The Paradise Box Set

by Pike, Leslie

  I silently thank every saint Paul didn’t fly into LAX. I hate that feckin’ place, as the Irish say. First of all, it’s an hour away from my house. It’s big and crowded, and right in the middle of an everyday traffic nightmare.

  I turn the Escalade into the airport, and within five minutes I’m in front of Southwest baggage. I cruise by very slowly, because I don’t want to have to drive around again. The security people are strict about how long you hover around arrivals. They’ve all got sticks up their asses. That’s what I think when it’s me they’re hurrying along. In reality they’re just doing their job. It’s the system. Lucky for me I have an ace up my sleeve. And I’m not ashamed to use it.

  Paul is nowhere to be seen. I pull up between a limo and a hotel shuttle. Both are picking up passengers and loading their luggage. I’m trying to be invisible to the guard who I can see in my side mirror. But no. He’s got radar, and it’s honed in on my car. Here he comes, with an expression that says, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I put on my best smile, as he walks up to the window. Wish it was a woman. I’d have a better chance.

  “Move on. There’s no waiting here.”

  But by the time he gets to the word “here”, he pauses. Here it comes. Then a smile. Now a little excitement. That’s my cue.

  “Sorry. My friend is right inside. I think I see him. Can you bend the rules for me? I’d really appreciate it.”

  “Are you Finn Kennedy?” he says with a smile.

  “Yes. That’s me. Can I wait here for just a minute?”

  He looks around, as if the Secret Service were watching us.

  “Sure. My wife would kill me if I didn’t get an autograph. Is that possible?

  Now I’m home free. I could take up homesteading right outside the terminal.

  “Of course. Do you think she’d like a signed hat from Finding Collier? I’ve got one here.”

  The guy’s face lights up. He’s definitely getting laid tonight.

  “Would you? I mean yeah. She’d love that. You’re her favorite.”

  I reach behind me and grab a hat from the pile in the back seat. It’s amazing how far a signed baseball cap will take me. I’m thankful for that. I’ll never take the fans for granted. Without them, I’m just another face in the crowd. I take the silver Sharpie from my glove compartment. That looks good against the black cap.

  “What’s her name?”

  The guy’s face is bright red. I hope he doesn’t have a stroke.

  “Margaret. It’s Margaret.”

  I sign away, then pass him the finished product. As I do, I see Paul making his way to the curb.

  “Here’s my friend now. Thanks, man.”

  He doesn’t move. Star struck is not just a euphemism. I have to be careful not to hit him as I open my car door.

  “Excuse me; I have to help my friend.”

  “Oh yeah, sorry.” He backs off, but keeps a close eye on me and what I’m doing. I know Margaret’s going to get a blow by blow description tonight. And this guy’s getting a blowjob. As I get out of the car, he looks me up and down. I know he’ll be reporting on my faded shorts, my well-worn T-shirt and my bare feet. Hopefully he’ll also add that I wasn’t a dick. Because for the rest of his life, this guy’s going to tell the story of the day he met a movie star. Either I’ll be overrated, or underrated.

  My attention goes to my friend coming toward me. Paul Cruz. Father Paul Cruz for the last twenty years or so. To me he’ll always be just Paul. We’ve been close friends since high school. Man, he’s really bulked up. He looks good. Except for the mom jeans he’s wearing. Yikes. He’s a good looking guy, but those jeans just about erase the fact. Priesthood has stolen his cool. But that’s an easy fix.

  “Paul! Come here, brother.” I hold out my arms and give him a hug. I squeeze his bicep. “Jesus, have you been wrestling bears?”

  He smiles widely. “That would have been easier than what I had to fight.”

  I pop the trunk, and he lifts his suitcase inside. I motion to the passenger side.

  “Get in. Man, I’m so glad you’re here. It’s going to be a great two months. Are you ready?”

  He smiles and nods. I can see he remembers the battle cry of our youth. “Are you ready?” meant we were about to do no good. But my old friend seems reserved in his enthusiasm. So I change tact.

