Epiphany Jones

by Michael Grothaus

  Rachel is in my room when I get back. She’s sitting in a chair by the window. But she has the decency not to say anything other than, ‘How could you let her get away?’ When I open the bathroom door, Ana Lucia comes running out. But she disappears just as quickly. It’s when I leave the bathroom that I find Bela lying naked in my bed.

  In my head I keep hearing her say, ‘My alleegator.’ So I cry.

  Then my phone rings.

  ‘Jerry?’

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘It’s Phineas, Jerry. We met in the bar. Your father’s friend.’

  I don’t say anything. Bela’s in my bed. Her mouth gaping open and eyes wide as she’s invisibly strangled.

  ‘Jerry?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Are you OK, Jerry?’ His voice seems distant. ‘You ran out so quickly, I wanted to make sure everything is OK.’

  ‘How did you get this number?’

  ‘The concierge,’ he says. ‘I mention I work for Matthew and doors open. His name carries weight here.’ The way he says it is like he’s expecting me to chuckle.

  ‘So are you OK, Jerry?’ he says. ‘I’m up in the penthouse if you want to talk.’

  ‘What do you need?’ I say.

  It’s a moment before he says, ‘There’s an event tomorrow night at the Martinez. The Princess of the Sands party. I thought you could come. I haven’t seen you since the wrap party and it would be nice to catch up with my old friend’s kid.’ Then he adds, ‘You remember that party? Your dad had that special present for you?’

  I remember the party but I haven’t a clue what present he’s talking about. The only thing I ever got from my dad was his gold watch.

  ‘Sure,’ I say. ‘That’s fine.’

  ‘Great, Jerry. I’ll have someone drop an invite by your room.’ Then he adds, ‘You with anyone here? You need another invite?’

  I look at the bed and Bela has disappeared. ‘No,’ I say.

  ‘OK, Jerry. No problem,’ he says, like that’s the wrong answer. ‘Sounds good.’

  We hang up and half an hour later someone slides a green envelope under my door and I go to bed but I don’t sleep.

  43

  Memory

  I’m standing in a roped-off area outside the Martinez Hotel. This is eighteen hours after I fucked up shooting Epiphany. I clutch the piece of parchment from the green envelope that’s the fancy ticket to The Princess of the Sands party. Fans, barricaded from the guests attending the party, scream endlessly. Celebrity after celebrity walks from limo after limo into the hotel. With each additional celebrity, the fans’ shouts increase.

  There goes Brad.

  Screams.

  And Gwyneth.

  Screams.

  Ah, and here’s Tom.

  And a girl on the sidelines – she faints. The celebrities, they’re like Greek gods in front of adoring legions of soldiers. There goes Zeus. Here’s Hades. Ah, Persephone is wearing a lovely laurel, isn’t she?

  It’s different watching the celebrity procession in person than it is on television. You see what the cameras don’t show you: everything is orchestrated. The agents treat their celebrities like children. One scolds, ‘No dammit, not yet! Angelina hasn’t cleared the walk yet and we need all the cameras to be on you! Wait! Wait! OK, now!’ Another one shouts at an up-and-coming child star, ‘It’s no good just being seen! You need to be photographed! If you don’t make it to the glossy pages, your career is dead before you turn thirteen!’

  A security guard asks to see my ticket. ‘OK, you go in once the As are done,’ he says.

  A is for A-listers.

  The celebrities keep coming. Megan. Julia. Natalie. Jennifer. And I’ve jerked off to them all. Standing over my keyboard, I’ve fucked them every which way and they don’t even know it. Then a large white limo pulls up. A valet opens the door and Matthew Mann gets out. It’s been more than a decade since I last saw him. He’s gotten fat, sloth like. His hair has gone grey, but his veneers are still whiter than the flashing of the cameras.

  And he’s the reason I came to this stupid party. Not for what he’s done. Not for knowing what he does to little girls. Not to bust him. No. If he’s here, I’m betting Epiphany will show. I left my gun back in the room. Security is too tight, but I’ll use my hands if I have to. I’ll grab her by the neck and wring the life from her pale little face. I’ll grab a chair and bludgeon her to death while all the stars look on. ‘Luck doesn’t save you twice,’ I’ll say.

