by Claire Adams
“No,” I tell her. “Benefits like this can bring a lot of attention to a movie in production.”
“You say ‘benefits like this’ as if there’s actually a benefit,” she says.
“I’m sure there’s one somewhere in the city tonight,” I tell her.
“And he won’t mind that you’re going to a benefit and he wasn’t invited to it?” she asks.
That’s a fair point.
“I’ll tell him it’s an actor thing,” I tell her. “It’ll be fine. So, what do you say?”
She sighs again. “All right,” she says. “Should I meet you there, or—”
“I’ll send a car for you,” I tell her.
Normally in this scenario, the car I would send would be some rotten, beat-up piece of shit, barely staying on the road (when you tell someone you’re sending a car for them, they always think limo or upscale town car). Spoiling that impression is a rewarding pastime, but I owe Nick no less than three pieces of autographed Emma Roxy swag.
I’m really getting sick of the phone calls.
It’s not that I’m really so indifferent to Emma. She seems nice enough. She’s just not the sex-crazed, degenerate A-list wannabe that has been my type for so long.
“Let me get you my address,” she says.
“No need,” I tell her.
“What do you mean?” she asks.
“I’ve got your address,” I tell her.
“What do you mean you’ve got my address?” she asks. “I never gave you my address.”
“It’s on the new Mailboxes of the Stars tour map,” I tell her. “Fair warning, if your place doesn’t have a gate in front and walls or tall, sturdy fencing—”
“Walls?” she asks.
“…then I’d have something put up in a hurry. Once these weirdos find out where you live, if you don’t have a moat around your house, you never get any peace,” I finish.
“You really got my address off of one of those maps?” she asks. “How did they get the address?”
“Probably bribed someone that knows you,” I tell her. “It really doesn’t matter. So, reservation’s for 8; why don’t I have the car come get you around, say, 7:30?”
“I guess,” she says. “I don’t like that you got my address from—”
“I got them from Dutch,” I tell her, “your name and your phone number. I guess directors have access to that kind of thing. Anyway, so, 7:30 sound good?”
“Yeah,” she says hesitantly. “That’ll work.”
“Great, I’ll see you then,” I tell her and hang up.
Okay, so maybe I’m less indifferent toward Emma than I let on.
I used to be really into that whole doe-eyed-in-the-face-of-a-major-motion-picture-set look—yes, believe it or not, that’s an actual, distinct look—and attitude, especially the way I could always play the role of mentor to my generally young, often voluptuous pupil. Over the years though, I don’t know if it’s cynicism or what, but I’ve grown tired of all the naiveté.
I don’t know if Emma’s necessarily naïve, but she’s close enough to it that I shouldn’t be interested in her, but what can I tell you?
Still, with that naiveté comes an increased possibility that she’s not down so much for the dressing room booty call. She seems like a proponent of the phrase, “Let’s make it official.”
What is that phrase anyway? What does it mean?
Let’s make it official?
That’s when all the demands start and the sniping and the interference with my personal and work lives and having to walk by the newsstands that have pictures of me and whoever, making some claim that we’ve just had a major fight—which may or may not be true—and might be breaking up—which is almost never true until she, whoever “she” is, sees the headlines—and that’s something I’d really like to avoid.
Regardless, I’m in a position where I may finally be able to get Nick to forget my fucking phone number.
It’s a spiritual quest, really.
Maybe over dessert I can see how Emma feels about a three-way. Nothing says noncommittal like proposing that your first sexual act be one with a third person. Nothing says, “Don’t date me unless you’re into some casual, possibly freaky shit” like proposing it on the first date, more so, I would think, when she doesn’t know that it’s a date.
Not that this is a date.
No, this certainly isn’t a date.
I’m just getting a couple of things signed so Nick can take his autographed shit and go fuck himself with it.
There is a particular reason that I have a bit of a sour taste behind whatever attraction I have toward Emma, but it’s not worth mentioning here. It’s a personal tic and it really has nothing to do with her.
Anyway, Kieran comes back into the dressing room, saying, “Hey, I guess they’re going to need this room in a couple of minutes. They’ve got another interview.”
“They don’t have two rooms?” I ask.
“If they do,” he says, “they’re going to other people.”
“Did you get the reservations?”
“Yeah, that’s the thing,” he says.
“What’s the thing?” I ask.
“They don’t have anything until 9:30,” he tells me.
“Call them back and drop my name,” I tell him. “I already told my guest that we’d be dining at 8.”
“Yeah, I did drop your name,” Kieran says. “That’s why I was able to get reservations for tonight. They were going to put me down for sometime in January before they knew I was calling for you. I really wouldn’t worry about it.”
I scratch my chin.
“That was quite the ball of sympathy you dropped in my lap right there,” I tell him.
“What do you mean?” he asks.
“Eight would be nice,” I tell him, “but 9:30 isn’t the end of the world. My ego is intact, Kieran.” I whisper, “I’m going to be okay.”
