He laughed, more a shout than anything joyful. “I like this one. She’s got moxie. Where’d you find her?” Like Marjorie was a great umbrella or a new iPhone app.
“Two for one at Walmart. I picked her up and also this shirt.” Gus pulled at his forest green T-shirt.
“Well, good choice. How long you been dating?”
“No!” Marjorie and Gus both protested, practically leaping across the table to correct him.
“We’re not dating.”
“She’s my employee.”
Benny shrugged. “She looks like your type.” To Marjorie, he said, “But you’re in film. Much more interesting.” He took a sip of water. “That’s funny, fucking Walmart. Don’t get me started on goddamn them.”
Against the odds, Marjorie found herself liking Benny—though not quite as much as the albacore sashimi. (This was the best sushi she’d ever had.) He was gruff and unpolished, but also substantial in a way she was coming to appreciate. When they parted ways later, he gave her a bear hug.
“You sure you’re not dating?” he repeated, retreating down the block.
“Yes!” they chorused.
“Then you’re idiots.” Benny shook his head and continued toward his tiny Fiat.
Marjorie turned back to Gus, whose brow furrowed as he examined an e-mail on his BlackBerry.
“You know BlackBerry is going out of business, right? You’re a dinosaur.”
“They’re easier to type on,” he grunted, not bothering to look up.
“It gets—”
“Yeah, I know.” He rolled his eyes. “Everyone says it gets easier, but I don’t think typing on my phone is a skill I should have to cultivate.”
“Fair enough.”
“Anyway, I saw your hardcover book on the plane. How come you don’t have a Kindle or iPad or whatever the kids are using these days?”
She smiled. “’Cause I’m a dinosaur too.”
They strolled back toward the car. The air had turned chillier and Marjorie hugged herself for warmth. She looked at Gus—his gait loping and slouched, his T-shirt a little wrinkled as always. Was that sloppiness a tiny rebellion?
“So,” she nudged, “I’m your type, huh?”
He looked up from his BlackBerry and groaned, “I knew you were going to say that. Benny doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He barely knows me.”
“If you say so.”
“It’s superficial, anyway. I happen to have dated a few taller girls with that kind of hair or whatever before.”
“I’m sorry, that kind of hair?”
“You know”—he gestured toward her head—“that color.”
“Auburn.”
“Whatever you call it. I’m not a wordsmith.”
“‘Wordsmith?’ Hey, Gus, 1890 called. They want their lingo back.”
“I’m not even going to dignify that with a response.” He patted her shoulder, his hand heavy with condescension. “It’s not your fault that you’re young and dumb.”
She gaped in mock shock at his insolence. “Older doesn’t mean smarter. You may be demonstrating early signs of senility. Plus, that’s not what Fred said about your type.”
He looked stricken. “What did Fredericka say?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“I’m serious. Tell me.”
“That you fluctuated between pretentious girls and dumb bimbos.”
He was clearly relieved. “No. I only like smart bimbos. Why were you talking about my type, anyway?” Marjorie ignored the question.
Back on 3rd Street, Gus parked his car and insisted on walking Marjorie the half block to her hotel. They lingered outside.
“So is Benny a typical festival organizer? Not that I’ve met many, but he’s not super solicitous.”
Gus nodded. “He’s involved, but he actually established a nonprofit foundation that gives grants to the winning filmmakers mostly. It’s his creative outlet, a side project. He made a bundle in supermarket chains, then he opened one of the first medical marijuana dispensaries in Venice. He offers reward cards for return customers. ‘Buy one-eighth, get a joint free!’”
“What? That can’t be real.”
“Oh, that’s real.”
Marjorie snorted. “Ha! Well, now I don’t like LA; I love it.”
“Please. You couldn’t handle normal brownies at Fred’s party.”
Suddenly, Marjorie was struck with a memory she’d lost from the night she met Gus, before Mac professed his undying … like.
Gus’s hand was on her back for comfort.
“I must look like a mess,” she’d said.
