by James Frey
How many messages have you left?
Amberton speaks.
Fifteen.
Have you ever left fifteen messages for someone without getting a return call?
In tenth grade.
For who?
A girl named Laurel Anders Whitmore.
Fancy name.
Yeah. She was a blond-haired, blue-eyed socialite. The hottest girl on the Upper East Side. I was obsessed with her. I actually probably left fifty messages for her without getting a return.
Where is she now?
Last I heard she was still living in New York, on Fifth and Eighty-fifth, with a hedge fund manager husband and three perfect WASP children in private schools. I also heard she has Mom-butt.
Mom-butt?
Yeah. She became a mom and with each kid her butt size doubled. So what, it’s like sixteen times bigger than it was when she started?
Yeah. About that.
Casey laughs.
Even though I knew I liked boys, it took me years to get over her. I finally worked it out with a shrink, and we decided I was obsessed with her because she reminded me of my mother.
Oh my.
Indeed. Very very dark.
The car slows down, there is a tap on the partition, and it drops a few inches. The bodyguard, who is humongous, and before he went into private security, worked for an unnamed government agency, speaks.
We’ll be there in five minutes.
Casey and Amberton speak at the same time.
Thank you.
The partition rises, shuts. Without speaking, they both lean forward and pull down mirrors that are built into the ceiling of the Mercedes. They check their hair, makeup. They each have kits with them that contain touch-up cosmetics and hair products. Casey adds some powder, Amberton adds some blush. Casey puts some extra conditioner on what she believes are split ends, Amberton adds hair spray to the bulletproof helmet of hair constructed by his stylists. The car slows down again, enters the line for the Red Carpet. They’ve been through this enough times to know that there is nothing more they can change, or improve, or somehow make more beautiful or perfect than it already is. They put away their kits, and close the mirrors. They look at each other. Amberton speaks.
You are so goddamned hot that if I was inclined in that way, I would take you, with gusto, right here, on this seat, right now.
She smiles, laughs.
Right back at you.
They high-five. The car stops, the partition drops the guard looks at them, speaks.
Ready.
They both respond.
Yes.
The guard gets out of the car, steps towards the back door. Amberton takes Casey’s hand, they look out the window, where a horde of photographers and reporters wait for them. Behind the photographers and reporters, there are bleachers filled with screaming fans, many of whom also have cameras. The guard reaches for the door, Amberton and Casey take deep breaths. The door opens.
No matter how many times it’s happened, there is nothing that can prepare a person for the experience of stepping out of a car into a swarm of people who are screaming your name and popping flashbulbs in your face. It’s terrifying, confusing, exhilarating. Amberton and Casey step out, Casey first, Amberton closely behind, the guard’s long heavy arms are stretched in front of them, functioning as some kind of barrier. There are hands reaching for them, flailing at them, people try to shove pictures magazines posters and pens towards them. The flashbulbs are like some kind of strobe light gone insane, an endless blinding disorienting wall of exploding white. Amberton holds Casey’s hand holds it tight the guard yells step back pushes through the mass Amberton and Casey stay directly behind him both are smiling and, with their free hand, waving. They are actors. They are acting like they are unfazed, unflustered, unaffected. They both have stalkers who may be somewhere amongst the crowd they both have maniacs who send them disturbing letters, pictures, they may be somewhere amongst the crowd. They hold each other’s hand and smile and wave and act and hope that they make it to the tent where the press with approved credentials will take pictures of them in a more civilized, but only slightly so, manner.
They see their publicists, they each have one, standing together near the entrance to the tent. Both of the publicists are women, both are in their mid-thirties, both are attractive, wear black designer suits, carry clipboards, wear headsets in their left ears. They are partners in a Beverly Hills PR firm that caters exclusively to film and television stars. Their names are Sara (who works with Amberton) and Dara (Casey), and they have been best friends since high school. Amberton and Casey don’t speak publicly, give interviews or do photo shoots, or have any interaction with the media in any way, without speaking to them first.
The guard sees the publicists bulls his way through the crowd Amberton and Casey are right behind him still smiling and waving, still acting.
When they reach Sara and Dara kisses are exchanged petite little kisses on each cheek. Sara looks at their outfits, speaks.
You guys look awesome!
Amberton and Casey both speak.
Thanks. You too.
Dara speaks.
You’ll make the best-dressed lists for sure.
They both smile.
Sara looks at Casey’s dress, speaks.
Is that Valentino?
Casey and Dara both speak.
Chanel.
Sara looks at Amberton, speaks.
Armani?
Amberton speaks.
Of course.
It’s really nice.
Custom-tailored.
It looks like it.
Casey speaks.
How’s it looking tonight?
Dara speaks.
The usual. Maybe a little worse.
Sara speaks.
We were thinking pictures and no interviews.
Dara speaks.
All of the shows asked, but we like to make them sweat every now and then.
Amberton speaks.
Sounds good to me.
Casey speaks.
Me too.
