But then what? She’d just be a lonely bookworm writing snarky blog posts. Is that who she really was? Is that who she wanted to be? She would be the first to admit it was ironic. She came to destroy Sepp Gregory, to expose him as a fraud, and somehow he’d managed to turn it all around on her. How come she felt like a fraud? It was a lesson, Harriet realized, that might work for the protagonist in her book. One of Harriet’s writing teachers had told her that she needed to leave the library and get out into the world; he said that experience was more valuable than imagination. She’d always doubted that, thought the professor was just an old horndog trying to wheedle his way into her pants. But now she wasn’t so sure. The emotions she’d been feeling in the last twenty-four hours—the connection to Curtis, the anger at his betrayal, the numb horror of his death, the guilt at dumping his corpse in a motel, followed by the wild heat of coupling with Sepp—it all made her feel like a different person. Someone who wanted more out of life than a cozy chair and a cup of tea.
She couldn’t help herself. When she looked at Sepp, she felt a pang of—something. Maybe love? Could she be falling in love? She had thought the craving for him was purely physical but now that he’d proclaimed his love she wasn’t so sure. She leaned over and kissed him tenderly on the cheek.
“Let’s not worry about being famous. Okay? Let’s take this a step at a time. Let’s go to your signing, then we’ll figure out what to do. How’s that sound?”
Sepp grinned. “Sounds hot.”
Harriet smiled. “Good. So no more telling anyone about anything, right? All anyone needs to know is that I gave you a ride.”
Sepp frowned. “What about being in love?”
“What about it?”
“Can I tell them that?”
Harriet smiled and put her hand against his crotch. “Yes. You can tell them that.”
34
Studio City
Damon DeKalb adjusted the belt of his silk bathrobe as he waited for his coffee to steep in the French press he’d bought on his last trip to Paris. He looked out the window and watched the pool boy sweep the long plastic pole across the surface of the pool, the net on the end catching the pale pink petals that were floating on the clear blue water. The blooms were from the massive silk floss tree—Ceiba speciosa—that dominated his garden. It was a messy tree, no doubt about it, but Damon loved the vividness of it, the bright green trunk covered in thorns like some kind of prehistoric lizard, the pink blooms that popped against the blue California sky like a Warhol print. The garden had been designed to look like a wild Balinese forest and Damon spent several hundred dollars a week having it manicured to maintain the appropriately natural look.
The pool boy bent over to pick something out of the water and Damon admired his ass, the muscles smooth and young and firm. He considered inviting him in for a cold glass of lemonade. Damon’s housekeeper made it fresh every day from lemons plucked off the tree in the yard. It was refreshing, both the lemonade and the pool boy, but Damon thought better of it. The last time he’d had one of the staff in for a drink it had cost him a half-million dollars in a sexual harassment settlement. Besides, he needed to make a decision about Sepp Gregory’s strange pitch.
Damon DeKalb had made a lot of money off his relationship with Sepp. Ratings for Sex Crib had skyrocketed once the affair between Sepp and Roxy heated up. Then Sepp became America’s sweetheart and Love Express was one of the most watched reality shows of all time. Damon had been responsible for a string of reality shows including the hits My Mom Is Hotter Than Your Mom, Senior Sex Crib, Wildlife Dorm, and Afternoon Delight. Those shows had made him a millionaire a couple of times over. But it was Love Express that earned the People’s Choice and CableACE awards.
Damon pressed on the plunger and slowly pushed the grounds of Burundi Kayanza—a microlot coffee grown at almost seventeen hundred meters above sea level—to the bottom of the press. He poured himself a cup and added a dollop of cream. He gave it a stir with a tiny designer spoon from Italy. He had a couple of thoughts about what Sepp had said on the phone, and although it was somewhat incoherent, it was intriguing, and the nude photos circulating on the internet hadn’t hurt. Sepp had never been a hotter commodity. One phone call and he could get a cameraman on the ground in Phoenix in a couple of hours. They could shoot some footage of Sepp on his book tour and, at the very least, he could use it in the special Love Express reunion show he was planning. People would want to see Sepp happy and in love. Wasn’t that the point of all these shows? To see that love was possible, that you really could find happiness in this world? And didn’t he say something about a murder?
