Hollywood Savage

by Kristin McCloy

  It’s the reason, I’m certain, of the peculiarly unique stiffness people seem to have here—I see it at restaurants, at bars, at parties like these. Everybody stands like a statue, as if afraid to move, to unstrike the pose, and so take the risk of displaying an unflattering angle. Their blood isn’t used to moving (unless, of course, they’re at the gym for their allotted hour of exercise).

  I think of New York, of its tremendous sense of energy, and it seems to me that it’s generated by all those hundreds of thousands of people walking, and walking at great speed, sometimes for twenty, for thirty blocks—people whirl into a place, the door is swung open, other people are leaving, and the sense is one of circulation; perhaps that’s the reason everyone talks to each other so easily there—because we all share that great, common ground: New York City’s streets. To live there, one simply cannot be afraid of approaching others (everybody walks in New York).

  Some whacked-out person in a kind of loincloth with a turban on his head, muttering foreign incantations to himself, walks by, and the people around him slyly catch each other’s eye (“only in New York”). For all its Big Cityness, it remains the single place I’ve ever felt a sense of community—because everyone, no matter how rich or how poor, how proper or delinquent, has to hit the streets sometime. A host of them even live there, and I don’t mean just the homeless, either—old people, long-retired, children gone, sit on benches, hands lying idle in their laps all day; young punks, lacking nothing in the way of piercings and tattoos, hand-painted leather jackets, sprawl on East Village sidewalks with their cronies and a dog or two, unashamedly asking for change.

  The only sense of purpose here (of motion, too, I can’t help but notice) seems to come from the half dozen summer-linen-suited chiseled young (gay, I could not help thinking—they were so good-looking) men, who pass through bearing trays of fresh salmon and tuna sushi, small goat cheese pastries, sun-dried tomato canapés. They’re the only ones, it comes to me only after I’ve finished my second glass of wine, who are mingling. Nobody, it appears, seems to know anybody else here.

  Lear reappears just as the catering team has finished lighting the gas torches planted all around for after sunset, when the air cools fast.

  Hey, he said, like it was me who’d given him the slip, whaddaya think, nice spread, right? He was reaching past me for a handful of pastries, ordering a drink, and for a moment I envied him, his brash ability to take control, to take whatever he wanted from a situation like this, and never stop to consider himself a failure. Failure in what sense, I don’t know, only that I already felt the heavy weight of it in the pit of my stomach, leaden and sour.

  What the hell, I said. Let’s get out of here, go someplace and get a steak—something red and bloody, real meat—

  Leave now? Are you kidding? Come on, man, have another one—

  He ordered a drink without asking what I wanted, handed it to me in a brusque, comic manner. Come on, he said again, he beckoned with his head, I’ll introduce you to some people.

  We went inside, where someone had spread out what I took to be the musician’s CDs, their covers dark and abstract, unrecognizable.

  Does it all himself, Lear says. Got a studio that’s state-of-the-art, knowwhatImean?

  In the living room, a silver-backed mirror’s ostentatiously placed square on the low, knickknack-free coffee table, mounded high with glittering white powder. Two women sit on the couch before it, sniffing, brushing their nostrils delicately with their fingertips. Other people mill around, looking at each other, looking at the coke, looking away. Lear went straight for it.

  Gotta have some birthday drugs, right? What the hell’s a birthday without drugs? He sat next to one of the women, who looked at him as if he were an absolutely foreign specimen, and did a line.

  Yow, he said, Miles, c’mere—

  No thanks, not for me—

  But he was already drawing another line, long and sloppy, barking at me like a Nike commercial, Just do it! The two women exchanged a look, nearly expressionless, and one of them shrugged her bared, tanned shoulders, a motion of disdain.

  It was this that made me come forward, lean over, snort it up loud. Lear laughed as my head came back up, eyes stinging from the bitter chemical rush, and in that instant we were bound together, two men who just did not give a fuck.

  What the hell, Lear said. Let’s stay another fifteen, whaddaya say?

  We went outside to finish our drinks and Lear produced a joint. Time took on another dimension, the brittle high speed of revved-up perception, and I heard myself speaking, to Lear first, then to three people that had somehow got caught in the conversational eddy, a man younger than myself who stared at me without expression (seems it was going around) and two women who kept laughing, a kind of high whinnying sound coinciding with nothing in particular.

