Raw: A Love Story

by Mark Haskell Smith

  Curtis hobbled into the kitchen, where his roommate, Pete, was bent over, focused on hammering small nails into the sole of a shoe he held clamped between his knees. Pete had been working as an apprentice cordwainer, learning the art of making bespoke shoes for discerning Brooklyn hipsters. Curtis thought it was an unusual thing for someone with a degree in philosophy from Princeton to do. Who wants to make shoes? Wasn’t that the kind of thing that the first immigrants to Brooklyn did so that their children could go to good schools and study philosophy? Why the reverse evolution? But Pete was into all kinds of goofy stuff like that. He enjoyed reading steampunk fiction and wore suspenders to hold up his wool pants. He almost always wore a tie and jacket when he went out and Curtis didn’t even want to think about all the hats. Pete had wanted to become a milliner before he heard the siren song of cordwainery and the tiny apartment they shared was cluttered with hats and molds and forms and all kinds of arcane tools. Curtis had thought about basing a character in a story on someone like Pete, but then he’d be living with Pete in his imagination and it was hard enough to live with him in the apartment.

  Curtis put a plastic capsule into the automatic coffeemaker and pushed the button to start it. He took a bag of frozen Indonesian stir-fry out of the freezer and a bottle of coconut water out of the fridge and sat down at the table across from Pete. The smell of leather and lanolin caused Curtis’s stomach to growl.

  “Do you have to do that in the kitchen?”

  Pete looked at Curtis. He put down his hammer and twirled the ends of his handlebar mustache into tight little points. “Late night?”

  “Something like that.”

  Curtis chased a couple of Advil with the coconut water and then gingerly elevated his foot onto a chair and placed the frozen vegetables on top of his ankle.

  Pete nodded. “What’s with all the coconut water in the fridge?”

  Curtis considered the coconut water. It didn’t taste that great, but was supposed to contain all kinds of beneficial vitamins and minerals.

  “I thought I’d try it.”

  The coffee sputtered in the machine. Curtis didn’t make a move to get up. Pete noticed the frozen vegetables on his ankle.

  “What happened to your foot?”

  “I jammed it on something. Took a martini step.”

  Pete twirled his mustache ends again. “You need better shoes.”

  …

  The digitalized chime of a ringtone jolted Curtis back into consciousness. He’d gone back to bed and now a version of AC/DC’s Highway to Hell, a song he’d assigned to his agent as a joke, was causing his phone to rattle and buzz on the bedside table. He didn’t know how long he’d been asleep, but now he clawed at the air, blindly reaching for his iPhone.

  “Hello.”

  “Hey! Have you gotten used to the idea that you’re a big-time famous author?”

  Curtis took stock of how he was feeling. His headache was gone, and he did feel a little bit better, but he was covered in sweat, as if his body had pushed all the booze out his pores. That coconut water is powerful. He looked out the window; it appeared to be late afternoon.

  “Uh. Yeah. About last night. I think I owe you an apology.”

  “Later. Right now, I’ve got news.”

  The excitement in her voice caused Curtis to sit up, which caused his stomach to lurch and send a bubble of acid up his throat. Curtis gagged.

  “I hope you’re sitting down.”

  “I am.”

  “They want a Roxy Sandoval novel.”

  “You’re fucking kidding me. There’s no way in hell I’m—”

  She cut him off. “Let me finish. They’ve made a serious offer.”

  “No. I don’t care.”

  “Two hundred thousand dollars.”

  Curtis looked at the phone, momentarily at a loss for words. How could they offer that much for what would undoubtedly be a shitty book? “Is this some kind of joke?”

  “No joke. They want you to get started right away. You’ll need to deliver the manuscript in six months.”

  “But what about my novel?”

  Curtis had tried not to sound petulant but realized he’d failed. There was a pause on the line.

  “Curtis. I think you’re really talented. That’s why I represent you. But your novel . . . Let’s just say it’s a bad environment for fiction right now.”

  “And it’s a good environment for dreck?”

  “Yes. It’s a fantastic environment for dreck. Everybody wants dreck.”

