Will You Won't You Want Me?: A Novel

by Nora Zelevansky

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m—fine.”

  “You sure?” She managed a nod. “Because you look like you’re freaking out.”

  “I’m probably—it’s just low blood sugar.” Her voice sounded hoarse.

  Gus considered her for a beat, not buying it. “Okay. I’ll pull over at that gas station and get you peanuts or something. That helps, right?”

  Not being hypoglycemic, Marjorie had no clue whether peanuts “helped.” She was confident they wouldn’t solve her current problem. “That’s okay. We’re going to lunch. I can make it.”

  The light turned green and the beat-up metallic blue Mitsubishi Galant in front of them glided forward, setting a snail’s pace for traffic.

  “Look, Marjorie, I saw you panic like this at the party, remember? On the off chance that this is anxiety, maybe take some deep breaths? Inhale for a count of five and then exhale for the same, a few times.”

  Marjorie didn’t bother protesting. She took a first uneven breath in and exhaled, then repeated that over again. She wasn’t cured, but she felt calmer, maybe just by virtue of his understanding.

  “It’s biofeedback,” Gus explained. “It slows down your heart rate, stops the adrenaline from intensifying.”

  She took a few more breaths. “Why do you know about this?”

  He shrugged. “My mom. She has these attacks, way worse than yours. She has fears that get in the way of her living her life.”

  “Oh. That’s terrible. I don’t want that to happen to me.”

  Gus looked at Marjorie with earnest concern. “Oh no, no. That won’t happen to you. She’s a wonderful person, but with real problems. She can’t see the world clearly. You’re fine. Just in flux. Happens to the best of us. I once went to the hospital in college for chest pains: I-don’t-want-to-be-a-lawyer syndrome.”

  Gus was a private person. Marjorie understood how unnatural it must be for him to confide in her. This is a car, this is Gus, someone who I trust to take care of me, this is a safe place. She felt the floodwaters draw back, crisis averted. For now.

  “Do you know what triggered this?”

  “No,” she lied.

  “Maybe it’s this lunch? Your first big filmmaker meeting? Don’t worry. You’ll be great.”

  She nodded, amused by the idea that she would panic in anticipation of meeting a fledgling filmmaker. As a PR person, she’d defused diva designers and actors, bipolar event planners, and anal Fortune 500 CEOs and their heavily drugged spouses.

  Mac texted again:

  Hello? Bueller? Were you kidnapped by Russ?

  She bit her lip and typed:

  Gotta run, ok? Off to film fest. Call you tonight.

  Look at you, Jet Set. Ok. Later

  Within ten minutes (an LA miracle!), Marjorie and Gus arrived at the tiered garage at the Sunset Boulevard festival location, at the intersection of Denial and Subtext.

  They pulled into a narrow spot, delineated by fat yellow lines. Stepping out of the car, Marjorie was sturdier on her feet than she expected. It was a clear day, blue skies, little smog. Through the gap in the cement guardrails, she could see the city laid out before her. Embedded in hills was the Hollywood sign, spotted with tufts of brush. They started down the steps to the building’s entrance.

  The lobby was abuzz. Organizers and staff wore laminated badges that dangled around their necks from red lanyards. Many were baby-faced college kids with telltale slept-on hair and USC and Cal Arts sweatshirts. Their focused expressions—as they unpacked and stacked schedules, brochures, and promotional postcards on folding tables—demonstrated a commitment that far outweighed the task. Perhaps creating an attractive display of complimentary pens would ensure their futures as studio executives or filmmakers! Their overseers looked unimpressed and worried, as they were every year, that the event would not resolve itself in time.

  “That’s it. I’m going to be fired,” said a gangly male organizer in tortoiseshell glasses, raising a backhand to his forehead in despair. “It’s the Omaha Horror Festival for me.”

  “I’d—They’d be lost without you,” promised his squat female coworker.

  Marjorie and Gus were directed to a carpeted banquet hall, where a lunch buffet included everything from gluten-free, veggie wraps to kosher hot dogs and fruit salad, a step above the East Coast honeydew, grapes, and cantaloupe norm. Metal buckets held tropical neuro drinks, advertised to improve brain function—an event sponsor. Rushing attendees would imbibe these in place of water over the next days, so much that the flavors would become sense memory, tasting of the festival itself.

