by Reiss, CD
—Dude—
—fuck off Bradley—
—got a feeling a certain girl
pap’s gonna show. I tell her you said
to fuck off—
That changed everything.
—Yeah. I’m in—
—I’ll get you on the list—
“Get me on the list?” I said to the phone, even though Brad couldn’t hear me. “Give me a break.” I put the phone away. I’d been gone too long if I needed to get on a list to go somewhere. Or maybe I’d been gone just long enough.
The Messina compound was four warehouses in a row behind twenty-foot razor-wire-topped fences. It was ugly as sin most of the time, but that night, the acres-wide parking lot had been turned into an outdoor club where people danced on the parking lines. Dozens of nine-foot-high tube lights that changed colors encircled the dance floor, and tables of food ringed the lot. The bare walls of the buildings on either side had light shows, and the offices inside were spotless and brightly lit.
Everyone knew Paul Messina could throw a party, and he never disappointed. Needless to say, the lot was packed with people.
One chain-link gate was open, and a velvet rope sat in front, a burgundy smile between two chrome poles.
“Can I help you?” asked a woman with a clipboard. She wore tight bellbottoms and a midriff shirt that tied under her breasts, doubtless the next season’s offering from Messina Couture.
“I, uh… I’m on the list.” There was no way Brad could have been there already, but I’d been alone for months. I could go to a party by myself.
She cocked her head and looked me up and down. “Name, please?”
“Greydon.”
She froze. I was outed.
I put my finger to my lips. “Shh.”
She let me in.
Paul threw parties for his employees and shareholders, so everyone knew everyone, except the loner with the beard. I was sure they were too jaded to say anything about me though, and I was sure Midriff Girl had told someone. I didn’t know if I’d been recognized, but I was unmolested as I went to the bar. I got ready to text Brad my location when I saw Britt at a table with Paul, then I saw her.
Her.
She was talking to Paul with that way of sitting in tension, as if she wanted to curl her limbs around solid surfaces. In the flashing pink and yellow lights, with the music so loud I couldn’t hear myself think, she was divine. My tongue tensed against the roof of my mouth.
I wanted to taste her. I wanted to be that chair she wrapped herself around. As I stepped closer, I wanted more. I wanted to talk to her, to hear her life from her lips, her laugh. After another step, I wanted her eyes on mine. I wanted her to recognize me. To know me. I wanted her to be mine again. In my body, I felt her. My skin went sensitive and electric.
This was now. I was here and I was going to go to her and tell her I loved her like I hadn’t when she left.
I’d make her mine the right way. I’d love her first.
Her hands were animated as she drew her fingers across his iPad, which had her photo from Underground, explaining something. He nodded and asked a question, and her knees contracted, coiling her legs tighter around the legs of the chair, as if she couldn’t wait to answer. She was working, and there I was, wanting to bury my face in her neck. I had no way to approach without screwing with her.
No. I’d done enough damage.
55
laine
Paul Messina knew how to throw a party. I’d heard about them, but they were at odd times and never publicized. Celebs didn’t usually show up in droves, and there was no parking on the block, so the events were too much trouble for paparazzi.
I’d stayed until three, shooting Paul at his request. He wouldn’t let me leave, meaning he kept feeding me drinks and asking when I was shooting his fall line. I was too drunk to answer intelligently, and he took my keys, promising to have my car dropped off at my house as he put me in a cab. He was patient enough to wait for a sober answer.
I woke up at noon the next day, my head under the covers with a brain that felt broken and a mouth that tasted like glue.
I took a Tylenol and drank a quart of water, then I loaded my shots from the night before while I had my coffee. I’d gotten some slightly interesting stuff with Paul, but he was uncomfortable. The great thing about working with actors and celebrities was that, even if they protested, they loved the camera. It fed their inner child. Paul was a fashion designer. He didn’t know what to do with his body.
I flipped to the news. More of the usual. I was thinking of going back to sleep until Phoebe’s Oscar party when I saw him.
