by Ethan Hawke
I lit my cigarette. A few other cast members were lurking around as well, smoking or buying a slice of pizza, but I didn’t want to talk to them.
Two days earlier I had been in Cape Town filming a movie. The shoot should have been a meaningful, eye-opening experience. I saw South African townships with soul-racking poverty: a nine-year-old boy climbing an electrical wire on the side of a highway to siphon electricity for his family; a little girl dividing her ice cream sandwich into thirds for her brothers when it looked like none of them had eaten in a month. I went on a safari and stared into the eyes of a lion three feet from my face; I saw a leopard eat an impala and drag the carcass up into a tree for her cubs while hyenas tried to snatch it away; I spent four days at sea looking at wild penguins, whales, and dolphins; I saw the prison cell where Nelson Mandela spent eighteen of his twenty-seven years in prison and quietly transformed a nation. But all the while, I could only think about the dissolution of my marriage.
Mary and I had first met six years earlier backstage after one of her concerts during the largest blizzard in living memory. Watching her dance and sing, I was transfixed by the idea that someone of my own generation could be so confident. The whole of Irving Plaza felt warm from her light. Onstage, she was fierce and blistering with intensity. In the greenroom, she was the same. I shook her hand. She was sweaty, fresh from the performance. Our attraction was immediate and uncomfortable. This was in the days that followed my first major studio film release. She complimented me on the movie. I praised her latest album. She understood everything that had been happening to me. We were both inside the hurly-burly of fame, and we felt known by the other. The connection we shared was simple and unavoidable, like gravity. I was grateful to have a friend. After hours of conversation, I looked around and realized we were the only ones left in the greenroom. Her bandmates and manager were waiting in her bus. We shook hands goodbye, but it was actual work not to strip down naked and fuck right there on the tables full of snacks and beer. It was as if I could already smell our kids. I went home to my East Village apartment and looked out the window. In the light of the streetlamps I could see the still falling snow. I prayed:
Whoever created that woman, I worship you.
I dedicate my life to you. Please, Lord Creator,
Let me be that woman’s husband. I will care for your creation.
I will honor every step she takes.
The sky seemed to unlock all the snow in the world.
* * *
—
‘‘Yo, dude, aren’t you that guy from that fuckin’ movie?” An acne-riddled young man came up to me. Then he shouted over to a couple of his friends across the mind-blasting noise of Times Square.
“Don’t worry about it, man. I’m nobody.”
“Yes you are. Come on, dude, let me take a picture of you.” He was wearing a bright red Adidas sweat suit and had an aggressiveness about him that was unsettling.
“You don’t want my picture,” I said, trying to keep him moving with the current of people around us.
“Yeah, I do,” he said simply, taking out his phone and continuing to try and wave his buddies over to us.
“You don’t even know my name,” I said.
“You’re from that movie,” he said excitedly, “I know you.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t like to do photo ops, you know? It makes me feel like a freak, you know what I mean?” I asked, trying to briskly move away.
“Don’t be an asshole, bro.” He grabbed my shoulder and turned me around. “It’s the least you can do for your fans.”
“Yeah well…” I tried to meander away.
“Just let us take your picture,” said his larger, more powerful friend, who had shuffled over.
“You rocked in that fuckin’ movie, dude. ‘Yo, Jackie, give me the kiss-ash!’ ” Another buddy stepped close and imitated me from one of my least favorite films. There’s a direct inverse relationship between the quality of a film and how much you get paid. The dumber the movie the more they pay. That film was my most lucrative.
“Yeah, thanks a lot, guys,” I said, offering out my hand to shake theirs. “I appreciate it. I’m happy to meet you all. I just don’t want a shitty photo of me stuck on the Internet forever, ya understand?” I smiled.
They stared at me blankly.
I went on, “But, thanks anyway.”
This dude in the red Adidas sweats, the two buddies, and now two of their girlfriends would have none of it. They all wrapped their arms around me. Somebody else, an older guy, grabbed a cell phone to take the photo.
As a kid, I confess, I fantasized about signing autographs or people taking my picture. I generally imagined all the people being admiring. I never imagined hate mail.
This dude in the red Adidas sweats whispered in my ear, “Man, you are a fuckin’ idiot.” With his arm draped over my shoulders as our photo was taken, he continued, “You should be grateful. Just fucking smile.”
* * *
—
Taking the elevator back up to rehearsal, I leaned against the wall and cried. Now, usually in life whenever I’ve cried, I’ve felt better afterwards, but these days I couldn’t stop crying and nothing ever changed. As soon as I pulled myself together and wiped my eyes, the elevator doors opened and my blood ran with anxiety about being late. I was letting my director down. I imagined him humiliating me, using my lateness to set an example for the rest of the cast. Sometime in the last few days I had forgotten completely that I was a thirty-two-year-old grown man.
When I got out at the twenty-seventh floor, everyone was still just milling around drinking coffee. No one noticed I was late. A gentle hand touched my shoulder. I turned.
