calling my name.
I need to get up and brush my teeth and put on my jammies. Or get naked if Kellan and I are going to do stuff. Maybe I can simply lie here and he can do stuff to me.
I open my eyes.
It’s morning.
We both fell asleep in our clothes with the lights on. We managed only to remove our shoes.
We’re out of ready-meals so Kellan orders room service and I take a quick shower. The bathroom is all white and exceedingly elegant. There’s a big oval Jacuzzi tub and a big shower with two shower heads. I imagine being in either or, ideally, both of them with Kellan. All soapy and slippery and naked, kissing wildly, the way we did last night while we were standing on the table at the club.
I wonder when our next kiss will be.
The first one was in the excitement of the moment after having driven stupidly fast in the Aventador.
The second one was part of the audition.
They weren’t merely kisses of opportunity, were they?
I’ll have to wait for the third one. The third one is always the charm.
AFTER MY SHOWER, I put on fresh clothes. It feels so good to be clean.
We devour our scrambled eggs and oatmeal and more coffee. It’s all so delicious.
We don’t talk very much. Part of me wants to discuss yesterday: the show; Stacy; Kellan’s guest posing and how it made me want to compete; and, most of all, the club: Aaron and Rami; their movie; our audition.
Our kiss.
Wow.
Wow wow wow.
Okay, Claire, stop saying Wow so much.
That was, without a doubt, the single best, most wonderful, and most passionate kiss I’ve ever had.
As far as I’m concerned, that was Fairy Tale-caliber kissing.
That kiss was epic.
That kiss… sorry, but that kiss was at least as good as Wesley and Buttercup’s.
All this is going through my mind as Kellan and I eat in silence.
And it’s a perfectly comfortable silence.
To quote Mia Wallace, I don’t feel compelled to “yack about bullshit in order to feel comfortable.”
And I know Kellan isn’t worried why I’m so quiet. I also know Kellan isn’t worrying about whether or not I’m worrying why he is so quiet.
We’re both exhausted and still trying to wake up. That much is certain.
But either way, it’s so nice to be able to sit with someone and not have to talk. (As Billy Crystal says to Meg Ryan over lunch as he shoves salad into his mouth in When Harry Met Sally.)
I’ve never had a boyfriend with whom I was this comfortable.
Or to whom I was this attracted. Obviously he’s beyond gorgeous. Hotter than hot. Sexier than sexy.
But it’s more than that.
It’s deeper than that.
I think Kellan feels it, too.
I hope he does.
Either that or he’s just a super nice guy taking pity on a lonely fat girl, teaching her how to work out and eat correctly.
And laying epic kisses on her in Hollywood nightclubs.
WE CHECK OUT and make our way to LAX.
Kellan explains that the new Aventador is being picked up by a company that specializes in shipping exotics such as his. Their representative is actually waiting for us at the airport. The car will be delivered to Kellan’s place up north.
On the plane, first class is every bit as awesome as I remember it from Friday.
But even better this time.
Having experienced it once, I’m not nearly as nervous, and I’m able to enjoy it far more.
About halfway through the hour flight, I fall asleep leaning against Kellan’s massive arm. It’s like leaning against a horse. Pure muscle. And he’s so warm.
When we land in Sacramento, we make our way out to Kellan’s Stingray and he drops me off at my place.
“What time do you have to be at work?” he asks.
“Three.”
“Try to sleep for a few hours.”
“Oh, I plan to.”
He’s so concerned about me, always looking out for me. I love that.
“Sorry the weekend was so hectic.”
“It certainly was an experience.” There was no time to worry about having sex, let alone time to actually have it.
“I promise our next trip will be pleasure instead of business. Can I walk you to your door?”
“That’s okay. The stairs are just right there. I can manage.”
Kellan is looking at me, grinning slightly.
I stare back at him.
The only sound is the deep, throaty gurgle of the Corvette.
We’re both waiting for a kiss.
But as it’s about to happen, Stacy pops into my mind. And that comment she made about Kellan and me.
I panic, blurt out something like, “Okay, bye!”, hop out of the car, and hurry up the stairs to my apartment.
Once I’m safely in, Kellan drives away. I hear the meaty, throaty exhaust of the Stingray as he drives through the parking lot of the apartment complex.
My phone rings.
I bet it’s Kellan calling to ask why we didn’t kiss.
I hope it is.
But it’s Denise.
“Hi, Denise.”
“Turn on channel thirteen. TMZ is on.”
I turn my TV to channel 13.
They’re showing Kellan and me, in the new Aventador, getting out in front of the club. They’re joking about Kellan and the cow. They show pictures of a woman they say was his last girlfriend: and it’s frickin Stacy. Everyone agrees Stacy is more appropriate, a tall sun-bronzed golden-brown woman with single-digit body-fat, nicely wrapped in designer labels.
Then they show us again, in front of the club.
Kellan looks great.
I look like a fat pig.
Denise is amazed. She says I’m going to be famous.
I decide suddenly not to mention the meeting with Aaron and Rami.
I turn off the TV, tell Denise I’ve got to go, wolf down some food, and collapse on the bed. I’m asleep in ten seconds.
TWO HOURS LATER, I wake up.
I check the clock: 2:39 p.m.
Fudge packer! I’m so late. I’m supposed to clock in at 3:00!
Damnit! How did I forget to set the alarm on my phone?
Seeing myself referred to as a cow on national television may have had something to do with it.
I go to my closet to get my work clothes. They’re not on their hangers, in their usual spot between my coats and exercise apparel.
Because they aren’t clean.
They’re still dirty from Thursday.
Fuuuuuuudge.
If only I’d checked before passing out fo
r my nap, I could’ve thrown them in the machine real quick.
I pull them out of my big blue laundry basket. They’re wrinkled and they kinda stink…like food and B.O.
Blech!
I dig my iron out of the closet, pulling on the cord. The iron falls off the shelf and hits me on the head. OW!!! That’s gonna leave a mark.
I put some water in the iron, plug it in, and brush my teeth while I wait for it to heat up. When it’s ready, I steam my shirt.
Ants come flying out.
Ants.
Cooked ants. Steamed, actually.
And quite dead.
You’ve got to be kidding me!
Their little black bodies are everywhere. It looks like I spilled coffee grounds.
I splash some water on my clothes and toss them in the dryer, along with three dryer sheets and about 10 squirts of my only bottle of perfume, something my mom got for me at Macy’s two years ago and that I never wear.
A few minutes later, when I really need to be in the car already, my clothes are only kinda warm.
And still wrinkled.
And still damp.
And still smeared with ant guts.
They not only look terrible, they smell like food, B.O. a French whore, and the odd sweet-roasted smell of steamed ants. Sigh.
Screw it.
I get dressed. I bunch up my hair, grab my purse and my phone, and I’m out the door.
My car is filthy from sitting under a tree for the past two days. It must’ve been windy because the tree has dropped a fine, powdery layer of yellow pollen all over my car, along with thousands of tiny little drops of sticky sap.
I get in and my windshield is covered. I can’t drive like this. I try the washer fluid sprayer things and the wipers, but within a couple seconds the fluid runs out and the small amount serves to simply smear the pollen and sap in big arcs across the glass. Balls.
And the gas light is on.
Double-stuffed Oreos balls!
I remember instantly; I was going to get gas on my way to work today. My intuition told me to get it on the way home from work on Thursday but I didn’t because I was so excited about going to L.A. with Kellan.
Same with the laundry.
Oops.
I hope I can make it to work.
If I run out of gas and have to leave my car and walk the rest of the way, I’ll really be late.