Hollywood Ass.

by Eriksson, Jonas

  “I'll call you when we’re coming back,” I said and I was out the door before Elena had a chance to reply.

  ***

  Rome hadn’t changed much from my journey there ten years ago, it was still picturesque, the people beautiful, the coffee fantastic and the wines made you want to practice the ancient religion of alcoholism. The city’s amazing heritage led you to expect an architectural wonder every time you turned the corner on the worn cobblestone streets. I knew I could live there if I learned the language, that’s how connected I feel to the Roman look on life, with their food, wine, music and women. It wasn’t hard to see why B had picked this as her escape route.

  Thanks to Cesar and his persistent follow-up on her transactions, I already had a great clue when I landed. Her credit cards indicated that she was staying at Hotel Hassler, an impeccable five-star hotel on top of the famous Spanish steps. It was a beautiful spring day in Rome and although the flight had been long and I was tired like a dog, the excitement of being back in one of my favorite cities brought me some extra energy.

  I hailed a cab and when I sat down in the car and told him the address of the hotel, I felt very calm all of a sudden, like I knew things would work out. In all seriousness they didn’t look great at that stage. What would happen when I found B? She wouldn’t suddenly be all happy and ready to work on her relationship and the world would still not have forgotten about the vomit and suddenly be ready to land her major roles in epic dramas. Things were far from easy.

  I thought back to Cesar always giving me crap for my job, saying it wasn’t really dignified to be an “assistant”, his immature feedback being that he would never get a job with “ass” in it. I knew I should take him with a pinch of salt, especially since he thought the whole celebrity world was ridiculous - a figment of crazy people’s imagination - and thought higher of me and my abilities, but sometimes I couldn’t help but think that four years was a long time to be someone’s assistant. I wanted more.

  After the driver had dropped me off at the hotel, I decided to walk over to the steps and look at the crowd in the Piazza di Spagna. The square was crowded and the slanting steps leading up to where I was standing were full of street merchants and tourists, just taking a break in the sun. Life in Rome seemed simple.

  I turned around to walk to the hotel across the street from me, when something unexpected happened.

  An evil-looking black Lamborghini drove up with a screech in front of me, and suddenly, like it all happened in a split second, a stylishly dressed woman in a navy-inspired dress, high-heels and over-sized shades walked out from the hotel at the same time a man in long black hair and a pinstriped suit climbed out of the Lamborghini and opened the door (upwards) for her. She smiled at him like they were old friends and sat down inside the shining monster of a car. All this happened before I realized...it was B!

  I stood there dumbstruck for a while and when my brain finally jolted to life, it was too late too shout her name and the car was already speeding away from me with a scream, leaving me standing there wondering what the hell I’d just witnessed.

  That instant I felt anger rise up through me: anger at B for making me chase her to a foreign country just to see her drive away with her lover. Anger for how relaxed she looked, while I worried like crazy. Anger at how stupid it had been of me to miss her.

  ***

  I did the only reasonable thing after that experience and got myself a room at The Hassler. The receptionist looked quite happy to slide my credit card in her little machine and empty it from hundreds of euro. I was happy too, because it wasn’t my money and the hotel looked absolutely amazing. I was obviously getting used to this kind of standard after four years, but I tried to remind myself to really enjoy it every time, because it’s when you start to take things for granted that you lose them.

  While I filled up a foamy bath in my room I noticed a twinge of jealousy creaking in my bones. I felt like B wasn’t only cheating on her husband, but on me too, breaking some kind of unspoken promise and hurting our friendship.

  My brain churned like a tired engine, trying to think of ways to break this to A as objectively as possible. But I needed to talk to B first, we were closer friends after all and there was an iota of a chance she wasn’t really sleeping with the suave-looking spaghetti stallion. For some reason the whole thing made me think of my parents, who had created and lived such a stable life in Arlington, Virginia for over 30 years, a life so different from the Hollywood lifestyle I was in the middle of. A part of me had always wanted what they had - the predictability of knowing what’s going to happen tomorrow and the day after and being able to rely on a steady rhythm of life - while another part of me found it horribly boring. There was a reason I was in Hollywood; I was looking for action, excitement and larger-than-life experiences - I wanted the unexpected. Despite coming from a humble background and a quiet, comfortable upbringing, I liked the idea of looking life in the eye and asking it: “What have you got?”

  But this extramarital drama was not my cup of tea.

  Waiting for B to return to the hotel was a tiresome job and as I browsed around the TV channels looking for something to catch my eye or at least keep it open, I felt my body get heavier and heavier, like I was slowly sinking through the soft mattress. It had been a long flight, an exhausting day and no matter how hard I fought it, the inevitable happened and I fell asleep.

  It was one of those sleeps that when you wake up, you feel like you’ve been cocooning for months like some weird insect. My head was thick as a brick and my mouth was dry. I sat up in bed and for a second I didn’t know where I was and what time it was. I looked around the room, saw that the TV was on, an Italian farce playing with lots of screaming and giggling, and I wondered how I could fall asleep to that. On the table were leftovers from my room service dinner and half a bottle of Chianti. Everything slowly came back to me and because it was ten to two in the morning, I figured B must be back from her nighttime adventures. The only way to find out, I figured, was to head up to her room.