“I’ll be playing your wife.” An attractive young woman looked up at me from underneath meticulously groomed red hair. This woman’s translucent skin, expensive clothes, and bright green eyes were so intoxicating that she looked as if she had stepped out of a Renaissance painting. She even smelled classy. So, this is Lady Percy, I thought to myself. I must stay away from her at all costs.
“Who abandoned you?” she asked in a warm theater-trained voice.
“What do you mean?”
“Your mother or your father? I’ve never met an actor who was any good at all, who wasn’t left by one or the other.” She winked and walked away. I tried not to stare.
I turned awkwardly and walked to the “welcome” table, poured myself another cup of coffee, and stood next to Ezekiel.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“The diva’s in there complaining some more,” he said, referring to our Falstaff. All morning, our “star” had been sifting through various copies of the folio, arguing minute textual discrepancies with the dramaturge.
“He better be as good as advertised.” Ezekiel sighed.
I nodded.
“You get any of them Danishes?” he asked.
“Nah, I’m not hungry,” I said, trying to keep my distance.
“How you holding up?” he asked me, taking on a more serious tone.
“Barely,” I mumbled, as I sipped my coffee.
“You look skinny.” He smiled. “Don’t forget to eat.”
There was a long silence as we stood and watched the rest of the cast mill listlessly around. Ezekiel seemed to be studying my situation. Finally, he leaned over and whispered conspiratorially, “Did she have a shaved pussy?”
I looked at him and absorbed his warm, smiling brown eyes. “Yeah.’’ I nodded.
“Jesus wept,” he lamented. “They all shave these days.” He nodded in amazement. “It’s sad really…I grew up with bush. These girls today, they grow up on porn. They have dirty little potty mouths and send nasty little text messages that’d make a sailor blush. Tattoos?”
“Yup.” I nodded, r
emembering.
“Of course,” he said, scolding himself. “Well, let me be among the first to say: good for you.”
* * *
—
My young mistress had been delightful, like a hot-air balloon; the sound of water falling; the scent of cherry blossoms—all that simple, ancient, cliché shit. Within moments of being introduced to this young South African woman in a Cape Town nightclub, I knew exactly what I was going to do. And don’t think I don’t understand that every second of this tawdry adulterous high jinks isn’t horribly pat. I realize that there is no way to present my infidelity now that would give it substance, but that’s not how it felt. It felt like the stuff of Tolstoy—grand, sweeping, epic. She was a time machine. I was young again; I was mysterious; I smelled good. Life was vibrant, dangerous, unknown, and I lit cigarettes in a cool way. This young woman handed me my life back and she loved doing it. And let me be very clear: I was overflowing with gratitude. Her father was an ANC member who owned a local independent bookstore and she ran the place. Together they published a literary journal and organized a variety of political events. She was badass. Her older sister was nine months pregnant, and in labor. She kept checking her phone. She was thrilled about becoming an aunt. I asked her to dance, listened to her breathe, bided my time, and counted the seconds until I would kiss her. Like a sophomore getting hard at the high school sock hop, I pulled her close to avoid public embarrassment. She looked up at me with knowing, wet brown eyes as she felt me press against her.
“Aren’t you a married man?” she asked.
I snuck my dance partner safely out a back door of the bar. I wasn’t aware of the photos people took of us dancing at the club until they were all over the Internet. We skulked down a fire escape into a parking lot and kissed as soon as we were out of sight. I’d forgotten what a kiss was like; I’d forgotten what it was like to hold someone who wanted to be held; someone who dissolved upon your touch; who wanted you to launch your hand up under her skirt; who was hoping you would reach a little bit further; push a little harder; someone who made little noises. Now, I’m smart enough to know that blind pursuit of these kinds of shenanigans doesn’t lead you to any kind of authentic, substantive, enlightened existence. I guess I know that. I mean, maybe I know that. Or I should say I had long held that to be true, but in that moment, I would have rather died—had a bullet zip right through my cerebral cortex and my blood splash out onto the asphalt—than let go of that girl’s hand. She felt like an instrument of the Divine. She was escorting me through a door. A door that would close abruptly behind me, end my life as I knew it; break apart my family and decimate the life I had been building for years. I would be left despondent, suicidal, and having done permanent damage to my children’s lives. I pretty much knew all that would happen and still, I wanted this young woman so badly I was without anything resembling conflict.
“You’re married to that rock star, right?” she asked simply.
“We’re doing a ‘trial separation,’ ” I answered with no expression.
“You’re still wearing a ring?”
“That’s true,” I said quietly. “Because our marriage counselor suggested we not move too fast, so we are not supposed to sleep with anyone else, just live separately. I’m still hoping maybe our marriage can be salvaged. But, I also keep hoping that I accidentally die so I don’t have to live through the storm that I know is coming. My wife hates my guts. She told me the word ‘wife’ is like a fork stuck between her shoulder blades. I have two kids that I love more than anything, and starting this family has been the most important thing I ever tried to do—the only thing that matters to me. I promised myself I would never be as stupid and selfish as my own parents…I know I want to stay married but I don’t love my wife anymore, and I am scared shitless. And I don’t know what I’m going to do without that love.”