Actually, I’m humiliated that I couldn’t get a table exactly when I wanted it and I’m furious that someone other than me and the waitress or whoever was on the phone knows about it. No lie, the thought already crossed my mind how I would dispose of Kieran’s body should I decide to make the secret that much easier to keep.
Fortunately for Kieran, though, I’m a peaceful man.
“All right,” he says. “Did you already set up the car? I can set that up for you.”
It’s a ploy.
“Two things,” I tell him. “One, I told you that I’m really not upset. Two, I told you that I’m not telling you who I’m going to dinner with because it’s none of your business. Is there anything else you have to say that I haven’t already said no to today?” I ask.
“No,” he says.
“All right,” I tell him. “Go home. I’ll call you if I need you.”
“Hey, would you mind if I’m maybe not on call tonight?” he asks. “See, my mother’s in town, and I really haven’t been able to spend that much time with her since she got here. And…” he goes on with his sob story.
After a while spent acting like I’m listening so that Kieran can feel like he’s being heard while I’m actually trying to figure out the drum pattern for this song that’s been in my head since I got in the car this morning, I interrupt him and say, “Have the night.” I tell him, “Have tomorrow night, too. Spend some time with the family. That sort of thing’s important, you know.”
“Thank you,” he says with his usual, obviously manufactured look of humility and gratitude.
I really just keep him around to do the jobs I’m too lazy to want to do and so I can occasionally make fun of his name. He’s not actually a crucial member of team Damian.
I’ve let assistants get close before, but I’d rather not talk about that right now.
Anyway, I really don’t know why he’s laying it on so thick. The only times that I’ve ever called him at home have been issues of absolute importance. Either that, or the occasional prank call, but mostly it’s been in situations wher
e it was of absolute necessity that I disturb him.
I’m not sure he’s aware of the fact that I have never once kept track of his hours. The way it actually works is that I pay him on a sliding scale of how much he’s irritated me that week.
If he doesn’t wrap up the thank you parade here pretty quick, I have a feeling he’s not going to end up with that many hours this week.
He really should have gone for the salary option. I’m not to be trusted accounting for someone else’s hours.
There’s a knock on the door and a woman from the crew pokes her head in.
“Hey,” she says. “I’m sorry to bug you, but we really do need the room, so is there any way I can help you with your things, or—”
“We’re going,” I tell her.
I grab what I assume is a complimentary bottle of 21-year-old scotch from atop one of the tables. There’s a little paper on a string wrapped around the neck of the bottle that says, “Mr. Hansen.”
I don’t know who Mr. Hansen is, but I thank him for the rather expensive bottle of scotch.
The woman halfway in the room looks like she wants to tell me something, but can’t find the words with which to do it.
I’ll give her time to figure it out. If it’s important, I’m sure it’ll come to her.
Out of the dressing room and on my way out of the building, I come to a couple of doors with strips of glass in them. On the other side is a big crowd of young women in their late teens and early 20s.
When I was a kid growing up and I would see videos of actors and musicians being rushed through crowds of adoring and attractive female adulators, I would always get a little perturbed.
“Didn’t the fucking Beatles understand that those women were ready and willing to screw their brains out?” I would ask myself.
I didn’t get it.
Okay, I was a weird kid.
When you’re a kid, you watch a celebrity being rushed through a crowd and wonder what the big deal is, but when people get into crowds, they cease to be people. Once the group mentality kicks in, you’re just as likely to get killed as you are to get your dick wet.
Since I started getting recognized, I’ve learned not to trust any groups larger than two strangers.
The reality of the situation is that if you don’t go through one of those gauntlets with some kind of escort or a good, solid barrier between you and them, chances of making it out of the situation uninjured drop substantially.
I’m looking through the glass section of the door at the mob on the other side just waiting to tear me to shreds when I notice that not one of them is looking in my direction. If they were, one of them would have seen me through the glass, and I’d be making a run for it.
In fact, as I inch closer for a better angle, they’re all looking toward the center of the group.
I open the door.
Nobody even looks over at me.
They’re all crowded around a man in his early 30s wearing a suit that looks to be in its early 60s.
This is just a simple waiting room for people with appointments with someone in one of the offices in the back, but it’s packed almost full with women literally and figuratively throwing themselves at the short, and from what I can tell from where I’m standing, balding man in the middle.
I tap one of the women on the shoulder.
She turns around and, although it takes a few seconds, she recognizes me.
“Oh hey, you’re that actor guy, right?” she asks.
I think that counts as being recognized.
“Yeah,” I tell her. “Who’s that man you’re all crowded around?”
“Oh, it’s Hershel Hansen,” she says. “Can you believe it?”
Can I believe it?
Can I believe it?
I don’t mean to throw a celebrity fit, but I’m Damian God-Damned Jones, for fuck’s sake. I should be the reason panties are wet in any given room, and I’m not about to be upstaged by Hershel Fucking Hansen, whoever he is.
Now that I think about it…
I tap the woman on the shoulder again.
