Faces in Time (10 page)

 

The building’s tower slices into the clear blue sky. Looking directly at the edifice, it is in the shape of a backwards L with the fifteen-story tower on the right and the attached three-story wing on the left. Its perfectly lined, giant bricks are reminiscent of those used in an Egyptian pyramid, while its ornate and angular trim around the large front doors and many windows are gothic in the style of early Hollywood. And as if to remind all that it is located in California, towering palm trees are evenly placed in the square garden patches that line the street.

Blue lights reflect on the bricks that look as new as if they were laid yesterday. The illumination casts a feeling of magic on the building, which coincides with the sensation of moving energy in his chest.

The windows on the first floor are tall and rectangular with a rounded top. The lattices of the second floor windows are opened outwardly in a way that makes one expect to see a maiden leaning through them to greet a suitor. Black metal terraces are attached to the bricks in front, spanning the length of three windows each.

He steps onto a red carpet that runs from the door, hugging tightly down three stone steps, across the sidewalk, between two of the strips of palm trees, and all the way to the curb of the street. Before having spent years in Los Angeles, he would’ve thought it to be too stereotypical to be real, but he’s seen similar red material laid out at numerous work-related parties.

Sitting upon a darkly stained wooden easel, a black sign with silver writing declares the event for the evening:
Most Hipness
Start of Season Party.

At the end of the carpet is an elegant black door flanked by two stone lions and a large man in a simple yet formal suit standing at its left side watching Chester as he approaches.

The man extends his arm and asks, “Do you have an invitation, sir?”

Chester pats his pockets although he already knows the answer, “No, I must have left it at home.”

With reluctant eyes, the doorman scans over our time violator’s clothes, “Hmmm, sorry, sir, but it is invitation only tonight.”

“I know; I was invited—I just forgot it at home,” he says with certainty, speed, and smoothness that are foreign to him.

“Well, we can see if you’re on the list, but I’ll have to ask that you take a step back while I’m doing so.”

The large man reaches into a pocket in his black coat and pulls out a small object. Pushing a button, he speaks into it, “Craig, can you check the list for a…hang on a second,” turning to Chester, “What is your name, sir?”

“Chester Fuze.”

“Mr. Chester Fuze,” pausing and listening, “Okay, thanks, Craig.” With a smile he says to Chester, “Sir, you are indeed on the list. I apologize; we usually keep a printed copy down here too, but we don’t have one tonight.”

“No problem.”

“But if I may inconvenience you one more time, I am supposed to verify you with an ID.”

“Oh, sure,” Chester says reaching into his back pocket and pulling out his wallet, “Here you are.”

Large thumbs enclose both sides of the driver’s license. Chester wiggles his lower jaw around his mouth, hoping the doorman doesn’t see his nervousness.

The license is perfect; it’s his old license from 20 years before he jumped back in time. He never turned in his old licenses at the DMV. He always kept them and claimed that the old one was lost when he went in to renew. He also has several credit cards from the same time in his wallet, but he is afraid to use them just as he is uneasy now about something possibly being suspicious with his license.

“Okay, Mr. Fuze, you just follow the red ropes until you get to the party. It’s upstairs. Sorry about the hold up; you’d be surprised how often people try to schmooze into a party here, and you’re not exactly...”

The large, well-spoken doorman realizes he’s gone just a little too far. His friendly yet stern face now looks upset.

With both hands Chester tugs his shirt away from his chest and offers, “It’s the shirt, right?”

The doorman cringes awaiting what will follow.

“It’s my lucky purple shirt. I always wear it to parties.”

The doorman’s smile comes back slowly, “And a nice shade of purple it is, sir.”

“Thank you,” says Chester as he turns and follows the red rope that sas and rises between one post and the next.

The lobby is a large, spacious room with a high ceiling. The room is outlined with crown molding that is painted with the same fresh coat of white paint as the ceiling. The dark gray walls with gold decorations, wrought iron curtain rods with drapes a slightly darker color than the walls, large mirrors, black leather chairs encircling tall tables: these are the sights in the room to which he pays no attention.

He follows the red rope, his walk a hair away from a jog. Exiting the lobby, he passes rooms on both sides; each a different realm unto itself, a portal into a new environment, like a mixed up library shelf.

Left—leopard-skin couch; narrow room; grayish walls with orange upside-down-seashell-shaped lights; brown bar with an audience of bottles and a long mirror behind it; tall skinny chairs with leopard-print backs; and uncovered windows.

Right—a larger room vibrant in green—too bright to be natural, yet still soothing; tiny tables suitable for dining and U-shaped booths sit underneath large, dangly chandeliers that are equal crystal and transparent green: all of it seems to be sprouting from a gigantic fireplace at the back of the room with a large mixed fruit painting above it.

Another room looks like it fell out of a pre-World War II detective movie; tall half columns along the walls, a check-in desk with a long, skinny antique lamp that remains lit although the room is vacant; everything either black, white, or chrome; tall windows behind the desk bare and rounded at the top—must be the ones he saw while walking to the front door; small, white-clothed tables fill the room, each with a tiny unlit lamp on its center and adjoined by two chairs in tight cloth covers; and walls adorned with framed art deco prints.

