by Claire Adams
“Your massage isn’t finished,” Bald Guy protests.
“I know,” I tell him. “I’m very sorry about that, but I’ve got to go after him.”
Bald guy scoffs loudly and throws his hands up in the air. It’s a pretty petulant scene, but it does allow me to get to my feet and hurry back into the locker room.
I’m quick to get dressed, but when I get out to the waiting room, Damian’s not there.
“Excuse me,” I say, walking up to the counter, “has my friend, Damian, come out yet?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the woman behind the counter says. “He walked through about a minute ago.”
Stupid tangled bra strap.
I finally track Damian down as he’s walking back toward his room.
“Where are you going?” I ask. “I thought we were doing the massage and then we were going to go down by the beach.”
“Yeah, I’m really not in the mood right now,” he says.
“I’m sorry I brought all that up,” I tell him. “I was just trying to get to know you better.”
“I know,” he says. “It’s fine. It’s just that, earlier, when you asked what the worst thing to ever happen to me was. It was that. Nobody knows because nothing between her and I was ever official, at least as far as public records were concerned. Add to that a grieving father who’d much rather forget my existence completely and a staff of doctors that are bound by confidentiality and you have the perfect storm it takes to have something like this slip by everyone’s radar. I think it goes without saying that I’d prefer you not talk about this with—”
“Yeah,” I interrupt, “of course. It’s nobody’s business and it’s sure as hell not my business to tell anyone.”
I may have gone a bit over the top there.
Damian eyes me and just says, “Yeah. Anyway, if you don’t mind, I think I’m going to cancel our trip down to the beach. After that massage, I just kind of want to lay down for a bit.”
“All right,” I tell him, “no worries.”
He walks off, and I’m actually grateful I put my foot down about having separate rooms.
The Damian Jones I knew from the glossy papers and TV gossip shows is one of those guys who’s always playing the field, rumored to have had dozens, if not hundreds, of sexual partners, though nobody seems to have any definite numbers. As much as Damian’s tried to dissuade me, though, I like him.
It’s because I like him that I insisted on the separate rooms. It’s because I like him that I insisted we not kiss until we’re onscreen. I’m not a prude, I just don’t want to be another snapshot in the cavalcade of Damian’s skanks.
I get back to my room and the next hour passes grudgingly.
Ben got his first check. Despite assurances that I would never have to talk to him again, he still sent me a text to let me know when the check cleared.
What an asshole.
I’m so pissed off at everything right now. Every time an opportunity comes up, I end up having to pay for it 10 times over. Nothing is ever fucking easy and I’m sick of it.
Five thousand dollars a month for the next 17 years: I did the math. That comes out to $1,020,000. I guess he just figured making it an even 17 years was easier than making it an even million dollars.
I hope the money brings him nothing but fucking misery.
Misery’s a hell of a thing, though. While Ben certainly deserves as much of it as he can get, he’s probably never going to feel the bite of it. Meanwhile, Damian’s down in his room wallowing in misery and he’s done nothing wrong.
I think it’s time to go nuclear.
* * *
It took a little time and a little planning, but after putting my mind to it, I’ve come up with the perfect plan.
Step one: get Damian out of his room.
This part is easy enough.
I find a bellhop who’s not standing particularly close to any of his coworkers and tell him, “I’ll give you 200 bucks, 100 now, 100 afterward, if you’ll go to this room,” I hand the young man a sticky note with Damian’s room number written on it, “and tell the man inside he’ll have to vacate the room for a couple of hours. Say that you found spiders in the adjoining room—I remember reading an interview where he said that he hates spiders—”
“Ma’am,” the bellhop says, “I appreciate the offer, but I should probably remind you the kind of clientele that comes through here. Two hundred bucks may be a lot to someone working a franchise in Who Gives a Shit, South Dakota, but I’m not risking my job for a shitty payday like that.”
Okay, so 200 isn’t going to do it, but judging by the mouth on this little bastard, I’d say there’s some wiggle room.
“What would it take?” I ask.
“You’re Emma Roxy, right?” he asks.
Oh, this isn’t going to be good.
“Yeah,” I answer.
“I’ll do it for free,” he says.
I did not expect that.
“Why?” I ask.
I could swear there’s something about a gift horse and looking it in its mouth that could be useful here, but for the life of me, I can’t remember the saying.
“I saw you in Drathmore: Vengeance from Space a while back,” he says. “Just answer one question for me and I’ll go tell your dude whatever you want me to tell him.”
“It’s always nice to meet a fan,” I tell him. “What’s your question?”
“When you were playing Mistress Death Head, were you using some kind of tape or was it one of those push up bras or what was going on there?” he asks. “I’d seen you in something else, but I could swear your jugs were like double the size.”
“Don’t they usually give bellhop jobs to well-spoken, well-mannered individuals?” I ask.
“Lady, when you walked over here and tried to bribe me, I earned the privilege to pull my tongue out of your ass,” he says. “So come on, I’ve got money riding on this.”