Yeah, my presence made such little impact that she got bored with the fact that I’m in the room and turned her attention elsewhere.
She turns back around with annoyance plastered across her face. “Yeah?” she asks.
“Who is Hershel Hansen?” I ask.
A couple of the women closest to my informant turn and glare at me as if I’ve just insulted their holiest figure.
Maybe I have. How the fuck should I know?
“You’re kidding, right?” she asks.
“Can’t say that I am,” I answer.
It looks like she’s about to answer, but as she’s standing in such a way that she can talk to me and still keep an eye on Hansen, she sees him start to move toward the backstage area and she jumps back into the pack.
I’ve been replaced in the hearts and sexual organs of young, horny women.
This just might be the worst day of my life.
As I walk the rest of the way out of the building, I fail in my effort not to allow myself to think about the real reason I’m not so thrilled about Emma.
The reason is very simple, though the answer to alleviating the problem is impossible: she’s on her way up and I, well, I just got the brush-off from a whole group of women who even three years ago would have been generally assaulting me with undergarments.
It’s not that I really miss having women throwing their panties at me—I was always concerned about the hygiene involved—but the fact that that time may be drawing to a close is a depressing one.
Emma: she’s 20.
I’m not old by anyone’s standards, but at 29, it’s starting to look like my ”young actor” days might be behind me, not to mention my steamiest roles. There’s always the late-30s rebound that can last a long time—especially if you’re Sean Connery—but I don’t know if my career can handle the in-between.
If this keeps up, I’m going to have to start taking parts with a modicum of substance, and frankly, I’ve been doing fluff shit for so long that I’m not even sure I could hack it in a substantive film anymore.
The reason I’m fine with teasing Emma, but not interested in her beyond the role of plaything, is that she’s my up-in-the-face reminder that I’m not the new, exciting actor anymore—and I never will be again.
There’s nothing left that I can do to surprise anyone. I could get arrested with a rifle in a brothel and people would just chalk it up to frustration over a flagging career or drugs or some kind of midlife crisis or some combination of the three.
For Emma, everything’s in front of her. Me? I’m feeling more and more like I should just write my memoirs and get out while I’m still relevant.
I’m in actor limbo: I’m too young to be beloved, and I’ve been in the business far too long to be considered a rising star.
I probably shouldn’t hold Emma so personally accountable for that, but I do.
It is what it is.
Chapter Three
Dinner for Two
Emma
So I’m here, sitting at the table that Damian reserved, and I’m checking my watch.
I would call him, but the number he used to call me earlier came up as private. I might do what he did and simply give Dutch a call, but I don’t have his phone number, either.
I’m starting to wonder whether this is some kind of prank.
“Hey, I’m sorry I’m late,” Damian says, rushing around to the empty chair across from me. “I got a bit caught up looking into something.”
“What were you looking into?” I ask.
“Hershel Hansen,” he says. “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”
“Hershel Hansen?” I ask. “You mean that computer guy?”
He seems irritated by the question.
“Anyway, I’m sorry I kept you waiting,” he says.
“I’m just glad that you came at all,” I tell him, and point toward the front of the restaurant. “Yo
u see the people waiting for a table?”
“Yeah,” he answers.
“They could see me, too,” I tell him. “You wouldn’t believe some of the gestures and mouthed words I’ve been getting from those people, sitting at this table alone and eating nothing but the breadsticks they keep bringing out. You know, I think the worst part is when they’re refilling the basket and I’m stuck here with just my water to keep me company. I was really starting to fear an uprising.”
“I’m really very sorry,” he says. “So, before we get to dinner, I was wondering if I could ask a favor of you.”
“What’s that?” I ask.
“I have a cousin who’s a big fan of yours,” he says. “Would you mind signing a couple of things for him?”
I can feel my face growing warm. I can only imagine how red it must be right now.
I’ve given autographs before, but it’s always been as a cute, kitschy thing, like a headshot for one of my nieces or something. This is the first time anyone’s seriously asked me for my autograph.
I guess I did give a lot of autographs to the sci-fi crowd when I played a role with a particularly plunging neckline, but I’d hardly call that a result of adulation. Most of them didn’t even know my real name and just kept calling me Dr. Tchaikovsky or Mistress Death Head or whoever I happened to be in that particular film.
“Sure,” I tell him.
As Damian reaches into his bag for the items he wants me to sign for his cousin, the waiter arrives at our table.
“I’m glad to see that your companion is here,” the waiter, Nolan, says. “Are you two ready to order?”
“Actually, I haven’t really had a chance to peruse the menu,” Damian says. “Would you mind giving us a few more minutes?”
“Well, we have already been holding this table for—wait,” the waiter stops. “You’re Damian Jones, aren’t you?”
Damian smiles.
“I’m very sorry, sir,” he says. “Take as much time as you need.”
Just to make sure that what I think is happening is actually happening, I look toward the people in the front still waiting for a table. They’re still looking over at my table, but now they’re nudging each other and taking pictures on their cell phones.