by Karen Karbo
“We sold our script.”
“Who? You and Ralph?”
“We haven’t sold it. The money isn’t in the bank, but we got the call. I got the call. Anyway, Mouse and Ivan are liable to be here any minute, and I –”
“– the nervous groom,” said Lisa, arranging the chair by the railing, stopping to admire the persimmon sun sinking behind sheets of smog in the western sky. “People always say it’s the bride. How much are they offering for the script?”
“Don’t tell me no one’s told you!”
“What, is it on the front page of Variety or something?”
“About the blasted wedding!” Tony had already suffered a consolatory phone call from his parents, whom Mouse rang up two seconds after she’d given him the boot. He’d also received a letter from Gabrielle and Wim in Nairobi telling him how terribly sorry they were to hear about the split. He presumed if those people knew, everyone did.
“Is there a way we can pull the speakers out here?” She mopped her forehead with her arm. “Jesus, at least if there was a breeze. What were you saying about the wedding?”
Before Tony could construct a phrase which communicated the gist of the situation without rendering him ripe for pity, there was a knock on the door. At the same time, the answering machine launched into its series of chirps and clicks which announced someone was ringing in. “Good God,” he moaned. He had a pounding headache from the gin, from the onslaught of service people, from the prospect of being trapped here while the loathsome Mouse and Ivan were celebrated by all of his and Mouse’s friends, from the frustration – good God! He hadn’t felt this pent-up since his boarding school days, passing the lingerie catalogue around the dormitory at midnight – of not being able to share his good news.
“Hang in there,” said Lisa. She grabbed the phone in the kitchen. “Get the door, would you?”
“No,” said Tony, “absolutely not.”
After a good fifteen seconds of insistent rapping, the door opened. A foreign-sounding tenor called out: “Anybody is there?”
“This is insufferable,” said Tony, striding through the house to the entryway.
At the door was a tall Japanese, almost as tall as Tony, with a swingy Beatle haircut and an underbite. He wore a ruffled evening shirt with a red bow tie, and showed no signs of suffering from the heat. “Mr. Futake,” he said, pumping Tony’s hand and bowing slightly. “You Tony Cheatham, groom?”
“No, but come in.” Past Mr. Futake, in the driveway, Tony saw another Japanese in a tux unloading aluminum pots, tins of corn syrup, ten-pound bags of sugar, and a small brown case from the back of a four-door, charcoal-gray import still bearing its dealer tags. A car. A car that would be parked here in the drive, presumably all night. The assistant, with the girth and lightheartedness of a Sumo wrestler, plowed past Tony, immediately commandeering the kitchen. Lisa had finished on the phone. Tony saw her out on the deck struggling with a speaker the size of an icebox, a loose wire trailing dangerously between her legs.
“Mr. Futake, I’d like to have a word with you, if I may.”
“I do groom.” He mimed a few sculpting gestures.
“Wonderful. But I’m not, I used to be the groom, but I’m not any longer.”
“Sure,” said Mr. Futake amiably.
Soon, the close air of the kitchen was heavy with the smell of melted sugar. It made Tony’s teeth hurt just to inhale. Mr. Futake and his assistant peered into the vat of hot corn syrup and argued in Japanese. Tony stood behind them wringing his hands.
“Mr. Futake,” he tried again. “I have a bit of a favor to ask. If you’ll indulge me. You see, I used to be the groom, but there’s been, we’ve had, anyway, the point I’m trying to make is, my ex-fiancée is marrying someone else. You can imagine how embarrassing that is for me. I’ve also just sold a screenplay, so it would be doubly embarrassing for me to be …”
“Sure,” said Mr. Futake, his black Beatle hair swinging as he nodded his head. He snapped open the brown case on the counter, took out a red cloth utility belt, tied it around his waist, then extracted a half dozen gleaming silver instruments that would look at home in the hand of a dentist.
“… in any event, I won’t stand on ceremony with you. What I was wondering, could I perhaps borrow your car? Just for a few hours. I’m fully insured and have an excellent driving record.”
“Car? Sure.”
“Splendid.” Tony exhaled with relief.
