…
Harriet was in the hallway, bending over, tying her shoes, when she felt a hand glide up the back of her thigh, the fingers spreading, taking in her contours, gently caressing her flesh as it slid up and across her ass. She heard a man’s voice.
“So very nice.”
She jerked upright to confront the groper, but he just kept walking and she could only see him from the back, a dapper gentleman in burgundy pajamas and velour smoking jacket, a blond bunny attached to each arm.
22
Beverly Hills
Harriet sat in the back of a cab with Curtis. She let him lean his leg so that it touched hers. His warmth sent little quivers through her. She looked out the window and noticed the distinct lack of traffic. What had happened to all the cars? It wasn’t late, maybe ten thirty, and yet for some reason the streets of Los Angeles were empty. Where did everybody go?
She saw Curtis’s profile—as handsome as any hip young adjunct English professor—briefly illuminated in the street light. She felt a warm glow filling her body, like a teenager who’d just played spin the bottle for the first time. She was giddy. That was a funny word. If she remembered correctly it came from the Proto-Germanic word gudig and meant “to have a confused sensation.”
Harriet was enjoying the ride, the contact with Curtis, feeling the fresh night air blow through the windows, reveling in sensation, trying to wrap her head around the idea that she had a physical self, a body that craved sensual experience. Her yoga teacher had told her she lived too much in her head and now she was starting to think maybe she was right. She heard Curtis clear his throat.
“Um. Want to get a drink? We can pick up your car and go to my hotel. It isn’t far.”
Before she could even consider what this invitation might mean or what consequences might unfold she said, “That sounds perfect.” Curtis turned and smiled at her. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
The plan set in motion—and surely some kind of sexual encounter was forthcoming—Harriet began to overthink what was happening in earnest. Her default setting in these male/female scenarios was typically critical and anxious, parsing every word, thought, and feeling, and now she went into full catastrophic-thinking mode. She felt her pulse race. Why was she so nervous?
She remembered an insipid book that one of her friends gave her called something like Get in the Game!—with the hopeful subtitle Find a Husband, Get a Life. According to Get in the Game! she was supposed to be some kind of unique creature with confidence and attitude that proclaimed her fabulousity. Somehow she was supposed to “let her true colors show” by only emailing him back once for every three he sent and by not returning his calls over the weekend. How that was good advice or got you a husband or was anything more than infantile game playing, she couldn’t say. Besides, the advice didn’t apply to this situation; Curtis hadn’t emailed at all. What was she supposed to do? Give him her email address and then wait a couple days? She knew that one-night stands were against the Get in the Game! code of conduct, but maybe it would be fun anyway. Or was that sleazy? Should she just get in her car and then agree to meet for breakfast? Or does brunch sound more noncommittal? What did she want? A husband? Some fun? And what would she do with a husband anyway?
Harriet realized that she could’ve gone for some hot animal sex in the library of the Playboy Mansion but now, the heat and pheromones drained away, she was left feeling apprehensive, anxious about everything.
She decided the only reasonable course of action was to do nothing, just sit back and enjoy the ride.
…
Sepp sat in an uncomfortable chair across from where Roxy was splayed out on the leather couch like some kind of oversexed and barbiturated Cleopatra. Usually he would look at her, or, dude, all things being honest and such, he would look at a picture of her in a magazine or on TV, and he’d feel a twisting pain in his stomach and a dull ache in his nuts like he was being gutted, but now he looked at her and all he could feel was kinda blank. Roxy waved her hand in the air. “Is your book in here, Seppy?”
Sepp looked around the library. There were a lot of books. He shrugged. “I hope so.”
“My book will be in here.”
“That’s cool.”
A wicked smile danced across her face. “I didn’t like your book. I’ll be honest. It wasn’t my cup of tea.”
Sepp didn’t really know what to say to that. He hadn’t gotten much criticism for the book and, you know, since he didn’t really write it, he didn’t take it personally. “I didn’t know you liked tea.”
