Lucid

by Adrienne Stoltz; Ron Bass

  Somehow that comforts me. All the time my mom is hugging me and Tyler is telling me I “crushed it,” and Max is staring at me with admiring eyes, and my dad is waiting his turn for our special hug…

  I can’t stop thinking of James.

  When Gordy and I arrive at the Seahorse, James and Amanda are already there. The Pony, as we all fondly call this place, is basically in the parking lot of a marina. It has the best burgers in town, and when I was little, I loved their grasshopper pie and the Miss Pac-Man machine. Tonight Amanda and James are sitting in a booth by the fish tank, clearly into each other.

  Amanda says something that makes him laugh, and I roll my eyes. What a guy won’t do to get laid. In all the years I’ve known her, she has never said anything that could make a human laugh. Not that being funny is as important as being a good person, or really smart, or really beautiful (okay, maybe that one). But funny is important to me, so I project. And basically, all the hopes I had for some kind of personal connection that was promised by that smile completely disappear. Maybe he’s just a typical guy.

  We sit down. Amanda jumps up and gives me a kiss, which at first I judge as being phony and solely for James’s benefit and then realize it’s because we haven’t spoken since Bill’s memorial. She is a nice person, Amanda Porcello. Without looking, I can hear Gordy exchanging amiable guy grunts with him. I pull myself together and look up, only to find James staring straight in my eyes.

  “I loved what you said today. Both of you.”

  He says both of us, but he is looking just at me.

  “It speaks really well of Bill that he could have friends who loved him so much. Sorry, in your words, love him so much.”

  “Thanks,” is all I can come up with. Clearly, I’m on top of my game.

  Immediately, Gordy launches into the Celtics and the playoffs, a sacred ritual that Gordy believes all males observe. He is about to get his head handed to him by a guy who is far too interesting to waste hours of his life on such things. In fact, James would probably rather discuss the Celtic beheading game in Sir Gawain and the Green Knight than give two shits about basketball playoffs.

  Amazingly, James knows more than Gordy, like all the really boring stuff about where players went to school and how many rebounds and how many “dimes” (which turns out to mean assists) each player has racked up. He is an enigma, this one.

  Like he says, “KG has to make himself big down low so Rondo can get him the ball on the block.” And Gordy nods like that’s English.

  In the middle of SportsCenter, Amanda winds her arm through James’s and puts her head on his shoulder. Normally, I would find such a display of public affection either sweet or nauseating depending on the couple. But here, it’s clear this is a simple act of possession. It reminds me instantly of the way Carmen kissed Andrew at lunch.

  Why is Amanda even bothering? Of course, it probably just feels good. Or maybe my attraction to him is showing, and I am making a fool of myself by drooling over her boyfriend, and Amanda is just instinctively doing what girls do when that happens.

  How could I ever have thought this would be a good idea? And when will it end? I glance toward the door. When I look back, he is looking right at me. Again.

  “What are you reading these days?” he asks. It seems like he’s actually curious, not forcing conversation.

  “Decoded. It’s Jay-Z’s autobiography.”

  He nods. “I’ve read that. I wish that he spent more time actually explaining his hustler years rather than defending why he still raps about the game,” he says.

  “He and Beyoncé are such a cute couple. Baby Blue is like a hip-hop princess,” Amanda contributes.

  “I’m bummed,” I tell him, “that so far he’s barely said anything personal about Biggie at all, just that he still wears his platinum Jesus chain every time he records.”

  “I think that’s because he can confess his love for Biggie without having to feed juicy details to curious bystanders just to sell books.”

  Then he smiles a very nice smile. “Sort of like you today. You didn’t have to tell us what that thing was that you wanted so badly. It was enough to know that you loved him and he comforted you. I thought that was really cool.”

  I think my heart will burst. I don’t think any compliment has ever meant more to me. He heard what I said about Bill in the way I was hoping it would be heard. It makes me feel understood.

  By this time our companions, terminally bored with the world of hip-hop, are deep in their own conversation about a locker room fight in the girls’ gym.