Michael and Lucy, eating breakfast an hour before at Terra Café. Clean-shaven and wearing something that fit so well, I could tell he’d lost weight. I froze. My nerves tingled. He was back.
Well. That was that, wasn’t it? He’d returned without my permission in the comments box. Our little one-sided love affair was over.
I threw myself back into my desk chair, found the blue folders with his name on them, and dragged them all into the trash.
I crawled into bed. I tried sleeping. Couldn’t. I paced in bare feet and pajamas.
My map of Los Angeles towered above me. I touched Monterey Park and dragged my fingers to Rancho Palos Verdes. RPV. The concrete behind the map had a hairline crack, and the map had pulled and ripped there. I fingered it. I pulled. The green expanse and part of the bay came off like a piece of sunburned skin, leaving a curled sliver of map in my hand and a wound with upturned, grabbable edges. I took one of those and peeled. It came off in an arc. I let it fall. The next bit was still partly stuck. I worried it away and let San Pedro from Trinity fall to the floor.
I got all the water off, then Santa Monica and Topanga, until the entire west side was gone to Brentwood.
To hell with it.
I got my stepstool and peeled off Holmby Hills, Bel-Air, and half the Valley into Studio City. West Hollywood all the way to Silver Lake, and down into Wilshire Center. Done with it. Done. I peeled the entire map away, leaving downtown for last, which I took off in a swath of sticky paper.
I stepped back and looked at what I’d spent hours doing. The wall had streaks of sticky stuff and a few shards of the city on it, but otherwise it was clean. The floor wasn’t so lucky. It looked like a bed of white paper flowers in full bloom.
I didn’t clean it. Not yet.
* * *
The only thing you had to bring to one of Phoebe’s Oscar parties was a twenty for the jackpot. She supplied booze, food, pencils, ballots, and a year’s worth of magazines to help you research your choices.
I’d only won once. Seven-hundred-sixty dollars. I’d guessed every winner except the sound editing category because I’d thought the movie was too loud. When I’d said that while hugging my fishbowl full of twenties, everyone in the room shouted until my ears hurt from the vibrations and my sides hurt from laughing.
Rob lived in a half-pristine, half-trash Victorian in Angelino Heights. He’d bought it before meeting Phoebe and renovated the first floor in period-appropriate detail before modernizing the layout with a big central room and ramps for his future wife. He intended to fix the rest of the house and sell it so they could buy a place that was more comfortable for her.
The landscaping was being redone. Everything was dirt. I went up the walk with a bottle of wine and a bag of chips. I always brought something so no one could accuse me of being raised poorly, even though I was guilty as charged.
Roger opened the door. “Hey, Laine.” He hugged me, and I went in.
I was late, so I walked into the middle of arguments over film scores and discussions about how much each studio had put into advertising. The people who worked for marketing departments at the studios were very popular at this point in the evening, because everyone knew the amount of money a studio spent on advertising to voters was a huge factor in whether or not a nominee won.
“They killed advertising for best actor when the pe
do thing happened,” a guy in a button-down black shirt said. The front tail was tucked in to show off his belt buckle, and the rest hung out over his white jeans.
The guy he was talking to pointed his pencil. “That movie was an ad in itself. Do you know what it grossed its first three weeks?”
That could go on all night, and I had my own opinions—I just didn’t know what they were. I stopped to say hello to a few people on my way to the kitchen, where Phoebe sat at the table with a glass of wine. As soon as she saw me, she held up a glass for me. We kissed hello, and I greeted everyone else at the table before sitting.
“Well,” I said, pencil aloft, “what do we have?”
I never researched but voted by feel, memory of the movie, and instinct. It was easy. I didn’t have to vote for the best or what I liked, only what people had been talking about. I got a sense of who the front runners were from that. In this crowd, the winner never got more than one wrong, and I came close each year.
