by Julia Dumont
So, regarding the question of whom to kill first, this was the deciding factor.
He leaped at Max like a rabid chimpanzee, knocking him to the floor. Jack, still naked as a jaybird, joined the fray.
Molly was kicking at them all, ostensibly to break it up, but probably because she just really, really wanted to kick them.
As for Cynthia, she watched with bemusement, happy she was getting out before she had fully gotten in. She loved watching Jack and his penis flailing around in the fray like that, though. It was a wonder. She thought of the nude male wrestling scene in the movie Women in Love and considered asking the other guys to strip as well, just for enhanced entertainment value. But it was already pretty damn good: the biggest movie star in the world fighting totally naked with the biggest director in the world. With special guest star, Max, her “idiot brother.”
At least this chapter was over.
Day 2, Chapter 22
She realized she didn’t care. She got dressed and walked around them all, squeezing through the crowd and into the bright California sunshine.
Cynthia found herself face to face with Lolita, who had been too far back to grasp what all the hub-hub was about.
“Lolita,” said Cynthia, truly dumbfounded, “don’t tell me you came with my crazy Max.”
“Yeah, we bumped into each other in a bar, believe it or not,” said Lolita. “I thought you wouldn’t care, now that you’re with Jack Stone. I mean, who would?”
“With Jack Stone,” said Cynthia. “That’s funny. I don’t think anyone has ever really been with him. But, incredibly, despite all appearances, I think he actually wants it. And I swear I’ll find him the right girl. It might just save his life.” Her phone rang. “Hold on, I’ve gotta take this. Hello, Mom?”
“Cindy! You’ll never guess where I am. Vegas, baby!”
“Mom. Tell me you did not just say ‘Vegas, baby.’”
“Well, you’ll never believe this. I’m engaged!”
“What? To who? Whom? What the hell are you talking about?”
“To Dominic, of course!”
“What? But, Mom! That’s totally crazy! You can’t marry Dominic! He’s not marriage material!”
“Cindy, listen to me. We’re celebrating our engagement by checking into the honeymoon suite. Oh, Dommy, look at all these mirrors! And rose petals!”
“What?” gasped Cynthia, nearly choking.
“What’s that Dommy?” she asked her lustful husband-to-be, “’Put my roses on your piano, but put my tulips on your organ?’ Tulips? Oh, two lips! On your organ! Ha! That’s hilarious! Cindy, isn’t that a scream?”
“Mom! That is definitely not a scream! That’s Dominic! That’s called foreboding! A bad omen! Wake up! You’re supposed to take heed of shit like that!”
“Oh, relax Cindy. I’m just calling because we’re going to hang around for a few days, test out this heart-shaped bed, and then come back to L.A. for a big engagement party at Marmont. And you’re invited. But, honey, I’ve gotta go. Somebody has to drink all this champagne. And put her tulips on someone’s organ. Bye!” Click.
Cynthia stared at the phone in disbelief. It almost seemed like the entire conversation had been some kind of joke . . . a crank call. But she knew it wasn’t. She stuck the phone back into her purse, shook her head, and looked at Lolita. “My mom is supposedly engaged to be married.”
“So I gathered,” she said. “Which is weird, you know, because, I can’t believe this, and it doesn’t matter because I happen to know he’s in love with you, but I think I’m falling for Max a little bit.”
“You think you are falling for Max a little bit,” deadpanned Cynthia. “A little bit.” She giggled. It started slowly, as she tried to hold it in, but then it came in sharp blurts that transitioned into deep, rolling waves of laughter.
“Yeah, well, we had a lot of fun hanging out today,” said Lolita, starting to laugh too. “I hope that doesn’t bother you.”
“Actually,” said Cynthia, catching her breath and gesturing in the direction of the screening room. “It’s much more likely to bother you.”
Lolita instantly got it . . . that at least part of the fiasco going on inside the theater was Max-related. This made her laugh even harder.
Cynthia moved close to Lolita and they hugged long and hard, Lolita using one arm and clutching Wilfredo over to the side like a handbag with the other.
“Sorry that the madness of the past couple of days has put a strain on us,” said Cynthia. “You know how much I love you and appreciate all your help with the business and everything else, right?”