“You bet on the method of breast presentation in some low-budget, sci-fi flick?” I ask.
“Funny you’re looking down your nose at it,” he says. “I guess now that you’re hot shit, you’re going to dismiss those earlier movies as just paying your dues or whatever.”
“I don’t think I’m hot shit,” I tell him. “What did you bet it was?”
“I said they did the whole thing CGI,” he says. “There are a few shots there where your titties react to one motion or another in a way that I think violate the laws of physics.”
I chuckle a little.
“Really?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says. “Don’t get me wrong, you’re attractive and all, but I just don’t see those things being real.”
“Is that what this is really about?” I ask. “Are you trying to get me to show you my breasts?”
“Well,” he says, “now that you mention it, I don’t suppose I’d mind taking a look.”
“Yeah?” I giggle.
“Yeah,” he says. “So what’s up, are you down or what?”
“Okay, first off, late 90s, junior high, stoner kid,” I start, “people don’t talk like that anymore. Yeah, you might get all of those phrases spread out over a few conversations, but never all together like that. When you talk like that, it makes you sound like a moron. Second off,” I continue, “why don’t I walk over to your manager and tell him about the little proposition you just made me?” I ask. “I’m sure they’d frown on the whole me trying to bribe you thing, but when you stack that up against sexual harassment of a guest in the hotel, do you really think I’m going to be the one to get the fucking whip?”
Grudgingly though it may be, I can now start thinking about step two.
While the dipshit bellhop’s getting Damian out of his room, I’ll be gathering the supplies I had room service bring up for me. Step two is accomplished when I’ve successfully made my way into Damian’s unoccupied room.
Step three comes after about 15 minutes of double-checking my various ingredients and matching them up with the prope
r instructions.
I’m sitting on Damian’s bed with various household items with which one can prank one’s friends.
I’ve got clear gelatin, plastic wrap, clear fishing line, shaving cream, 14 balloons of varying sizes, a pack of bottle rockets, thanks to my ability to hammer out something a little extra in my settlement with the bellhop, and a few other assorted items.
Step three is completed when I’ve managed to set up at least five different pranks around Damian’s hotel room.
I’m going somewhere with this. Trust me.
Step four is cleaning everything up, double-checking to make sure none of the pranks are too readily visible to someone who doesn’t know they’re there, and packing my leftover items back into the plastic garbage sack I got from the bellhop. It’s what he was keeping the bottle rockets in.
Step five is to dump everything back in my room and head back downstairs, where the bellhop should be waiting for my signal to allow Damian back into his room.
Step six is the giving of the signal itself, and step seven is to head back to my room and wait for Damian to give me a call.
From there, well, the rest is going to depend on Damian.
I’m back in my room after a surprisingly smooth run of things. Damian should already be back in his, and I can’t imagine it’ll be much longer before my phone starts to—and there it goes.
“Hello,” I answer.
“You’re really going to have to do better than that,” he says.
“What are you talking about?” I ask.
“I found your little pranks,” he says. “If you’re going to try to come at me with that shit, you’re going to have to do a much better job of covering your work. By the way, thanks for making me dig the gelatin out of the toilet bowl. That never gets old.”
“How many did you find?” I ask.
“All of them,” he says.
“How do you know?” I ask.
“Because you suck at hiding them,” he says. “If someone figures it out beforehand, it’s not a very good prank. I hate to be so critical, but as your mentor and spiritual guide, I feel it’s my duty to…”
He must be doing better; he’s gotten back to referring to himself as my mentor and spiritual guide and all sorts of other positively irritating nonsense that tells me there’s still a chance he comes through the rest of the day with a smile on his face.
“…last time I had someone mess with my shower head,” he says, “they used this clear gel stuff that slowly made every drop of water on me harden into what looked like snot lines all over my body and in my hair—that was a hell of a prank. I didn’t see that one coming.”
“Whatever,” I tell him, “so how many have you found?”
“Five,” he says.
Shit, he is good.
What he doesn’t know is that I had a couple of extra minutes and so I managed to slip in a little something extra.
I’m just waiting to find out what step eight is going to be.
“What made you do that?” he asks.
“I thought it might help pull you out of your funk,” I tell him.
I’ve dealt with tragedy before, though nothing quite as bleak as what Damian’s been through. What I’ve found is that sometimes it can seem impossible to pull one’s self out of that thought spiral, but snapping out of it can be as simple as having something introduced into the equation that you weren’t expecting.
When I was a kid, my favorite grandmother died. After my parents told me, they gave me space when I needed space and comfort when I needed comfort. The problem was that as time went on, I wasn’t letting myself work through it.
One day, though, after school I came home to find the house deserted, though I could hear a lot of strange noises coming from the backyard.
When I got out there, my parents had set up a miniature carnival in the backyard complete with games, prizes, my parents dressed up as clowns, and all my friends sitting around a big table.