  We spend the next two hours essentially lost in conversation with each other. We have many shared interests. He knows more about politics. I know more about history. He plays flamenco guitar. I would love to sleep with a guy who plays flamenco guitar. He loves animals. Turns out he skipped school today because he wanted Pablo to feel comfortable in his new home. We are both movie nuts. Through living in San Francisco, he could see in a theater all the indies I have to beg Derek at Mystic Video to stock for me. He loves big action stuff and special effects, which I can’t stand, and we both adore silly comedies.

  The big topic turns out to be travel. Because he’s done it and I haven’t. Yet. I force him to explain every detail of his time in France, China, Scotland, even East Africa.

  I don’t feel self-conscious or nervous talking to him at all. I thought I wouldn’t be able to eat when we sat down. But before I know it, I’ve plowed through my hamburger and Gordy is sweetly wiping ketchup off my cheek as I quiz James about the safari he went on with his dad. Normally something like ketchup on my face would send me into hysterical embarrassment. I’m having too much fun to care.

  When we’ve all finished our grasshopper pies and paid the check, my heart sinks. I feel like Cinderella after the ball. I can have his attention for a dinner’s worth of conversation, but a girl like Amanda holds his heart. We say our goodbyes and he and Amanda walk together toward his car in the parking lot and I want to cry.

  On the ride home, Gordy can tell I’m sad. Of course, he thinks it’s about Bill. He does his best to cheer me up, which essentially means making fun of me until I can laugh at myself. He tells me I look like his Labrador Tiller the time Tiller swallowed a tennis ball. I check my reflection in the visor mirror and he is sort of right.

  Gordy promises we’ll celebrate my birthday and Bill tomorrow. And he promises it won’t suck. I’m so lucky to have Gordy.

  In bed that night I toss and turn, inventing scenarios where I can somehow see James again like that. Eventually, I realize this is just self-torture. Because even if I could have dinner with him like that every night, each moment would hold the heartbreak of knowing I want something more.

  And of course, the ultimate curse. Only Maggie can dream about him.

  CHAPTER NINE

  maggie

  I study the girl in the window. Hair piled on top of her head, huge black sunglasses, enjoying a coffee and Danish among a sheik’s ransom in diamonds and emeralds. She’s having breakfast at Tiffany’s. Once a year, on my birthday, Holly Golightly is me. At least for breakfast.

  His image steps beside mine, and without turning to him I say:

  “Eu acredito que você está na liga com o carniceiro.”

  Not missing a beat, he translates, “I believe you are in league with the butcher.” Film student or not, the fact that he knows my favorite film well enough to recall that line means one thing. This is going to be a good day.

  I point down at the pavement. There is his breakfast, a neatly wrapped almond croissant and a large coffee. I noted at lunch that he liked heavy cream no sugar. He just stands beside me and starts to eat, and we are silent like that for quite a while.

  “Do you think if I bought you a Cracker Jack ring, they would engrave it for us?” This happens in the film and is extremely romantic.

  “No. See, that was a movie. This is Tiffany’s. That actor doesn’t really work here, or sadly anywhere anymore.” I turn and look
at him. “Thank you for knowing that film and liking it.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “I’m taking you on a tour of New York today. All visits will be to film locations, or reasonable reproductions thereof.”

  “Awesome. Any particular reason?”

  “Yes. Shall we go?” I say.

  “As soon as you’ve told me what’s your favorite scene and why.”

  “You first.”

  “I love the very end where they’re standing in the rain in an alley and they’ve just found her runaway cat and they’re in this three-way hug and cry, although some cynics have suggested that it was rain on Cat’s face rather than tears.”

  “You left out the why.”

  “Because I saw the film when I was sixteen, and that scene completely defined romance for me. One day, I will find a woman who will let me chase down her runaway cat and hug me in the soaking rain.”

  He is so unguarded and genuine. I’m ashamed of the calculation in my silence.

  “Your turn,” he urges.

