Girl Boy Girl

by Savannah Knoop

  HOLLYWOOD

  CARRIE FISHER MET US IN HER DRIVEWAY dressed in a navy cotton bathrobe and slippers. About a foot shorter than me, she wore her hair in a bob. She had a half-cocked grin, full of mischief. “I’m glad you’re here,” she said warmly, opening her arms out expansively. “How was your flight?” She motioned for us to follow, and led us down a path to a little bungalow nestled in some trees. Opening a creaking wood-framed screen door, she said, “This used to be Harper’s room.” She was referring to her stepson Harper, whose father is Paul Simon. She also has a daughter, Billie, from another marriage. “Make yourselves at home. I’ll be right back down. I need to go speak with my assistant about a few things.”

  Laura as JT had been emailing with Carrie for months. They seemed to have an appreciation of one another’s writing, and a similarly dark sense of humor. Carrie had offered to put JT up if he ever needed to come down to Los Angeles, and recently JT had received offers to write for a few projects in Hollywood.

  We retreated into our room. The bed was covered with a patchwork quilt. A few framed drawings of pen-scratched cartoon birds were mounted on the walls. The iron-framed windows to the right of the bed overlooked a huge oak tree that was garlanded with Christmas lights. From its branches, someone had hung a sign that read: “It happened one night.”

  A cobbled path led up to Carrie’s hundred-year-old whitewashed adobe villa. The house had once belonged to Bette Davis. Carrie showed us on a previous trip an old magazine with a picture of Bette Davis in the dining room being served bacon and eggs by a black butler.

  Laura and I ceremonially exploded our suitcases. I combed through my clothes, thinking about whether I should change my outfit. Laura yanked out the gifts she had collected for Carrie: a solid dark chocolate turtle carved by Michael Recchiuti that he’d sent JT for writing a passionate review of his chocolates; a bathing basket, replete with a loofa and pungent soaps; an inflatable travel pillow; and a can of baked beans from Hogs Paw Arkansas.

  Laura balanced the chocolate in her hand, weighing it thoughtfully, “Man, she better appreciate this turtle. It’s hard giving this one up.”

  Suddenly, Carrie swung open the screen door. A tall Coca-Cola with lemon sweated in her hand. She exclaimed, “Jesus Christ, you guys have been in here ten minutes and it looks like a bomb went off!”

  “That’s our system,” I said.

  “What kind of a system is that?” Carrie looked at Laura accusingly. She held her Coca-Cola midair, shaking the glass in Laura’s direction. “Aren’t you supposed to be helping?”

  Laura looked a little sheepish and said defensively, “I do help!” She waved her hands a little, like she was grasping for something but couldn’t remember what. “JT, go on and give the lady her gifts. See, we busted open the bags so we could give you these things.” Laura gestured at the pile of loot. “Notice, the chocolate turtle is heavy enough to leave an imprint on the mattress!”

  Carrie softened her voice and said, “Aw, that’s really sweet.”

  She sat down on the edge of the bed, going through the gifts. When she got to the travel pillow, she exclaimed, “Ooh, I needed one of these!” She began to blow it up animatedly. Then, in the middle of a big inhale, she squinted and paused. Her forehead pinched into a frown. “JT, you look like a scullery maid. Who’s dressing you?”

  I was wearing a renovated tablecloth.

  Laura waved her hands again defensively and said, “I don’t know anything about that. He wears what he wants to.”

  “She doesn’t. I mean, I do.” I said. I could feel Carrie trying to figure out what was going on here. Who was this Speedie, anyway? The Svengali of the family? The inept assistant? Or the exploitive social worker, dressing JT only in tablecloths? Was Speedie squandering all of JT’s hard-earned money?

  The pillow was blown up now, and Carrie tucked it behind her head, letting her neck loll back onto it. Pointing her finger at Laura, Carrie said in a clipped growl, “What’s going on here? Where is the money going? JT, are you stuffing it under your mattress like we talked about?”

  “No, he’s not.” Laura said.

  “I’m not talking to you,” Carrie said curtly. “JT, do you have a financial advisor? Are you a part of the Writers Guild?”

