Story Girl (7 page)

“Have you written many scripts?” I asked.

“A few. I made one short – it festival hopped for a couple of months. My dad ended up changing everything. Can you imagine? It was humiliating.”

“So why did you let him?”

“Because he funded the damn thing. So not only did it not really count in the first place, but my own words and ideas didn’t
even make the final cut. It started out praising the values of the sixties and ended up warning against them.”

“It counts, James – a lot of people here are launched by their families. Look at the Fondas and the Coppolas and the Bridges and the Douglas people and the Hiltons.” I wanted to bring up the Clooneys but couldn’t bring myself to do it, “The list is endless.”

“The Hiltons? Great, now I feel much better about myself.”

“Sorry.”

“It still doesn’t count, Tracy. Not in a real sense – no matter how you try to justify it.”

“Couldn’t have been that bad.”

“Evil Terror Plot was the final title, about a misguided bleeding heart who thinks love is the answer – but later comes to his senses and learns the value of fear. Totally demoralizing.”

“That really is a horrendous title – worse than some of my own. So what was the original title?”

“Blaine Walker – about a bleeding heart who finally comes to his senses and discovers that love is the answer after years of drowning in bullshit muck.”

“Yes, I’d say that’s an overhaul. Is your name attached as writer?”

“No, thank God. My dad and his business partner took the credit. I got a DP nod just because most of the footage of Blaine Walker was already shot. A few voice-overs and inserts changed the whole thing. It’s only six minutes, Tracy.”

“I’d love to see it.”

“Never.”

“Then don’t harass me about Space Boy.”

“Fine.”

“And don’t call me a writer – at least not yet. It’s bullshit.”

Lucy snuggled herself into my lap, sensing that I was struggling to ward off a bout of depression. She was steadfast that way, always around when I felt most like a loser.

“What’s in those boxes?” he asked.

Damn. I’d almost forgotten about the four cardboard monstrosities that were stacked in the corner of the room.

“Just nothing,” I said.

“Can I take a peek?”

“It’s just old junk.”

“Then you won’t mind me looking.” He tossed a box lid across the room before I could stop him, and Lucy practically leapt through the air to get inside what had once been forbidden.

“Is she okay in here?”

“Yes – just leave her,” I sighed.

James maneuvered around her and carefully lifted out a pile of journals, diaries, loose pages, and old scripts.

“Not a writer, huh?”

“Oh please – that stuff’s from high-school. Old crushes and crappy poetry.”

“I’m not buying it.”

He un-stacked the boxes, and Lucy quickly disappeared inside another one. He rifled through everything – all of my various notes, scribbled commentaries, and crummy screenplays.

“Why do you pretend it doesn’t matter?” he asked.

“Oh God, James – please. It’s a bunch of childhood doodles.”

“Is that why you haul it around?”

Shit
.

“It’s just a lot of very light, very silly stuff.”

James read the titles of a couple of the bulkier scripts, “The Meaning of Everything Before I Died and The Existential Trench.”

Even Lucy peered out of a box to cock her head at me.

“Really light and really silly,” he said.

“Can we just not talk about it right now. Please.”

“Why not?”

“Just because.”

“Why not, Tracy?”

“Because I don’t want to.”

“Okay, I’m sorry.”

We both sort of went slack against the floor as if we were inflatable dolls who’d had our plugs pulled. I wasn’t sure how long we stayed crumpled up like that, but finally James spoke.

“I wanted to be a self-made man. My father was a self-made man – he had businesses in everything. He’s a true entrepreneur. I figured if I came out here, at least I’d be charting my own course.”

“Okay.”

He turned over to face me, “I just want to chart my own course.”

“But you’re not really charting your own course,” I said, unable to stifle myself. “Not if your parents pay for
everything
, and not if you’ve let your father change the entire theme of your film.”

I thought of my own parents, and was happy they hadn’t funded my life or taken over my tepid ambition. As frustrating as it was, it was still mine alone to make, break, or transform into something a little more plausible.

“So am I a parasite or a sell-out?”

