by Owen Thomas
I began dialing numbers, quickly, as if trying to stay ten steps ahead of my own conscious thought. My head filled with the old house. I heard the sound of the ringing as if I was actually there listening to it. I saw my mother coming up the stairs, headed for the phone in the kitchen. I saw my father stepping in through the door of his study, reaching for the jangling bookshelf. Conscious thought caught up and reasserted control over my thumb, killing the call on the third ring. The house, suddenly empty and quiet, lingered in my head for one beat and then another as the sound of the phone soaked into walls and the carpet and the sofa cushions. And then it all collapsed back into nothingness.
I told myself that I did not have the energy for the heavy lifting required of that conversation. That was no lie. It was all too new. I knew too few of the answers to all of the obvious questions. I would be asked to shoulder the confusion and emotion of an entire city – an entire state – for which I was certainly in no mood. But the greater truth was that, even on that day, my sordid situation with Zack and the whole of American media felt something like that familiar, albeit counterfeit, freedom. The sort of person featured in black market sex videos is not the sort of person that warns their parents about new releases. The truth, buried too deep for me to understand, was that I was ambivalent about sending a mixed message on that point. Ambivalent about sending him a mixed message. Ambivalent about softening that next revelatory blow.
I drove out to Burbank for what would be my first of several looping sessions. In action orgies like Pryce Point, it is not uncommon for the physical violence of the action, mixed in with all of the surrounding pyrotechnical commotion, to compromise the clarity of the dialogue. It is visual appeal, not audible clarity, that determines which of the takes a director wishes to use in a film. Muddy or incorrect dialogue can be cleaned up in post-production by having the actors return to the studio and re-record a clean and proper dialogue track while watching a silent version of the scene play in endless loops on a screen. The trick is not just in timing new words and sounds to match the silent moving lips, but in reproducing those words and sounds at the volume, pitch and with an emotional intensity that matches the scene. This is not an easy thing to do alone in a dark and quiet studio, an environment about as far away as one can imagine from, for example, an exploding oil derrick or the shredded hull of a cargo plane spiraling into the Potomac. But then, I suppose that is why they call it acting.
The two men working the equipment were part of the post-production team, none of whom I had ever met. They each wore t-shirts and black Pryce Point baseball caps, only backwards so that when they looked up from their equipment at the screen the bills folded neatly around the backs of their necks like protective shields. They busied with headphone cables, doing their best not to look at me. They looked at each other plenty.
Hey, the eyes of the one said to the other, did you see the Fox 11 thing?
Oh yeah, the eyes replied, mouth listening with a grin. I saw it.
Darnell Lewis and two of his assistants huddled over by the exit. The assistants, both sleek LA fembots, one in shorts the other a halter, nodded as Darnell circled and scratched through items on a clipboard. Every now and then the assistants took turns glancing over at me in my chair. I felt their eyes focusing. I pretended to read my script.
Darnell was all business. We spent an hour cycling through a dozen clips with five or six takes each. Over and over I shouted and menaced at my own likeness on the screen. Darnell’s voice came through the headphones after each take, micromanaging my tone and inflexion.
“You … disgust… me,” I growled up at myself, dirty and almost naked and roped to the axle of a jeep, orange flashes exploding silently from all directions. “Untie me you fucking freak! I’ll kill you with my bare hands. You’ll wish you were never born!”
I said it like I meant it. I did mean it.
When we were done, Darnell came out and plopped down in the chair next to me. He always smelled of cigarettes and patchouli.
“Nice job kid.”
“Thanks.”
“You doing okay?”
I looked up at him.
“Me? Yeah. Sure.”
“You’re not letting any of this …” he searched for the words, “this video thing with Zack get you down are you?”
I shook my head, smiling politely.
“Good. This shit just happens.”
I nodded, seriously doubting if this shit had ever just happened to him. Darnell had all of the physical appeal of fast food burrito. A viral sex video seemed likely to be less of a worry for him than the proverbial rogue asteroid.