  “The truth is, I’m deciding which scene to choose on the basis of what I want you to know about me.”

  “Perfect.”

  “I like the scene where she gets the telegram that the Brazilian rich guy is dumping her, and she trashes her apartment in hysterical rage but then concludes that she’s going to use her perfectly good free ticket to fly to Rio anyway.” I watch him think. “What does that say about me?”

  “It says you had your heart broken once, and it’s on your mind.”

  “Actually, I’ve never had my heart broken. But watching her performance made me think, so that’s what it’s like. And how I’ll deal when it happens to me.”

  “So. How will you deal with it?”

  “I’ll run away to Rio.”

  “No you won’t. You’re not the type to run away from your problems.”

  “You have so much to learn about me, this could take a while.”

  I put my arm through his and lead him off to be my companion through the one day each year that I can’t bear to face alone.

  We pop into FAO Schwarz and I tap dance on that brilliant piano keyboard thing. Thanks to my extensive dance training, I’m able to approximate a little ditty known as “Chopsticks.” It’s not as easy as Tom Hanks makes it look in Big.

  Standing outside the Plaza, he sings “Memories” to me from The Way We Were. You know, “Memories / Light the corners of my mind / Misty watercolor memories / Of the way we were.” He has a surprisingly sweet voice and sings to me as if I’m Robert Redford and this is our last chance to find true love together. We attract quite a crowd. Somewhere about thirty seconds from the end, I get scared that he is going to play to the moment and try to kiss me. Being an actress who has kissed dozens of guys (in character, not in skankiness), I’m not sure why that should be a frightening thought. He doesn’t, and some twelve-year-old girl in the crowd says, “Kiss her,” as if it really matters to her. Sweet.

  We cross Fifty-ninth into Central Park, so of course I take off my shoes to suggest another Redford film, Barefoot in the Park.

  “They should have cast you,” he says. “Jane Fonda is such a ballbuster.”

  “Did you get a look at her body in those days?”

  “Hard to miss, it was so awesome. All that Jazzercise and spandex and leg warmers. But a hot bod isn’t so important.”

  “Carmen has a rockin’ package.”

  “She sure does. That’s not why we’re together, though. You’ve got so much to learn about me, this could take a while.”

  We lie on the grass in Sheep Meadow and ignore the tourists sunbathing. I want to talk about Carmen, but he doesn’t. He’s drumming his rib cage, humming some song he’s currently obsessed with. It’s totally dorky and kind of annoying since I can’t grasp his passion for seventies easy-listening.

  I mention that I’m up for the fourth lead in the Innuendo pilot, hoping he might have some good advice. My agent, Cindy, doesn’t know about it yet, and she is always so enthusiastic about everything anyway that we don’t have a genuine connection. Talking to Nicole would requiring me enduring Nicole’s unhelpful suggestions for wardrobe and hair makeover to help me land the role. My friends all have personal agendas relating to their own careers and jealousies.

  And besides, I trust Andrew to tell me the truth. Unfortunately, he does.

  “I hope you don’t get it.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’ll miss you.”

  I haven’t stopped to think that it’s 90 percent likely the show will shoot in Los Angeles. I’d have to relocate. Nicole couldn’t come with me, and therefore Jade couldn’t either.

  Sloane can’t wait to get to Columbia, escape the nest, and be on her own. I’ve been on my own. But not on my own the way I’d be in Los Angeles. I’ve never been there. I sort of picture it as a place with shallow, grasping, competitive people, at least in my profession. I feel smaller and more vulnerable than I’ve felt in a long time.

  “So you better give your mom my cell, for the next time Jade needs to get picked up on a curb somewhere.” Andrew looks sorry the moment he says it. I just stare at him. “What?” he asks.

  “I’m just sitting here being scared. Like some little kid who’s thinking about running away to join the circus.”

  “Okay, let’s break it down, Mama. What are your chances of actually getting this role?”

  I exhale. Smart place to start. “Less than zero.”

  “How old are you?”