“You look fine. Good, even. I’m thinking you’ve never looked bad. Let’s be honest.” She’d wiped her tears away with a crumpled brownie napkin, as he continued, “At some point, we all go through this—growing pains are a rite of passage. This is what it feels like to be in transition. It’s horrible, but it’s en route to something better.”
She’d watched him talk, this handsome, sardonic, kind stranger. She’d known nothing about him and yet she’d felt comfortable. But now she felt nervous.
“Anyway,” he said. “We should probably both get some rest. Long day tomorrow.”
“See you in the morning.” Marjorie was wide awake and hesitant to retreat alone to her room, but didn’t dare express it. “Thanks for tonight!”
Before she realized her mistake, she threw her arms around Gus’s neck and planted a kiss on his scruffy cheek. It took her a moment to realize he wasn’t hugging her back. His arms remained at his sides, his hands held up, like a crossing guard stopping cars.
Suddenly, she couldn’t distinguish between his warm skin and a panicked heat spreading up her own neck. She willed herself to step back—at least move her face away from his tanned jaw, where she was close enough to see the beginnings of laugh lines—but she couldn’t bear to confront the awkwardness.
Finally, after seconds that felt like years, she let go, sliding down his front. Once on solid ground, she patted his upper arm, as if that final gesture somehow mitigated the rest.
Gus’s phone began to ring. “Um.” Barely meeting her eyes, he picked up the call, listened, then waved good-bye to Marjorie, retreating down the street, head bent in conversation.
Standing alone, Marjorie shifted in her shoes. Why did Gus have to be so stiff and make her feel like some heathen? She imagined a female coworker thrusting a similar embrace upon Mac in an innocent—barely inappropriate—show of enthusiasm. What would he do? Laugh it off, maybe make an off-color joke about his irresistibility. In the old days, before Marjorie, he would have bought her a drink, told her she was by far his prettiest employee, then taken her home. She frowned. Either way, he wouldn’t have compounded the awkwardness by ducking away.
One hug and she’d likely undone all progress toward loosening Gus up and making her job easier, more pleasant. One hug and he was a stranger again.
She watched him disappear, then—still blushing—went inside to drown her humiliation in room service dessert.
34
The morning came too soon. When the hotel phone rang rudely, Marjorie awoke with a sugar hangover. (She’d ordered apple donuts and chocolate ice cream, then—while watching a poorly edited version of Willy Wonka—dug into gummy candy from the Joan’s on Third-curated minibar.) She reached for the receiver. After a shrill beep, a recorded female voice chirped: Good morning. This is your 7:30 A.M. wake-up call. Today is Friday, July 27th. The weather is sunny, with a high of 84 degrees Fahrenheit. Have a great day!
“No, you have a great day,” Marjorie grumbled. She slammed the phone back onto its cradle, wishing she too could return to her rightful place, sandwiched between the comforter and pillow-topped mattress.
Outside, the sky was a translucent periwinkle, having pushed the darkness out. All over LA, hungry producers and young actors pulled on Pilates, SoulCycle, and CrossFit gear, dreaming of soy lattes and hemp milk smoothies, taking advantage of extra energy from bi
weekly B12 shots. This was for them an average day.
Marjorie’s body felt like lead. Staring down at her rounder than usual belly, she realized it was not possible to eat away embarrassment—only thinness.
She prepared for an uncomfortable interaction with Gus. Why did it feel like she’d pulled up her shirt and flashed him when she’d only pecked his cheek? He was so damn uptight. No matter. She resolved to be the model of stoicism from now on.
Awhile later, in the shade of the valet’s overhang, there was a chill. She pulled her sweater over her head, realized it was backward, then got twisted up trying to fix it. When Gus arrived, she had the thing on upside down with one arm through one hole. He smirked. This was not the respectable first image she’d planned to present.
Yanking the sweater off, she slid onto the perforated passenger’s seat and stared forward, her bag perched on her thighs like one of Stardom’s lapdogs. “Good morning.”
“Hey.” The silent car whirred into action. Gus pulled out into the street, nodding toward the cup holder. “I got you coffee from Kings Road Café. It’s the best.”
“Thank you. That’s considerate.”
