by John Herrick
“Good deal,” Mark said. “We have a couple more prospects to see, but we’ll notify your agent of our decision by the end of the week.”
CHAPTER 7
Mark Shea’s decision arrived sooner. It came by five forty-five that afternoon.
And it wasn’t good.
On his way home, Jesse’s car idled with its stop-and-go companions, all engulfed in a soup of rush-hour traffic on Interstate 405. How he cherished the carpool lane when he could utilize it!
With the window rolled down, exhaust fumes funneled into his vehicle, accompanied by their heavy odor. Jesse leaned back in his seat and rubbed his eyes with one hand on the wheel. An old Toad the Wet Sprocket CD played on the stereo. When he felt the buzz of his cell phone in his pocket, he turned the music off and answered.
“I heard back from Shea’s people.”
The connection was shoddy, which muted Maddy’s voice on the other end. Nervous, Jesse tapped his left foot on the floor with eager anticipation. He struggled to increase the phone’s volume without missing a beat. He didn’t want to be presumptuous, but if Maddy had received word so soon, he figured it must be a solid sign.
“Mark promised a decision before the weekend,” Jesse replied. “Was it good news?”
Maddy’s pause told Jesse all he needed to know. Sometimes, in an instant, your gut plunges into your belly and, try as you may to think your instinct faulty, you just can’t convince yourself.
At this moment, Jesse wished his instinct worthless.
If only.
“It’s a no-go,” Maddy said.
He shook himself from a trance and realized the car in front of him had advanced. To catch up with the car was simple; to search for a response to Maddy wasn’t. He moved his lips but couldn’t locate his voice.
Jesse rested his head against his fingertips and asked, “Did Mark say anything? Did I do something wrong? From the way he talked, it sounded like I’d nailed the part.”
“Absolutely. Mark was impressed.”
“Then what happened?”
“He said your eyes are too wide.”
Jesse grunted, his forehead a crinkle of confusion. “What does that mean?”
“Well, not owlish huge, just … wide.”
“Was it an aesthetic thing? Like that adage, ‘The eyes are the window of the soul’?”
“No,” Maddy replied. “It was pure preference. They didn’t feel you looked the part; there’s nothing more to read into it.”
At least they were courteous about it, Jesse thought. He’d heard stories of industry people who made cutting comments about an actor’s physical attributes. Now that he’d received such a remark firsthand, it sounded too ridiculous to be credible, yet it was true.
Jesse sighed. “So they found someone with better … eyes.”
“It’s a subjective business; you’ve learned that. Don’t get discouraged over this. We’ll keep plugging away, and I’ll let you know when another project pops up. In the meantime, you’re still networking as well?”
“Of course.”
“Then we’ll continue to move forward together. Lots of opportunities out there.”
And with that, their conversation ended. The traffic accelerated from a sporadic crawl to perpetual motion as Jesse stared ahead in his own oblivion. His heart sank. His stomach grew acidic with nausea. That weighty sense of darkness, which had lurked for months in the background of his mind, crept closer to the forefront.
Stricken, Jesse felt reality finger its way into his fibers. After eleven years, today he wondered if he had lost this battle, and depression began to emerge as a formidable opponent. Jesse wanted to shed a tear but felt too exhausted to do so.
Surrounded by vehicles, he wanted one thing: to disappear.
CHAPTER 8
As Jesse had expected upon arrival, Los Angeles shared little in common with his Midwestern hometown. But one similarity between the two struck Jesse as eerie: L.A. traffic on Sunday mornings seemed sparse. And at nine o’clock, this Sunday morning in mid March followed suit.
He lived in the second-largest metropolitan area in the country. Could it be this simple for millions of people to hide? Once Friday hit, many industry executives, he knew, escaped to homes elsewhere—some to outlying areas in California, others as far as Nevada. Less wealthy individuals must hole up in bed or in their own vicinities as he himself did, Jesse figured. But come Monday, lives would converge in a mix of destiny and pollution once again.
“What possessed you to go to the beach today?” Jada asked while she chewed on a stick of gum.
“Seemed like a good time to think for a change. When was the last time we went there to relax?”