Every room has textured walls, be it in the form of illusion in the wallpaper or actual depth in the paint; none of it looks less than palatial.

The red rope ahead of him turns toward a stairway, and his feet follow. As he moves along the staircase which is stained between black and the color of root beer with orange, sponge-painted walls, there is a bronze-framed mirror directly in front of him at the flat area where the stairs make their ninety degree turn. His eyes continue to pass by the lush surroundings without notice; he hungrily looks at the furthest point ahead of him, which is now the top of the stairs.

The sounds of pop music and loud, party conversation fall down the stairwell to his ears.

The dark collection of stairs leads the way to an open room with a slightly lower ceiling than that of the first floor. A sign just like the one downstairs sits in the opening of the room announcing the television show’s exclusive party.

Stepping into the room, a long bar stretches from the corner at his right to two thirds of the way to the white brick wall at the far end of the room. The far wall has rectangular windows that stretch from the floor to the ceiling and offer a view of the blue outside lights bathing the gargantuan palm trees.

There’s an empty stool at the end of the bar. The seat next to it is also vacant with a half-empty mixed drink, watery and forgotten, on the bar before it.

A part of him as thin as a shadow yearns for the empty stool; the feeling is far less powerful than it was before he punched a hole in time, but it still clings to him, etched into the skin at the back of his neck.

His eyes are on shimmering, flowing crimson breezes across the room, and it will take more than his worst inhibitions to hold him back now.

Surprisingly it is very much like he had imagined it to be, except the music is quieter. The first time around, he had convinced himself to miss the party because it would both give him time to go shopping for more professional clothing and allow him to avoid meeting his coworkers in an environment that would be most uncomfortable for him.

When he found out on his first day of work that Rhonda was there and he missed his chance to meet her, he nearly started weeping in front of the producers and other writers. When they said she left with some jerk who was drinking too much, he just put up a sad, awkward smile as his eyes watered up.

Now, it’s odd to be inside an event that he’s heard about and imagined in his head for years. Some things are as expected, but other details are different than his mental fabrication.

He makes his way through the room, looking at the thirsty patrons leaning on the bar resembling wolves suckling at their mother’s body.

A shoulder bumps into him, “Hey, slick, watch where you’re going.”

Some of the intruder’s double vodka Collins has spattered his purple shirt, but not enough to be very noticeable. The staggering spiller makes his way to the bar, eyeing the half-empty drink whose ice has mostly melted.

Chester
’s mind races.

Even from the back, Chester knows it’s him. He’s the one he’s seen in many photographs with Rhonda. Chester can almost feel the man’s domineering sneer emanating hostility around the side of his facell the way to the back of his head.

He turns his attention away from the lascivious splinter that will soon want to jab his lust into a place meant for more pure things, and Chester stares at the contents of his heart across the room, standing with only her agent and a group of nervous scribes glancing at her timidly every few moments from a table at a safe distance.

Harvey Price talks to her as he looks around the room. His speech involves harsh mouth movements that make her blink at their peaks.

As Chester approaches closer, the agent’s words are finally audible to him, “…in this town.”

He stops talking and looks at her with an accusing expression.

“Yes, Mr. Price, I understand that it’s important to be social.”

Her voice tingles the skin around Chester’s ears. Were his eyes not focused on her face, he would’ve realized she is the only actress he’s ever heard call her agent by anything other than his or her first name, and knowing her life history, maybe he’d be sad that any respect is being given to Harvey.

Her face beams in Chester’s sight in a way that defies biology.

Her eyes catch him approaching. She smiles softly and then diverts her attention. But, he continues to look straight at her, which brings her gaze back to him. A second of awkwardness comes upon her; but a smile gets the better of her, and she watches him from beneath a lowered brow as he steps in front of her.

His voice startles himself as it hits the air, “Miss Romero, I saw your work on
The Arcade Life
. I’m a big fan.”

Harvey
’s face is startled, and Rhonda holds back a blush.

“Well, aren’t you sweet? That’s very kind of you. Thank you. I wasn’t sure if anyone watched that show before it got cancelled.”

Harvey
throws her a nasty look.

Chester
says, “Yeah, I did catch it, and you were the best thing on it.”

Her lips purse, but she looks to Harvey before making a response.

“Sir,” says Chester extending his hand toward the agent, “I’m Chaz Fuze, a new writer on the show. I’d like to talk with Miss Romero privately. Would that be alright?”

Harvey
shakes his hand and smiles broadly, “Absolutely, Chaz. That’s what we’re here for—err, to socialize and talk shop.”

“Thank you,” offers Chester as Harvey walks toward a young brunette at the bar who is having a hard time keeping her balance in heels.

“Well, Mr. Fuze, I have to say that you have made my night. I guess I’m supposed to act unaffected, but I’ve never been very good at these parties.”