  Benny introduced a pretty woman of ambiguous ethnicity, whom he described as his “counterpart, Kayla.” They shook hands.

  “I understand you’re interested in meeting Danny Hellerman?”

  “We are,” said Gus. “His movie is fantastic.”

  “It’s brilliant,” Kayla effused. She sounded perpetually wistful, a habit formed from years of exaggerating her empathy for human suffering and love of art. “He’s over there, in the striped shirt.” She could have said the “yarmulke,” but apparently that might be considered insensitive. “Shall I introduce you?”

  Gus and Marjorie followed her to a round table, where Danny sat trapped by some long-winded fellow filmmaker (spiky hair, sunglasses inside, embellished jeans). “Excuse me, guys,” Kayla interrupted. “I want you to meet some very important people: This is Gus Rinehart and Marjorie Plum from Grover & Grouch, a great art house distributor, especially for you, Danny.” She waved a hand in the filmmakers’ general direction. “This is Danny Hellerman of Writing on the Wall and Grant Vollbracht, who made The Deep Emotions That I Feel.”

  Gus and Marjorie made the proper addresses, as Kayla returned to work.

  “Mind if we grab food and eat with you?” asked Gus.

  Danny shook his head. “Not at all.”

  “Sit! The more the merrier!” Grant shouted, his sunglasses slipping down his nose, as his gelled hair remained frozen in time and space. “I’d love to hear your pitch. As you know, Danny and I represent the future of filmmaking.”

  Marjorie half expected Gus to lunge across the table and strangle Grant right then—they would not be kindred souls. Instead, he mumbled something incoherent before heading for the lunch spread. Marjorie slung her bag across a chair and, after confirming that Grant and Danny needed for nothing, sidled up next to Gus. He was eyeing the vegan egg salad distrustfully, as if it might jump onto his plate.

  “That Grant guy is up your alley,” Marjorie whispered.

  “It took everything I had not to punch him on the spot.”

  “I don’t remember his movie? Have we seen it yet?”

  “You were lucky enough to sleep through it. It’s this overwrought crap: The main character is too handsome and brilliant; his ‘light shines too bright.’ He has to wear a mask and hang out alone, contemplating the universe, heroin, suicide. It’s ‘autobiographical,’ I’m sure. One day, a child pulls him out into daylight and tells people not to be intimidated. And the world is a better place. It’s even worse than it sounds.”

  “Okay, well, stay calm.”

  “Yeah, I will. Of course.”

  “We can’t make him feel ignored.”

  Gus turned to her, his face close. “Believe it or not, I’ve done this before, bossy.”

  “I’m just trying to help.”

  They settled into folding chairs back at the table, with filled plates.

  “So, Danny,” said Gus, “tell us about your movie. How did you first meet Talmud?”

  Danny’s face lit up, but before he could answer, Grant interrupted. “How does any artist find his subject? You hear a voice from the heavens, passion takes over, and the story arrives through … osmosis.” He paused, as if the word had just come to him, though this was clearly a prepared speech. “For my short, when Tom Cruise asked to executive-produce and Beck said he’d score, I knew I’d created something special. We all did.”

&
nbsp; Gus wore an undisguised look of disgust.

  “What a coup to get those people involved,” rushed Marjorie. “Are you from LA?”

  “I’m a citizen of the world, really. Been around, traveled the globe.”

  Danny looked perplexed. “I thought you were from Minnesota?”

  “Among other places,” said Grant with a flourish. “Did you see my film?”

  “Unfortunately, no,” said Marjorie, looking to Gus for confirmation.

  “But I did.” He gritted his teeth. “Good job.”

  “Thanks, thanks. Yeah, I heard some people buzzing about Danny’s movie, and I thought we should team up, since we’re the guys everyone is going to want to meet. Of course, I’m already down the road with a studio, can’t say which, but I’m more than happy to talk to little guys like you too because what I create is art, you know? My film is a deeply personal character study. I’m not sure the big guys understand that vision.”