“Ha. Ha.” She sat up and looked him in the eye. “I guess you needed your revenge.”
It occurred to Sepp that maybe he ought to read the book he wrote. If he’d gotten revenge on Roxy, that might be pretty cool.
Roxy narrowed her eyes at him. “What did that slut from your other show think?”
“What slut?”
“You know. The dyke.”
Sepp knew Roxy was talking about Caitlin. He just didn’t think Roxy, of all people, should go around calling other people “sluts.” But then it takes one to know one. “She knew it was a fictional novel. It didn’t bother her.”
Roxy smiled. “Good. Then it won’t bother you when my fictional novel comes out.” Roxy stood and glared at him. “And, trust me, you’re not going to like how the real you turns out.”
Roxy mussed his hair on her way out. “You’re still cute though.”
…
Curtis told the room service guy to set the champagne on the table on the balcony. It was nice out, the air perfumed with jasmine and stirring in balmy swirls, and the small balcony overlooked the pool. It was all so California. The water was inviting, relaxing; just the sound of it was sensual. Mellow soft rock—what his friends derisively called “yacht music”—drifted up from the poolside speakers, and pastel-colored lights illuminated the palm trees ringing the patio. It was the perfect night for drinking champagne and getting laid.
He’d been making out with Harriet, waiting for the drinks to arrive, and now that the champagne was chilling in the ice bucket and the Mexican waiter was setting out the stemware and unwrapping the plastic wrap off the fresh fruit platter, it was all becoming real. If the Playboy Mansion was reminiscent of a surreal and cheesy version of a painting by Brueghel—the Elder, not the Younger—now that they were alone in a hotel room, the scenario was suddenly intimate, charged with nervous energy, doubts and fears bubbling inside him. The ghosts of girlfriends past flickered through in his head, memories of failures, miscues, clumsiness, and premature ejaculations. Curtis felt a jolt of apprehension seep into his brain. But why was he so nervous? He really liked this woman. She seemed to like him. What was the problem? He decided to just relax, to enjoy the moment, to not crowd it out with memories or thoughts of the past, or his career, or Harriet’s importance in the literary world. He reminded himself not to ask her to read anything. Tonight he just wanted to feel like a real playboy. If not James Bond, then at least Ian Fleming.
He saw Harriet jump when the champagne cork popped and it made him laugh. He couldn’t believe his good luck. To have one of his literary heroes about to go to bed with him? Wow. That just doesn’t happen every day.
…
Sepp sat in the front seat of Marybeth’s car and looked out the window. He was tired. It had been a long day and tomorrow was a radio show and a late-night TV thing, then he’d be off to another city, more interviews, more autographing and then another, and another after that and then another. Sepp knew he should be happy, normally he was a happy dude, but all he felt was confused. He looked at the book that the nice dude at the bookstore had given him.
“What’s that?”
Sepp looked over at Marybeth. “Oh, it’s uh . . .” Sepp turned the book and read the cover. “It’s Being and Time by a dude called Heidegger.”
“I didn’t know you liked philosophy.”
Sepp opened the book and tried to read a few lines in the darkened car. “Is
that what it is?”
Marybeth nodded. “I only know that because I used to work for a guy named Heidegger and he thought it was hilarious he had the same name as a philosopher.”
“Why is that funny?”
Marybeth laughed. “Fuck if I know. I think it was his own inside joke.”
Sepp looked out the window. “I think everybody in this town has an inside joke.”
Marybeth nodded. “Remember that Hollywood isn’t like the real world. It’s got its own rules and its own way of doing things.”
“What do you mean?”
Marybeth looked at Sepp. “When you’re hot, for example right after Sex Crib, you can do anything. The entire world opens up to you. But if you don’t move fast, it closes.”
Sepp nodded. “When you’re hot, you’re hot.”