Mr. Futake took a long, thin, tongue depressor-like stick from the case, dipped it in one of the vats on the stove, pulled out a golden viscous glob of hot corn syrup.
“I’ll just wait till you’re done there,” said Tony, checking his watch. Perhaps he’d drive out to Santa Monica, see if Ralph had turned up … or no, didn’t he have that writing class tonight? Perhaps he’d drive out to Valley College.
With a few turns of the wrist, a few confident swipes of one of the more cruel-looking pieces of pseudo dental equipment, Mr. Futake sculpted a small Porsche, which he presented to Tony with a bow. “Car.”
“Car. That’s bloody clever of you, isn’t it? Now, if I could, presuming it’s all right with you, of course, if I could just have the keys to your car. The keys? To your car?”
“Key? Sure.”
Mr. Futake sculpted Tony a skeleton key.
“Good Christ,” said Tony, “you haven’t understand a word I’ve said, have you?”
Mr. Futake sculpted Tony a small sad hippie hanging from a cross. “Christ,” he said.
Tony thanked Mr. Futake and went to his room. What was he going to do? In the city with the most cars on the planet he could not lay his hands on one. Here he was a screenwriter, and never had he felt so stuck. He had broken into Hollywood, and he was feeling the way people did in life rafts, dying of dehydration while floating in the middle of the ocean
He stumbled over his ridiculous cowboy boots in the dark, shot-put them to the back of his closet, thunk-thunk, threw on a pair of threadbare gym shorts, hiking boots, and a T-shirt. He hadn’t worn these clothes since Nairobi.
He would just have to walk. The café at the bottom of the hill closed at nine; after that he would read magazines in the store until it closed, then ride the bus around until midnight or so. He would keep trying to ring Ralph. It was pathetic, but there was nothing for it.
He got no farther than the front door. He opened it to find a gaggle of people with video cameras and clipboards, wearing the deeply insincere smiles of television journalists, crowded on the front porch. Coming up behind them were Mouse and Ivan followed by someone else hauling their equipment. One of the television journalists, a young woman with a gargantuan mouth framed in purple lipstick, rustled through the papers on her clipboard. “We’re from L.A. Today. You must be the groom.”
He slammed the door in her face. Christ! Was the news here? Without thinking, he galloped back through the house to his bedroom. His head boomed. Sweat flooded his eyes. He would just have to wait in his room. It was really not on, a screenwriter of his stature stuck playing the role of the jilted lover. He’d close the door, not make a peep until the party really got swinging, then climb out the window. He sat for a very long time. In his shorts, in the dark, on the edge of his bed, he sat. He heard the front door open, then slam, muffled chattering, yips of delight. Who in God’s name was out there? Mouse didn’t know that many people. They must all be friends of Mimi’s. The broken window, which had caused him to see his breath on a number of recent cold nights, admitted not a wisp of a breeze. He dared not turn on the light for fear someone on the carpeted highway to the bathroom at the end of the hall might see it. A diamond mine could be no hotter or stuffier than this loathsome room in this loathsome house in this loathsome city, he thought. He blotted the sweat from his face with his T-shirt. This was not the life of a famous screenwriter, or even a struggling screenwriter. Even Mimi’s doddering mutt had it better than this.
THE FACES OF the guests were red and wet from hiking up or down
the hill from wherever they’d managed to park. The night smelled not of the late spring flowers blooming up and down the hillsides but of the inside of a gas station service bay.
Ivan refused to make the announcement. He was too distracted with the filming of Wedding March, with the crew of L.A. Today taping him filming Wedding March. In addition, he was reluctant to make it seem as though he had somehow snapped Mouse out from under Tony’s nose. He respected Tony. He did not want to appear to be gloating.
“Are you gloating?” Mouse asked.
“Of course I am. Warner Brothers is very interested in distributing Wedding March. American Film wants to do a cover story on us.”
“You’re kidding.”
“When we are finished, the Museum of Modern Art will show Total Immersion, El Funeral, and Wedding March as a trilogy.”