  “No, he’s not,” Laura ejected.

  “You’re answering for him again! Why are you answering for him when you can’t even help him with a simple thing like keeping the room in order?”

  I started to cough. I had a hack for months. Laura had been nagging me to quit smoking, and every time I coughed she brought it up. Not this time.

  “I mean, JT has an excuse! What’s yours?” Carrie said accusingly. Laura opened her mouth in response, but then, uncharacteristically, she closed it.

  Carrie said with exasperation, “You know what? Save it.”

  “Carrie, you’re right. I completely agree. Everything you’re hitting on is right. He needs help. Guidance. I can’t be the one to do that for him. I am, in some ways, as broken as he is. That’s how we found each other.”

  Carrie squinted her eyes and said to me, “Come upstairs, JT. I’m going to find something for you to put on.”

  She led me up the path to her house. It was dim and smelled of wood and leather. It was February, but a towering Christmas tree stood in the middle of the living room. We passed through the sitting room, where piles of manuscripts had been left on the coffee table. A half-eaten granola bar nestled on its wrapper. Carrie picked her way around the couch and showed me a secret doorway in the back of the room. She flipped a switch behind the door and showed me a tiny chamber full of psychedelic graffiti. She said, “I imagine that Billie, as she enters teen-hood, will soon hole herself up in here.”

  In her bedroom, Carrie led me into her closet and began to rifle through drawers. She threw a sweater at me. She rummaged around some more and pulled out a violet wool smoking jacket with red trim. “I had that made in Hong Kong; you can wear it while you’re writing.” She found some jeweled gold platform wedgies and said, “These could be very you.”

  I replied, “If I want to impersonate Bette Davis.”

  “Don’t you want to get more feminine? I mean, isn’t that what you are going for?”

  “Not exactly.” It was much more complicated than that, I thought sadly to myself.

  Carrie was so warm and generous with me, which made me want to let my guard down, but of course that was impossible with the secrecy I needed to maintain. I tried to search for something that would let her know more of me than the others did, and in a moment of desperation, I blurted out, “Wanna see my new tits?” Then immediately feared this was a mistake. In the past I never would have dared, because I wanted to protect JT. And because I felt so ambivalent about my own body. But things were starting to change. I was starting to feel like I had nothing to lose.

  She tilted her head a little to take a drag of her cigarette. Squinting, she asked, “When did you get them?”

  “Recently.”

  I ushered her out of the closet and gently signaled for her to stay put. Then I sidled back into the closet and took off my tablecloth and binding. I picked up the sweater she had given me, planning to put it on immediately after my show. I trailed it behind me for a kind of burlesque effect. I came out and walked into her bathroom. She followed me. I thrust my chest out, walking around like a male peacock.

  In her deadpan voice she said, “They’re good.”

  I agreed. Maybe this was the beginning of something. Maybe Carrie cared enough to be JT’s surrogate mother. Maybe JT and I could co-exist. JT had Savannah’s body and personality—and I had his. We would meld together, maybe even grow old together.

  Our first meeting in Hollywood was with a producer who wanted JT to write the script for a story about Joan Jett and the Runaways. Brian, JT and Asia’s manager, had set up a few other meetings as well. It seemed that JT had been writing so many articles, and had gathered so much press, that he had become a part of the Hollywood vernac
ular. Producers had finally caught wind of who he was, what he stood for, and what his writing and reputation would bring to a project. Writing for Hollywood seemed to be the obvious trajectory for JT. Everything had been leading up to this. I understood the importance of these next few meetings for her. But I also wondered, how could this keep going once JT was offered work? Especially if he landed a contract for a serial TV show? That kind of work would require JT to be there in person. I suddenly felt very spooked: my life would vanish once and for all. I would be giving JT more than my tits. I would always have puppet strings attached to my arms, and Laura whispering what to say in my ear.

  We met the first producer at a famous Jewish delicatessen. It was hot, and we spent twenty minutes looking for parking space. As we settled into a booth, the producer confessed, “I have to be honest, JT, I haven’t read your books, just your articles. But I can tell you’re a good match for this project.” He was tan and bald, with bushy eyebrows and a casual business look. He wore a black sweater vest over a white button-down with rolled-up sleeves.