“It will pass. We were all young once. Don’t let anyone suggest otherwise.”
It obviously had not even occurred to him either that the story was false or that, if true, I had been an unknowing participant. He was excusing youthful irresponsibility.
“I’m sure the producers are less than pleased,” I said. Darnell laughed.
“Tilly, you are refreshingly naïve, you know that?”
All I could do was to pretend a vague amusement.
“Cecil called this morning. Know what his take on it was?”
I shook my head, glancing toward the exit where the assistant in shorts was talking animatedly on her cell. I just wanted to be out of there; back in the Civic.
“He said we’ve got a PG-13 movie, with R-rated stars, and a secret X-rated trailer. All just in time for promotion. This is suddenly not just another movie release.”
He must have seen some residue of Sienna Pryce in my expression.
“No, no. Calm down. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. Neither would Cecil. It happens, is all I’m saying. We all understand that. Don’t think you’ve somehow damaged the project, okay? That’s all I’m saying. Don’t beat yourself up. You’ll come through this fine. So will Zack. We’re behind you. And it’s not as bad as you might think.”
My head snapped sideways to look at him.
“What do you mean? You’ve seen it?”
Darnell’s mouth moved slowly open and closed without any sound, like a fat fish on a beach. It was clearly the last thing he had wanted to reveal and it had come out anyway. He found his voice soon enough, or maybe the engineers had dubbed it in.
“Tilly, no, I mean, we sent our lawyers over to Fox 11. We forced them to make a duplicate. We hoped to make a case that it was a fraud. You know, a fake.”
“I know what the word fraud means. You kept it.”
“No, no, no.” His voice was pleading and shrill. “Legal kept it. If we ever need to bring suit... Tilly, we’re looking out for your best interests.”
“You mean Zack’s best interests. Pryce Point’s best interests. Your best…”
“Hey, this isn’t about me, Tilly. Okay? The Brightleaf lawyers had the same concern. We needed to get a hold of the…”
“Brightleaf?!”
I stood up abruptly, glaring down at him. Then I turned and walked off.
“Tilly. Come on.”
I pushed past the leggy assistant, suddenly agog, through the exit and into the bleaching sunlight with Darnell sputtering blandishments and apologies and wrap party reminders at my back.
After searching too long for the wrong car and finally finding the Civic right where I had left it, I drove directly to Brightleaf Pictures, knowing full well that it was a terrible idea. I didn’t care. I needed to blunt my own imagination with hard, cold reality. I needed to know. I needed to see for myself.
Blair was in a meeting. I did not want to wait. I stood staring at Erica the receptionist, silently weighing my options. She looked back placidly, hinting at nothing of what she must have been thinking. She was the same full-lipped, blue-eyed wonder to whom I had delivered my paper re-audition for The Lion Tree, just before Milton had convinced me that my future was in good hands with Zack West and Darnell Lewis.
“Fucker,” I said under my breath, meaning Milton and Darnell and Zack all mushed together into one objectionable person.
The receptionist blinked slowly, dousing her blue lights, but her face did not change.
“He shouldn’t be too much longer,” she said.
“Oh, not you. I was talking… Sorry. I’ll wait.”
I paced slowly in the back of the spacious lobby, looking at the photographs on the wall I had seen a thousand times but never really noticed; a series of matted black and white Australian landscapes captured in a style reminiscent of Ansel Adams. Rugged desolation under glass, each signed in a thin silver pen by B. Gaines.
I should not have been surprised. It was his company and his whole life had been about capturing life with a camera. But I was surprised, and I studied the photos more closely. They were pictures of home. Not landscapes. Interior landscapes.
“Tillyjohn.” His voice, even in surprise, was made of metal. “What brings you?”
I turned to find Blair in the hallway that stretched out behind the reception desk. I opened my mouth to respond when Angus Mann stepped into the hallway behind him. He looked at me briefly, betraying no recognition, and then stepped around Blair, past the desk, through the lobby and out the door through which I had entered.