It was decided that Nita would make the announcement. Shirl was too shy with all these young people, and Mouse had suddenly found herself embarrassed. She was sure that even in modern-day Los Angeles, where a husband is no less a status symbol than is a car phone, this would seem perverse. Mouse FitzHenry marrying not the man whose name appeared on the invitation but her sister’s ex-husband, her own ex-true love? Would they be shocked? Would they find her sociopathic? Would they want their presents back?
The presents were piled high on a table on the deck next to the railing. Kitchen/barbecue was the theme Mimi finally decided upon. As a result, among the presents, were several portable barbecues that looked like gift-wrapped space ships.
People asked, “Where’s the groom?” Mouse said, “He’s around here somewhere,” then tried to capture Ivan’s attention. But Ivan was too busy with the Nagra, too busy being the serious and original independent documentary filmmaker for the cameras of L.A. Today. Even though he was now the groom, he refused to give up control of his tape recorder. The forty-pound Nagra hung from its frayed strap from one shoulder, the headphones sat casually around his thick neck. He could operate the controls without looking.
It would be very simple, he said, even humorous, for Eliot to film him and Mouse making a toast while he, Ivan, recorded the sound of their glasses clinking. The L.A. Today people would then videotape Eliot filming Ivan recording Mouse.
After the confusion at the front door (where had Tony disappeared to, anyway?), Ivan had pulled aside the L.A. Today producer and briefly explained the situation, that Tony and Mouse’s wedding used to be the subject of Wedding March, but now it was his and Mouse’s wedding. Yvonne, the producer, was thrilled with this new angle, which would give their viewers an insight into Ivan’s personal, as well as his professional, life.
Outside, on the deck, Nita tapped the side of her wineglass with her fork. She was wearing a pink pinafore and plastic sandals. The city stretched behind her, the blanket of lights glowed dull yellow in the heat. Ping-ping-ping. “Turn down the music. Will someone turn down the – thank you.”
Mouse stood to one side, worrying the rim of her glass with her thumbnail.
“On behalf of my friend and client Mouse FitzHenry, I have a little announcement to make –”
“– I’m not pregnant!” Mouse blurted out.
A few people laughed.
“– who was it who said never explain, never apologize? Anyway, whoever it was, in that spirit I’d like to tell you all there’s been a change in plans. This shower isn’t for Mouse and Tony, it’s for Mouse and Ivan. Congratulations, you two.” She toasted them, then took a dainty sip.
The silence that followed was less palpable than the response of, say, two doting parents who’ve just discovered that their summa cum laude daughter is going to marry a thrice-divorced shoe salesman.
Down the hill, on the far side of the forest of prickly pear that separated the Big House from its neighbor, a group of kids were playing Marco Polo in their backyard pool.
“Marco?” shouted a young, faraway voice.
“Polo!” hollered one of Mimi’s friends from Bibliothèques, his voice amplified by cupped hands.
Everyone laughed. Mouse downed her vodka and soda, took a bold bite of the wedge of warm lime hung on the edge of the glass. No one cared! Someone turned the music back up. The bartender squeezed between conversations, collecting drinks to be refreshed. Discussions continued where they left off: who’d gotten what deal at what studio; what recent undeserving screenplay had sold for what outrageous amount; who had tossed in the towel and moved to what idyllic spot to work in a bookstore or movie theater.
Mr. Futake worked from a card table set up near the presents, charming people with his cars, cats, and Batmen. No one congratulated Mouse, but no one took back a present, either. Mouse felt her worry slide away. Warner Brothers wanted to distribute Wedding March! American Film was going to do a profile! A trilogy at the Museum of Modern Art!
L.A. Today videotaped Eliot filming Ivan recording her.
Lisa struggled toward them through the crowd, a plate filled with button-sized dabs of food raised above her head.
“Lisa. Thanks for doing this,” said Mouse. “You’ve done a beautiful job.”
“So is Tony dating anyone, do you know?” asked Lisa, systematically working her way down a carrot stick with her front teeth.
“Mousie Mouse, I can’t believe this! Now we’ll really be sisters!” Mimi had sprung up from nowhere. For a moment Mouse wondered if she’d snorted something, so huge was her gummy wide smile, so hysterically messy was her straw-colored hair, so high and loud and cajoling was her voice. In fact, Mimi had just blown in from her last How to Write a Blockbuster.