  Matthew extends his big, fat, sausage fingers into the limousine and a slender, tanned hand takes his. And then out comes the belle of the ball. The hottest It Girl in the history of Hollywood. And the crowd screams like it’s one massive animal. It’s in ecstasy.

  Jordan Seabring drifts up the red carpet as flash after flash after flash explodes from cameras. Shouts boom from the audience. ‘I love you!’ ‘Marry me!’ ‘Oh my God! Oh my Goooooooddddd!’ And Jordan, she looks perfect. Her wavy blonde hair shimmers. Her strapless black dress shows off her Cs just the right amount. And in the eyes of the crowd, with every flash Jordan becomes more beautiful; more important; more of who to aspire to be.

  But as powerful as Matthew is, few of the screaming fans recognise him. Matthew knows this. But it doesn’t matter. Not to someone like him. The people with the real power in Hollywood don’t need to be recognised. They make the celebrities. And they know each star is just a cog in the wheel. A brand. Each star will be replaced when the time comes. They’ll be replaced with the younger, the more beautiful. But people like Matthew – they’ll be around until the day they die, celebritising the world as they see fit.

  After Matthew and Jordan slip inside the golden doors, the crowds disperse. Everyone who walks in now is the Unphotographed – the people who don’t matter. And as the crowd thins, I expect to see Epiphany left standing behind, but she’s nowhere to be seen.

  ‘How do you like the party?’ a voice says from behind me.

  ‘The Bellini is good,’ I say, holding up the same glass I’ve had for twenty-five minutes.

  Phineas smiles. ‘Yes, these parties are all the same, aren’t they?’ He pauses for a moment, then confides, ‘You know, for the last ten years, Matthew just arrives at the parties for the press photographers? As soon as he gets in the door, he goes right out the back.’ Phineas laughs. ‘But that’s what he has me for. I’ll tell the reporters he had a wonderful time dancing with the star of whatever film until the early hours.’

  All around us celebrities and Hollywood hacks talk and laugh and smile. And still they all look like they’re acting. Just past a waiter who’s dressed as a porcupine creature from The Princess of the Sands, an agent is saying to his seventeen-year-old Disney star, ‘The goal is when someone types the letter of your first name into Google, you’re the top auto-suggestion that appears.’

  He’s saying, ‘The goal is to Tweet one sexy picture of yourself to your followers each week.’

  He’s saying, ‘The goal is to get more “Likes” than Facebook has users.’

  Always keeping an eye out for Epiphany, I say to Phineas, ‘I remember my dad saying this world really wears on you. After the first month in, it loses its shine. The mystery and sparkle are gone.’

  ‘Your father was an intelligent man,’ he says, ‘He knew there were better things than this.’ Then he looks at me for a moment. ‘How was the redhead? She looked like fun.’

  ‘I lost her in the crowd,’ I say.

  ‘That’s a shame,’ he says. ‘You said you’re here alone? Lots of pretty women to be had.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. But I’m only looking for one.

  And Phineas looks like he’s contemplating me, like maybe he’s annoying me, so I say, ‘Look, thanks for the invite. I’m sorry I didn’t remember you.’

  ‘That’s OK, Jerry. You were just a kid the last time we met. You had to be, what? Sixteen? Seventeen? It’s a rough age and, well, that night was a rough night.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say.
<
br />   ‘How much of it do you remember? I spoke to your mom a few times after the accident and she said you were having difficulties.’

  ‘I remember enough,’ I say sharply. ‘The wrap party. The accident.’ And I feel bad how that came out, so I say, ‘Sometimes I think how differently my life would be if he hadn’t died. Like I wouldn’t be where I am right now if he were still around.’

  Phineas puts his hand on my shoulder. ‘Your dad would be so proud that you’re right here, right now. He spoke so highly of you. He hoped you would follow in his footsteps.’

  I open my mouth, but no words come out. Dad was distant after Emma. I always wondered if he were mad at me for it. But to hear he spoke proudly of me … it makes me even angrier at the lies Epiphany told.

  As the night goes on, I have a few drinks. Since Mann left I know Epiphany isn’t going to show, so I try to make the best of it. I try to ignore the occasional glimpses of Bela I see in the crowd. Phineas introduces me to more and more stars. He asks me how my mom is. He tells me old stories about my dad’s greatest PR coups and how my dad always had a crush on Audrey Hepburn.

