Crushing Crystal (11 page)

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Authors: Evan Marshall

BOOK: Crushing Crystal
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“No, it's not that at all. I just don't feel like we're really connecting.”
You don't have to connect with me! It's Reilly you need to connect with!
“What do you mean?” I fumbled. Asking a question someone's already answered rarely works in getting a different response. Case in point. Her response.
“I just don't feel that we're connecting, that's all.”
“It's only been a half hour,” I pleaded. “Relationships take time.”
Anna was standing. Her coat was already on. Game over.
Then she left.
Can I call you?
I stopped myself from shouting after her. As Anna disappeared, I heard Jim Morrison singing,
“Don't you love her as she's walking out the door?”
And I did. Anna never looked better as she did from the back, leaving. Honestly, she bored me, which unfortunately did not lessen the blow of her rejection. In fact it was worse.
“Hey,” I said when Matt answered the phone.
“Malone. What's up?”
Just out dating women.
“Not too much,” I said.
Think of something interesting to tell him!
“What's going on with you? How's the film coming along?”
Matt said he didn't like talking about the project because he wanted to save all of his energy he had
doing
instead of talking. Plus, one of his producers was semi-paranoid about the idea being stolen, and made everyone agree to keep quiet about the film. This made me want to hear about it even more. Was he willing to break the rules to share his life with me? God knows I had certainly done the same for him. “Can you tell me a
little
something about the film, Matt? We are going to get married. I think you can trust me.”
Matt paused as he thought about it for a moment. “Okay, it's a satire of the life of Louis Pasteur. It could be about anyone. The overriding theme is about the abuse of the power of the media in today's culture.”
“Wow,” I said.
What the hell is he talking about?
“You know what I mean?”
“Absolutely. So how does Louis Pasteur fit in?” I asked.
“Did you ever read
The Wind Done Gone?
” he asked.
Shit, why didn't I read
The Wind Done Gone
?! What's
The Wind Done Gone
anyway?
“I'm not sure. What's it about?”
Matt told me that it was a spoof of
Gone With the Wind
, told entirely from the perspective of Scarlett O'Hara's Mammy's daughter in the post–Civil War south.
“That is so clever!” I exclaimed.
“Ours is pretty clever too,” Matt said, sounding a bit irked that I sounded more enthusiastic about
The Wind Done Gone
than his film,
Sour Milk.
“So what's yours, the story of how the cows felt about pasteurization? How they lost their power to wipe out masses of people from bad milk after Louis Pasteur invented the pasteurization process?” I laughed.
“No,” Matt said flatly. “I
told
you it's a social commentary about the power of the media. Look, it's tough to explain over the phone. It's a pretty complicated concept. I'll just show you what we've got when you come out here.”
Very complicated? Excuse me, but I just went on a date with a woman to replace myself in the life of my not-so-dead husband. I think I can handle it.
Chapter 11
A
fter my first miserable failure at dating women, I was afraid to try again, but had already scheduled lunch with Michelle Amster, a thirty-five-year-old divorced computer programmer, and Theresa Mumon, a twenty-nine-year-old tax attorney the next day. Then on Wednesday, it was breakfast with Pamela Kahn, lunch with Yasmine Leery and drinks with Tina Ellenson.
What went wrong with Anna?
I wondered as I tried to get to sleep. I didn't necessarily think she was the ideal woman for Reilly, but it seemed strange how she left so abruptly. If it was because of something I said or did, I needed to know about it so I wouldn't chase off the rest of the lot. I decided to call her in the morning and get some feedback so I could change my approach if necessary.
I stared at my blue stars and listened to my harp CD that Daniel promised would help me sleep. I drank two cups of Sleepytime tea, but was still wired at four in the morning. Why didn't Anna like me? And why did Matt think his film was too complicated for me? What else did he think was over my head? Was he right? If we were at a dinner party, and Matt explained his film concept, would everyone else be fawning over his brilliant idea? I imagined Matt in Los Angeles at a cocktail party with Steven Soderbergh and Rob Reiner, who each tell him that his film concept is indeed genius, and that only a pathetic half-wit could miss the point.
Can I marry a simpleton?
Matt would wonder, beginning the process of our engagement unraveling. I realized I was never going to get to sleep that night, and decided to take advantage of the time difference and call Matt. I had a single mission: show him how much I got the concept of
Sour Milk.
“Good morning, sunshine,” I said gently when I heard Matt's exhausted voice.
“Malone, what's going on?” he said in a fog.
“I just wanted to be the first person to say good morning to you today,” I said.
“Well, you've got
that
covered. It's one in the morning.”
“No it's not, it's seven,” I corrected him.
“Malone, I am sure you are a hell of an accountant, but you've got to keep this time difference straight. We're three hours earlier than you, not later.”
“Oh my God!” I realized he was right. “I'm so sorry. I'll call you back later.”
“Don't worry about it. What are you doing up at this time of night? Even bad girls need their sleep, don't they?”