  I realized, even as I was speaking, that I had forgotten the end of my sentence, and cut myself off abruptly, as if, in fact, I’d suddenly remembered something, and headed back to the house. Inside, I heard fragments of conversation spiked high above the music:

  … My turn to carpool and I hear Rick’s little girl asking mine what her father does, and Emma says, “he’s a ’ducer,”… yes, it was so precious! But then the other one get this, says, ’vising or ’xecutive?

  (Burst of laughter, the clink of ice)

  —I mean who the fuck wants to make some kinda art house movie, right? But then, shit, if it makes March of the Penguins money, I’m in, know what I’m sayin?

  … Yeah, things’re cool, I’ve been working a lot—got a Jack-in-the-Box National—

  You mean a Phil-in-the-Box?

  (More laughter)

  The bathroom door was locked, there was more than one person inside. The drugs, I presumed, had had to be sequestered by now, to be doled out on another, more discriminating basis.

  The door opened and a woman came out, it shut again behind her. She stopped short, said, Sorry.

  She was beautiful, an exotic ethnic mix of wild hair and plush lips, skin that should not have been that pale, pupils dilated wide in startlingly green eyes. Like so many other women, she, too, was wearing the sarong, apparently, of the season, except on her it looked altogether natural—knotted low and sexy beneath one hip (bone, I could not help noticing, polished-looking under olive-toned skin), it was an exquisite “piece” (as Maggie used to call clothes she’d spent too much money on, that was always my clue) of brushed cotton in various shades of green (my camouflage, it occurred to me then, was right on target)—which, in her case, were all picked up (made iridescent, even) by those incredible eyes. On top she wore the least amount of fabric that could possibly make a T-shirt, the chaste height of its collar more than made up for her beautifully bra-free and perfectly shaped breasts (surgery? The constant question of an LA cocktail party, absent-hosted or not), with perfect quarter-size latte-colored (as far as the eye could see through cloth, anyway) nipples.

  You’re waiting, aren’t you, she said, she made a twirling motion with both hands, I had no idea how to interpret it.

  I felt myself looking down, absurdly, as if to find the answer there, but she was too coked-up to notice, she said, Look he’ll be out in a sec, okay? Okay? Shit, there she is again—

  She wheeled around as quickly as she had moved forward, eyes darting over her shoulder. Did she move?

  Did who move?

  That casting director, you know—she does, like, prime time and stuff, you know—

  She looked again then turned fast, put her back to the wall, rolled her eyes. I already said hello, she said. I can’t talk to her again …!

  So what do you do? she asked, sniffing hard, turning toward me as if she’d just noticed me as a potential distraction (a commercial break, I could not help thinking). What’s your name?

  I’m a writer, I said, unwilling, for some reason, to tell her my name; she didn’t notice.

  Wow, a writer! Like, anything I might’ve seen?

  This man is not ju
st a writer, Lear’s voice came booming from behind, his eyes bloodshot, a giggling woman in tow. He is the world’s greatest fucking living writer!

  I laughed, he was so grandiose. Everybody did, including Freaky Green Eyes, and Lear pulled his companion forward, said, Guess what Linny’s got—

  The woman giggled again, the sound an unsettling mixture of little girl and wild vixen, her nipples traced nakedly against the fine netted fabric of her shirt; it seemed (I thought, so limpingly slow I felt like mud) to go hand in hand with the sarong trend—as if all these vulnerable, perky nipples were consolation for the vast expanse of skin those sarongs managed to cover, despite the natural high-thigh slits where the folds of fabric met.

  Come on, Lear said. Where’s the bathroom in this place—

  That one’s being used, I said, and Lear charged off the other way, saying, No prob, there’s gotta be another one in here, this place is monstrous …!

  We found one off a sort of study, more black leather furniture, all of it modern (read: uncomfortable); up against one wall, steel shelves contained CDs, a silver statuette, boxes of cigars, not one single book.