He narrowed his eyes at her formality. “You’re welcome. How’d you sleep? Is the hotel okay?”
She thought back to the night before: candy strewn around her on the all-white bed, chocolate smeared across her face.
“It was quite nice. You?”
“Fine. I watched Willy Wonka.”
“Me too. How amusing.”
“Why are you talking like that?”
“I’m being professional.”
“By ‘professional,’ do you mean weird?”
“Oh, I’m not the weird one.” She sounded petulant again.
“What does that mean?” The car in front of them was driving about three miles an hour. “For the love of God! Is this person going to move?”
“It means that you’re the weird one.”
“Holy shit. Is this person crazy? It’s rush hour in LA! Drive!”
“That’s why you have a horn. Honk it.”
“No. I don’t like horns.”
“Why?”
“Because they’re loud and obnoxious and I don’t like to add to the noise pollution.”
Marjorie was incredulous. “You’re worried about people on the street, but I have to listen to you curse inside the car?” She lowered the window, watching it glide halfway down.
Gus finally wove around the car and stopped at a red light. He looked over at Marjorie, bewildered. “What’s with you this morning? You seem … are you angry or something?”
Marjorie took a deep breath. She needed to let this go. Why was she so pissed, anyway? “Nothing. I must have had bad dreams.”
“That sucks,” he said. “Were they about car horns?”
She glared at him. Then, mercilessly, Gus turned on the radio and they drove in silence the rest of the way to Hollywood.
The American Film Institute sits high above Western Avenue, as the thoroughfare curves dramatically and morphs into Los Feliz Boulevard; it’s as if the cars, racing around the bend at warp speed, have transported themselves onto a different road. The scenery changes too: Gone are Hollywood’s asphalt, graffiti, hopeless cases, and dilapidated storefronts with perpetual security gates. Just north, Griffith Park appears like a revelation, a nourishing explosion of green. The neighborhood is filled with pretty old apartment buildings and homes against a panorama of leaves. AFI seemed to bridge the gap, reigning over both parts of the kingdom, Sodom and Gomorrah and Eden.
As Gus wound up the drive, Marjorie had a fantasy of being in some amazing old movie, crackly, off-speed, and black and white. Instead of climbing out of the hybrid, she would step—with the help of a white-gloved valet—onto the running board of a classic Hispano-Suiza.
No such luck. They parked. Gus introduced himself to the front desk clerk in a main building and, shortly thereafter, a man named Tom appeared and led them to a modern and unromantic edit bay. Three rolling chairs were splayed about, as if punch-drunk. A gnarly old love seat was pushed against a back wall; several screens sat atop a long table with tangled cords hanging down. A box of DVDs waited in a corner. Tom pointed out the bathrooms, kitchen (with water, tea, and coffee), and a vending machine stocked with unsavory snacks, then left Gus and Marjorie alone.
“Ready?” Gus peeled off his navy blue hoodie and threw it on the sofa’s arm, revealing another worn T-shirt, straining against his arms.
“Oh, are we doing this … together?” Marjorie regretted the phrasing immediately. “I mean, we aren’t splitting the movies up?”
“Nope. They only gave us the one suite.” He sat down in one of the rolling chairs, as a wheel spun out, and grabbed a remote control.
“I just thought that’s why I’m here.”
“No, Train Wreck, you’re here to play yin to my yang, for your brilliant insight and taste and your uncanny knack for not boring me. Although, the longer you stand there staring at me, the more I wonder if this was an ill-advised idea. You gonna sit?”
Gus pushed some buttons. When nothing happened, he began checking for loose plugs. Marjorie’s gaze lingered on the space between his T-shirt and the top of his boxer briefs; the sliver of skin drew her eye like a shiny penny. Why was that always attractive to her? Was it some throwback to when skateboarders and homeboys wore jeans that sagged?
Marjorie forced her eyes elsewhere, as the largest screen came to life, with a bright haze like dawn. She put her sweater aside and sat in a rolling chair, as Gus slid across the floor to the light switch and flipped them into darkness. As the first movie began, he sat close up, adjusting the settings; his face was bathed in light, as if he was the screen and the film projected onto him. Marjorie moved her chair another foot away for reasons she could not (would not) entertain, and tried to focus on the task at hand.