So about your film . . .
“I was up thinking about the idea behind
Sour Milk
, and wanted to let you know that I think it's incredibly insightful,” I said. Although I knew Matt was three thousand miles away, I walked into the bathroom and examined my face in the mirror. I placed my index fingers under my eyes to see how I would look once the bags were removed. I held a white tube of makeup remover next to my teeth as Matt responded.
“Yeah?” Matt coaxed for more.
My teeth are practically yellow next to this!
“Absolutely,” I said. “It takes a while to fully absorb the enormity of your message, but once I really understood the profundity of the concept, I couldn't stop thinking about it. I haven't been able to sleep thinking about the impact your film is going to have.”
“I'm so glad you're saying this,” Matt confessed. “You never know how people are going to react to something that's a little different, you know?”
I curled up on my couch, relieved that I had redeemed myself in Matt's eyes. Not only did I understand complicated films, I stayed up nights contemplating their impact. Matt confided that he was feeling less than sure of himself, and I was there to bolster his confidence. Things were back on track. We chatted for another half hour before I started to feel tired as snow fell for the first time that season.
The next thing I remember it was eleven o'clock. I made a coughing, sick voice and called Lara, and told her I had the flu. Then I hopped into the shower to get ready for my lunch date with Michelle. Between the lack of prep time, the weather and the inability to locate my umbrella my hair was flat against my head by the time I arrived at the restaurant. I showed up a few minutes late and Michelle was already sitting at the table. She made a point of looking at her watch as soon as she saw me, then pursed her lips slightly to let me know she was displeased with my tardiness.
“You must be Michelle,” I greeted the woman. She had long, black, 1970s Cher hair, which looked somewhat out of place with her masculine business suit. She looked as if she could be part Asian or part Hispanic.
“I am,” she said, standing to shake my hand. “I don't want to start off on the wrong foot here, but I think it's very rude to be late for our appointment. My time is important too.”
She hates me already?!
“I'm really sorry. It was completely out of my control. You'll be happy to know that my brother Reilly is always very prompt. When we were kids, he always gave me a hassle about being late.”
She nodded once, her acceptance of my apology. “You know people say a lot of things about me, but they never call me a bullshitter. I say what's on my mind and just like to clear the air about it right away.”
“That's a great way to be,” I said, trying to win her back.
“So tell me about Reilly,” she said. “Why is it that I'm meeting you instead of him?”
I didn't like Michelle. First, she scolded me for being late and now she was demanding information. I had a plan for how these dates were to go and answering questions and apologizing weren't part of it.
When Michelle found out I was an accountant, she kept grilling me about tax shelters and her 401(K). I told her that I didn't handle accounting for individuals, but she was unstoppable. By the end of lunch, I felt as though I'd given a free seminar on financial planning. In just an hour, I'd grown to hate Michelle, but politely thanked her for her time anyway. The least she could have done was pick up the bill in exchange for all the free advice I'd given her, but when it came she just sat and smiled as I took out my American Express card.
At first, I thought that Theresa would be the perfect fit for Reilly because we were so much alike. Theresa was about an inch taller than me with the same shaggy haircut in auburn. We both laughed at the fact that we were wearing the same pants suit, but the similarities became less amusing to me as the date progressed.
“Isn't it tough getting old in this city?” Theresa asked me. “Last weekend, I was so lonely I got drunk by myself and started calling old boyfriends just to try to recreate a feeling of better times in my life, you know?”
“Maybe one of them was really your soul mate and you should make another try with him,” I defended her to herself.
“Not on your life,” she said. “Even drunk I could see what a fool I was making of myself. Later I turned on the television and ordered those water-filled bra pads that are supposed to make you look like you've had a boob job. Can you say mid-life crisis?”
“I don't think you should be quite so hard on yourself, Theresa. You're hardly middle-aged. Life doesn't really begin till forty, isn't that what they say?”
“That's what people in their forties say,” Theresa laughed. “You're right. Listen to me going on and on about how old I feel. I should be telling you about all of my good points, right?”
“Absolutely,” I encouraged. “Tell me what you like best about yourself, Theresa.”
She took off her blazer and rolled her sleeves up. “I don't want to seem immodest, but my arms are really cut. I work on these guns four times a week. I can lift as much weight as some of the guys at my gym,” she continued.
Then Theresa told me about her three best friends and how they do just about everything together. How she was once married, but fell in love with someone else during a weekend business trip. It was like looking in the mirror, and I hated what I saw. An imbecile of a woman. Not even a woman. A shell of a woman with beautiful arms and an expensive haircut.
 