  And when a waiter dressed as one of the porcupine creatures from The Princess of the Sands stops in front of us, his quills momentarily blocking us from most views in the room, Phineas grabs my arm and leans close. ‘Here,’ he says and slips me a bar-coded bracelet. It’s black and looks like the ones you get when you’re admitted to hospital. ‘This is for a much better party tomorrow.’

  I realise it’s the coveted invite to the party only spoken of in whispers.

  ‘Why are you giving this to me?’

  ‘Because you are your father’s son and he was a good man to me. I can see you miss him like I do. And,’ he looks into my eyes, ‘unlike everyone else in this room, your goal of coming tonight wasn’t to find a ticket.’

  No, I think. It wasn’t.

  ‘Now, each bracelet gets two people in,’ Phineas speaks quietly. ‘The address on the other side is where you’re to go. A car will pick you up there and you’ll be driven to Matthew’s private villa in Antibes.’

  ‘Phineas!’ a voice cuts through our hushed conversation. It’s a voice that I immediately recognise. It’s a voice I’ve heard in countless movies.

  Jordan Seabring, she stumbles over to Phineas and gives him a big hug. ‘P!’ she says tipsily. ‘How’s my favourite publicist?’

  ‘Enjoying the party, though not as much as you,’ he says with a good-natured smile.

  ‘Oh, P!’ she laughs.

  And after Bela, I’d like to think I wouldn’t act like this, but I do. Maybe it’s because I’m American and celebrities are our gods. Or maybe it’s the too many Bellinis I’ve had. When Jordan notices me my body stiffens and I poke my chest out and suck my stomach in. In this moment, I wish I were better looking than I am. I wish I were funnier; more charming.

  ‘Miss Seabring,’ I say with bullshit confidence and I extend my hand, ‘I’m a big fan.’

  She smiles with an ‘of course you are’ look and takes my hand. And when she does, something in me remembers the wrap party the night my dad died. But then I’m back at the current party looking at her plump lips and her round breasts and her windswept hair and she’s looking at me, and then she says, ‘Little J?’ And she turns to Phineas. ‘Little J?’ she asks him. He nods. And then the biggest movie star in the world slaps my outstretched hand away and wraps her arms around me. She kisses me on the cheek, her fake breasts crushing against my chest.

  ‘I believe you two have some catching up to do,’ Phineas smiles, and gives me a wink before he trots off.

  ‘I can’t believe it’s you,’ Jordan says and pauses for a moment to take my features in again. I begin to ask her what she means, but she just says, ‘Come on,’ and takes my hand and leads me through the room. And as we pass Natalie, and Brad, and Tom, they all give looks that say, ‘What’s that guy doing with her?’

  We reach the balcony, where I see the moon shrink a little, jealous of the competition. ‘Some privacy, please,’ Jordan says, and all the people go back inside without saying a word.

  A light breeze blows in the night. Ten storeys below us people scurry like ants on the Croisette. Out to sea you can just make out where the evening sky ends and the Mediterranean begins.

  ‘This is wild,’ Jordan says. ‘It’s been, what? Twelve years?’ And in the moonlight with the plump lips and the cleavage spilling from her dress and the windswept hair in the breeze, Jordan looks like she’s just pried her way from the pages of Maxim.

  But if you think you know what this is like for me, being alone on the balcony with the most desired woman in the world, with an actress I’ve fantasised about for years and masturbated to enough times to populate the planet ten times over, you’d be wrong.

  Talking to Jordan is like picking up a seashell on the beach and putting it to your ear, expecting to hear the sound of the ocean, but what you get is some slug that tries to make your cochlea its new home. I can’t get a word in. Her questions are all rhetorical. She talks only of herself; of how people love her and want to be just like her. She talks of how many hearts in Hollywood she’s broken and how she believes the more heartache you cause people, the more desirable you must be. And after each and every thing she says, she pauses, like she’s expecting me to clap or congratulate her or something. I’d call this conversation the dullest I’ve ever had, but a conversation only exists when both people are allowed to speak.

  I listen to Jordan’s boastful crowing and it contrasts so starkly with Bela’s round, meaningful words with the little pauses in between. And an unpleasant feeling creeps into my gut. Suddenly I’m so ashamed of how I reacted to her. How I puffed out my chest and tried to impress her.