Damon smiled at the idea of Sepp becoming an amateur sleuth. All he’d need was some new footage to cut together a sizzle reel—a taste of what the series would look like—to present to the networks.
The pool boy stripped off his shirt and stretched. Damon had never seen him without his shirt on and was intrigued by the large tattoo on the pool boy’s back. It looked very intricate, indeed. Like a koi pond or something inspired by Japanese manga. Damon took a sip of his coffee and decided to ask the pool boy if he wanted some lemonade. It looked awfully hot outside. Besides, if he could get a new show going with Sepp, it would more than cover any lawsuits he might have to settle.
35
Arizona
Sepp sat in the passenger seat and watched as Harriet drove the car. She hadn’t said anything since she lost her temper on the side of the road, but he could hear her teeth grinding.
“That’s bad for your molars.”
She didn’t look at him. She just tensed her jaw and kept crunching her teeth. It sounded like she was chewing clam shells.
Sepp turned his head and looked out the window. Rolling hills of dirt passed by. Sepp saw a ratty, weather-beaten cactus standing alone in a gully of rocks. He felt sorry for the cactus. There were no cactus friends around, no cactuses to play with. Sepp felt a pang of compassion for the lonely cactus, and then after a moment he felt sorry for himself.
He’d told her he loved her, and he really felt like he did. But she hadn’t said anything back, and you know what that means.
Sepp heaved a sigh. What do women want? He’d pondered this question before. He’d tried to give Roxy and Caitlin and all the girls he’d dated before he was on TV what he thought they wanted and he was always wrong somehow. He thought he knew how to make them happy, but then it turned out he didn’t know at all. He was clueless. That’s what Roxy said. You’d think he would’ve learned something from Lauren or Rachel or Esther or Jackie or Shahar. He had a whole string of exes. Although, he had to admit, in fairness, he broke up with some of them because, well, he didn’t know what he wanted. But, dude, what does anybody want? He’d tried to find out, he’d even asked sometimes. He did the open and honest communication thing like he’d seen on those daytime TV shows where they tell you how to talk to people, what to eat, and what books to read. He listened to Dr. Jan. All that advice was super helpful to lots of people, but it never seemed to work for him. It always came down to the same thing. It was always some version of how they really just wanted to be friends.
Harriet was different. She really didn’t seem like she wanted to be his friend.
“Are you mad?”
“No.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Harriet didn’t answer. Instead she turned on the radio and a country and western song came on, interrupted by bursts of static. Sepp recognized the song right away. It was “Celebrity” by Brad Paisley. The song made fun of reality TV stars. The singer was saying how people on reality shows were talentless and lucky. Sepp didn’t like the song much. He knew lots of reality stars and you would be surprised how talented they are when you got to know them. They had hidden talents. Like the little midget guy who was always pissing people off; turns out he’s a great singer. A soul singer. And he plays the piano too. Not many people knew that. Caitlin had been a good artist. She drew funny pictures all the time. Sepp didn’
t particularly like the song. Well, actually the song was good, it was catchy and all, he just didn’t like the message. He wasn’t a jackass or a millionaire and he totally never threw a fit when his latte wasn’t just how he liked it. Although, really, why shouldn’t you get the drink you ordered? You paid for it.
Sepp turned the radio down. “I just want you to be happy.”
Harriet looked at him. Sepp could see that her eyes were red and starting to get watery. “I appreciate that.” Tears began to roll down Harriet’s cheeks and she snorted what sounded like a big wad of snot up in her nose. Sepp put a hand on her shoulder.
“Let’s stop at a motel and get some rest.”
36
Phoenix
His real name was Wesley but people in the business called him “the Ninja.” He was one of the forerunners, some would say inventors, of the down-and- dirty, run-and-gun style of documentary videography that was now the standard for reality television.