  It was only then that I realized there was music—that there had been music—the whole time, through the entire house; it was some kind of high-tech minimalist offering, no doubt the musician’s own. This is LA, I thought, snorting (another line), aware that I was now enjoying the arrogance the drug conferred (in other words, I no longer cared if I was being an asshole; in fact, I felt smug about it). It made being there seem perfectly tenable, as if it all belonged to me as much as to anybody else—not the goods, per se, but definitely this lifestyle, and certainly this fabulous-looking woman (whose beauty I still couldn’t exactly comprehend, it was so beyond me—those eyes! Was she wearing colored contact lenses, wanted so much to ask her—surely they were responsible for the eerily lavish green of her irises? Or is that iri … giggled, then, thinking of course, everyt’ing’s irie, mon!).

  A line from an old song keeps running through my head, a song, Lear assured me, that was written about this town—he knows everything about LA, this is the impression he gives, of being intimately acquainted with both the young and the not-so infamy of classic (and not-so) Hollywood players, Sunset Strip legends, and the odd native quirky hero—

  People are strange/when you’re a stranger

  Estrangement, that about sums it up, the way I feel here, as well as last night, when I went out. Alienated. Not just a stranger—an estranger, that’s what I am.

  Know I have to vacate, so I flush, then wash under gleaming brass taps, ready to free the throne up for someone who might actually need it … but the thought of going back out there and making conversation—with anyone, the passing stranger (estranger)—not to mention either one of those absurdly young ladies … even (especially!) with Lear, who suddenly (gee) can’t stop talking, and worse—about money. About these “deals” he’s “balanced,” oh, but I, me, Miles, I could not possibly imagine the complexity (you’re the creative type, he says, this is what you pay us to do)—as if I’m too stupid to know when I’m being insulted.

  I find myself standing in the door—half in, half out, the keeper of the gate.

  It’s so intense, Miles, I mean, dude, anything can shut it down, knowwhatImean? I mean you gotta operate super delicately, knowwhatImean?

  I might have to kill him, I think, brightening at the idea; perhaps a good bludgeoning about the head—whatever it takes to speech-impede the guy…

  It’s a form of seduction, Miles, man, it really is (this is another one of his phrases, this seduction routine, that he’s flogged overtime, and every time he says it he squints, pinching his fingers together before extending them needlessly, exaggerating his acquaintance with the aforementioned delicacy). Not that there’s anything even slightly delicate about the way he snorts his ever-lengthening lines of coke, throwing his head back and gathering all the phlegm he can raise then honking it up deep into his brain.

  Neither he nor Linny bothers to disappear anymore to do the drugs—they go for it right there on the table, just turn their backs if somebody wanders through; inevitably, whoever does receives the glare of the uninvited and beats a hasty retreat—unless they’re brave—or brazen, more to the point (i.e., if they’ve been doing coke themselves) enough to ask (“just a little one” they say, and Lear takes them at their word), thus getting another whiff of its harsh chemistry and the peculiar, temporary confidence it confers—not so much an extra boost as a kind of bleach that burns away whatever area of your brain might have the asperity to express self-doubt…

  Meanwhile, I hover near my companions at the far end of the couch, standing at the edge of the bathroom door until I get too wired to stay still; then I pace in small, tight circles on the personality-free taupe carpeting, and feel somehow the warden of the situation, the tacitly appointed custodian of this strange scene (which, as in a dream state, is a composite of the whole evening: our still-absent host with his uneaten cake and omnipresent music, plus Lear, plus the two girls and plus—or maybe it’s times—the cocaine we’ve been ingesting almost continuously now…).

  Is there a director in the house—please, someone send a director, STAT! I’m overcome with the urge to run screaming this through the house—and then, like some postmodern superhero, to keep running right on past the valet and into my car—a vision that conveniently skips the issue of keys (the goddamn valet has them), as well as the fact that it’s Lear’s monster SUV we came here in, not my own little rented roadster … it doesn’t matter, I’d work it out somehow, I tell myself—me, Mr. Thought-of-That-Before-You-Did (obviously still feeding off that drug-induced arrogance, flexing it like an archaic muscle I’d thought atrophied, now come back hard and pumping, raring for life …!).