  Gus looked strained, like the Incredible Hulk about to burst forth, green and muscle-bound, from his clothes. “I see someone I know,” he managed. “I’ll be back.” He left. It was better, Marjorie figured, than losing his temper.

  Grant rambled on about his “process,” petting a phantom goatee, as Marjorie and Danny sat captive. She caught the soft-spoken filmmaker’s eye and shared a commiserating smile during a particularly absurd snippet of monologue. “People always remark on the depth of the character’s struggle,” Grant explained. “I guess that’s why John Travolta says I’ll change the face of film.”

  Mercifully, Grant’s phone rang. “Sorry. I have to take this. It’s my agent. At CAA.”

  Gus was nowhere to be seen, having wandered off in search of oxygen he didn’t have to share with Grant. Danny, Marjorie noted, exhaled when the other filmmaker left. He looked younger than she’d expected, overwhelmed.

  She smiled. “Big personality.”

  “Huge.” He raised his eyebrows.

  “I guess he’s kind of glommed on to you?”

  “Yeah. But I don’t know anybody here, so…”

  “Good to have someone to hang with.”

  “Right. And he does sound connected.”

  “He sounds that way, yeah. Operative word.”

  Danny nodded. “Are you from LA?”

  “No way.” She shook her head. “I live in Brooklyn.”

  “Oh!” The filmmaker brightened. “That’s where I’m from.”

  “I know, I read. Crown Heights, right? This is a long way from there.” She smiled. “I want to apologize for Gus leaving. He can’t stand guys like Grant. But he is so incredibly excited about your film. We were both bowled over by the way you handled the subject. We only came to this lunch to meet you.”

  Danny blushed and looked down at his stained paper plate. “Thanks. That’s really good to hear.”

  “During the course of this festival, you’ll be approached by a lot of distributors and acquisitions executives.”

  “It’s already started a little.”

  “And that’s an incredible thing. Congratulations! I hope you’ll take a second to appreciate what an accomplishment that is before you worry about making decisions.”

  “That seems like good advice.”

  Marjorie laughed. “My mother is a life coach. Like her, I’m good at giving advice and terrible at taking it.”

  “I’m like my father. Too quiet.”

  “No! You’re taking it all in. I need to shut up more. Anyway, I don’t want to monopolize you. We wanted to meet you because we’ve watched a bazillion movies over the last week and yours is our favorite. I’m new to the company, so you’d really be working with Gus and his partner, Michael, in New York, but I know they’d take good care of you and your movie, if you chose to go with us. This type of film is their forte. But you’re going to have success no matter what you do. Just don’t let the Grants of the world steal your thunder.”

  Danny grinned. “How do you think he got those famous people involved in his movie?”

  “I wonder if he really did. LA is so weird.”

  “Yeah. But I kinda like it.”

  “Me too.” Marjorie gathered her belongings. Danny trashed his plate and Grant’s too.

  “Will you guys be here all week?” Standing, Danny was stockier than he first appeared—more dockworker than documentarian.

  “I’m headed back, sadly. But Gus will be floating around. I don’t have cards yet, but I’ll give you my e-mail and his cell.” She scribbled on a napkin. “Maybe we can hang out in Brooklyn sometime!”

  “That’d be cool. Nice meeting you, Marjorie!”

  Grant appeared and threw an arm around Danny’s shoulders. Marjorie escaped before getting sucked back into the walking name drop’s vortex.

  36

  “I cannot believe you left me alone in there.”

  It was the third time Marjorie had repeated herself. She was enjoying getting under Gus’s skin. She’d spent weeks feeling like an idiot, enduring his taunts. It was her moment.

  “Okay. I get it. I shouldn’t have left. But it was for everyone’s good. I actually thought I was going to hit that jerk.”

  Marjorie looked at Gus. He was a big guy, maybe capable of doing some damage, but it was hard to imagine him getting rough. If he got caught in a brawl, he’d probably shake his head at the situation and stroll out unscathed. “Please. You don’t fight.”

  Gus smirked at her. “You think you know me?”

  “I can peg your type, yeah.”

  “Yeah? What’s my type?”