  Curtis shifted in bed, the sheets releasing a slight animal funk.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Right now, you’ve got a track record with this kind of thing. You’re hot. That’s why the offer is so good. You want my advice, take the money, knock out the book, and then you can spend the next couple years working on your novel.”

  “I have a track record for writing dreck?”

  “Hey. Not everyone does.”

  Curtis sighed. “Can I get some kind of credit? Like ‘as told to Curtis Berman’ or something?”

  “Why do you want that?”

  “I just want some proof that I exist. Otherwise it just doesn’t seem real. Is that asking too much?”

  Now it was Amy’s turn to sigh. “You realize that offers like this are rare, right? This doesn’t happen in publishing anymore.”

  Curtis didn’t try to hide the petulance in his voice. “Just let me think for a minute.”

  He thought he heard her curse under her breath, but wasn’t sure. “Call me when you decide. Oh, and never touch my breasts again.”

  She hung up before he could respond.

  6

  San Francisco

  Sepp closed his eyes and felt the cool, moist touch of a sponge as the makeup artist applied some foundation under his eyes. He let out a contented sigh and settled back in the chair. It felt good to be back in the makeup room, getting ready to go in front of the cameras. Sepp realized that the best moments of his life had followed a touch-up by a makeup artist. Meeting Roxy for the first time. Making love to Roxy. Had he ever spent time with Roxy when he hadn’t had makeup on?

  He felt a soft brush dust his cheeks and opened his eyes to see the makeup artist, a stylish black woman with dreadlocks, looking at him, her brows furrowed in concentration.

  “I’m just adding a little color. You’re looking kind of pale.”

  “I got up early.”

  “You flew in this morning?”

  Sepp wanted to nod, but knew not to move his head.

  “From Seattle. First flight out.”

  She chuckled and patted his leg.

  “Well, don’t worry. Sit back and relax and I’ll make you look beautiful. Every woman in the Bay Area is going to want you.”

  Sepp closed his eyes and let out a soft exhale. As he relaxed, her words turned into a vision in his head. He was standing naked in front of millions of women. Tall, beautiful, short, plump, young, and old, they were lined up as far as he could see—across the Bay Bridge, through the streets of downtown, all the way down the Embarcadero, waiting for a turn with him. But they weren’t holding his book. They didn’t want an autograph or a photo. They were horny. They wanted his cock. Millions were waiting. He was standing on some kind of elevated platform, his penis flaccid and dangling in the crisp San Francisco breeze. He was having trouble breathing. The women began to chant his name, calling for him, urging him to begin. All he needed to do was get it up, sport some wood, rise to the occasion and be a hero like Superman, like those dudes in the movie about Sparta. But as the chants grew louder, his penis began retracting into his body, like a periscope going down, un-telescoping until it disappeared into his skin and he was left cockless and smooth, like some mutant toy, buff and tan and sexless.

  An involuntary shudder rocked through his body and he gasped. His eyes popped open and he began breathing hard, hyperventilating.

  The makeup artist put her hand on his shoulder, a look of real concern on her fac
e.

  “You okay? Want me to get you a coffee or something?”

  Sepp felt his heart pounding harder than usual, like he’d been running sprints. A sudden tightness seized him and he began to tremble. He took a deep breath, fighting to keep his composure.

  “A coffee would be awesome.” His voice was croaky, like he was on the verge of sobbing.

  “You’re a pro, honey. You got nothing to worry about.”

  She put her brushes down and left the room. Sepp closed his eyes and tried to control his breathing. What was wrong with him? It was like Roxy had put a voodoo curse on him or something. Since when did thinking about sex cause him to freak out? Dude, he thought about sex all the time. He wondered if he was having a panic attack. He remembered that one of the other contestants on Sex Crib, a big bodybuilder guy, had panic attacks and took pills to make them go away. Sepp looked at his hands. They were shaking like he had some kind of old person’s disease. Maybe he needed to start taking panic pills.