  “Let’s get home. My dad’s making dinner for us. He’s barbecuing.”

  All the way back, Paul and I catch up on the state of our lives. He seems more restrained, and maybe a little quieter than I remember. So I do most of the talking. I ask him about his life as a priest in San Quentin. The guy’s got some King Kong balls to take on that one. I think it’s damaged him a little. Of course it has.

  As I listen to him talk, I decide how I’m going to help. I’m going to give him the best two fucking months of his life. He deserves that after living in that depressing prison world. Not to mention the restrictions that come with being a priest. Talk about a gloomy existence. Just the no pussy rule alone is enough to break a man. I’d last one day. When he tells me the next eight weeks will most likely determine his future, I know I want to be his tour guide. That would be through everything opposite of religious life. Navigating the land of temptation. After all, a man should know what he’s giving up. I mean in real terms, not just hypothetically. I have a unique opportunity and unlimited resources to draw from. I expect it will be fun for us both. What are friends for?

  When we pull into the driveway, I see Dad looking through the open shutters. By the time we get Paul’s suitcase out of the trunk, he’s at the front door.

  “Hello, Paul! How wonderful to see you, boy.”

  “Carl!”

  Now I see the old Paul. He’s smiling that impressive smile. White teeth, brown skin. He’s an ad for toothpaste. For a moment he looks sixteen. He and my dad come together as only old friends can. Dad knew him as a young boy, and that’s who he still sees. I don’t think Paul has felt that spirit inside him for a long while. He probably appreciates that someone still remembers, even if he doesn’t.

  “Let’s go in. Food’s ready, and we’re dining alfresco,” Dad says. He and Paul lead the way.

  He’s set the patio table for the three of us. I can see the ocean from here and the sailboats that ride the waves. There are gardenias floating in a low bowl on the table. My father’s artist soul is always visible. But this reminds me of my mother. Even if we were having an ordinary meal, the table was set artfully. When I was a boy and we lived in Ireland, she was famous for her gatherings and décor. She’d have flowers, or shells or something organic and creative as the centerpiece. I remember once, she gathered all the animal figures in our house and lined them up the center of the table. She found one of my toy boats and had the animals moving toward their “ark”. Everything from my rubber dinosaur to a miniature Snoopy, to her African giraffe statues were boarding. God I loved that woman. I miss her every day. No wonder Bliss found her life worthy of a script. She was unique, and so is my dad. Their story will bear that out.

  I leave Paul’s suitcase at the entrance to the guestroom and join he and my dad outside.

  “Sit down, Finn. Paul, eat. Don’t wait,”

  Our dinner is so relaxed and enjoyable, I can almost see Paul’s darkness lifting to the ether. The more we talk, the more his old self is visible. We laugh at stories of our youth, the same ones that have never failed to amuse us. We’ve heard and told them a hundred times, but still find them funny as hell.

  My parents’ method of child rearing was loose, to say the least. I had so much freedom and encouragement to express myself and to make my own choices. I was born in Ireland and lived there till I was twelve. The year I came to America, was the year I met Paul. We went to different schools, but lived close to each other. He loved being at “Camelot”, my parents’ hippie compound on the edge of San Francisco. Although it was the eighties, my parents hadn’t let go of the spirit of the sixties. They had been young artists in Hai
ght Asbury, and the mood stuck for life. At Camelot, there was always an artist or musician holding court. I was introduced to all the arts at an early age. It was a beautiful crazy world.

  I was the prince in my home. An only child who never lacked for an audience. Whatever I did I was praised for. If I put on a “show” of magic or juggling, or whatever the fuck I would be into at the time, the adults would act like I was the most talented child in the world. There was praise and applause. And therein lies the root of my love of acting, my ease in front of the camera, and my need for an audience.

  Paul’s home life was the polar opposite of mine. There were all kinds of restrictions at his house. Because I didn’t have those rules at mine, I found it fascinating to observe. He was one of seven children, and there was less misbehaving there than in my house. I remember there were lots of crosses and statues of saints. We prayed before meals, and as a family there was a weekly rosary. I made sure I was never there for that. His household was strictly Catholic. We were members of the Church of What’s Happening Now. In other words, no church.