  “You know, judgmental, uptight, superior, smart-ass.”

  He smile faded. “Seriously? That’s how you see me?”

  “Well, those aren’t the good traits.”

  “I have good traits?”

  “So Fred and Michael claim.”

  “Like what?”

  “Oh, they say you’re loyal and have integrity. You’re trustworthy and hardworking.”

  “Wow. I sound like a great time. What do you think?”

  “What do I think of you?”

  “C’mon. Tell me.”

  Marjorie was flustered. “I mean, I guess you’re sort of funny. Maybe by accident.”

  “That’s it?”

  “And smart-ish.”

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “Fine. Very smart. And a champion of the underdog. I’ve seen you be sweet, though not to me.” She coughed. “This is an awkward conversation.”

  “Well, now it is.”

  “Fine. Then what do you think of me?”

  Gus paused to consider the question, then said, “I think you have okay taste in clothes.”

  Marjorie’s mouth dropped open so wide that her back molars had their first real view of the world and were enamored of it. “Are you kidding me? That’s all you have to say?” Marjorie crossed her arms over her chest and huffed like a child midtantrum.

  “What? Are you mad? You’re mad.”

  “I’m not mad. Because I don’t care what you think.”

  “Really? But I’m so smart and funny and a champion of the underdog.”

  “Oh, my God! I hate you!”

  Gus unleashed a throaty, rumbling laugh that she’d not heard before. Marjorie wasn’t thrilled about the inspiration.

  “I have an idea,” he said. “Let’s blow off the afternoon and do something fun.”

  “Together?”

  “Yes. Together.”

  “Is this you proving that you’re not uptight?”

  “This is me deciding that we need to blow off steam.”

  “What about the other movies? I leave tomorrow morning. And you already screwed up one deal today. Shouldn’t we see the rest before they screen?”

  “There’s only a few more. I can watch them first thing tomorrow.”

  “Whatever you say, boss.”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “Why?”

  “Because.” Gus navigated the car south down Highland toward the hot
el. “Did you bring sneakers and workout clothes?”

  “Of course!”

  He looked skeptical. “I didn’t peg you as a big exerciser.”

  “Oh, I bring cute workout gear on trips in case I wake up in time for a resort yoga class.”

  Gus rolled his eyes. “Of course you do. Anyway, wear them.”

  “Why? Where are we going?”

  “On a hike up Runyon Canyon.”

  “Wait, what? I thought we were doing something fun!” Marjorie shook her head. “You have me confused with one of those hearty girls who like camping and … sticks. My idea of a trek is up subway steps—at Bryant Park, for a drink.”

  “We’ll do something like that too, afterward. Trust me.” Gus pulled up to the Orlando’s valet. “Go change. I’ll pick you up in fifteen.”

  “If I must,” said Marjorie, her lazy muscles already protesting.

  Because fifteen minutes was hardly ample, a half hour later Marjorie emerged back outside in ’70s-style mini gym shorts, a tank top, Nike sneakers, and ankle socks, her hair pulled into a ponytail. Gus, who’d been leaning against the car’s hood, looked her up and down, his eyes lingering on her exposed thighs. Suddenly self-conscious, she checked herself out in the glass door’s reflection and, finding little fault, said, “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “No reason.” He ducked inside the car. “Except you look like a Harlem Globetrotter in all that gear. Where are your sweatbands?”

  She climbed in too. “Funny. At least I don’t look homeless.” She poked a finger through a hole in the shoulder of Gus’s worn Brown T-shirt, touching his bare skin. Once again, he recoiled like she was radioactive. And, she did have to admit, she felt a strange charge at her fingertip. Wasn’t static electricity more of a winter thing?

  The air between the duo held a heightened vibration; it filled the air-conditioning vents and black plastic cup holders. From the radio, NPR mumbled, barely audible. Gus and Marjorie held their collective breath, their minds racing without clear direction toward some unknown finish line.

  Suddenly, a piercing noise rang out, startling them both. Marjorie gasped like some Victorian fainter.

  “It’s my phone, on the car’s Bluetooth,” Gus explained. “I don’t why it’s so loud. Do you mind if I…?”