“Exactly. But that’s not real. Do you understand? That heat, the fact that everyone thinks you’re great and can do no wrong, that’s not who you really are. That’s how they perceive you.” She patted Sepp’s shoulder. “And their perception can change in a second, while you are still the person you’ve always been. So it’s important not to take it personally.”
Sepp didn’t say anything for a while. Marybeth looked over at him. “Does that make sense?”
“Kind of. Like you’re saying that famous-people reality depends on what people think, not what’s really reality, and that they can always change their mind depending on stuff.”
Marybeth smiled. “In a lot of ways, it’s all a big game. Your goal is to just keep being you and don’t let any of this celebrity craziness mess with your head.”
Sepp thought about what Marybeth was saying and it made him wish he could be more like Roxy. She knew how to play the game. Hell, dude, she owned the game. Even without any talent she had made herself a celebrity. Roxy may have practiced stripper moves in the mirror, but she was hardly a dancer, her singing sucked, and if those energy drink commercials were anything to go by, she couldn’t act her way out of a paper bag. But like some kind of crazy magic trick she’d become famous. She was famous because she was famous which only made her even more famous. Dude. She didn’t have to do anything but be a celebrity.
According to Roxy, part of being a famous person was using and abusing other people. That’s how celebrities rolled. But Sepp couldn’t do that. It just wasn’t in his nature. Sure, he liked being famous, enjoyed the attention and the cash and the fact that he didn’t have to work a regular job like most people. It was the fake stuff that he couldn’t do. Acting like a douchebag so people would treat him like a star seemed, like, totally douchy. Besides, Dr. Jan had told him that he wouldn’t be happy until he could just be the way he was and that’s what he was trying to do.
They pulled into the hotel and Marybeth turned to him and gave him a hug.
“Keep your pants on in Arizona. The laws are different there.”
…
@fatalinfluence Los Angeles is magic.
Harriet had read dozens of books on the craft of writing and they all said the same thing. Conflict, character, conflict, character, repeat as necessary. Conflict was like the Oreo filling of fiction. The sugary center that binds the chocolate cookies of character and plot together. Most readers will twist the cookies apart, skipping ahead, hungry to find the filling. It’s the tasty part.
The main criticism Harriet heard from publishers when they passed on her book was that it lacked conflict. “An overbearing amount of description, excessively wordy, and much too long to sustain interest or enthusiasm for the protagonist’s travails.” “Windy, wordy, and stylistically pretentious.” And Harriet’s favorite rejection, “Nothing happens.” Yeah, well, nothing happens in Proust either.
Harriet thought it was funny that her writing lacked conflict and here she was, conflicted. Internally debating the pros and cons of going all the way. She’d been conflicted when she accepted his invitation for a drink, she was conflicted when she drove back to his hotel, conflicted when they walked into the hotel lobby, past the modernist furniture and large glass windows that looked out onto the pool, and she was conflicted when they decided to have a drink in his room. She wondered what those publishers were talking about. Her writing was part of her life and her life was bursting with conflict.
Harriet wondered if Curtis had a condom, because she’d never carried a condom in her purse. Never ever once. Not even when she stopped taking birth control pills a couple of years ago. She just didn’t see the point of it. Was that part of some sort of internal conflict? The good girl versus the floozie? “Floozie.” That was a good word. She wondered where it came from.
Curtis had set his laptop on the table outside and put on some old-school jazz, anything to drown out the soft rock Muzak coming from the pool. She watched him pour a couple glasses of champagne. He’d made a big show of tipping the waiter twenty dollars, like it was the first time a writer anywhere had ever done something like that. He brought her the champagne and she took it with a smile, miraculously suppressing her internal doubts.
“Cheers.”
She held up her glass and smiled at him. “Cheers.”
They chinged glasses. Harriet was turned on. But she didn’t want to show it. In fact, she didn’t really know what it meant. What do you do once you’re aroused? Harriet wanted to play it cool and thought about the cliché “cool as a cucumber.” Where had that expression come from? It might make an interesting book, trying to figure out the history of axioms. Harriet made a mental note to look into it.