He was so close I could have tripped him. The words filling my head were my own from earlier that day, only I had looped in Angus’ voice. You… disgust… me.
The receptionist looked away, shuffling papers to confirm the awkwardness was not in my imagination. Blair was staring at his shoes, hands on his hips.
“What can I do for you Tilly? I’ve got a full day.”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to.
“Christ. Come on back. Erica…”
“Hold the calls?”
“Yep.”
I followed him down the hall to his office. He stopped, allowing me to enter first, closing the door behind us.
“What…”
“I want to see it, Blair,” I said.
“You want to see what?”
“The video.”
He blinked, wrinkling his brow.
“You mean…”
“Yes.”
“I don’t have…”
“Bullshit.”
“Well, you can get angry all you want, but…”
“But nothing. Tell it to Darnell Lewis.”
“Darnell Lewis?”
“Yeah, Darnell Lewis. He’s got his own little copy to play with. So drop the act. You had Brightleaf legal give Fox 11 a song and dance and they turned it over.”
“Tillyjohn…”
“Do I have to hire my own goddamned lawyer?”
He rubbed his face vigorously with his hands. I watched the torment move over him like a rash.
“Fine,” he said, moving over to his desk, anger surging into his voice. “You want to see yourself in action? Is that what you want? You and your boyfriend? I can see you won’t be protected. No. Not you. Well, I can fucking oblige. You will single-handedly destroy my movie, but I will fucking oblige.”
He jerked open the top drawer and extracted a flash-drive on a black cord. He flung it at me and I caught it. I stuffed it in my pocket.
“Quite a bloody show there, Tillyjohn. I mean quite the scenery chewing performance. I dare say you’re quite a bit more vocal than I personally recall. Likes it loud, does he?”
I turned and left, closing the door behind me.
“Goddamnit!” I heard him shout from inside his box.
I kept moving, past Erica, through the door and out to the waiting Civic, my new best friend. I was wary of finding Angus out pacing the parking lot or loitering by the entrance, smoking a cigarette and waiting to give me a piece of his mind. I was relieved not to see him. I did not know what I could possibly have said to acquit myself.
At the same time I was crushed not to see him; crushed to know that he had just left without any acknowledgement of what had happened or any hint of his own emotions. I would have felt better had he ambushed me outside and cut me to ribbons with his opinion. But it was clear that his opinions, even his opinions of me, were on a long list of things of which I was no longer worthy.
I drove directly home. I seized my laptop and opened it up on the kitchen counter. I inserted the flash drive.
The picture quality was distressingly good; not professional but clear enough to recognize the actors. I had a barrette in my hair. I remembered the night immediately. Someone had left it on the table in the living room and I had tried it on. I have never liked barrettes and this one was an offensively bright yellow and shaped like a banana. Zack thought it was cute. He bet me I would not be able to wear it the rest of the night. I hate backing down more than I hate barrettes.
I stood in my kitchen, feeling increasingly sick, until I had to sit down at the table. The running time was one hour and twelve minutes. Roughly thirty to forty minutes featured nudity of some form or another. A good twenty-five minutes featured sexual contact and fifteen of those minutes were, there is really no other way to put it, extraordinarily explicit. I have never been passive in my sexual habits and I was not passive that night. Nor quiet. I had never before seen myself having sex. It is not something I recommend for the faint-hearted.
As I watched, I could not help imagining Blair seeing the same images I was seeing. His anger suddenly made sense. Not only had I caught him lying about having a copy of the video, but exposing that lie had left him feeling transparent; as though I could see into his heart and examine all of his hurt and embarrassment and humiliation. He had not been hiding the video; he had been hiding his reaction to it. He had not been protecting me; he had been protecting himself. It is one thing to pine for love and to imagine the rival suitor enjoying the spoils of conquest. The imagination is cruel, playing on its endless loop, but it can be manipulated in the mind to soften the blow, allowing for hope and other petty consolations. But it is quite another thing to actually see and hear what one is missing and to feel fresh rejection with every moan and shudder. Video, as Angus would say, is like bleach in the eyes of imagination.