They walk towards the red carpet, which is actually more like stiff red Astroturf, and they start walking down the aisle. They follow the unwritten rules of the red carpet: do not step into someone else’s picture, do not be exclusive (if one photographer gets to shoot you, they all get to shoot you), smile, pose, engage in playful banter with the photographers, keep moving so that everyone gets their turn, don’t pass people or steal their limelight, pretend you know and are friends with everyone else on the red carpet (a big happy club of famous people who are great friends and hang out all the time). Although Amberton is distracted, and is trying to watch for Kevin in the noncelebrity line of premiere attendees, which runs behind the photographers and reporters (one of his spies at the agency told him Kevin was coming), he plays his part well, smiles (he has a megawatt smile, IT’S MEGAWATT!!!!!), poses, kisses his wife (no tongue), waves, acts. Sara and Dara are always a few feet away, acting as shields, answering questions so that Amberton and Casey don’t have to answer them, ushering them along so that the line on the carpet keeps moving. When they’re finished, they exchange kisses again, lots of fucking kisses on the red carpet, and Sara and Dara go back to the head of the red carpet to wait for their other arriving clients (though Amberton and Casey are their biggest and most important clients so sometimes the others work the carpet, temporarily, with a subordinate).
Once they’re done with the red carpet, Amberton and Casey make their way towards the entrance of the theater. The footprints, handprints, and in one case, the face print, of past, and a couple current, cinematic superstars are pressed into concrete blocks. Amberton doesn’t look at them because he’s annoyed he isn’t among them, and after attending dozens of premieres at the venue over the years, he always goes out of his way, and he knows exactly where they are without having to look, to step on and grind his feet into the blocks containing the prints of the living superstars, none of whom h
e considers his equal. When he isn’t grinding and stomping, he and Casey are shaking hands, hugging, exchanging more kisses. They see a studio boss they hate, Casey gives him a kiss Amberton shakes his hand they ask about each other’s children. They see a director that Amberton got fired from a film they were doing together they exchange hugs, smiles, pats on the back. Casey sees a couple of her rivals chatting with each other (she regularly prays for one or both of them to be struck by lightning) she walks over says hello to them takes a couple pictures with them exchanges kisses with them, they look like they’re best friends (and if not lightning, maybe a car crash). Amberton sees another action star they shake hands, and they shake ’em like fucking men, laugh at each other’s jokes, check out each other’s suits, talk about having a beer together, both mumble—you fucking asshole—under their breath when they part ways. They see producers, agents, managers, writers, other actors and actresses, studio executives, moguls. Despite the fact that many of these people absolutely despise each other, it looks like they are all in love, deeply, truly and wildly in love. Kiss on the cheek, pat on the back, give me a hug, buddy, let’s take a picture. And then, please please please, go straight to the restroom and fuck yourself.
The lights, both in the theater and outside of it, flash a couple times the universal sign that the show, or in this case film, is about to start. Amberton and Casey, along with everyone else, make their way inside. They walk down the center aisle towards the middle, which is where there are roped-off VIP sections for celebrities and the people who made and star in the film. Aside from the VIP sections, seating in premieres is usually first come, first serve. Small bags of popcorn and sodas are offered as refreshment. Amberton and Casey avoid both (popcorn has carbs goddamnit), and find their seats, which are with the seats of several other universally recognized worldwide entertainment superstars. They settle into the seats. Casey gives Amberton a smile and a nice kiss (still acting!!!) and they wait for the film to start. Amberton says hi to a producer he once threatened to run out of town.
When the lights are down, and the film running, Amberton leans back and closes his eyes. He did not see Kevin, wonders if he’s here. Despite the fact there are explosions, action sequences, intergalactic combat, and forty-foot-tall aliens on a giant screen in front of him, he loses himself in his love, lust and longing, he loses himself in memories of the times, though they have been short and fleeting, that he has spent with Kevin, loses himself in his dreams of a future, of the idea that someday he’ll leave all of this behind and set off on a new course of life with a real, true, 100 percent all-the-way soul mate. He thinks it might be Kevin. The football star and the movie star. Maybe they could open a bed-and-breakfast, maybe they could go to Europe and spend the rest of their lives looking at art, maybe they could buy an island.
After a particularly loud explosion, Casey nudges Amberton, who opens his eyes and turns to her. She speaks, very quietly (you never know who’s listening), she speaks.
Are you watching?
No?
Have you seen any of it?
No.
What are you doing?
Dreaming about Kevin.
You gonna buy an island with him?
Amberton smiles.
Maybe.
You should watch some of it.
Is it good?
No.
Not at all?
No, it’s awful.
Will it be a hit?
Yeah, it’s gonna be huge.
I don’t want to watch, I’d rather dream.
We’re going to the party afterwards. You’re going to have to talk about it. I’ll be fine.
You sure?
Yeah.
Amberton turns away, closes his eyes again. He wonders if Kevin has ever been to the South of France, to Buenos Aires, Fiji. On the screen, the aliens are launching a furious assault. The heroic humans with strands of alien DNA are preparing a counterattack. Half of Miami disappears in a flash. Green lasers rain down on London Bridge. Flying saucers blast away at the peak of Mt. Fuji. It’s going to be a huge hit.