  I knocked three times on the wooden penthouse door and waited with my heart in my stomach for some kind of reply, but there was only the growling of my belly. I knew I needed to resign myself to the fact that she might actually be cuddling with a piece of male penne, without any intention whatsoever of heading back to her room. I sighed deeply and pressed the glossy elevator button to go down again. It took a very long time. I thought maybe the elevator was stuck somewhere between floors and I was just about to give up and take the stairs when the doors opened and I had the shock of my life.

  Standing in the elevator, him with a dazed look on his face and her leaning on his shoulder, was B and her macho man.

  “B!” I cried out and she jolted to life. She opened her eyes, stretched her arms upwards, walked out from the elevator and threw her arms around me. “Darryyyyylll! How come you'rrreee herrree?” she said with a breath that could double as insecticide.

  I glanced over at her man-friend and he gave me a disappointed look, telling me I had been there just in time to ruin a possibly nice finish to the evening for him. At least if he was into unconscious movie stars.

  “Let’s go to your room and I’ll tell you,” I said, remarkably stern and focused for being so exhausted and surprised at the same time.

  After she dismissed the Italian stud with a long hug and a kiss on the cheek, I helped B stumble her way into the penthouse, where she laid down in her bed and gave out a loud, toxic burp. I could feel my eyes itch from tiredness, but I was still more attractive than she was at that point in time, which was a first. I should have had a photo taken.

  I sat down next to her on the bed, leaving some space between us, in case she was ready for another projectile vomit. I was still angry with her and had loads of questions about the Italiano steaming in my brain.

  Like she anticipated how I felt, she said, “You hate me don't you?”

  “No, of course I don't hate you. I was just worried about you, bec
ause the B I know doesn’t run away to foreign countries to have late night rendezvous’ with other men.”

  B looked down on her hands, like they were somehow to blame for everything. “I'm sorry, but I had to get away. My marriage, the vomit, it was a new low. I couldn’t stand to look people in the face anymore.” She sounded remarkably sober for...being B.

  “I understand that, we all do. But you could still have told me, I didn’t think we had any secrets between each other. It’s a bit silly that I have to chase you down in Rome like some kind of private detective. You didn’t answer the phone so I had to track you through your credit card, can you believe that? And another thing, who is that guy? You do remember that no matter how shitty you feel about your marriage, you’re still married, right?”

  “I’m not sleeping with Matteo! We’re friends. And I’m sorry you had to come all the way here and that I didn’t answer my fucking phone and that I’m such a mess, but I really don’t need you to judge me either. Everybody’s already doing a swell job of that.”

  B was coming alive while I was starting to feel my weariness again. I had found her and completed my mission and all I wanted at that moment was to go back to sleep. We could deal with all the drama and questioning later.

  And like she was reading my mind, it was exactly what B intended to do too. “We’ll continue this talk tomorrow,” B said and closed her eyes.

  I sat on the side of the bed like a parent, until she snored and then I started arranging the pillows for myself on the penthouse sofa.

  ***

  I woke up to find the sun peeking through the window, hinting about another beautiful day in the eternal city. My lower back ached from spending the night on the small and stiff sofa, but I saw it as a small price to pay to find that B was in fact alright and that she hadn’t been up to any coital activities with her dark, Italian friend. I looked over at B who lay there in her large bed, clothes still on, hair frazzled, make-up smudged in her face and completely unaware that I was there, watching her. She was a mess, but somehow still managed to pull it off, the way attractive women could with just about anything.

  I took a long shower, one where it felt like I was getting rid of dirt that had lodged itself in cavities I didn’t know I had. When I stepped out, I was dry as a prune, but refreshed, looking forward to spending the day with B while trying to understand what was going on in that beautiful but confused head of hers.

  My spirits rose as I sat down outside on the massive terrace, the sun gazing at me and a cup of warming instant coffee in my hand. The view was spectacular from up there, where you could see Rome open up with all its beautiful domes and buildings and I couldn’t help but feel a wave of joy to be there again. I sipped my coffee and wondered what would happen, if we would go back to LA, if she would like to stay in Rome or even go to New York to see her husband and make amends. They were all possibilities and with B it was almost impossible to figure out what she had in mind until she told you.

  Suddenly I felt a presence behind me and I turned around to see a zombie, imitating B, standing there in her clothes from yesterday and looking absolutely miserable.

  “Morning,” she said, in coarse voice.

  “Morning,” I replied.

  She sat down opposite me by the outdoor table and buried her head in her hands, “Why, oh, why, oh, why do I drink?” she said loudly, the last part almost coming out as a cry.

  “To get away from yourself maybe?” I said, casually and poured her a cup of coffee.

  “I think I need a proper breakfast, some fats, bacon, eggs, cheese, the works.” B said, still covering her face and ignoring my comment, “I didn’t eat much last night.”

  “If you can eat now you can’t feel that bad. Will the heart attack breakfast package be suitable for madame?” I said and could sense a smile before I walked inside to call room service.