  Laura took a sip of her ice water. “Well, the thing that you intuitively know from reading a little bit of his work is that JT always finds the emotional arc. He always digs in.” She motioned to the creamy side of her under arm as if she were referring to her veins.

  Brian added, “JT is on his way to becoming a household brand-name celebrity. When one reads his name, one knows that the project carries an edginess, a freshness, a hipness.”

  Laura nodded in agreement. “We knew JT had reached a new level when Coca-Cola offered to pay him to go to one of their parties. But, more than that, JT is interested in taking problems of spirit and soul and transforming them into craft. He is not interested in pop culture. He wants to write things that will withstand the test of time. Here’s the question: Is there an emotional arc to the Runaways story?” Laura raised her hands, and fluttered them around like a pair of moths, letting them fall into the lap of her silk skirt. The producer raised his eyebrows, watching her hands plunge.

  Laura went on, “You should read the books. You should start with Sarah and then graduate to The Heart. Actually, should you read Harold’s End in between?” She looked at me as if for permission. From behind the glasses I agreed, yes, he should read Harold’s End in between. I hadn’t bothered to wear the wig today. I’d only bound my chest and thrown on Carrie’s sweater.

  He ruminated, “I think that there is an emotional arc between all the girls. I’m positive that there is. But JT, say six months from now you’re writing it, and you fall flat—you say, ‘I give up, there is no emotional arc’—you gave it your best shot, right? Then that’s not a big deal. We believe in your work. I’m telling you, we’re a good match.” He motioned to all of us at the table. He repeated, “We are a good match.”

  Laura said, “Well, JT doesn’t want to take on a project just because you think maybe it might work. I mean, why bother? Why expend all of that energy prying open a story only to find that there is no nut?”

  “Fucking squirrels,” I muttered, Laura and I giggled together.

  The producer laughed along with us and said, “Right. Well, you got a point. But, my point is, JT, I’d like to work with you. And there are many nuts. And we can pry them open one at a time.”

  Brian drove us back to Carrie’s around nightfall. All the way home, Laura and he plotted and planned excitedly. “JT’s going big time.”

  “Before you know it, Hollywood will be rolling out the red carpet,” Brian concurred.

  “JT has been in touch with David Milch. I just fucking love Deadwood.” Laura could switch from the third to the first person now without fear. Everything had become so casual. She continued, “Deadwood is like fucking Shakespeare. It’s so good. I sent them an email yesterday.”

  “By the way, Brian, JT really wants to join the Writers Guild,” Laura said. “It was Carrie’s suggestion. How do we go about it?”

  “It’s easy,” Brian said, “You just . . .”

  I sat in the back, letting my body shift and counterbalance as Brian raced up into the hills in his Audi. It all seemed so easy and seamless. Surreal even. Behind us the grid of Los Angeles began to ignite and glow red and orange.

  In Carrie’s driveway, we said goodbye to Brian, then trudged up to our little cabana. The screen door of the bungalow slammed behind us. We started to change, getting ready to head up to the main house to hang out with Carrie. Laura grabbed my arm and whispered, “Wait. How do you explain that sound?” She went over and swung the door open and shut a few more times with her eyes closed, leaning her body in, pulling the door open and closed in a slow rhythm. Outside, the crickets chirped loudly. In the oak tree, the signs dangled and the Christmas lights winked, their colorful light strangely reflecting on the dew-damp lawn.

  By the time Laura and I made it up to the main house, several people were already relaxing in the living room. Carrie loved to have friends over. She had ordered a feast of Chinese food. Everyone who came over seemed at ease, without any of the awkward pleasantries or formalities of the parties I had come to know. It was like we were all staying with her; everyone was family.

  We met Harper, who usually traveled around with his girlfriend Seven, a tiny girl with a hoarse voice; Charlie Wessler, the producer of the Farrelly Brothers’ movies; Al Pacino’s ex, Beverly D’Angelo, who was dressed to the nines in a linen suit; and Sean, John Lennon’s son. The doorbell rang and Sean Lennon introduced his date, a girl wearing a dress made out of handkerchiefs. He emptied Carrie’s stereo and put on his new album, Friendly Fire, passing around the sleeve, which had a close-up of his face on it.