When the film ends everyone claps. As is customary, and considered appropriate and respectful in the film industry, the crowd sits through all of the credits, even the ones at the end for people who have jobs with strange and unexplainable names. When the credits finish running, the lights come on and everyone stands and starts to filter out of the theater. This is the only time when being a VIP means nothing. There are no VIP aisles, no special exits. There is no way to use VIP status to avoid the other people who are also trying to leave. Because it is an industry crowd, and thus considered safe, the guards usually wait outside for the stars, unless there are special circumstances, such as a particularly nasty stalker or a bad situation with the press (reporters have been known to ambush people in premieres because it is wrongly assumed they are safe among their peers). Once outside, the guard immediately takes up a position with the star, or the exceedingly rich and important person who is worthy of a guard, and guides them to their car. As Amberton and Casey make their way slowly up the aisle, Amberton scans the theater for Kevin. He knows he’ll be wearing a black suit, but so is almost every other man in attendance. He knows he’s probably taller than most of the men in the room, the average height of the average movie star, producer, director or entertainment industry businessman is five foot six. He also knows he’s black, and though there are plenty of black actors and actresses, and a few black directors, there are almost no black agents, managers, producers or executives. He looks through the crowd but doesn’t see him he keeps looking. Oh Kevin where art thou, dear Kevin? He looks through the crowd and he holds his wife’s hand and he walks slowly up the aisle, where art thou?
They come out of the theater most of the crowd is gone all of the paparazzi are still there. They find their guard flashbulbs popping everywhere they go to their car, the party is four blocks away and it’s safer to drive. It takes forty minutes to get there. Casey calls home to check on the kids Amberton stares out the window, all he wants is a glimpse, for a second maybe two, he just wants to see him. All he gets are short white guys in black suits who have incredibly hot women with them and fans in T-shirts and shorts who scream and yell and behind the protection of the car’s windows, look like they’re insane.
When they get to the party they go to the VIP entrance (thank God they’re getting VIP treatment again) and they are immediately ushered to the VIP section, which is roped off and guarded. Theoretically, everyone in the room is a VIP, or would be outside of Los Angeles, so this VIP section is actually a VVIP section, or maybe even a VVVIP section, or if every one of the superstars shows up, a VVVVIP section. It consists of ten or twelve booths, there is a waitress for each of them. In the middle of each of the booth’s tables, there is a bottle of chilled champagne. Food is available, though movie stars, both male and female, are always watching their figures, and if the champagne isn’t wanted, just about anything else, including any number of substances and chemicals that are against the law, is available. Amberton and Casey are among the last of the stars to arrive (not enough showed to make it VVVVIP), and as they head to their table, they stop and say hello to the stars of the film, whom they compliment on their work, to the director, whom they congratulate and declare to be a genius, and to the producers, whom they hug and kiss on the cheek and offer true and sincere congratulations for making a great, great film. When they sit down, they’re exhausted. Casey speaks.
Think the food is any good?
Amberton speaks.
Are you gonna eat any of it?
I might.
Are you going to keep it down?
Depends on how much I eat.
Usually the food is themed around the movie. What kind of food do aliens eat?
They eat humans.
Do you think they’re serving human?
It would be cool if they were.
Amberton motions for the waitress, who steps over, speaks. How can I help you, sir?
> What kind of food are they serving tonight?
Chicken fingers in the shape of human fingers, chicken legs shaped like human legs, mini-hamburgers in the shape of a human heart, and the drink of the evening is a Bloody Mary.
Amberton and Casey both laugh. Casey speaks.
Can you bring me a plate with a little bit of everything?
The waitress speaks.
Of course.
Amberton speaks.
And two Bloody Marys, please.
Certainly.
The waitress leaves. Casey and Amberton look out into the party. A strong indicator of how much a studio does or does not like, or does or does not believe in, a film is the amount of money they spend on a premiere party. If they expect a big hit, or are beholden in some way to one of the stars or principals of the film, expect a big party. And big can mean a three-million-dollar party, a five-million-dollar party, in at least one case, ten million dollars was spent on a premiere party. This one is big, probably in the four-to-five-million-dollar range. There are multiple bars, multiple food stations, all of the waiters and waitresses (except for the ones in the VVVIP section who are in black) are dressed as aliens, there is a famous English DJ who has been flown in to provide the music, different sections of the room are designed to look like the different cities in the film. There are two or three hundred people in attendance, not everyone who gets to go to the film gets to go to the party, all of them are taking advantage of the studio’s generosity. And no matter how awful a film might be, people rarely say anything bad about it at a premiere party, especially if the studio has spent money on it. Part of the reason is because it’s impolite, another is that people don’t want to say something that might later be held against them, another is if for some reason they are proven wrong, and the film is a hit, they will look like an idiot. In a business full of treachery and ruthlessness, it’s a strange phenomenon. It’s also one of the reasons executives, producers, directors and stars are shocked and confused when something that carries high expectations, and something they haven’t heard a single negative thing about, bombs when released to the public.
