by Ann Beattie
“I don’t think Lisa Marie’s as pretty as her mother,” Nicole said.
“Jeez—imagine being just a baby and having your old man fall over dead in the bathroom. I’ve got a three-year-old kid, and he’d fall over dead with me if I was on the floor, you know? Not that it’s not always rough, but when you’re just a little kid and one of your parents drops dead, it’s got to be bad. You know he wasn’t any daddy that put bees through the keyholes. He probably pushed diamonds through, huh? They say Graceland’s a pigsty now. It’s a big tourist trap.”
The deliveryman was speeding. Swallows flew past the truck, flying low over the road. A package slid to the floor. When they got off the dirt road, Nicole ducked low. It was too much trouble to bend over that far, so she sat up again, then slid way down on the seat.
“Sorry,” the deliveryman said. “It’s protocol, you know? Did you know that the Queen never carries her own umbrella? Wacky world, huh?”
Nicole nodded.
“My mother-in-law’s neighbor was in a room next to Lucie Arnaz when she had her last kid,” the deliveryman said. “Saw her every day. Said she was really friendly. Kept the door to her room open a lot of the time.”
Nicole’s thoughts were drifting. This wasn’t the outfit she would have chosen if she’d had more time—and it probably wouldn’t have been the moment if she hadn’t been stoned—but what the hell. She might not have friends, but she didn’t have to stay a virgin, and what better place to be deflowered than in a shrine to yourself?
17
HARRY WOODS was embarrassed. It was one thing to have a Stephanie Sykes shrine in his room, and another thing to have the real-life Stephanie walk in. She walked around, looking at all the photographs he had cut out of magazines, strolling the way people stroll through art galleries on Sunday, with one eye on whatever paintings were hung, while picking up people in their peripheral vision whom they might make a move on. Nicole intended to go to bed with Harry Woods, but she wasn’t entirely sure how to seduce him. She had seen enough movies to know that props would be a help, but there were very few things in Harry Woods’s room. Eye makeup was also a help, but she had forgotten to put on makeup in her rush to get a ride with the Federal Express man. So she was strolling around, trying to think, vaguely assessing different images of herself. There were pictures from newspapers, from magazines, black-and-white glossies he had gotten from the studio. He would probably buy a dozen Stephanie Sykes dolls. There were stories about Passionate Intensity tacked to his bulletin board. There was also a large oil painting of a spaniel with a bird in its mouth, an orange and blue sky glowing behind the dog, and a man down on one knee with a rifle, on a hillside, near a patch of trees.
“Do you like to hunt?” she said, sitting in one of his director’s chairs. She toed one of her jellies off her heel and, with her toe still in the shoe, flapped it.
“Nah, that was there when I moved in,” he said.
“I’m glad you don’t like to hunt,” she said. “I think hunting’s gross.”
“Yeah,” he said. “People come to the inn with deers dripping down their vans and stuff. Sometimes the parking lot looks like a slaughterhouse.”
“That’s really sick,” she said.
“They say if you don’t kill ‘em, they starve to death,” he said. He shook a cigarette out of the pack and held it toward her.
“No thanks,” she said.
“Mind if I do?” he said.
“Go ahead,” she said.
He lit the cigarette and sat in the other director’s chair. There was a white plastic table between the two chairs. He threw the pack of cigarettes on the table.
“So you must really think it’s weird and all, my having all this stuff in my room.”
“I don’t know,” she said. “What do you like so much about Stephanie Sykes?”
He blushed. He looked at the table and tapped his cigarette ash into an ashtray.
“You don’t smoke?” he said.
She shook her head no. She picked up the pack and flipped the top open and closed. Her shoe fell off her foot.
“So you must really think you’re in the boonies,” he said.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “You meet interesting people everywhere, you know?”
“Where all have you been?” he said.
“Paris,” she lied.
“Yeah?” he said. “Are they real nasty to Americans, like I heard?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “I stayed with a friend.”
“Yeah?” he said. “They call streets over there boulevards. I know that.”
“Yeah. Paris is really exciting.”
“You speak French?”
“No,” she said. “But it worked out okay, because the guy I stayed with spoke French.”
“Yeah?” he said. “There’s a lot of Oriental tourists at the inn this year.”
They sat in silence. She put the cigarette pack back on the table and ran the tip of her second finger up and down the edge of the arm on the director’s chair.
“You must think it’s pretty odd sittin’ here,” he said.
She shrugged. “The guy in Paris has got a lot more pictures than you do,” she said. “I put up pictures sometimes.”
“Yeah? Whose pictures have you got up?”
“People I’ve met,” she said.
“Yeah? You must know a lot of stars.”
“I guess so.”
“Yeah,” he said. “There’s a lot of pictures with you and Bobby Blue.”
“We’re just friends.”
“You ever meet Brooke Shields?”
“Sure,” Nicole said. “We’re with the same agency.”