  If his inability to get a boner hadn’t been so alarming, Sepp might’ve seen the irony in his situation. Sex Crib was kind of like The Bachelor and The Bachelorette only instead of looking for true love by going on dates and skydiving and horseback riding and taking French cooking lessons until you’re the last man standing, Sex Crib was about hooking up as much as you could. The person with the most successful hookups was the winner. The fact that he and Roxy had fallen in love just made the whole experience beautiful. Sepp was not without a sense of humor, and if someone else had been crowned king of Sex Crib and then couldn’t get it up, well, dude, that would be funny. Only it was happening to him and it wasn’t really all that funny.

  The makeup artist came back holding a small Styrofoam cup of coffee.

  “I forgot to ask how you take it, so here’s a sugar and some creamer.”

  “Thanks.”

  He took the cup from her and took a sip. The warm liquid made him feel a little better and he began to calm down. She tilted her head, looking at him.

  “You sure you’re okay?”

  Sepp nodded. “You want to touch up my abs? They’ll probably ask me to take my shirt off.”

  …

  They were classic morning show hosts. The female of the species was a buxom and frothy blonde wearing a tight orange top that made her breasts pop on camera. The male was a slightly older dude with hair that was graying at the temples. He had a kind of world-weary grin that comforted viewers and made them feel like he was one of them, that he was in on the joke.

  The commercial break came and Sepp was hustled into a seat at the “coffee table” and quickly wired for sound. The stage manager gave him a last look, satisfied that she’d hid the microphone wires.

  “Remember. You’re just having a conversation with Mike and Anne.”

  She pointed to the hosts to make sure Sepp knew who Mike and Anne were. Sepp smiled.

  “Got it.”

  There was a countdown, some music, and then the hosts started blabbing. They chatted for a moment, mentioning something about Sepp’s “amazing bod,” and then they turned and looked at him. Sepp didn’t know what they were going to talk about. They’d held up a copy of his book and so he assumed that was what they’d be discussing, but Anne threw him a curveball.

  “So Sepp, who are you dating? I mean, Roxy might’ve let you get away but you can’t keep a bod like yours off the market for too long.”

  Sepp blinked. “Um. I’m not dating right now. It’s kinda hard when you’re on tour, you know?”

  Mike shook his head in disbelief. “C’mon! You’re like a rock star. You don’t expect us to believe that.”

  Mike turned to Anne. “Authors get groupies. Don’t they?”

  Anne nodded and said, “John Grisham’s a hunk.”

  Mike looked at the camera and smirked. “And who doesn’t remember having a crush on the school librarian?”

  Sepp didn’t know what to say; he’d never had a crush on a librarian or, now that he thought of it, been in a library, and he didn’t know who John Grisham was, although he seriously doubted he had abs like his. Sepp shrugged.

  “The tour’s just started, so you never know. I’m keepin’ my options open.”

  Anne smiled. “San Francisco won’t let you down. Not after they see your body.”

  Mike nodded along with Anne. “You look great in that T-shirt. I wish I could get away with that.”

  Anne gave Mike a good-natured nudge. “I keep telling you to go to the gym.” She turned her attention to Sepp. “Is that Ed Hardy?”

  The best thing about being a celebrity was all the free clothes he got. And, dude, he didn’t even have to pick them out, a stylist did that for him. Sometimes he’d open the door to his walk-in closet in his condo in Cortez Hill and there would be all these cool T-shirts and new tennis shoes and all kinds of free stuff already hung up and put away. The only catch was that he couldn’t tell anyone he got the stuff for free. He was supposed to get people to think he shopped for the stuff himself.

  Sepp nodded. “I get most of my shirts from there.”

  Anne turned to the camera. “And we’ll see what’s under that T-shirt right after traffic and weather.”

  …

  Sepp sat in the passenger seat of an older, well-kept Toyota Camry as a guy named Len drove from the TV studio to a talk radio interview. Len was the media escort Sepp’s publisher had hired to drive him to all his events and interviews while he was in the Bay Area. Sepp thought that it was kind of a weird job to drive authors around. Len was a cross between a publicist, a stylist, a personal assistant, and a chauffeur. How did you get a job like this? I mean, seriously, could you just apply for it? And why call them escorts? That made it sound naughty.