  B took a shower while we waited for the breakfast guy. She came out of the bathroom looking less like a zombie and more like a beautiful girl with rosy cheeks and wet hair in need of a good comb.

  “That was nice,” she said, while drying her hair with a monogrammed hotel towel.

  “You look less dead now,” I replied and smiled.

  “You’re such a sweetie, Darryl.”

  Breakfast came on a large rolling tray pushed by a guy in a bright red uniform, curly black hair and a thin mustache. He smelled of cheap spray deodorant and stared at B like all starstruck people do. I gave him a look that said “yeah, it’s her” and handed him a ten euro bill in tip.

  I picked up a croissant and looked at it like it was a bitter enemy. In one way it was, I have never been good at saying no to pastries and being in a country that prided itself on food wasn’t going to be easy.

  B put her fork through a fried egg and snatched it between her teeth like some kind of jungle cat. She could eat like a pig if she wanted to, so I was lucky the breakfast was large enough to feed four starving body-builders.

  We were both quiet for a while, going at the food like it was an Olympic event. After my second cup of coffee I decided it was time, since my belly rumbled and I could be running to the bathroom soon. Big breakfasts and coffee did this to me.

  “So the guy’s just a friend?” I said, it coming out a bit more tense than I expected. I didn’t want a fight, I just had some annoying curiosity to kill.

  “Yes, he is. We met at that film-shoot two years ago where he managed the wardrobe. I think you were in the hospital then?”

  “Yeah,” I said and thought back to when I was hit from behind at a red light by a senile lady with blue hair. I ended up getting a bad whiplash injury and couldn’t go to Rome with B. She never told me about this guy though, which concerned me.

  “I know you might think he’s gay because he’s in fashion or whatever, but he looked very into you from the 30 seconds I saw of him.”

  B gave me a deadpan look. She thought I was clueless about these things. In a way I was.

  “Believe me, he’s gay. A woman knows. You feel it.”

  “How do you feel that? He didn’t get a boner when he hugged you or what?”

  “You’re such a lovely conversational partner, Darryl. Do I ever tell you that?” She said, and at first she looked really angry with me, for which I wouldn’t blame her, but then she started laughing and I started laughing too.

  It was the best moment we’ve had in a while and I felt a glimmer of hope that the real B could come back.

  If she wanted to.

  ***

  After breakfast we decided to take a long walk. With the six-hour time difference, it was still too early to call A and tell him the good news, so we had some hours together to just enjoy the city and do what we did best, which was talk.

  “Imagine if I could walk the streets this unnoticed back in LA? How different my life would be.” B said from behind her big sunglasses.

  I noticed many people give her an extra look-over so I was pretty sure she was exaggerating her escape from the public light, but at the same I understood how good it must feel for her to walk around for a while without a group of camera-carrying buzzards circling around her.

  “You would like to be less famous? I thought a big part of you loved it?”

  “I don’t know, it’s up and down. I guess part of me really likes being seen and analyzed constantly, it’s something I’ve wanted ever since I was a little kid. Maybe it’s some kind of residue from being an only child or maybe it’s just what everybody wants.”

  “I’m also an only child, but I don’t think I ever wanted the spotlight or fame.”

  “And that’s why you’re in Hollywood, working with me?” B gave me a smirk like you must be kidding.

  “Good point,” I said and smiled back.

  We walked until our feet hurt and went for a late lunch at a restaurant Matteo had recommended, located in a suitably anonymous location, off a side-street from the large Piazza Navona. We sat on an elevated terrace, shielded by trees and enjoyed a bottle of
white wine, when I remembered I had promised to call A. It was early morning in New York, but I knew he was bound to be up anyway, lifting weights, jogging or just studying himself in the mirror.

  I excused myself from the table and walked to the side while B was thumbing away on her phone.

  “So you found her, but she doesn't want to go home?” A half-shouted into my ear. His reaction was rough, but still understandable.

  “She wants to stay a few more days to relax and clear her head. I wouldn’t see it as a big deal.” This was my attempt at taking some weight off of the situation, after all, this was all she was trying to do. Take a little vacation. With other men.

  “Is she going crazy, Darryl? Is that what's happening? Because this doesn't sound like a very sane person to me.” I had heard this resigned tone in his voice far too often by then and it had become a big worry for the soundness of their marriage. He was slowly giving up and B needed to show him he had no reason to.

  “She's better now. I think she just needed some distance from the incident. I wouldn't be too concerned at this point.”

  “It’s kind of hard NOT to be concerned when your wife fucks off to another country without telling you.”

  “I understand that. She does too. But I don’t think stressing her to come home when she feels like this is the way forward. You told me to go here and find her and I did that. Now she wants a few more days in the city and I think the easy way is just giving it to her. You’re busy anyway.”

  It was when I said this that I realized I really wanted to spend some more time with B in Rome. We had a nice chemistry here and I thought I had seen lots of the “old” B since the other night. I wished I could have bottled up this good feeling of sanity in case it evaporated when we came home.

  “Okay, if this is what she wants, I’ll give her the space. I’ve always been understanding when it comes to her wishes. But I need you to really keep an eye on her, I’m worried she’ll do something stupid. I haven’t seen her like this before.”