by Jaime Clarke
What if I said I didn’t think you were anywhere near that set the night the ceiling caved in, Meyers asked.
I’d wonder who told you that, Paque said. I couldn’t tell if she was as nervous as I was, but if she was you couldn’t hear it in her voice.
What if a certain porn actress said she was with you the night of the accident, Meyers asked. He paused to see if we were going to respond. What if someone else said they were sure you’d been replaced.
Stop it, I yelled. If you know all this why are you asking us? What difference does it make? We told you that we’re not doing the film any more, we told you that we’re not even … affiliated … with Alan Hood Productions.
Paque tried to shush me but I was delirious.
You know, Fred, you should think about your life, I continued. Remember how concerned you were for us back in Phoenix, remember how you protected us from the reporters who were trying to eat us alive. Well, now you’re one of those vultures. Are you happy now that you’re a vulture? Yeah, sure, it’s all true. You want to know the truth. The truth is that we were replaced, and we weren’t there that night, and that those two girls are in the hospital with broken bones. I fail to see how that’s even a story. How did this become a story?
Hey, I just—Meyers started to defend himself.
You just what, I said. You’re just doing your job? Isn’t there real news in the world? Doesn’t anybody care about anything that’s real, that’s not phoney baloney make-believe and put up with cardboard walls? I’m hanging up, and don’t call back.
I gripped the phone to give it a good slam and the last thing I heard was Meyers answering my question: Not in Hollywood.
That’s how the real story got in the papers. I called my mom to arrange a flight back to Phoenix and she put two tickets at the Southwest Airlines counter.
But we couldn’t get to them. By the time the story broke—Fred Meyers didn’t break it; it was in Daily Variety—we had our suitcases packed. Alan’s bedroom door was locked and we weren’t even going to say goodbye. We weren’t going to say anything to anyone. Except for Stella. We wanted to say goodbye to Stella. I did especially because I didn’t know what was going to happen once the plane landed in Phoenix. I couldn’t remember the last time Paque and I had a conversation about anything that wasn’t related to trying to make it. And since we didn’t make it—and since I didn’t want to make it—it seemed realistic that Paque and I saying goodbye to Stella might be the last time the three of us stood in the same room together.
It started with the afternoon edition of the papers. HOLLYWOOD OUTRAGED AT STUNT. PLOT TO CONCEAL INJURIES TO ACTRESSES ABHORRED BY THE BIZ. FELLOW ACTORS EXPRESSING SYMPATHY. DISTRICT ATTORNEY TO FILE RECKLESS ENDANGERMENT CHARGES AGAINST HOOD. Paque and I imagined a mob scene if we showed our faces at the airport.
Imagine anyone in Hollywood being outraged by anything, Paque said.
Craig told Paque that Stella had moved into the Chateau Marmont with Bryan Metro. Why would she do that, Paque asked, but Craig had already hung up.
Should we stop by and see Stella, I asked.
Paque thought for a moment. Who knows what’s going on over there, she murmured.
I could guess what Paque was thinking. On the one hand what if Stella had some great advice on what to do about our situation, but then again, on the other hand, what if she was living it up with Bryan Metro? Paque wouldn’t be able to bear the sight of that.
We should say goodbye, I said.
Paque didn’t disagree but just shrugged her shoulders, so it was decided.
On our way out to the curb to wait for the cab we noticed a pink box on the front steps. Paque tore off the top and sifted through the plastic peanuts, pulling out the prototypes for the Paque and Daisy dolls.
Which one is you and which one is me, I asked.
Paque held them up. The dolls were long and slender and looked the same, except one had light hair and one had dark. It’s hard to tell, she said.
Where’s the money, I asked.
Paque read the letter. ‘A check for the amount due on signature of the contract follows this package in 6-8 weeks,’ she said.
Fairy dust, I said.
In the cab a woman on the radio was saying how disgusting the whole episode was and that she thought Paque and I should be held responsible. She went on and on about taking responsibility for one’s actions, etc. She called Paque and I frauds. Actually she said scam artists. The woman on the radio said she only heard of such things in the movies, not in real life. She said what Paque and I did might make a good movie, but it wasn’t acceptable in real life.
It might make a good movie, I thought, but I wouldn’t want to star in it.
When the cab let us off at the Chateau the place seemed deserted. The trees in the courtyard shook with the wind and you could hear a dog barking off somewhere. The woman behind the desk let Paque use the phone to call Stella up in Bryan Metro’s room and in the elevator Paque said, She sounded terrible.
As we walked down the hall my mind bounced back and forth between going back to Phoenix or staying in L.A. You can’t go there but you can’t stay here, is what I thought. I thought maybe I’d go to New York and stay with Chuck, maybe try to get into college. The idea of me in school, hitting the books, was so much of a fantasy that it depressed me further and I started taking deep breaths to keep from fainting.
Stella answered the door wearing a long white dress shirt and dark sunglasses. The shirt had what looked like a wine stain down the left sleeve. God, I’m glad you’re here, she said and hugged us both. She smelled like she hadn’t showered in a week.
We heard voices inside and I was stunned into silence when my eyes focused on my brother, Chuck, standing with Bryan Metro and David Geffen out on the balcony. Chuck turned around and saw me and I felt instant relief. There you are, he said and put his arms around me. I went limp against his body. I felt like I could sleep for a year.
I’ve been trying to call you, I said.
I know, Chuck said, I was worried about you so I came out to find you. Craig told me he thought you’d be here. Are you okay?
I started to cry and Chuck hugged me tighter.