She took a sip of the bubbly wine. It was delicious, and before she knew it, she’d finished half the glass.
“This is yummy.”
Curtis moved to refill her glass. “Shall we sit outside?”
There were a couple of outdoor chairs next to the table on the balcony. Harriet settled in and looked down at the pool. They were up on the third floor and a light breeze caressed her skin, causing goosebumps to erupt along her arm. Curtis gave her a concerned look. “Are you cold?”
She shook her head. “I like it.”
The idea of making love on the balcony, no, the idea of fucking on the balcony, so everyone could see them, flashed through her head. She knew she didn’t have the courage to go wild like that, but the champagne tasted good, the bubbles prickled her nose and swirled through her mouth and, as the alcohol worked its way through her body, she started to feel a little rock ’n’ roll. In other words, she felt good. Really fucking good. And then here was Curtis pushing a strawberry into her mouth with his plump fingers.
…
Sepp said good night to Marybeth but knew he wasn’t going to be able to sleep. Not yet anyway. It’d been a strange day and he was feeling wired. He walked through the hotel lobby, past the space age furniture, and stopped to look out the large windows at the darkened patio with its dramatic mood lighting and groovy pool.
Sepp didn’t drink alcohol very often. If you want to be an elite athlete or just keep your abs looking cut, it’s not a good idea. Normally when he was stressed out he’d go to the beach with a nice fatty and blaze on the sand. But he didn’t have anything like that with him, so he walked into the bar.
The bartender, an intelligent-looking young woman who was sexy in a way that would never make the pages of Playboy, turned her attention from the bottles lined up on the bar back.
“What’re we drinking tonight?”
Sepp didn’t know.
“What do you recommend?”
The bartender recognized him—he could tell from her expression—and smiled. “Saw your picture online.”
Sepp nodded. “How’d I look?”
“Like you could use a drink.”
Sepp laughed.
“Well, what’s your pleasure?”
Sepp blinked. The bartender continued, “What would you like to drink?”
Sepp was confused. “I don’t know. What do people drink in Los Angeles?”
The bartender crossed her arms and looked at him. She was surprisingly seriou
s about her work. “Well, there’s so many different cultures in LA. In one part of town, Koreatown for example, you could be drinking soju or Mekong whiskey, in another part it might be pisco, or you could have a classic cocktail with rye whiskey, maybe a nice hot sake.”
It was too confusing. If he was home in San Diego he’d just have a beer.
“What do you think?”
“I’d say the margarita is the endemic LA cocktail.”
Sepp felt suddenly relieved. A margarita was something he’d had before. “Then I’ll have a margarita.”
Sepp wanted some air, not the conditioned air that a compressor chugged into the bar, but fresh night air, or at least, as fresh as you could get in Los Angeles. He took his margarita and walked out to sit by the pool.
It was quiet out on the patio. There wasn’t anyone else around, so Sepp settled into a soft chaise lounge in a dark, secluded area. He could hear the low hum of traffic on the streets outside the building, the rustle of palm fronds in the breeze. It was soothing. He took a sip of his cocktail, letting the warmth of the tequila melt the stress right off his bones.
The restful sounds of the band Coldplay drifted out over the poolside patio. Sepp took off his T-shirt and lay back in the chaise. He stroked his abs absentmindedly, as rippled and firm as terra-cotta tiles. He hoped the cocktail would give him a good night’s sleep. That was what he needed more than anything else. A solid eight hours of snooze. Then he’d wake up refreshed, eat a bowl of oatmeal, maybe hit the gym and give his abs a real workout, then get the show on the road. Sepp looked up at the stars. Did they really shine for him? Was that possible? Maybe, but he wouldn’t know for sure because he could hardly see them through the haze and light pollution.
Sepp drank some more of the cocktail and felt his eyelids droop. The music murmured on and his body began to feel light, like it was rising, like he was in an elevator.
Sepp began to snore.
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