“Yes and thanks and likewise,” replied Lolita, kissing her friend gently on the cheek, then on the lips. “Celebrity makes everyone a little crazy, not just the celebrities.”
Cynthia’s phone rang again.
“Pete?” she answered, flabbergasted. “I assume you’re calling from halfway around the world at this point?”
“Who’s Pete?” asked Lolita. “Wait . . . Pisco Pete? Pisco and Cheetos Pete?”
But Cynthia didn’t even hear her.
“No, actually,” he said, “I got all the way to the airport and my flight was cancelled. I’ve been trying to call you. I left a message.”
Just then, a beautiful, familiar young woman approached. “Cynthia, right?” she asked, moving in uncomfortably close. “You’re the lady from Jack’s house. His new thing.”
Lolita looked at Cynthia. Everyone did.
“Pete,” she said, “could you hold on for one second?”
Cynthia remembered the girl now. What in the world was she doing here? “Mariana, right? I didn’t recognize you without your clothes off. Listen, I was Jack’s almost thing.” Then she pointed to the phone and said, “I’m this guy’s thing now. And he’s mine.”
“Oh, well that’s good news,” said Mariana. “Maybe I have a chance with Jack after all.”
“No,” said Lolita, shaking her head. “You don’t.”
“Why?” asked Mariana. “And who are you anyway?”
“I’m the dog groomer,” she replied.
“The dog groomer,” sneered Mariana, wrinkling her nose at Wilfredo. “Wait, so you’re the idiot who fired Tanya?”
“No, well, yes, I am that idiot,” said Lolita. “But I hired her back. You know, kid, I don’t know Jack Stone from jack shit, but according to what Scarlett O’Hara told Wilfredo, you might want to talk to Molly Hannigan before getting back with him.”
Mariana made a pretentious recent-Ivy-League-graduate– talking-to-a-dog-groomer face. “What, pray tell, does my stupid old mother have to do with anything?”
“Hold on again, Pete,” said Cynthia, turning to Mariana. “Your last name is Sternberg? You’re Steven’s daughter?”
“Yeah, so?”
“Wow,” said Cynthia into the phone, “this is getting positively Chinatown-ian.”
Just as those words passed through Cynthia’s lips, the crowd parted and Molly Hannigan emerged from the theater. Her blouse was ripped and falling open, her face streaming mascara. There appeared to be a bite mark just above her left nipple, a crescent of dental indentations radiating redness, well on the way to black and blueness. She was trailed by Max, then Sternberg, then Jack——still stark naked, bright claw marks on his face and chest.
Then came cute martini-bikini girl. She was also in tears, another apparent Jack Stone casualty. Messily applied blood-like lipstick or actual blood adorned her perfectly pouty mouth.
Revelations kept unfolding for everyone, especially Mariana. It was hard to keep up, but she was a smart girl, getting smarter by the second: her Jack (not an unrequited infatuation, but actually her lover for the past six months), had been cheating on her with her best friend since grade school (Miss Martini-Bikini) and her mom, who had been at least double-cheating on her dad. Mariana assumed this was only scratching the surface, but at the moment she didn’t feel the need to dig deeper. She rushed her mother, taking her down like a linebacker
.
“So, it’s true,” said Lolita, her eyes focused like lasers on Jack’s crotch-to-knee section. “And then some.” Her mouth was wide open, as were the mouths of many other guests. One elderly movie comedienne, about fifteen feet away, gasped, “Sweet mother of Jesus, that beats Milton Berle. And I should know. How I miss Uncle Miltie. That’s what I called it.” She reached out with one hand as if to touch it, cupping her breast with the other and swaying slightly. She seemed completely oblivious to the fact that everyone was completely aware of the nature of her pantomime and that she’d said all of that out loud.
Wilfredo leaped from Lolita’s arms and took off like a teeny-tiny Rin Tin Tin.
“He’s going to see Max,” said Lolita. “He just adores that guy. Or, you know, he wants to steal his wallet.”