Of course, as I got to the end of the ballot, I knew I would struggle with one category. Best actor. I wanted to vote for him. He was the best, no doubt, but the campaign had been tainted by me and my past. Also, after months, I was still hurting. I had to admit it to myself. Sure, I’d been the one to leave, but I was still weak and sensitive when it came to him.
Phoebe peered over my paper as my pencil hovered. “What are you going to do?”
“There’s no way they voted for him. Ballots went out before it died down.”
“Yeah.”
“But he was the best,” I said.
“You voting your heart or your mind?”
I looked at her. She smiled a knowing smile, and I ticked the box next to Michael’s name.
“Atta girl.”
The question at the end was the tie-breaking bonus. How long would the show be?
I tapped my chin with the end of my pencil. “What do you think about this one?”
“Short,” Phoebe said. “They’re cutting people off no matter what.”
“They always say that.”
“My client runs the band. They’re serious. Anyone who stops playing gets docked. It was in his contract.”
I scribbled a number and took a picture of my ballot. The procedure was to take a picture of your paper then hand it in as the opening monologue started. Mine went in last, and the show began.
The opener was filled with Hollywood insider jokes and knowing shots at the nominees. This year, Donny Bauer presented fake movies on slate for the following year, which included Gareth Greydon in I Lost my Liver in San Francisco, Britt Ravenor in Crash 2, and… drumroll… Michael Greydon in an NC-17 version of Romper Room.
My face went hot. The show did a quick shot of Michael sitting next to Brooke, his mouth pursed, shaking his head a little and trying to be a good sport.
Rob’s living room went dead quiet.
“That is so freaking rude,” said a girl in a little skirt.
“Bauer’s an ass,” someone said.
“He’s reaching,” someone else said.
The woman next to me punched my arm. “He’s wearing a weave, you know. I screwed him, and it came off.” She made a flopping motion with her hand.
I laughed and nudged the woman, a comedienne who, long ago, had had a regular part on a sitcom.
“It’s fine, everyone. It was totally worth it,” I said.
I got some high fives, but thankfully, the room moved on in a few minutes. Clusters of people talked through the “Dead Actor Segment.” We made fun of the dance number, checked our ballots for sound editing (yes!), costume (another one!), and art direction (nailed it). As director and screenplay came up, all eyes focused on the television. By the time Andrea stood to thank the Academy and her agent, the room was quiet, and everyone whispered about Big Girls sweeping. Andrea thanked Michael for the performance of his life, and the camera stayed on Michael’s beautiful face for so long, I thought I’d melt into the couch. Andrea went on and on for so long the music came up to stop her. Phoebe watched me, and I gave her a discreet thumbs-up. I was fine. A little wistful, but fine.
Actress next. Claire Contreras got up and did her thank yous. Her agent. The studio for believing in her. God. Her husband. Tears flow. Michael Greydon, who… well, without him to play against, she couldn’t imagine…
And his face again, with the “someone is saying something nice about me” look they all gave. I wondered what he was really thinking. I wanted to ask. I wanted access to his heart and mind again.
I was holding together nicely, I had to say, but when they said his name in the nominations for best actor, I felt as if someone had removed my sternum and taken my heart in their fist. I swallowed the feeling. I’d promised myself I wouldn’t be disappointed if he didn’t win, and I’d be happy if he did. The presenters made a stupid joke then opened the envelope.
It was him. He’d won.
I cheered, standing by myself and clapping. The audience in the auditorium stood with me as he kissed Brooke, shook hands with Gareth—who yanked him into a back-slapping hug—and headed for the front. He kissed Claire, high-fived Andrea, waved to his friends, and got up in front of everyone.
They sat, and when I realized I was the only one who had stood, I sat too. The sitcom actress next to me patted my knee, and I realized everyone was looking at me.
“I’m twenty-three for twenty-three!” I said.
“Thank you,” Michael said.
Phoebe turned up the volume.