As a young man just out of film school the Ninja had gotten the job following teams of athletes on Global Sprint 2000. He crawled through swamps in Borneo, dragged himself over the Himalayas, stumbled down giant sand dunes in the Sahara, and swatted mosquitos the size of sparrows all while keeping the performers in frame and in focus. He could run a marathon and had a wiry physique that made him adept at scrambling up trees, scaling buildings, hanging from rafters or whatever natural formation was handy; anything to get the shot. In fact he’d pretty much single-handedly turned herky-jerky handheld cinematography into an art form. He didn’t need a crane or a dolly or a Steadicam and, let’s be serious for a moment, there’s no way you can jam a three-person camera crew on a zip line or the back of a Jet Ski, so he’d figured out a way to shoot with one hand and one eye while driving snowmobiles down glaciers during an avalanche or rappelling down skyscrapers.
But most importantly, he had an innate ability to disappear. Even though he would be inches away, filming a couple having an argument or having sex, no one ever seemed to notice him. He could vanish, merge with the surroundings like a shadow warrior.
He’d been busy. Shooting a show called What a Rush, another race-around-the-globe meets extreme-sports-and-BASE-jumping show, and several editions of Coeds vs. Great Whites, a show that involved filming eighteen-year-old girls drinking enough tequila shots to feel sufficiently moved to toss off their bikinis tops and jump into a shark cage off the Australian coast.
It was nice work if you could get it.
He popped the last bit of his Whataburger with cheese, no pickles, in his mouth and reached into the bag for a handful of oil-slick french fries as he steered the RV toward downtown Phoenix. It was all coming together. He’d been on his way to the airport in Austin after shooting another fleshy coed exposé —this one called Longhorn Gals!—when he got Damon’s call. He’d caught a flight to Phoenix in less than an hour.
The Ninja had been lead camera on Love Express and liked working with Sepp. Sepp was a reality television natural. He just did his thing, never looked at the camera, and let it all hang out. He kept it real, even as the producers were pulling strings off camera. Nothing was better than complete and utter cluelessness for compelling TV.
And the rented RV was a peach. A top-of-the-line custom from 4-Wheel Vantasy Custom Vans in Scottsdale. It had a water bed and small bathroom, a sofa and hospitality bar. There was even a temperature-controlled wine storage area and a pop-out patio with built-in hibachi grill and sunshade. Best of all, there were sunroofs all across the top. They’d give plenty of light for shooting. The Ninja was impressed. Damon had spared no expense. Now all he had to do was rig up some cameras and microphones and he’d be ready to get the show on the road.
37
Phoenix
Harriet felt better. They’d spent the night in a cheap motel, eaten crappy fast food in bed, and then Sepp had gone down on her. Harriet was amazed at what a little cunnilingus could do to cheer a gal up. It gave her a fresh perspective and she began to think that maybe she’d been holding herself back. Was it possible that she was her own worst enemy? Did her über-intellectualism keep her writing from having an emotional core, some feelings that readers needed to connect with?
She sat behind the wheel and watched Sepp come out of a restaurant with a couple of coffees and a breakfast sandwich for her. He had told her he didn’t eat fried foods of any kind, and especially not fatty cheesy bacon and egg things, because he had to watch his body fat percentages. She had laughed at the time, thinking Sepp’s obsession with his abdomen was neurotic, as obsessive as an anorexic teen’s, but now that she thought about it, those abs were his livelihood. Why shouldn’t he take care of them?
Sepp got into the car and Harriet started the engine. He handed her a coffee and said, “I hope my clothes get here soon. I can’t go to the signing looking like a bum.”
Harriet took a sip of coffee. It was scalding. Why did fast-food joints always make the coffee so fucking hot?
“They just ask you to take ’em off anyway. Cut to the chase. Give the people what they want.”
She watched as Sepp thought about it. The wheels in his brain parsing the information, thinking of, well, something. “Yeah. I should do some crunches at some point.”
“What time’s your interview?”
“Not till five. Brenda’s sending a copy of my schedule to the hotel.”
“What time’s the signing?”
“Seven.”
…
Sepp watched Harriet look at the clock on the dashboard and run some calculations through her head. Usually the women he knew made scrunchy faces or stuck out their tongues when they tried to do addition or figure out something with numbers, but Harriet looked really pretty when she concentrated. She had the same look on her face right before she came. He wondered if there was any connection between having an orgasm and doing a math problem. Was that the secret? Is that why the nerds spend so much time hunched over calculators and graph paper?