But after leaping over Mariana and her mother——now working through their mommy-dearest nightmare by rolling around in the grass——Wilfredo ran right past Max. He ran past Steven Sternberg too. He leaped through the air, like some kind of canine superhero, and went straight for Jack Stone’s you know what. Unlike almost everyone else, he apparently didn’t like the look of him. Or it. Luckily, he was slightly off-target . . . down and to the right. He merely took a chunk out of his calf. Still, not a pretty sight.
This was followed by much running, screaming, yelling, bleeding, crying, 911-calling——a whole new level of mayhem. The stuff of Hollywood legend.
An ambulance was called. The party was over.
Cynthia was amazed. The three acts she’d outlined earlier were far from the real story, certainly not her story. Hers was still unfolding. The characters kept changing——dropping out, coming back, dropping out again. Bit players stole scenes from super stars. As much as she tried to wrest order from chaos, her narrative was weirdly stubborn. It refused to adhere strictly to the classical three-act structure. She couldn’t even tell what act she was in half of the time.
“Pete?” said Cynthia, turning her back on the madness.
“Still here,” he said.
“Um . . . I suppose you really have to leave.”
“Yeah, our first gig is the day after tomorrow in Japan. A ten-hour flight and they’re sixteen hours ahead. But my red-eye doesn’t take off for another four hours. Do you want to come down here, maybe get a drink at LAX? It’s such a romantic place to wait.”
“Ah, waiting,” she said, thinking back. “What was it? How long do I have to wait? Can I get you now or must I hesitate?”
“Exactly,” said Pete. “And unless the airport bar is incredibly dark, we may have to wait until I get back.”
“So be it,” she said, “I’m calling a cab. Don’t move.”
She turned to Lolita and hugged her again. “See you soon . . . no doubt at the future Mrs. Dominic ‘Lothario’ Orlando’s engagement party. Did I just say that?” She rolled her eyes and turned, heading down the path.
Lolita and Wilfredo waved goodbye. Max approached and a very hyper Chihuahua wagged his tail like he was trying to achieve lift-off.
Max watched Cynthia walk out of his life, probably forever this time. “So, she doesn’t like Stone. She likes this other guy.”
“Seems like it,” Lolita replied.
“And she hates me,” he said. “Pretty much everyone does. Probably you too.”
Lolita thought for a second, before saying, “Well, I’m sure there are parts of you I like.”
“I can live with that,” he said. “Speaking of parts, don’t you think Stone’s dick is just a bit too big? Sort of freakish? Women don’t really like that, do they?”
“No, definitely not,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Hey, handsome, how about you take me somewhere and get me a drink?”
“Can we ride your sweet pink Vespa?”
“How else are we going to get anywhere?” she asked, clutching Wilfredo to her breast, taking Max by the hand, and heading down the hill.
“Wait a minute,” laughed Max, feeling around in his pockets. “I seem to have lost my wallet again.”
“Damn it, Wilfredo” said Lolita, shaking her finger at the little dog and pulling the purloined item from her purse. “Here you go, Max.”
“Umm . . .” he said, “all the cash is gone.”
“It appears he ate it for lunch,” smiled Lolita. “Poor baby hasn’t eaten anything all day. Looks like we’re taking you out.”
“Even better,” said Max. He was nothing if not good-natured.
They continued their way down the walk but were soon confronted by a large Irish Wolfhound and an enormous Great Dane.
“King and Max!” cried Lolita, on the verge of tears, “where did you come from?”
Max, the human, said, “Wait, the dog’s name is Max?”
“Yes,” said Lolita. “Max, meet Max. And King.”
Max the human reached out his hand for both dogs to sniff.
“How did they even find you?” he asked.
“Who knows?” asked Lolita. “They’re very special canines.
”Both dogs growled menacingly.
“But, Jesus, Max, watch out. They’re not to be trusted around men.”
But Max kept his hand right there, three inches from the dual jaws of death, holding it calmly, letting the beasts take their time.
The dogs hesitated for one more moment before licking Max’s hand, forearm, elbow, and bicep . . . and then back to the hand to start again.
“Hmm . . . I think I passed the test,” he said. “Now how are we going to transport them all on that scooter?”