“I take it things went well?” asked Mouse.
“Oh, God! Lex Waldorf was there. He loved my book. You should have seen Ralph’s face. Did I tell you what I did? I gotta tell you. Lex is so hot, he gets people movie money for books. So, Mousie Mouse, you and Ivan! I can’t believe it! Shirl already called me at work and told me after you’d talked to her this afternoon. Why didn’t you tell me? Ivan the Terrible, let me give you a congratulationatory, or whatever it is, kiss.” Mimi sidled up to Ivan, threw her arm around his shoulder and planted one casually on his lips. “Are we going to be on TV? Ivan’s my ex-husband. Lex Waldorf wants to see the book when it’s done, that’s how excited he was. I think I’m going to give up acting and do writing.”
“Ivan’s your ex-husband?” asked Yvonne.
“It’s like ancient history,” said Mimi. “We were kids.”
“How do you feel about your sister marrying him?”
“Really great. It’s a wonderful thing. Fun, kind of like sharing clothes. You know, she was going out with Ivan first. It’s true! We were all eighteen or so. They were in film class together. I don’t know how he got interested in me. l was the older woman, I guess, mysterious or something. Anyway, now Mouse finally has her man. We will have to sit down and have a long talk. It’s like how you put a handicap on a golfer, that’s what I’ll have to do with her. All his bad habits, I’ll tell her.”
Mimi excused herself, then threaded her way back through the crowd on the deck, through the sliding glass door and into the living room, where the bar was set up. She ordered a mineral water from a Samoan who admired her legs.
Someone put on the Stones. Mimi kicked off her black strappy sandals and danced by herself. One of the bartenders, not the Samoan, snuck out from behind the table and danced with her. The living room was dark and hot, lit only by lights of the deck. The booming bass line echoed the blood in Mimi’s veins.
So Mouse was marrying Ivan. The news was unexpected but hardly a surprise, Mimi thought. This was a world where young fathers were run down by two-ton converter gears while crossing the street, where mothers were beaned by ceiling fans while innocently cheating on their diets, where average white girls of the middle class ran away to Africa. A world where the unexpected happened and the expected didn’t.
Mouse was lucky she had Mimi to smooth the way, to advise her on handling Ivan. Not that Mimi had had any success. Not that Mimi was even goin
g to have the time, what with dedicating all her time to finishing her blockbuster. She made a mental note to get Lex Waldorf’s number from one of the Rolodexes at Talent and Artists. She would call him when the book was finished, then he would seduce the publishing world on her behalf.
She was through with Ralph. She was through with money problems, with eating problems, with married men. She would go back to her yoga class. She would eat more tofu. First, though, one last little purge, an easy one, the half dozen Ding Dongs she’d bought at a convenience store and wolfed down on the way to the shower.
After the song was over, the bartender reluctantly excused himself and returned to pouring margaritas. Auntie Barb, a finger jabbed in one ear, turned the stereo down so low only the hum of the speakers could be heard.
Outside, on the deck, L.A. Today prepared to tape a formal interview with Ivan. Yvonne arranged him in Lisa’s fancy wooden deck chair, in front of one of Mimi’s potted plants. The special wedding-shower photographer had arrived and was roving around blinding people with his flash.
Mouse stood by the railing, chewing her bottom lip raw. She stared down the hill at the boys paddling around the pool, seething. She wondered if their young lives were informed with as much unmitigated bullshit as hers was. She could not shake Mimi’s voice from her head: I don’t know how he got interested in me. I was the older woman, I guess, mysterious or something.
Then there was Ivan, no better than Mimi, really. Mouse listened while he mused about the nature of filmmaking and love. About how he and Mouse had found each other after all these years. About how in this time of cynicism and national apathy the force of true love was not to be underestimated. About how he believed people were made for one another. About how, if he did not believe all these things, he might feel terribly guilty for the breakup of Mouse and Tony’s engagement. However, in his opinion, Love was second only to Truth in its power to make one Whole.
Mouse didn’t know whether she was going to be sick or just needed to lock herself in the bathroom until the wedding was over.