Therein lay another anomaly: How many people, like Jesse, dreamed of living minutes from the ocean? Jesse had lived near one for years, yet he could count on one hand his number of annual visits to that ocean and have three fingers to spare.
Jada popped in a CD and reclined on the passenger side. Soon the car filled with the eclectic sounds of Joy Wilson, an indie artist whose music Barry Richert had featured in his last film. From the driver’s seat, Jesse studied the lanes around him on Interstate 405, where he could picture tinny blue ghosts in a drag race through eons among unsuspecting humans. And in this city, Jesse doubted anyone would care.
He cocked his head and asked, “Have you ever thought about how shallow this whole scene is?”
“What scene? The 405?”
“No, the industry. All the promises made, promises broken. The notion that it’s acceptable to be full of shit. It’s even anticipated ahead of time.”
Jada chuckled. “That’s the club we joined. It’s the way the game is played. What’s wrong with that?”
“But isn’t there a point when someone reaches the end of their rope? I mean, not everyone succeeds here—most people don’t. Where do they go? Where do they end up?”
“I don’t know,” Jada sighed. “Jesse, I don’t give a fuck.”
“They must go somewhere.”
“Maybe they sell chiseled art under those little pup tents at Venice Beach.”
“I’m serious.”
As Jesse veered onto Interstate 10, Jada turned down the stereo’s volume and pivoted toward him.
“You know what your problem is? You’re too damn honest. Always have been.”
“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
“It’s not a bad quality. Look at your upbringing in Ohio: You’re a white-bread boy from Bob Evansville. Hollywood doesn’t come natural to you.” She shrugged her shoulders, no big deal. “I grew up around bullshit. All those beauty pageants. And Reno? Tsk.”
Jesse glanced in Jada’s direction but said nothing.
“I’ll admit I got lucky working for Barry,” Jada continued. “But hey, you’ve stayed afloat this long; just stay afloat longer than anyone else.”
After he turned left off of Santa Monica Boulevard, Jesse made his way down Ocean Avenue. As he drove parallel to the beach, mere feet between the road and the sand, he noticed a familiar sheet of horizon that peeked through trees and small buildings. Something about the view spoke of freedom to Jesse, a sense of pleasant foreboding: Here at eye level sat a massive stretch of sky, of infinite blue azure, like a giant come to earth. It fostered within Jesse a feeling of weightlessness, a horizontal vertigo. The universe was within his grasp.
Jesse turned onto Colorado Avenue and into the public parking lot.
* * *
With the temperature in the upper seventies, a tad aggressive for this time of year, they found the beach crowded—which, of course, Jada pointed out the moment her cherry-red painted toenails touched the ivory sand. She preferred to drive further north to a wealthier, less populated area, but today Jesse needed to watch the passersby, to connect with their carefree contentment.
Once they located an open patch of beach, Jesse and Jada spread their blankets on the granular surface and lay down. Side by side, they basked behind sunglasses in the shimmering sun. Jada propp
ed her head against her beach bag and immersed herself in a script for the following day.
Jesse inhaled the fresh, salted air. As he peered up at the Santa Monica Pier that stretched overhead, he watched visitors stroll past souvenir shops and street performers, the snack rotunda and carnival rides—and the ancient Ferris wheel which, when afire with neon light in the evenings, appeared forever cursed with a burned-out bulb tube.
Jesse savored the warmth as it penetrated his skin and caked a layer of crusted sand upon his feet. A light breeze danced about, which tickled Jesse’s hair and neck. He gazed at the water as it hurled back and forth. From the corner of his eye, a flash of motion lured his attention to a father and son, who frolicked on the shore. The toddler, dressed in tiny, fluorescent-green board shorts, giggled and hopped in circles along the shoreline. His father grasped him by his pudgy underarms. He lifted him a foot above the surface, then set him back on the wet sand, which sent the child splashing into a fit of laughter.
Transfixed by the father-child relationship that unfolded before him, a subtle smile quivered at the edge of Jesse’s mouth.
Jesse nudged Jada. “Look at that,” he said, then pointed to the pair at play.