Over the next several hours, Marjorie wound herself into pretzels from rods to twists. She hugged both legs to her chest, let one dangle, rested her hands behind her head, her head on her hand, her elbow on the arm of the chair. She was slumped low with one leg hanging over the seat’s arm, when it started to tip. She almost face-planted onto the dusty floor. That’s when she moved to the couch.
There were bathroom, water, and sad food breaks (Snickers, Wheat Thins, peanut M&Ms)—and one extended pause when a dark-haired woman named Susan, whom Gus knew from his Paramount assistant days, showed up and insisted that they “must grab a drink—no excuses!” She chided him for not calling, while pawing at his forearms. Marjorie watched, first with amusement, then irritation. Gus didn’t recoil when Susan pressed a palm to his chest or nudged his calf with her open-toe gold sandals. When she winked, he winked back. What was his problem?
Susan slithered away. They watched movies, movies, and more movies. Eventually, Marjorie awoke—she hadn’t realized she’d been sleeping—with vague impressions of an aimless man driving the country in a rusted Buick. She looked down and realized she was snuggling against Gus’s hoodie, laid over her as a makeshift blanket. It smelled like his soap, grassy and clean; she inhaled. She rubbed her fists against her eyes like a child postnap and stretched, muscles tight, head thick, body chilled. White credits rolled down the black screen. Gus rubbed his neck and sighed, existentially.
“How long was I out?” she asked, startling him. He almost toppled backward, but the chair leveled out in time.
“Jesus! When did you wake up? You’re like a fucking ninja.”
“Did I miss the whole movie?”
“The last one and a half, actually.”
“Oh, my God. I’m so sorry. That’s so unprofessional.”
“It’s fine. You didn’t miss much. Though there was an Old West standoff in a diner parking lot. Lots of dust and french fries. An actual tumbleweed blew by, thanks to some diligent production assistant.” Gus stood. “Wow. I’m ancient. My knees actually creaked.” But he didn’t seem to mind. When Marjorie said the same thing to Mac, he’d
been resolute about his youthfulness.
Could Mac O’Shea be getting old?
Never!
“What’s the next movie?” she asked.
“Nothing tonight. It’s been a crazy long day.”
Marjorie swung her feet onto the floor. “Who knew watching movies could be so exhausting?”
He yawned. “I did.”
“So, what are we—or do you have festival stuff tonight?”
“Nope. No big plans. You hungry?”
“I could go for something besides vending machine junk.”
“How ’bout I take you to Dan Tana’s?”
Marjorie was too dazed to recall her earlier irritation. “I’d love it! What’s a Dan Tana?”
“You’re ridiculous.” Gus laughed. “It’s a red-checkered-tablecloth Italian place, but famous. An old Rat Pack hangout.”
“Perfect. Is anyone else coming?”
“Oh. No. I didn’t make plans. It would just be … us.”
There was a prolonged silence, as their eyes locked.
“Okay, great! Pick me up … now,” said Marjorie, trying to break the tension.
He nodded. “It’s a date. I mean, not a date. We don’t even have to go—we could just go to bed.”
“You want to go to bed?”
“I meant separately. Obviously. I didn’t mean we could sleep together.” Flustered, Gus grabbed his backpack and headed for the door. “Why would I mean that? I wouldn’t. I don’t even know why I’m still talking. I must be really tired. Are you tired? Of course you are. You fell asleep. We should take it easy tonight. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Marjorie stared at him. “Um, Gus.”
He turned reluctantly in the doorway. “Yeah?”
“You’re my ride, remember?”
“Right. Of course. I’ll meet you out front. By the door. You know what I mean.” He left.
Marjorie shook her head. Had any man ever been so concerned with propriety? Here she was, passed out during work, and he’s embarrassed because he said something barely suggestive? She stumbled out of the screening room, still disoriented, and found Gus at the front, pacing. They were on different speeds.
Will You Won't You Want Me?: A Novel Page 22