It’s OK, Chuck whispered. I think we’ve figured this out.
Stella excused herself and went to the bathroom and for the first time I noticed the sea of litter on the floor. Paque was out on the balcony introducing herself to David Geffen, who was talking on a cell phone as he shook her hand. He put his hand on her shoulder as if to say, Hold on a minute, and I started to ask Chuck what was going on when Bryan Metro came in off the balcony and said, This is so great.
I could feel Paque getting excited as Bryan Metro and David Geffen hatched their scheme involving us. Stella would be involved, too. They’d do the whole story, Phoenix and everything. Bryan would do the soundtrack and Geffen would get Spielberg to direct. Can we sing on the soundtrack, Paque wanted to know and David Geffen shook his head no. Absolutely not, he said. Chuck had worked it out so that he would be the second unit director, which Paque and I didn’t know anything about, and Stella came out of the bathroom and everyone was staring at us, waiting. Paque looked at me and all my anxiety came back. You could see how much it meant to everyone in the room—to Stella, to Paque, to my own brother. The sunglasses Stella was wearing reminded me of a long time ago, when it was the three of us, out by Stella’s parents’ pool, leafing through magazines of celebrities at parties and movie premieres, celebrities smiling out at you in a way that let you know that their life was just fantastic, that every day was like their birthday and that their worst day was nothing like your worst day. We spent hours by the pool talking ‘What if,’ which over time became ‘When,’ but I don’t think we had any idea of what it would take to have a life where every day was like your birthday.
Geffen’s cell phone rang but he didn’t make a move to answer it. What would you say if someone offered you a chance like that? The phrase ‘make it big’ floated through the room—it s
eemed like everyone was saying it at once—and so I guess you probably know what we said.
Daisy
Acknowledgments
Every writer owes as much to the people who have encouraged and supported him as he does to inspiration and craft. Those I owe: At the University of Arizona: Christopher ‘Kit’ Mcllroy, Diza Sauers, Jane Martin, Becky Byrkit, Barbara Cully, Dr. Jerrold Hogle, Marvin Diogenes. At Bennington College: Askold Melnyczuk, Amy Hempel, Maria Flook, Susan Cheever (and Quad and Sarah), Liam Rector, Douglas Bauer.
I also owe Panagiotis Gianopoulos at Bloomsbury USA for his courage and for his Herculean efforts on my behalf.
In general: Chase Angier, Frederick Barthelme, Catherine Berclaz, Josephine Bergin, Charles Bock, Rebecca Boyd, Susan Breen, Sibylle Bruyninckx, Sean and Allison Burke, Jacqueline Shelton Carrillo, Hillary Chute, Doug Clarke, Jeremy Clarke, Jared Clarke, Curt Collinsworth, Shelia Convery, Ronan Feighery, Heather E. Fisher, Martin Fluger, Rie Fortenberry, Boyd and Glenda Gilkey, Kristin Gould, Dave Harris, Pete Hausler, Jordan Heller, Jennifer Hodge, Marilee Johnson, John and Yvonne Kalien, Elsie Kephart, Dylan Krider, Kenneth Kwok, John Laprade, Debra Levy, the Lew sisters, Stefanie Lipson, Alexander Loudon, Kristina Lucenko, Ty McLeod, Fiona Maazel, Stephanie Mabee, the Macdonalds, Sarah Mager, Aaron and Rhonda Quartullo, Phil Quartullo of Biltmore Pro Print in Phoenix and his big ol’ bad ol’ Quartullo clan, Mary Robison, William S. Rose, Jr., Michael Rosovksy and the entire Rosovsky family, Lavinia Spalding, Sally and Betsy Ullstrup (nay all Ullstrups), David Vidoni, Simon Ward, Dr. and Mrs. Theodore F. Weber, Clyde and Doris West, Dawn Williams, everyone at Bennington, everyone in the Burgundy Club, everyone at Harold Ober (who let me live in their offices while I wrote this).
And of course you,___________________________________. How could I forget you?
The following establishments did nothing but retard the writing of this book but thanks to them anyway: Siberia Bar, Minetta Tavern, 288 Elizabeth St. (aka The Bar That Never Disappoints), Iona, the Irish Rover, Jimmy Walker’s, 2A, St. Dymphna’s, Blue & Gold, The Grange Hall, Russian Vodka Room, and McBell’s (RIP).
A Note on the Author
Jaime Clarke is a graduate of the University of Arizona and holds an MFA from Bennington College. He is the author of the previous novel We’re So Famous; editor of the anthologies Don’t You Forget About Me: Contemporary Writers on the Films of John Hughes, Conversations with Jonathan Lethem, and Talk Show: On the Couch with Contemporary Writers; and co-editor of the anthologies No Near Exit: Writers Select Their Favorite Work from “Post Road” Magazine (with Mary Cotton) and Boston Noir 2: The Classics (with Dennis Lehane and Mary Cotton). He is a founding editor of the literary magazine Post Road, now published at Boston College, and co-owner, with his wife, of Newtonville Books, an independent bookstore in Boston.
www.jaimeclarke.com
www.postroadmag.com
www.baumsbazaar.com
www.newtonvillebooks.com
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Vernon Downs
We’re So Famous
This electronic edition published in 2014 by Bloomsbury Reader
Bloomsbury Reader is a division of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 50 Bedford Square, London WC1B 3DP
First published in Great Britain in 2001 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
Copyright © 2001 Jaime Clarke
All rights reserved
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eISBN: 9781448214358
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