Jada remained engrossed in her reading. She peered over her sunglasses for a split second without so much as a tilt of the head, then returned to her script. “What about them?”
“That kid looks just like his dad, don’t you think?”
Indifferent, Jada peered up again, then back down. “You’re right, same features head to toe—but the kid’ll outgrow his chubby ass.”
Intrigued, Jesse looked past the outward, physical qualities to study their actions and reactions: gentle hands that touched the boy’s head; the father’s arms around his son, which communicated affection and protection at the same time. The scene formed an indelible imprint on Jesse’s heart, a photograph within his soul.
“I wonder how that dad felt the day his son was born,” Jesse said. “Maybe he felt anxiety leading up to the day, but then a sense of relief.” Jesse longed to know the answers; his heart reached out for them. “The moment when that guy looked at his kid and said, ‘This is my son. This kid is a part of me.’ It must’ve blown him away.”
Jada ignored them. Typical Jada: What was there to see? A man and his kid playing at the beach. Big deal. Jesse sniffed at how two people could perceive the same thing in opposite ways.
Jesse turned to her and asked, “Haven’t you changed your mind about having kids someday?”
She sighed. “No, I haven’t. How many times do you intend to bring this up?”
“We’ll be in our forties before we know it. Don’t you think you’ll look back and wish we’d made a different decision?”
“Look, you know I haven’t budged on this since the day we met. Besides, what would I do with a kid? Even I have enough sense to know I’d screw that deal up.”
Taken aback by the decisiveness in her reply, Jesse returned his gaze to the little toddler, who now picked up random shells and showed the prizes to his father.
Jada put down the script. Shallow creases wiggled along her forehead. “You always said you didn’t want kids either. We talked about that early on: no long-term anything—no baby, no marriage. We both wanted our careers, remember?”
“Sure.” Jesse shrugged, an attempt at passivity. “But back then I was what, nineteen? Twenty? The thought of fatherhood freaked me out at the time: the demands, the responsibility—another human being depending on you to come through for him.”
“And it no longer scares you? Scares the hell out of me.”
“I guess I’ve gotten used to the idea as I’ve grown older. It doesn’t bother me as much. It’s normal to start to question your life choices, right?”
“What choices? I like my life. How are we supposed to juggle a kid with our lifestyle?” She jostled her hair and readjusted her sunglasses. “Maybe kids fit your personality, but not mine. What’s got you thinking about this out of the blue, anyway?”
“Random thoughts, that’s all.” He shrugged it off. “Second chances at—“
Jada interrupted him. “What the …” She yanked her sunglasses off and stared closer at his face. “You’re bleeding.”
“Huh?”
“Your nose, it’s—wait.”
Jada reached behind to her beach bag and found a tissue. Jesse dabbed at his nose, and then laid back. Another faint trickle. He felt his belly tighten with apprehension but waved it off.
“Are you okay?” Jada asked.
“Probably the sun.”
Jada nodded. “I used to get those nosebleeds in Nevada. It was the dry climate.” She put her sunglasses back on. “Is it easing up?”
“It’s fine. Be right back.” As he walked away, he could sense Jada’s eyes on him.
Jesse disappeared into a restroom beneath the Pier to nurse the nosebleed. It seemed to take longer to quit than the last time.
For several months, Jesse had noticed occasional, random bruises that remained unexplained. When Jada pointed them out, he couldn’t remember if he had bumped against a shelf or counter at the store.
Now he wondered if the symptoms were related. But then again, these were common things that happened to everyone. Best not to consider it while in an emotional valley, Jesse figured.
CHAPTER 9
When they arrived home late that afternoon, Jesse offered to cook dinner. After a quick shower, he padded barefoot into the kitchen in a T-shirt and shorts. By no means was he a gourmet, but he had learned his way around a handful of simple, ten-minute recipes. Given Jada’s preference for low-calorie meals, he opted for a pot of spaghetti, which now simmered on the stove in a pool of minced garlic, oregano and olive oil as a light sauce substitute.
He heard Jada finish her shower around the corner. He had to admit, he felt disappointed that she wouldn’t budge on the prospect of kids. Granted, he had no reason to expect her to change, but the way she’d reminded him had sounded callous. It had landed a stone-cold blow to his gut, given his own reconsideration.