  When Paul was at my place, I used to try to think of wild things to do, just to see his reaction. Just to see if he’d join in. Once, I stole some of my parents’ weed and dared him to smoke a joint before he served Sunday Mass. That day, he was the best altar boy you ever saw. He was always in control. Even stoned. He never missed a beat. Meanwhile, I was giggling like a school girl, because I was high and the saint statue closest to me looked like Elton John.

  Paul liked being at my house, where he was free to make a mess, hike the hills, or express his opinions. Both families had their strengths. Who we are now, and what we’ve each had to overcome, is directly connected to our childhoods. Good and bad. I guess that’s true of everyone.

  My father takes a sip of his wine. He brought a few bottles with him, because he knows I have no alcohol here. I’m sure he’ll indulge while he’s house sitting for me. His house and land are being prepped for filming Bliss’ miniseries. They’re actually building a structure to duplicate the original look. He’ll stay here till I get back from Utah, then we’ll both be here when filming starts at his place. It’s going to work out great.

  I don’t mind people drinking around me. That’s something you have to learn to deal with. You can’t deny friends and family their spirits because you have a problem. Paul is drinking too. But he has no idea about my shady history. During those few hazy years I hid it from him. I guess it was because I wanted just one person to not be disappointed in me. One person not to think I threw my life away. Paul was the one. It’s funny, because of all my friends, he’s the one who wouldn’t have judged. He’s pretty unshakeable. Which is good, because for the next eight weeks I plan on shaking things up for him. It’s going to be like old times. But now I have a bigger arsenal of mischief making props at my disposal.

  After our meal we sit talking and smoking the cigars Paul brought. A cigar every five years or so makes you want to puke. But I join in so he doesn’t think I’m an ungrateful dick. My dad on the other hand is actually enjoying it. Must be all the joints he inhaled over the years.

  “So they’re going to be using you as a consultant on the film? That makes sense. Finn tells me you’re going undercover though,” Dad says.

  “Yeah. For once in my life I don’t want to be treated with kid gloves. Without the collar, I’ll just blend into the scenery. Which sounds great to me.”

  Dad looks at Paul and smiles. He’s no fool.

  “Just watch out for this one.” He nods toward me. “He likes to get you in trouble. Remember?”

  “Carl, I’m not really opposed to that idea,” says Paul.

  That’s all I need to hear.

  Chapter Five

  Paul

  “Bloody hell. Are you telling me you’ve only had sex one time? In your entire life? Oh, that’s tragic,” Finn says.

  He looks like I just told him I have the Ebola virus. I silence him with a look.

  “Keep your voice down. We’re on a plane,” I say.

  I look around at the other First Class flyers, and I’m certain the older woman sitting across the aisle just got an earful, because she looks sorry for me. Finn lowers his voice to a whisper, and leans in.

  “Was it prom night? She had big tits, right? I remember you telling me about her. Was that when it happened?’

  “Yes, well, sort of.”

  “What does that mean?” Finn says.

  “I didn’t really complete the act.”

  “Why not? Couldn’t get it up?”

  I see the pity he’s feeling. I smile at the irony.

  “No, that wasn’t the problem.”

  “Then what?”

  “She got scared. Apparently it was too big.”

  Finn starts laughing. “Big?” he says way too loud.

  I can see that woman across the plane turn her head toward us. When I look at her face, the corners of her mouth go up. I turn back to Finn.

  “Shut up. It’s not funny.” But I can’t help but laugh too.

  “You mean all the times you hid your bits and bobs from me when we were kids, it was because it was too big? All this time I thought you had a teeny tiny gherkin. Christ, this is funny.”

  “I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself,” I say.

  But who can blame him? My sexual history is nothing if not laughable.

  “How big is it?” he asks.

  I shake my head at the question. “I don’t know. It’s big.”

  “Didn’t you ever measure it? I mean just to know. Is it as big as a porn stars’?”