 
When I shared this with Jennifer by phone, she assured me I was nothing like Theresa. “Prudence, you're tired and overly sensitive,” she said. “Get a good night's rest and you'll see the world in a whole new light tomorrow.”
“I'm not a twit?” I asked.
“No.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
“Jennifer, do you think I'm nuts for doing this?”
She sighed. “Look, I'd never do it, but no, I don't think it's crazy. You're doing the best you can given who you are and where you've been. You—”
“Jennifer!” I interrupted with my accusation. “Have you been going to that New Age church again?!”
She laughed, but admitted she had. “You should come sometime, Prudence. You might stop asking questions about what I think you're doing and start asking yourself that and more.”
“Holy shit, Jennifer. Are you stoned?”
I could hear her smile. “You just caught me in a mood, Prudence. All I'm saying is that instead of wondering about what everyone else is thinking about you, you should take a firm position on it yourself.”
“I'm not worrying about what you guys are thinking,” I defended. “You all keep telling me.”
“We keep
asking
you,” Jennifer said gently.
“You three are so damned self-righteous. I don't need a therapist, much less three of them. What I need is a friend who doesn't use my problems as a way to make herself feel smart, insightful and important. Goddamn it, Jennifer, haven't you ever done anything crazy for love?”
Then I heard the crunching of Cheetos. “Jennifer, you are totally stoned, aren't you?” I heard nothing, but could see her scraping the cheese dust off her fingers with her bottom teeth. “Jesus Christ, Jennifer, don't scare me like that. Next time I call and you're getting stoned just tell me. Don't load all this bullshit on me.” I heard nothing. “Are you there?”
“Yeah, I'm here,” she crunched. “Look it's not just the weed talking. I'm serious, you need to take a look at your—”
“Good night, Jennifer.”
“Good night.”
 
 
That night I had a dream that I was on a date with Frida Kahlo and all I could think about was shaping her eyebrows.
“Have you thought about waxing them?” I asked her.
In Spanish, Frida told me I was a half-wit who was unable to appreciate the complexity of her paintings. It was the first time I ever had a dream with subtitles.
Pamela stood me up for breakfast the next morning, so I had a croissant and nearly cried about how poorly I was doing in the singles scene.
My faith was renewed when I met Yasmine for lunch that day. She looked like an angel with white blond ringlets of long hair, doe-like brown eyes and the lips of an infant. Her mouth was red and in a naturally puckered state. She wore a thin wool dress with small lavender flowers embroidered on it, and a scarf and beret that matched the flowers so perfectly, they must have been purchased together as a set.
Our lunch went on for nearly two hours. She was hands-down the best prospect I'd found yet. She was a costume designer for the opera, and played the piano at restaurants and department stores for extra money during holidays. Her real love was writing though, and unlike Anna Weiss, Yasmine had actually written something. Her first drama,
Diana, The Hunted
was scheduled to open off-Broadway this summer. “It's the Princess Diana story done in Shakespearean style,” she started. “When she was killed in that car crash, I thought this story has such a Shakespearean ending. Then I realized the whole thing was a classic Shakespearean tragedy from that huge wedding to the crash in Paris. Royalty, betrayal, vanity, adultery, it was perfect. Even modernized a bit with the anorexia thing,” she smiled. Yasmine told me about her never-produced opera,
Trial of Orenthal.
“My partner wrote the most hilarious aria for Johnny Cochran's closing argument. ‘You must acquit', ” she sang in fluttering mock baritone, holding her right hand dramatically to the sky, struggling with an imaginary glove. “Never sold” she scrunched her face. She said she just started writing a script
Taming of the Schmuck,
a gender-swapped version of the classic. “When I read that in high school, I thought some guy wants to change a woman, good luck. And how likely is that anyway? Tell me the story about a woman trying to change a man—a shithead of a man at that—and I'll show you a story that people can relate to. You don't even need the whole explanation behind why she wants to tame the schmuck. No need to marry off the older schmuck brother to some mercenary tamer so the younger one can be with his true love. Just a good old-fashioned case of a woman who falls for the major emotional fixer upper.”

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