In the last minutes, Zack and I lay at irregular angles, expired and panting. The banana barrette has come loose in the frenzy and dangled precariously from the side of my head like a nearly severed ear. There is a knock at the door and Zack bellowed for whoever it was to “go the fuck away.” It was Tiki Immanuel’s hopelessly still and formal voice from the other side of the door that declared something about missing tequila. Zack and I lay still, playing dead. The screen went black.
I sat for a long time staring at the lifeless computer, listening to the garbage trucks outside working the neighborhood. The kitchen suddenly seemed twice as small and hot.
She’s too good for you, said Angus inside my head. You’ll make her a spectacle.
I’m sorry for everything, Peg Entwistle replied.
The phone behind me shrieked. I let it ring, knowing that there was no one on earth that I would want to talk to. The machine clicked on.
“Tilly? This is dad. Are you home?”
I should have been immediately concerned that something had happened to my mother or David or Ben. Only the direst emergencies would have prompted my father to actually initiate a telephone conversation. I should have been bracing for the worst.
But his voice was oddly calm. Familiar in a strange way, if that is possible. I listened to the silence; listened to him listening. We were connected by a stillness of the molecules that might have carried my voice to him.
“Guess not,” he said quietly. “No emergency or anything. Just thought we might … talk. Well, give me a call, you know, if you ever want to catch up.”
I concluded that he must have been drunk and feeling sentimental for some semblance of a family. His separation from my mother, combined with her increasing time away from home and David’s abrupt departure had left him essentially alone with Ben in an empty, aging house. Sympathy should have been my first emotion. I am ashamed to say that it was not. My first emotion was typically self-centered. I felt shame. I remembered Orin Twill, years ago in his living room
as we watched little Rosalie coloring in her book, explaining to me Hollywood’s legacy of broken-hearted fathers and predicting that my father would be one of them. I had laughed.
For as right as Orin had been about things – about me and about the business – he had been wrong about my father. Being forsaken for Hollywood had not broken my father’s heart. I had taken care of that long before Hollywood knew my name. Long before I had even met Orin Twill. I rarely thought of it in those terms, but when I was weak and could not help myself, I knew where to find the truth packed away in its gauzy wadding of guilt. I always knew the damage I had done.
I could have lunged for the phone. I could have called him back. For the millionth time I could have owned my part in all of it.
But, then, fair is fair.
My house felt like a breached garrison. My open computer watched and accused me from across the kitchen. The phone was listening to my thoughts and probing my brain for vulnerabilities. Out in the living room my television surveilled, reporting back to Fox 11 news. The world had invaded my sanctuary. I felt the paparazzi outside, parked in their black Camaros anxiously fingering their lenses. I needed to get out.
I stood from the table and advanced on the computer in a rush. I wanted to smash it on the floor or throw it through the kitchen window. Instead, I yanked out the flash drive and crushed it in a pair of lobster shears. I threw the shears. They took a chip out of the wall and clattered across the counter and on to the floor. I left the house, climbed into the Civic and drove with the windows down without any idea of where I was going. When I hit the Ventura I headed east, driving as fast as I could, pushing the little v-6 engine up to a whine. I now believe it was an instinct for my own sanity that had pointed me east, a direction that would lead me out of California.
My head did not begin to clear until I was in Pasadena. I considered turning around, but it was too easy to just keep driving. Every mile of road I put between me and Burbank felt like something cool lain upon a sunburn. I told myself that when I reached Charter Oak I would find some obscure place to eat and then head back. But I blew past Charter Oak and set my sights on Rancho Cucamonga. And then Rialto. And then San Bernardino, or simply Dino as my friends back at Gomp’s used to call it. I kept driving. When I reached Highland, the 210 banked south, carrying me over the sun bleached Santa Ana Riverbed and I knew that the mighty I-10 would carry me west, back to the sea. Back to Milton Chenowith’s Tinseltown. Something in my heart began to congeal.