She agreed to drive me home.
* * *
—
We stopped in front of my apartment. I was still hoping she might refuse my invitation and save me from what I was trying to do.
“If I come up, will you dance with me again?”
My Cape Town apartment was a three-story walk-up and it took us twenty minutes to climb the stairs. We made out on each step. Once inside, I put on music that she thought was “sad and sexy.” My wife hated this music; hell, she flinched any time I reached for the radio.
“Melancholy,” this young woman whispered into my ear.
“What do you mean?”
“You know,” she said with a slight smile.
She stood on my feet as I danced her around the room. I wanted to be inside her lungs, to swim in her. I picked her up and carried her to my bedroom. I know if my confidence were stronger, my sense of self more secure, I would have been less moved. This was not lust; it was not as simple as that. For the first time in years, I felt like a human being—born of this world and passing—but here, present and alive. I laid her down on my bed and lifted her light cotton skirt up, pulled down her underwear, and unveiled an entirely shaved pussy with a little tattoo of an old-fashioned key right below her hipbone. I kissed her key, slipped my shirt off, and started snaking out of my jeans.
“Do you have a rubber?” she whispered sweetly, taking off her skirt.
“No,’’ I said, hoping this would be the bell saving me from adultery or whatever the hell you call what I was doing.
“Hold on a second, I have one in the car.” She hopped up and ran out and down the stairs, then onto the street in only a T-shirt that she was pulling down to cover her bare bottom. I lay there in bed, anxiety seizing its moment—What am I doing? what am I doing? what am I doing? But I knew exactly what I was doing.
When my young lover came back up the stairs to my Cape Town loft with a condom in her hand, she was thrilled her sister had safely given birth to a healthy baby girl. I was a disaster. My erection was gone and I knew it wasn’t coming back. That made me hate my wife even more than I had hours earlier. This girl looked so adorable naked in her bright blue T-shirt against her dark skin. I was miserable that I would disappoint her. Moments before I’d felt large and masculine. Now I was diminished, and fragile. Trying to will my body to function, I lay on top of her pretending to be domineering and assertive, but my penis betrayed me. It was shrinking smaller with each phony kiss. This was ridiculous, I thought. I wanted to cheat on my wife, to throw my family to the wind, but I wasn’t man enough to do it. A failure on all fronts.
“Are you OK?” she asked.
“I think I’m about to die,” I said.
“Your heart is beating so fast,” she whispered.
I looked down and saw my chest rattling like a washing machine in an old cartoon.
“I think I’m going to die,” I repeated.
“Let me hold you,” she said into my ear. I buried my face in her chest and cried and cried and cried. It was the first winds in what would become an absolute hurricane. I don’t know how long tears fell down my face, but when I returned to consciousness hours later, she was writhing underneath me and we were fucking.
“Let me get those rubbers,” I said.
“Don’t worry about it,” she breathed into my ear. “Just come on my belly.”
I lay there in the darkness absorbing the faint image of her deep brown eyes, so caring and passionate. Her young breasts, her shimmering skin, her arms holding mine—the smell of her—the smell of sex. Why hadn’t I smelled that in so long? I rubbed my face in her hair, pulled out, and came on her belly as she had so politely requested. Then I buried my head in between her legs, holding her ass as she wriggled and came. I hugged her tight and she purred in my ear. We held each other for an hour or so. Then we were at it again.
“Where do you want me to come now?” I whispered.
“On my breasts,” she said. “Come on my breasts, sweethe
art.”
And I did.
Immediately, before I grew soft, I slipped inside her again. I couldn’t stop. It’s not like I am some gonzo dynamo Casanova. It was more like I was having a manic episode or seizure. I knew that as soon as I stopped making love to this young woman, an ugly new reality would rain down. So, I kept fucking.
“Come on my face now,” she said. “On my lips and on my neck.”
And I did. And I wasn’t done.
“I am going to come on your ass now,” I said.
And in the silent space between us, some deeply underground realm we had entered together, she asked sincerely, “Do you want to hurt me?”
“Yes,’’ I answered, quick as thought.
“I am so scared,” she said.
“Me too,” I said.
And I came for the last time. She was bathed in me.
“Melancholy,” she whispered again into my ear. “You are like a memory already.”
* * *
—
The stage manager announced that work would begin mo-mentarily. We all walked back into the rehearsal hall and sat with our open scripts, freshly sharpened pencils, coffee, and bottled water in front of us. The thirty-nine members of the cast waited quietly as the stage manager shuffled around showing the producers where to sit. We stared at one another from across this large square around which we, the cast, were seated, each assessing the others in our own fashion. Who will be my friend? Who will try to stop me from getting what I want? Many were anxiously flipping through their texts with highlighters. The designers and the assistant stage managers were the last to take their seats along the perimeter of the room. In the center of everything, as if in spotlight, sat Virgil Smith, his beard, and his piles of paper.