  “I just turned seventeen,” I tell him.

  He smiles sweetly. “It’s okay to be a little scared. Two years ago I was a little freaked out to come to New York for college, and it’s not even like you’d have the structure of school out there. But if this happens for you, you would be absolutely clinically insane to turn it down. Do whatever you have to do to give yourself the best chance at this.”

  “Whatever?” I ask.

  “What are you talking about? Couch-casting?”

  I say nothing.

  “Here’s one piece of advice that I know is true. No casting couch for you. Ever.”

  We walk south, and passing through Times Square, Andrew steps in front of a taxi that hasn’t quite come to a full stop and pounds on its hood. I know exactly where he’s heading even before he does his best Ratso Rizzo with, “I’m walkin’ here! I’m walkin’ here!” Dustin Hoffman should have won the Oscar for Midnight Cowboy. In fact, he should’ve won for half the things he did.

  At the top of the Empire State Building, where Cary Grant waited in vain for his true love in An Affair to Remember, we stare out over the city. He looks through those high-power binoculars. When I was small, I was obsessed with them. I imagined you could zoom anywhere in the city, into windows, into people’s lives, and watch a moment in time.

  “My dad and I used to do this every year. Spend the day together visiting film locations. And since he died, I haven’t done it alone.” Without looking at him, “So, thanks.”

  “I’m so sorry.” I feel him watching me.

  “He was the most brilliant, intuitive, and loving person.” I turn to him. “He got off an airplane in Chicago and had a massive coronary walking through the terminal. He died before he hit the ground. It was good for him that he didn’t suffer. And that he had no fear. No regrets.”

  I must look terribly sad because Andrew says, “But there was no chance to say goodbye.”

  I shake my head, no. And start to cry. He puts his arms around me and I let him.

  “He took me to my first movie, my first everything. And when Nicole pushed back against the idea that I could be an actress, he really ripped her. He said it wasn’t just rude and discouraging, it was ignorant. He completely believed that I could succeed.”

  “I’m just thinking what would happen if my dad ever called my mom ignorant.”

  “Well, what would happen?”

  “She’d kick his ass.”

  “He started that game of making up
stories about strangers. He wrote stories for a living, and he always said the stories seemed like a way to hide ourselves while revealing others, but really we were only revealing ourselves. And so, we would look back on the stories we made up and figure out what they meant about us.”

  “Now there’s two people who make up better stories than me.”

  “At least.” Andrew gets me to smile, which was, of course, his evil plan ever since I cried.

  “Thanks for telling me about your dad. I wish I’d met him.”

  “I never talk about him. I think you’re the first person I’ve done that with except for my shrink.”

  He shakes his head. “You need a shrink less than anyone I ever met.”

  “Well, like I said, you have a lot to learn about me. In the interest of not being coy or unfriendly, let me just say that I started seeing her when my dad died. Now we basically just talk about my dreams.”

  In little more than an hour, we stand on the deck of the Staten Island Ferry. The sun has just disappeared and the water is purple. He’s stumped. I tell him Working Girl. He nods, as if vaguely remembering. I try to help…

  “Alec Baldwin says, ‘Tess, will you marry me?’ and Melanie Griffith replies, ‘Maybe.’ He says, ‘Ya call that an answer?’ And she says, ‘You want another answer, ask another girl.’”

  “Wow. Great line. Gotta use that.”

  “You have my permission. So the day shouldn’t be a total loss.”

  “The day’s just begun.”

  I like the conspiratorial promise of fun in his suggestion. But I am really excited to see Thomas. “Not for me, not tonight. I have an appointment.”

  He looks me right in the eyes. “Break it. And I’ll break mine.”

  “It’s about the series. It’s with the casting director.”

  There’s a flicker across his eyes. This time, his smile is against the grain.

  “Just so long as there’s no couch.”

  I think about that. Being on a couch with Thomas and what he might want to do on that couch. And what I might want to do on that couch. And how all of that couch business might or might not affect my chances at Innuendo.