Shake it off, Jesse.
He stirred the spaghetti. As the scent of the entrée wafted through the kitchen, he closed his eyes and breathed the tempting aroma. Jesse placed the finishing touches on a salad and walked it to the dining room table, where he set out a pair of wine glasses. Jada had already had a glass while Jesse showered, but he was sure she’d want another. He turned off the stove and carried the entrée to the table.
With his back turned, he didn’t see Jada when she strode into the room. Barefoot and dressed in her mauve terrycloth robe, she fingered her damp hair. She tiptoed from behind, slipped her arms around his waist, and rested her head against the back of his neck.
Jesse eased around in her arms and admired the glimpse of natural beauty before him, an image of fresh allure. He placed his arms around her waist and drew her against himself as she slid her palms down to his buttocks. She smiled. Her eyes danced.
“My favorite chef,” she whispered.
He lingered and returned her gaze. “Would you like a glass of Chardonnay?”
“I want you to fuck me.” She giggled in a subdued, sensuous manner all her own.
She possessed a magnetic draw. The woman was adept with her body and always won.
Jesse leaned in. He brushed his lips along her neckline and traced it with kisses on the way up. She turned her face; Jesse felt her relax in the flow of the moment. Through a gap between the edges of her robe, her flesh still glistened moist along the top of her chest. Her hair smelled of orchids and invigorated Jesse’s senses. He removed his shirt, ran his fingers through her hair and down to her waist as he guided her backward to the living room, against the sofa.
Jada grew breathless as he laid kisses on her mouth, her earlobes, down to her shoulders. He glided his hands down her sides and into the opening beneath the knot of the robe—she wore nothing underneath. With agile fingers Jesse loosened the knot; her robe fell to the floor in silence. Jes
se stepped out of his shorts and started at her belly. As he ran his hands upward, he traveled the surface of her feverish, Mediterranean skin. Jada’s hands descended from the top of his head down to his waist as he worked his way along her belly. Then he retraced the territory with his lips, feathered her thighs with his fingertips as Jada let out a muted sigh of delight.
Jesse in the lead, he glided her around the sofa and laid her on the cushions with care. Jada grasped Jesse’s backside as he hovered over her. His brow dampened; beads of perspiration fell down her belly and below her waist. Their flesh stuck to the leather surface, which released a series of subtle cracks and purrs in response to their motion.
Jesse began to descend further with his mouth when she broke his stride with a soft voice.
“Wait—hold on …”
Jesse paused, his lips still parted, and glanced up to see her face. “What is it?” he asked, then resumed his navigation.
“Stop,” she said, then winced at the halt. “We don’t have a condom.”
He grimaced for a split second.
“Now?” he murmured.
“Go grab one from your drawer. You don’t want to be a daddy today, do you?”
Startled, Jesse froze. A chill raced up his spine. His mind backtracked, and then returned in a fast-forward to the moment at hand. He shook his head.
“No … no, you’re right,” he said. “I … yeah, let me go grab one.”
Jesse wrenched himself from the sofa, then padded into the bedroom and opened a condom packet from the dresser drawer. When he returned, he found Jada motionless, her back curved in a slight, delicate arch, her eyes shut, her lips parted. Jesse resumed position overhead.
He didn’t pour her Chardonnay until an hour later.
* * *
That night, Jesse lay awake in bed, his head propped against the pillow, eyes wide open. This was the second night in a row insomnia had crept in.
A glance at the clock revealed it was past three o’clock. Moonlight skulked through the window and slashed the foot of the bed with its oblong glow. Jada had fallen captive to slumber hours ago; her chest now rose and fell in hypnotic fashion. Jesse picked up a trace of the homemade facial mask slathered over her face—mixed scents of tomato, cucumber and oatmeal—an all-natural defiance to the natural aging process. And Jada didn’t stop with her own remedy: She had convinced Jesse to wear suntan lotion each night to achieve the same goal through the vitamins in the lotion. But at the moment, it was a random ingredient in Jada’s concoction that elicited his hunger pangs.