  Raring—now there’s a word. What the hell kind of word is that? From the root rare? As in medium rare? This train of thought, this associative stream of consciousness, I can’t help being reminded, is exactly the kind of linguistic investigation Lucy loves, words and their origins—I retreat once again into my cool porcelain lair.

  Psst …! Mickey! Are you, like, in there?

  Freaky Green Eyes, tapping on the door. I hold my breath, as if somehow this will make me disappear.

  Let me in, she hisses, knocks harder, as if she’s the one needing escape. I open the door, irritated. She has interrupted my reverie.

  God, thanks, she says, slithering in and shutting the door behind her, the sound her thumb makes pushing in the lock a distinct, precise thlock, so clear I’m embarrassed, for how unambiguously sexual it sounds to me (the finality of the two of us suddenly barred in here)—

  The weirdest thing of all, of course, is that when I turn away from the door, trying to take my train of thought with it, she’s right there, already putting her arms around me (slithering them, the word so suits her, the way her skin feels as cool and smooth as scales, as if she were both Eve and the Serpent, here to tempt and damn me all at once)…

  Hi, she rasps, her voice hoarse from chemical drip and too many cigarettes—or maybe just too many Lauren Bacall movies, I think ungenerously.

  Haven’t you heard about the Polish starlet who was trying to get ahead? I mutter, and when she shakes her head, a big wide-eyed smile at the ready, I tell her the punch line, She fucked the writer.

  After a brief second in which I try to determine whether she’s offended or perplexed, she laughs obligingly. I cringe for her, even as I can feel the fabric of my pants beginning to stretch, despite all that coke (pure anesthesia!)—it’s the hard-on of novelty, a novel woman in my arms, very unambiguously pressing her crotch against me, and it reminds me of being a boy just initiated into the sexual realms, how marvelous, how incredible it was that women, these delicate, heretofore unattainable creatures, with their perfumes and their lacy underthings, their shiny lips and coltish grace, also had this animal between their beautiful legs—this furred, hungry mouth that wanted us—wanted me!—as much (was it possible?) as
we wanted them!

  Catching our reflection in the mirror, I don’t turn back to her, I am too taken by the image—of myself now striking a pose, too, of studied indifference, while this impossibly beautiful woman clasps her slim, manicured hands around my neck, her profile sublime in the glass, those eyes blessedly closed as she leans her head against me—in a cinematic attitude of fervor (I’m guessing), naked need, or unrequited desire…

  Eat your heart out, Scott MacPherson. That is the other sentence that runs in a loop through my head, the only other one being I don’t owe Lucy anything, really…

  Those the only ones I’m conscious of, anyway, as I press Who-Shall-Remain-Nameless first against the wall, then against the sink, ignoring the vast, half-carpeted cubic meters of the rest of the room—I am already lifting her dress, as though we’re trying to join the Mile High Club in some First Class’s impossibly deluxe airline bathroom.

  She doesn’t mind, it’s clear, and as if by tacit agreement, we never look directly at each other, only at our reflection; moreover, she never really looks at me, except to check my reaction to her latest pose—and I have to give the woman credit, she does have a truly stunning repertoire. For a while, anyway, we are both taken by it—how she throws her head back, baring her satin-skinned neck to my fangs, hands coming up to cup her own breasts (the T-shirt having been flung, with a single, dramatic gesture, into the gleaming tub), to push them together, and I am felled by this shameless automanipulation of cleavage, the undoubtedly pornographic way she mashes them together, exactly the way I want to; I sink to my knees, push my face into the silky fabric of her wrap, nosing my way into it, inhaling deeply, man turned canine (if I had a tail, it’d be thumping the floor)—

  Somewhere in the back of my mind, a question lurks: why, oh Lord, did she choose me? But this brief modicum of intelligence is instantly quashed by the burliness of my coke-stoked arrogance, through which I am informed that I am entitled to—well, if not the best of everything, though this might rank up there—certainly to whatever I happen to desire at any given moment, simply because I am who I am (a man possessed of a huge, a once-in-a-lifetime talent, not to mention fine taste—but more to the point, of sheer sexual charisma, the potency of which is usually only found in movie stars—a mojo which has now clearly rendered me irresistible…).