  Len had a shaved head and trim goatee and wore a black leather jacket. Sepp liked him instantly; he looked like a bodyguard and Sepp thought it would be cool to actually need a bodyguard. Like they always say, you’re not really famous until you’ve got a stalker. That’s what Sepp’s talent agent had told him and she knew everything about being a celebrity.

  Sepp looked out the window. The people on the street were a pretty rad-looking bunch. They were way more into fashion in San Francisco than in San Diego. Here they wore cool leather shoes instead of flip-flops and they had, like, jackets and scarves instead of T-shirts and trucker caps. But then S.D. was more of a beach town and San Francisco was like a city in a movie with subtitles.

  As the car maneuvered through the traffic of Market Street, Len cleared his throat and looked over at Sepp. “Can I ask you something?”

  Sepp nodded. “Sure.”

  “How do you break into reality television?”

  It was a good question and Sepp didn’t have a great answer. His story was pretty simple. He was just in the right place at the right time with the right physique. Before he became a huge celebrity, Sepp had been a semiregular amateur beach volleyball player and mostly irregular construction worker. Hey, no big deal, he just preferred doing the dig, set, spike on the beaches of San Diego to hanging drywall. Nights were spent chillaxing at local clubs, drinking vodka sodas, and hooking up with girls with tan lines. Back then sports and sex came easily to him. He was tall and blond and could rock a puka-shell necklace like nobody else. He wasn’t a professional beach volleyball player, not yet, but he was a good enough amateur to be invited to play against the pros at tournaments. That’s where a TV producer spotted him and asked if he’d like to come in and audition. Most people don’t know this, but even reality shows have auditions and casting sessions. It’s just like a show that’s not reality, if you can wrap your head around that. Sepp got lucky. Really. In fact, he’d had to make the most difficult choice of his entire life by choosing between being on Sex Crib and playing in a traveling tournament sponsored by El Vivo Tequila.

  Sepp looked at Len. “I was an athlete and they were looking for athletes.”

  Len snorted out a laugh. “I was a mathlete. You think they’ll give me a shot?”
<
br />   Sepp shrugged. “You never know, man. Anything can happen.”

  That’s something his father told him. Anything can happen. Life is nothing but a chain of random decisions. Sepp went on Sex Crib and met Roxy and then she broke his heart and he tried to get over her, but now here he was, an author having sex-panic daydreams in San Francisco.

  7

  San Francisco

  Harriet walked into the bookstore and felt her hands clench and begin to strangle the yoga mat she was carrying. This involuntary homicidal impulse was directly related to the tower of Totally Reality stacked on the front table. Harriet turned to her friend Isabelle. “I need my bite guard. This makes me grind my teeth.”

  Isabelle, an attractive woman who worked as a chef in a vegan restaurant, looked at the books. “I know, what does he do to get those abs?”

  Harriet glared at her friend. “Don’t encourage it.”

  Isabelle laughed, then caught herself when she realized Harriet was serious. “What?”

  “This shit.”

  Isabelle smiled and nodded. Harriet recognized it as the kind of nod you give crazy people; it looks as if you’re agreeing with them, but really you’re just trying to keep them from getting crazier. Harriet knew she wasn’t crazy, she was sure of it, so why was her friend giving her that look? Isabelle changed the subject. “How about a nice cup of tea?”

  Harriet knew that people only offer a nice cup of tea when they’re trying to calm down someone who’s on the verge of going postal. Harriet liked the word “postal.” It was a newish word, coined after a series of violent workplace shootings by postal service employees who’d lost their marbles. Harriet looked at her hands and noticed her knuckles had turned white. “Sure. Tea sounds nice.”

  As Isabelle walked toward the bookstore café, Harriet stood glaring at the stack of books. There it was again, in all its glory, a perfect example of what Harriet thought of as the stultification and amok-crapalizing of literature. Books like Totally Reality weren’t just another sign of the end of Western civilization, they were actively accelerating the culture toward the trash heap.