…
The rock radio station in Phoenix was unbearable. It had all the smarm of the Playboy Mansion with none of the kitschy charm. Harriet stood scrunched against the wall, trying to make herself invisible in the claustrophobic control booth. She felt like an observer, watching an encounter between Sepp and a strange race of aliens whose teeth gleamed like bleached bone and whose skin glowed with a chemical-orange tan. The women had a uniform of brassy dyed hair and breasts that looked like medieval weaponry, while a pudgy-fingered middle-aged DJ with spiky bouquets of hair sprouting out of his ears cavorted with them. Everybody was ecstatic, jumping right out of their sports bras, to have Sepp in the room.
Cheesy innuendo flowed from the DJ’s mouth like a Velveeta fountain while the women blurbled and bubbled as if their brains and not their boobs had been replaced by silicone-filled baggies. And in the middle of this whirling cyclone of bullshit, Sepp nodded and laughed and pulled up his T-shirt to expose his rippling torso.
@fatalinfluence I am in Arizona. Witnessing the end times.
There had been days when Harriet was alone in her apartment, sitting in her reading chair, immersed in a novel, sipping a cup of herbal tea, when she had sat up and wondered if she was missing something. She’d become so removed from mainstream America, so caught up in her highbrow pursuits, that she wondered if life was passing her by. She would be the first to admit that her worldview was parochial. Even her quest to confront Sepp and expose his book as fallacious was, she had to admit, narrowcasting of the most specific kind. But now, watching Phoenix’s number-one afternoon drive DJ purr banalities into a microphone—something about someone named Sammy Hagar—while his coven of senescent cheerleaders urged him on, now Harriet realized that the problem was bigger than just a reality star and his phony book. The world was ruled by half-wits, imbeciles, boobs, and money. It made her want to go to Tibet and live in a cave.
But that’s not confronting the problem. That’s running away. What was the right thing to do? If the culture becomes idiotic,
what should a sane person do? Ignore it? Join it? Or was it the responsibility of every single educated person to stand up and say something? To make it stop?
It was a topic, she realized, that she could write about for months to come. But would it matter? Wasn’t the internet just an echo chamber? Weren’t the literary blogs just a loop of self-aggrandizement? Writers writing about writing and writers so that someone would notice and give them a book deal to write for other writers. She’d seen it happen.
She turned and watched the DJ yammer away at Sepp.
“You must like Van Halen? Right? You and Diamond Dave have a lot in common.”
“We do?”
“Yeah, man. He can do a flying kung fu kick.”
“Really?”
“Oh my God! Where have you been living? Under a rock?”
Sepp shrugged. “Dude. I’ve been busy. They don’t listen to much rock on the set. It’s all hip-hop.”
“Then let’s cue up some rock ’n’ roll! Name your favorite band.”
Sepp grinned. “You can’t go wrong with No Doubt.”
As the DJ looked around for some No Doubt, Harriet noticed a cameraman standing off to the side, slowly creeping in close to Sepp, moving between the bimbos. He moved in slow motion, like he was in a different reality or something. It was unnerving. Harriet wondered how long he’d been there. She hadn’t seen him when they arrived and hadn’t noticed anyone enter after them.
As she watched him work, a thought suddenly occurred to her, filling her with a strange mix of emotions, part horror and part pleasure, fear and vanity blooming together in her cerebellum. She wondered if he’d been filming her.
38
New York City
Amy hung up the phone. At first she’d ignored the calls from someone claiming to be Curtis Berman’s mother. She’d let her assistant take the message and then promptly deleted it from her call sheet. Curtis had never mentioned his parents and for all Amy knew he was an orphan. Besides it’s not like a literary agent isn’t deluged with a weekly quota of crackpots and weirdos sending manuscripts and leaving messages. What was the average? Sixty? Seventy-five? A hundred? More? People were desperate. Desperate, and desperately untalented. It was a sad fact of life in her business.
Raw: A Love Story Page 17