“Yeah?” he said. “What’s she like?”
“Well, you know,” Nicole said. “There’s nothing between her and Michael Jackson.”
“I read where there’s nothing between Michael Jackson and anybody.”
“Yeah. I think he’s messed up.”
“You know Michael Jackson?”
“Not very well.”
“Yeah?” he said, with more interest. “You’ve met him?”
“A couple of times,” she said. “He’s real reclusive and everything.”
“Yeah.”
“He’s really a great performer and all, though.”
“Yeah,” he said.
She took off her other shoe and slid a little lower in the chair, crossing her feet at the ankles. She wished she had touched up the polish on her toes. St. Francis had run up to her and licked her foot when the nail polish wasn’t quite dry; the smeared polish made her big toe look bloody. She put her heel over her toes. There was a big pink mosquito bite on her shin. Nothing she could do about that.
“So what’s it like being an actress?” he said.
“I don’t know,” she said. “It’s not hard. It’s hard standing around the set while you do scenes over and over. Kind of boring.” That didn’t sound right. “Kind of exciting,” she said.
“I bet,” he said.
Another thought came to her. “Some days I feel like Jonah in the belly of the whale,” she said.
“Swallowed up,” he said.
“Yeah. So it’s nice to be in the country and all.”
He nodded. He took another cigarette out of the pack and lit it. “Hey, you don’t drink, do you?” he said.
“Oh, sure,” she said.
He got up. Across the room was a small refrigerator sitting on the floor, with a jade plant on top and a pile of paperbacks. He opened the door and took out a beer. “Beer or vodka?” he said.
“Vodka, please.”
He went into the bathroom. “This is clean,” he said, coming out, holding a glass. “The shelf’s just in the b-r.”
She nodded. She had had vodka before, in fruit juice, and it wasn’t bad.
“I’ve got some orange juice,” he said.
“That’ll be fine.”
“Yeah,” he said. “That’s all I like: vodka and beer. I d
rink Coke too. Real Coke, not diet stuff.”
“You’ve got a great body,” she said. “You don’t need to diet.”
He blushed again. The orange juice was in a bowl with a plastic top. He took off the top and poured the juice into the glass, which he had put on the floor. He poured some vodka in, then put both the orange juice and vodka back in the refrigerator.
“Sorry I don’t have any ice,” he said.
“It’s good and cold,” she said, taking a sip. It tasted almost like regular orange juice.
“I drank fifteen of them last month,” he said.
“Yeah?”
“I mean in the same night.”
“Yeah,” she said. “I’ve done that.”
“It’s not legal for you to drink, is it?”
“Sure,” she said.
“You’re fourteen, aren’t you?”
“Nah, that’s what the studio says. It’s sort of embarrassing that they always lie and everything.”
“How old are you?”
“How old do I look?”
He blushed. “I don’t know,” he said.
“How old are you?” she said.
“Twenty-one.”
He took a sip of beer. “How old are you?”
“Sixteen.”
“Yeah?” he said, taking another sip of beer. “That’s cool.”
“Yeah,” she said. “They lie about everything.”
“What do they lie about?”
“Oh, everything.”
He continued to look at her.
“The P.R. people say whatever they think they ought to say. You know, most of the dates are put-ups, for instance. Guys who don’t go with girls and stuff.”
“Yeah? You ever go out with one of those guys?”
“I like straight guys,” she said. “I guess business is business, though.”
He nodded.
“You know what they call Bobby Blue?” she said.
“What?”
“Bobby Blueballs, because he’s a mama’s boy.”
“Jeez,” he said. His face turned red. He took another swig of beer. “I stopped hanging around my mother when I went to kindergarten.”
“Yeah,” she said.
“So how long are you here for?”
“Not much longer.”
He nodded.
“You live here all year?” she said.
“Oh yeah,” he said. “This is my place.”
They were in a stucco building at the back of the inn’s property. It faced a tiny stream. There were two doors. As they talked, somebody came in, whistling. You could hear everything through the walls. The person who came in turned on the water and hummed.
“They threw this place in as part of the deal,” he said. “I used to room with another guy, before I got this job. I like living alone.”
“It’s nice,” she said.
“Well,” he said. “I’m not always gonna be a dishwasher. I’ve been workin’ a couple nights a week down at the hardware store. I install doors on the weekends with this other guy. We were thinking about opening our own hardware store.”
“You like this town?” she said.
“It’s okay. Only I don’t know if it can support two hardware stores, you know?”
“Yeah,” she said. “Maybe not.”
“What I am officially is an underachiever,” he said. “My brother’s in Juilliard.”
“What’s that?”
“Music school.”
She had finished her drink. She put the glass on the table.
“Would you like another one?”
“Thanks.”
He got up and took her glass back to the floor in front of the refrigerator.
“I thought maybe you wanted to be a chef,” she said.