What I came to realize as I grew up was that what my parents did hadn’t worked because having fun and a bit of a distraction made me forget my grandma or miss her any less. It simply gave my mind permission to switch into a different gear.
I still had a lot of rough days and nights for a while, but after that carnival in the backyard, things started turning a corner.
Again, though, Damian’s tragedy is a bit of a different situation and I don’t have any illusions that I’ve cured him of his grief. At best, I’m just hoping that I can get him through the weekend without having him retreat back into his room for the rest of our stay.
We’ve got shit to do.
The rest of the weekend is pretty quiet, though it’s filled with plenty of conversation. The best part comes at around 4 o’clock Sunday morning when I get a call from Damian telling me that he found my last trap the hard way.
I’m just surprised it took him that long to go for the Icy Hot-filled lotion bottle in his bathroom. One thing you can set your watch by is a man’s need to relieve backed up pressure, and in lieu of a sexual partner, you’ll find that particular kind of relief generally comes in a fairly predictable way.
Did we accomplish everything we set out to accomplish after Dutch told us both to get away and practice our ability to be attractive together? Probably not.
What we did accomplish, though, was to start building the foundation of actual intimacy that isn’t just going to go away when the cameras stop rolling.
It’s not much, but it’s a start.
I’m just happy enough to say that this is the weekend that Damian and I have become friends.
Chapter Eight
Reshuffling
Damian
“You’re not going to believe this,” Danna says when I come through the door.
Before I have a chance to ask her what she’s talking about or ask her if she would kindly shut up for a while until I’ve had some time to decompress from the mini-vacation, I see what she rightfully thinks I won’t believe.
“Where did all this come from?” I ask.
“Guess who,” she says.
“Ah, Rita,” I laugh, “my own personal deranged fan.”
“Do you actually know what you’re looking at?” Danna asks. “It’s really pretty impressive when you read the note and figure out what all of this is.”
She bends down and picks up a folded piece of paper from the corner of my coffee table and hands it over to me.
The note reads:
“Dami,
How quick we are to forget one another. From the moment we’re born, we start to die. Every day, we’re a little bit closer to reaching that final end, and I don’t know how many more of those days I can wait to be at your side.
I know that sometimes people don’t understand me, but I think you would. I think you already do. Sweet Dami, I want to show you the ways I’ve grown and died every day since I’ve known you. —known you. —known you. I want to show you the ways I’ve grown and died every day since I first saw you, so I’ve decided to share a piece of me that you started planting that very first moment my eyes caught yours. I’d never seen someone with such kind, caring eyes and such incredible mental agility that you had when you saved the world as Burke Howard, and in that moment, I knew that every part of me that falls away should be yours to do with as you please.
Yours forever and ever and ever and ever,
Rita”
“Burke Howard,” Danna says, “that was Casting Shadows, wasn’t it?”
“Immediate Dream,” I correct her. “Casting Shadows was the down-and-out pitcher who’d gotten in trouble with the league one too many times, only to turn everything around in just under 90 minutes and get everyone to love him again.”
“Right,” Danna says. “You know, you’ve been making some pretty shitty movies recently.”
“I took a break,” I tell her.
“Yeah, but Flashing Lights isn’t going to be the artistic comeback that would justify taking so many crap roles,”
she says.
“You said there was something impressive about the letter,” I redirect. “What was it?”
“It’s not just the letter,” she says, “check the dates on these.”
In the front room of my house and extending into the living room are dozens and dozens of pots, some with live flowers, some with dead flowers, and some with only soil.
I bend down and look where Danna’s pointing.
“June 5, 2013,” I say aloud.
“Now the next one,” she says.
I move over and read the date off the next flower pot, “June 6, 2013.”
“Each one of these was planted every day, one after the other for a year,” Danna says. “The newest one—it’s over there by the door—is from three days ago.”
“Where was all of this?” I ask.
“On the sidewalk out front,” Danna answers.
“I was going to ask why the security guys didn’t do anything, but if she wasn’t on the property—”
“No, they would have seen her,” Danna interrupts. “They should have seen her, anyway. It must have taken a long time to set all of these pots out in chronological order by planting date, but nobody saw anything, neighbors, no one.”
“What about the security tapes?” I ask.
“Doesn’t cover where she was outside the fence,” Danna says. “I called the cops and they came by and everything, so it’s all taken care of. I guess the only thing we’ve got to do now is hope they catch her while we figure out what to do with all of these flowers.”
“You’d almost think something like this would be good in a movie,” I tell her.
“Yeah,” she scoffs. “You’d have the crew cursing your name every time one of the plants dies out of order, though. How was the weekend?”
“It was okay, I guess,” I tell her. “It didn’t really go off the way it usually does.”
“No sex in the hot tub of the presidential suite this time, huh?” she asks.
“Oh, that only happened the one time,” I protest. “No, I don’t know, I’m starting to think that maybe she and I could actually be friends. You know, she told me she got her first movie role after winning a contest in the newspaper.”