“This is… I didn’t expect it. I came to support the cast and crew and… Andrea, Claire, Max for writing it so I could see it, and…” He stopped himself and looked to the side, stage left. “The Romper Room joke.”
The camera went to Donny Bauer, who stood on the sidelines in his tux, hands folded in front of him.
“I get it,” Michael continued. “I really do, and I hope the laughs were worth it. You can take potshots at me all you want but”—he waved his finger at Donny—“there’s another person attached to that story, and it’s not funny to her, or anyone who’s been through what she has.” He turned back to the front. “Thank you all for your faith in me, that I wasn’t what they said. Thank you. I’d do it all again. If I had the chance, I’d do it all again, but…” He looked at his statue. And looked.
He was silent way too long. He held everyone in the room in the palm of his hand. Everyone in the auditorium. Everyone in the nation. And me. I was his. He owned me in those five, ten, twenty seconds.
“If I could do it all again,” he looked back at the audience, “I would have scooped her up and taken her with me. Because—”
The music came up, cueing the end of his speech.
He put out his hands. “Don’t! Don’t cut me off!”
The music got louder.
Michael gave in and just shouted over it. “Shuttergirl, I love you. I’ve always loved you.”
I gasped so loud everyone looked to see if I was dying. But in a second, the cello stopped, then the keyboard. The camera stayed on Michael, who didn’t move. He just looked down at the orchestra, making a “stop” sign. The music died piece by piece.
As if realizing he’d been given a reprieve, Michael straightened and looked at the camera again.
Me, he was looking at me.
“I hear you,” I whispered into my hands.
“I went to a party last night, and I saw you. You were… how can I say this? Perfect. And you looked so happy. I walked out because I thought, what would she want with me? She’s fine. She doesn’t need me. It took me a minute to realize how ridiculous that is.” He looked down again, then he put his statue on the podium and laid his hands flat on it before looking at the camera again.
He had more to say, but how much more would they allow? On the one hand, I needed to hear it, and on the other, I was breaking apart from him.
“I’m glad you’re happy,” he continued. “But if there’s no one else, if you still want me, meet me at the corner of O and W for a do-over.�
� He smiled, as if embarrassed, coughed, then finished. “Thank you.”
The screen blinked to commercial. I looked away.
Everyone was looking at their phone.
“There’s no corner of O and W,” said the guy in the black shirt.
“I keep getting something in Palmdale.”
“You’ll never have two letters crossing. Try Oh, like O and H.”
“West Virginia.”
“Ohio.”
“This can’t be right.”
“I know where it is,” I said, standing. A few dozen eyes looked away from their phones to me for an answer. “Not telling.”
I had to step over people sprawled on the floor as the announcers for best picture came on. “Thanks, everyone.”
The woman who had screwed Donny Bauer stood and held out her arms. “Good luck, kid.”
I kissed her cheek. I was embraced, kissed, and wished luck by people I barely knew. I ran a gauntlet of love to the front door, where Phoebe waited with my jacket.
“You deserve this,” she said as I hugged her, “and I don’t mean a rich movie star.” She pushed me away and held my shoulders. “You deserve to be loved.”
“Thanks, Phoebe. I love you.”
“Go. I’ll call you if you win.” She rolled to the front door and opened it. “Get out.”
I ran to my car. It was night and cold, and I didn’t care. How long would it take him? Would he do his post-win interviews first? Would they let him out without a hundred Hollywood-sanctioned softball questions?
I wanted him back. I couldn’t believe it was even possible, but I hadn’t misunderstood him. No one could misunderstand that. He loved me, and God knew I still loved him.
The streets were dead. I hit a little bottleneck at Fern Dell, but I headed up the mountain undetained. The park was officially closed, meaning I could get towed if I parked, but I kept moving up past the Observatory, going by the memories of my childhood and the last time I’d been there. I got to the end of Deronda, where the gates were closed with signs that threatened certain arrest and prosecution.