“We’ll take Wilfredo,” said Lolita. “Somehow I think the other two will find their way.” Then she thought of something. “Good god, Arthur!” She grabbed her phone.
Arthur picked up instantly. “Hello, Lolita, darling. I’ve been trying to call you. I screwed up. I lost the dogs. All three of them. King had me cornered in an alley and when I ran out of Kobe beef they all just took off. I left you tons of messages.”
“No problem,” said Lolita. “I found them. They’re with me now. Thank you so much for all your help. You’re the best. Hey, by the way, did I tell you about my friend’s dating service? I think it might be perfect for you. I’ll call you tomorrow. We’ll have lunch and talk. Thanks again.”
“Okay, sounds good,” said Arthur, disappointed that Lolita still wasn’t interested in him romantically, but knowing down deep that she never would be and truly appreciating her friendship and concern.
As the caterers and cleaning staff began the daunting task of restoring the Sternberg’s trampled, bloody battlefield to its former pristine beauty, they heard a curious duet wafting its way up from the street, infused with the sweet smell of jasmine and orange blossom:
Nothing could be finer,
Than to be in your vaginer
In the mor-or-or-ning . . .
The lyrics made them laugh and they needed one. It quickly caught on, each of them eventually adding his own lewd verse. It made their work go faster. Who knows, it may have even led to some inter-staff romance later that night. Music and sex are both known as universal languages. Being bilingual would have to be even better.
Echoing through the canyon, over the sound of a puttering scooter, they swore they heard the three dogs singing along.
Day 2, Chapter 23
Cynthia’s cab was cruising west on Sunset, heading for the 405. “Hesitation Blues” was on repeat in her head.
Buzz. The phone. Pete.
She picked up. “Hey.”
“Where are you?”
“Just getting on the freeway.”
“Because I had a couple of thoughts. First of all, what if you came along? For a week or something. I just checked . . . there are empty seats in first class and it’s on me. A few days in Tokyo, a few more in Thailand . . . as long as you want. The first leg is basically island hopping throughout Asia.”
She closed her eyes.
Oh, my god, a vacation sounds good. One with Pete sounds even better. Heaven, actually. What a
great way to kick off a relationship.
She felt incredibly close to him already. It’s like they’d known each other since puberty or something. Duh. And after today’s festivities, she needed some Pete time. She was beyond horny. Maybe even beyond horngry.
Note to self: a girl can’t spend that much time in the company of, let alone hanging onto, a near-equine-sized hard-on without getting just a little bit horngry. Jesus. A girl would need an assistant to wrangle that thing. A tractor trailer to haul it around. Maybe a second one for Jack’s ego.
Despite everything, though, she was determined to find him a true love. But wow. She laughed out loud. Just thinking about Jack made her miss Pete even more.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Nothing,” she whispered into the phone, “I was just thinking about how good island hopping with you sounds.” But as she said it, she thought about the consequences and instantly talked herself out of it.
What are you thinking? You’re moving into a new office in three days. You still have to hire an assistant. And supervise the last touches on the screening room. Buy furniture, video camera, editing software. Stock the kitchen. Deal with the website and scads of new clients. Fifteen interviews in the next six days. A million other small but crucial details. Plus you’re starting a Second Acts blog. Sure, you’ve been brainstorming thoughts and concepts for weeks——dating ideas, destinations, advice——but you have to go through with it and shape it . . . put it together in some sort of coherent fashion. You have nearly two thousand requests on Facebook that you haven’t responded to yet. There’s the personal page and the fan page. Maybe there should be a whole other one for industry people. Social networking is becoming a fulltime job unto itself. You really, really must find that assistant. Now. And then there’s the little matter of a certain engagement party. Something you wouldn’t mind missing, but wouldn’t think of missing in a million years.
“Pete, I’m sorry, but I can’t. Not now. It’s just impossible. But what was your other thought?”
“The other thought. Yeah. Well it turns out there’s another flight leaving at 6:15 A.M. and I could catch that one instead and just make the concert. Meanwhile, there are plenty of hotels around here. There’s gotta be one that’s halfway decent. We could order room service. And then, you know, bleep all night.”