  ‘But I think I’ve finally found true love,’ Jordan yaps. ‘I mean, he’s the world’s biggest star. He makes forty million a picture, did you know?’

  Did know, couldn’t care less.

  I glance inside to see if Epiphany has somehow made it into the party. Killing a person with my bare hands would be preferable to spending any more time with Jordan.

  ‘It started off as just another publicity move,’ Jordan explains, not realising I don’t give a damn. ‘I was piggybacking off his success, but then – then it kinda became something like love, you know?’

  Love. I’m familiar.

  ‘I mean, I won’t fuck a producer anymore just to get the part, unless it’s a really, really big part…’

  But as she prattles on, I notice something, first in her voice, and then by the lack of lustre in her eyes. She’s speaking to me in the way most people have an internal dialogue when they’re trying to work out the discrepancies between what they expected something to be and what it actually is. And then I realise that what she’s said – it’s not boasting or ego. It’s her talking to someone on the outside about the life she wished Hollywood would be and the reality that it is. And I pity her. She’s so moulded by what the fans demand. By what the studios demand. By what her handlers demand. Even when she laughs, it’s a hollow laugh.

  ‘But, you know,’ she says, ‘I owe everything to your dad.’

  I really wish people would stop blaming their shitty lives on him.

  ‘I was an extra – a nobody,’ and she looks at me conspiratorially, ‘and you, well, you were a virgin.’

  I’m sorry, what?

  ‘We were at that wrap party – do you remember?’

  No, I don’t.

  ‘That horrible movie?’

  Nope.

  ‘That utterly forgettable piece of celluloid? It was that first movie I was an extra in. And, God!’ she laughs as she gazes over the balcony. ‘Do you remember? The whole damn movie took place on one set! It was supposed to be some kind of–’

  And my heart stops when she says, ‘– silverware factory.’

  Jordan, she turns and places her palm on my cheek. She caresses it. ‘And your dad, your sweet dad. He came to me and said that if I took care of you, he’d
make sure I’d have a role in Matthew’s next production.’ She presses her body into mine. ‘You were so nervous when you found out I was going to fuck you,’ she says, twirling a bit of my hair around her finger. ‘You looked like you were going to cry.’ She strokes my cheek, then laughs. ‘And then you came so quickly! A two-minute fuck for twelve years of fame! I was going to fuck you again even, in case the first time was too short for it to count as part of the deal.’ She puts her hand over her mouth. ‘Oh! My! God! But do you remember that horribly skinny girl who burst into the room? She looked terrified when she saw us! She ran out as fast as she came in and you – you ran out after her! And I was going to fuck you again! Just imagine!’ she laughs. ‘You know how many men would kill for a fuck from me now? And I was going to give you two!’

  And as I feel like I’m about to have a heart attack, Jordan takes a long sip of her Bellini and looks back over the Mediterranean.

  ‘Oh dear,’ Jordan says as she casts her gaze from the sea back to me, ‘that was the night your dad got into his accident, wasn’t it? It was so horrible! I was so afraid I wouldn’t get my end of the deal. But Phineas, kind, kind Phineas honoured it when he took over for your dad.’

  Memory. It’s a funny thing. Just because we can’t recall things, we believe they’ve never happened. We think we’ve blocked out the pain of a sister’s death, but if by chance we come across her old photo on our mother’s mantelpiece, we want to burst into tears. When we see children playing soccer in the streets, the regrets of long-ignored mistakes rise and beg forgiveness in the present. And when we meet our father’s old colleague we suddenly realise how important it is to hear that Dad was proud of us.

  They’re such imprecise instruments, memories. Some are just habitual, like storing enough about Photoshop in your brain to get through your shitty museum job. But others … other memories are spontaneous. They’re the kind that suck up your imperfect perceptions and impressions of the world. They’re the kind that are brought to the front of your mind when it benefits you and shuffled to the back when their recall would do you harm. But even these can be summoned in sudden, painful flashes. Sometimes it’s a father’s gold watch or the long-forgotten theme song to an old TV show that summons those flashes. But sometimes, just sometimes that flash requires an unbelievable story from an international sex symbol.