“A chef? Nah. I’m just a meat and potatoes man.”
“So what’s your favorite show?” she said.
He poured orange juice and vodka in the glass.
“Could you make this one a little stronger?” she said.
“Sure,” he said. “Sorry.”
He put the bowl and bottle back in the refrigerator, took out another beer and twisted off the top. He went into the bathroom and threw away the cap, then came back and got the glass from the floor.
“I don’t believe you’re really sittin’ here,” he said. He shook his head. He took out another cigarette and lit it.
“Well, that note you wrote me was pretty nice.”
“Yeah,” he said, blushing. “I didn’t think the waitress was really going to give it to you, you know?”
“Well, I didn’t say anything because of the guy I was with.”
“Yeah? What guy were you with?”
“Oh—did you see who was sitting at the table?”
“I looked out the window,” he said.
“The tall guy with the sandy hair.”
“He your friend from Paris?”
“No. That’s another guy.”
He nodded. “You travel around a lot, huh?”
“More than I really want to. It’s nice to just hang out.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I can dig that.”
“I was with my aunt and some of her friends. We were going to the fireworks.”
“I missed them,” he said. “Yeah. I was working.”
There was silence again. The man next door was singing in the shower.
“Maybe we should go in the bathroom and sing along,” she said.
“Yeah,” he said. “He’s noisy. Bill Sinclair. He works maintenance. Cut his thumb off with hedge clippers last year.”
“Oh, gross,” she said.
“Yeah,” he said.
“So where do you hang out?” she said.
“Raindance,” he said. “You been over there?”
“No.”
“It used to be on the main street, but it moved this summer. It’s down past the Episcopal Church. Sort of hard to find, if you don’t know what you’re looking for.”
“So do they have music and everything?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Live bands Friday and Saturday.”
“I’m always listening to music in L.A. It’s been pretty quiet around here.”
“Their bands are pretty good,” he said.
Nicole had almost finished her drink. He was watching her.
“Did you really keep the glass I drank out of?” she said.
“I was just kidding,” he said.
“I guess it’s not like it had a picture of me on it or anything.”
“Right.”
“Well,” she said. “It was nice to stop by.” She put her glass on the table.
“I don’t get it,” he said.
“What don’t you get?”
“How come you came looking for me.”
“I like to meet people when I travel,” she said. “I like to connect, you know?”
He continued to sit in the chair when she stood. She stepped into her shoes. It was always hard to slide her feet into jellies. She thought it would be awkward to have to bend over to pull them on. Finally she did have to bend over to pull the heel of the second one on her foot.
“So give me a call if you’d like to hear some music sometime,” he said, standing.
“Now I don’t get it,” she said.
“Get what?”
“Do you just think it’s weird having me here?”
“Yeah,” he said. “It’s pretty weird.”
She shook her head.
“I mean, it seems like there’s Stephanie Sykes, and then there’s you. Not that you don’t look like her,” he said, laughing.
“What do you mean, there’s me?”
“It’s like you’re a regular person. I wasn’t sitting here thinking about the person you play on TV.”
“Is that a compliment?”
“Just something I was thinking,” he said.
She was looking at him.
“I didn’t mean it as a put-down or anything. Sure; it was a
compliment. I guess I never thought about you in real life.”
“Yeah,” she said. “A lot of me goes into my character, but other stuff goes into being me.”
“It was nice getting to know you,” he said. “Do you want another drink or anything?”
“I won’t keep you.”
“No. Really.”
“No. I’m not going to keep you.”
“Well, I got Eddie to take over for me in the kitchen. You might as well keep me. I don’t have any more orange juice, though. Maybe we could go over to Raindance.”
She knew they wouldn’t serve her. Even with eye makeup, she’d never pass.
“No thanks,” she said.
“Okay,” he said. “Let me know if you ever feel like hearing some music.”
“I’ll probably be leaving soon.”
“Oh yeah? Going back to California?”
“Sure. This was just a vacation.”
They were both standing in the room facing each other. He put his beer bottle on the table.
“Your aunt lives in town, huh?”
She nodded.
“Did you tell her you were coming over here?”
“Why do you ask that?”
“Just wondering.”
“She just figures I’m hanging out,” Nicole said.
“That’s cool,” he said.
“I don’t see any point in telling her. You know?”
He nodded his head. “You’re sixteen, huh? When are you going to be seventeen?”
“Why do you care about that?”
“Wondered when your birthday was.”
“September,” she said.
“Virgo?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m Pisces. Not a bad mix.”
“I never can remember,” she said. She knew that her mother was a Scorpio. Piggy Proctor was a Gemini.
“I’ve got a book,” he said, gesturing toward the refrigerator.
“I guess I sort of believe that stuff,” she said.
“It works out a lot of the time.”
“Do you have a girlfriend?” she said.
“Not really,” he said. He looked at her. “You’ve got to have friends to hang out with, right?”