  A tall man came in without knocking. He wiped his feet on the doormat. He had a bald head and dark features. He introduced himself as Bruce. He went over to Carrie and lifted her up from where she was standing. They began to sing a song about “Blowing me while I shit blood” in a cabaret style.

  “I guess they’re close,” Laura said jokingly.

  “Oh, they go way back,” Harper said.

  Harper said to Seven, “JT and I talked about making a song together.”

  I said, without even thinking about it, “I don’t know if I can do that anymore. I know we had talked about that over the phone, Harper, but I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  “We’ll just sit down together, and it will all come out. It’ll be fun.”

  “I don’t know. We might have to do it over the phone,” I said, feeling a little of the old nervousness flooding back. I couldn’t write a song. That was Laura’s arena.

  “It’ll be great.” Laura exclaimed, slapping me on the shoulder. “You should do it by the pool tomorrow.”

  Okay, I thought to myself. Just go with it. “Alright, we’ll give it a try by the pool.”

  Laura began talking to Bruce. They seemed to hit it off, talking and gesturing over their Chinese food.

  Over his own soft voice playing on the loud speakers, I heard Sean say to the girl, “I wrote most of these really late at night. Come to think about it, it was morning in Japan.”

  Laura and Bruce emerged from the kitchen. Laura then went up to Carrie and whispered something to her.

  “Really?” Carrie said with slight disdain.

  I don’t know what they talked about in the kitchen. It seemed that she wanted Carrie to know that her old friend had found something interesting and compelling in Speedie. I thought it socially awkward the way she went straight to Carrie to tell her. I also thought about Geoff, but I was in no position to judge. It seemed like Laura just wanted to redeem herself in Carrie’s eyes, and enjoy herself. Laura and Bruce kept talking with grins on their faces. Laura kind of tittered and I saw Carrie roll her eyes tiredly.

  As we watched an episode of Deadwood, Laura waxed on about the show and how brilliant David Milch, its creator, is. Switching the channel to Lost, Carrie began to tease her. She said, “You see that rock? That rock and I are very intimate over the phone. I was just out with that rock last Sun
day!”

  Laura’s voice raised in pitch. “I didn’t say that to name drop.” Laura sounded frustrated.

  Carrie said, “I don’t mean to give you a hard time. It’s just so easy to tease you.”

  Soon the group tired of watching television and moved into the living room to play games.

  The television and Chinese food had put me in a torpid floating state. Before long I passed out in Carrie’s bed, wrapped up in a long scarf. I woke up at five in the morning. A grey light glowed from the muted television set. A ’60s globular love chair made out of see-through plastic swung quietly in the light of the Duraflame fire. I kicked off a throw that someone had laid over me. I tiptoed into the bathroom to wash my face, passing Carrie’s sleeping body. Under her covers, she lay in deep sleep, breathing heavily, her eyes moving under her eyelids. I wet my face. The scarf left deep impressions around my neck. In the quiet I thought, cherish this moment. I am still me. I can still look out and see the world from my own lens. Soon I might forget how to do that. I contemplated whether I should head back to the bungalow. It seemed incredibly far away, so I climbed back into Carrie’s bed and fell back asleep thinking about how I might wake up and feel ready to write a song with Paul Simon’s son.

  When I finally arose, the sun was streaming through the sliding door. It was eleven thirty in the morning. I wandered out to the living room, which was empty.

  I heard music outside in the garden. Frank Sinatra. Opening the door, I caught sight of a brawny man in blue exercise shorts and a yellow polo shirt. His arms rested on his hips as he counted aloud, “twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two . . .”

  On the floor, beneath the trainer, Sean was doing reps on his back. He moaned in his high voice. The trainer smiled and said, “Getting him ready for the Friendly Fire tour.” Sean wore a sweatband, and his forehead was glistening with perspiration. He squirmed on the floor as the trainer nodded his head in time with another sit up, counting out, “Thirty-three . . .” Frank belted out, “That’s why the lady is a tramp!”