  “I didn’t measure it, and you’re kidding, right? Do you think I sit around between Masses watching porn and measuring my junk?”

  “You could. You’re not dead.”

  “Well I don’t, pervert. I’ve just seen enough dicks in prison to know I’m well-endowed.”

  “What a corking development this is for us,” he says. He’s got such a happy look on his face. Like he’s plotting a bank heist and just found out the safe’s unlocked.

  “I only have one question,” he says.

  “What?”

  “Are you ready?”

  * * *

  Salt Lake City Airport is big, and it took a while to get from the gate to the car. But it requires almost no effort on our part at all. I’m learning in just what a rarefied world these actors live. First of all, the whole First Class thing. There were two tickets waiting for us as part of the film’s budget. Then there was an airline employee waiting for us when we disembarked. She had a cart ready to take us to baggage. All the way, I watched the reactions of people when they recognized Finn. He must be a big deal, because eyes turn toward him. Men, women, children, they know who he is. Just looking at him made them happy. Two young women, who were going in the opposite direction, made a 180 when they spotted him and tried to follow the cart. We lost them after a few yards, but they made a valiant effort.

  It was a good thing we didn’t have to wait in baggage. It would have been a stampede. Someone was there to handle that too. We walked right out of the terminal and into the limo that was waiting at the curb. We didn’t have to lift a finger, carry a bag, or walk an unnecessary step. I can see how destructive this life could be. And how addicting. My life has navigated the extremes of giving it all, and taking it all, in a very short time.

  “How far is Park City from here?” Finn asks the driver.

  “About forty minutes, Mr. Kennedy. Want some music?”

  “No thanks.”

  Finn slaps my knee and stretches his legs out on the seat across from us.

  “Ok, I already know what our first job is.”

  “What?”

  “We’re going shopping. You need a new pair of jeans. Probably you need a whole wardrobe.”

  For a few seconds I’m insulted, until I realize the jeans he’s wearing don’t look a thing like mine. I think mine may be too high on my waist.

  “Is that something I need to care about
?”

  “Yeah you do. If you want to blend into the background. With those you’re going to be singled out. ‘Who is this man wearing mom jeans? Who is this alien from Planet Wham?’” He mimics the imaginary gossip, then starts to laugh.

  “Mom jeans?” I say.

  He’s still laughing. “I’m serious. New clothes. Modern clothes. My treat.”

  I shake my head. “I’ll get a few things, but put your wallet away. I can pay for my own wardrobe.”

  “Ok, brother. Whatever you say.”

  He calls out to the driver. “Before you take us to the condos, can you make a stop at a men’s clothing store?”

  “Absolutely. Which one?”

  Finn pulls out his cell. “I’m going to text my friend. I’ll let you know in a minute.”

  He turns to me. “I’ll ask the production assistant for a recommendation. They know everything.”

  He gets busy texting his connection. In a matter of minutes we have the shops name, address and phone number. When Finn calls he tells the woman to make sure we’re alone in the store. They’re going to close it to other customers so we can shop in peace. For the rest of the drive, Finn takes great pleasure in showing me the photographs of naked women on his phone. Times and technologies have changed, but my friend hasn’t.

  * * *

  Ok. You’ve got to admit when you’re wrong, and I admit it. These jeans look much better. In fact, everything I’m buying looks cooler than everything I currently own. I feel young again. The sensation washes over me and puts a Band-Aid on my soul. The word shallow comes to mind, but passes quickly, because there’s just no denying I feel happy. It’s amazing what a few articles of clothing can do for a person’s outlook. Along with the jeans, I’ve picked out a pair of dress pants, two shirts, four T-shirts and a sweater. Unfortunately, Finn and I are two different sizes. I’m more muscular and he’s taller. So borrowing from him is not an option. Clothes are much more expensive than I remember, but because Finn is shopping for himself, as well as guiding my choices, the shop’s owner has offered us a 30% discount. In return, he asked for an autograph, a signed hat, and the promise that we’ll tell our movie friends where we shop. Movie friends. I’m in an alternate universe.