I couldn’t tell if he wanted to kiss me or punch my lights out.

“You’re a kid with rich parents and it’s all been a breeze, and now it’s time to grow up.”

“Anything else?”

“Trust me, James. You’ll feel a lot better about yourself.”

He shook his head like he wasn’t convinced.

“Otherwise, you’d rather be depressed than not, and all because you’re lazy.”

“So are you saying you’re not attracted to me?” he asked.

The question put me on vibrate mode. It took me half a minute to recover my voice, but I willed myself to forge ahead – for the sake of any possible future we might share.

“I am very attracted to you, but I can’t respect you if you don’t respect yourself.”

“Stung.”

“What?”

“You’re being a little harsh.”

“No, I’m not – just honest.”

But I really couldn’t remember ever being so harsh or honest before, not with a guy – especially one I wanted to devour whole hog.

“Let me demonstrate what I’m up against.”

I wasn’t quite sure what he was talking about. He pulled out his cell phone and pushed a button.

“Mom? Yeah hi. Fine, fine. Well, actually, not so fine. My car died on the freeway today, and this sweet girl ploughed right into the back of me. Yes, yes, I’m fine. We’re both fine. Nothing is broken. Yes, I know you warned me this would happen. I’m over at her place now. Her name is Tracy. I don’t know – I’ll ask.”

James covered the mouthpiece with his hand, “What’s your last name?”

“Johnston.”

“Tracy
Johnston
. She made me tea. No – she’s not gonna sue me.”

As I watched his lips move, I couldn’t help but wonder what his tongue would feel like inside of my mouth.

“She was really understanding about the whole thing, especially since she lost her job today for not showing up – a production assistant for film. Okay. Yeah. Really? Thanks so much, Mom. I’ll ask her. Hold on.”

He looked at me with questioning eyes, “My mother wants to know how much you’ll need?”

“Come again?” I asked.

“How much, you know, money? For the car, towing, medical, lost wages, and the unavoidable emotional scarring?”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes.”

Now the room was expanding. Visions of knights and castles and unicorns filled my head, and I again found myself mute. Lucy scrambled out of my lap and I was sure I was going to pass out. James was watching me as if I were some predictable little equation – as if he knew the drill by heart.

chapter
10

I
SWIFTLY CAME
to realize that a money tree isn’t so bad after all.

In fact, it’s quite a joy. How foolish my earlier assessments had been – based on pure ignorance. The morning after the car wreck, James’ mother – sweet Paulette – deposited twenty-five thousand dollars into my bank account with a promise of additional compensation if needed. She also bought her son a Prius. I had never seen so much money in an account belonging to me. I had no job, no kids, and a pile of money in the bank – plus, a simple phone number could grant me quick access to more. As a matter of fact, my whiplash was really starting to hurt. Real, real bad.

It was amazing how rapidly the universe could wipe the slate clean. The poles could switch places and the pendulum could swing with such force that perhaps it was even time to register as a Republican.

James called later in the afternoon and invited me to dinner. I thought of Jenny and Luke and their perfect Colorado life and asked him to make a reservation at Spago Beverly Hills. I had never eaten there before; it would be the perfect spot for our first date and the beginning of my new life.

I found an old copper dress that was now three sizes too small – thanks to countless boring hours hovering around the craft services
table. All that underling production assistant crap had finally come to an end, forever. So black dress pants and a baggy yellow blouse would have to do, and only because they were still hanging fresh in dry cleaning plastic. Every other article of clothing I owned was now a crumpled rag dropped onto various piles around the room. I smiled with the realization that I even had the cash to hire a clean-up crew. Someone else could haul the laundry around for a change.

My amazing fortune was almost too much to contemplate. I had a bath, groomed all overgrown and un-kept areas, and crawled into bed to cuddle with Lucy. The sound of her purr seemed a little lighter, as though a heavy burden had been lifted from her own kitty shoulders.

“You’ll be eating tuna tartare from now on, little lady.”

I could have sworn she winked at me.

“Tonight I have a date with a prince.”

She touched her paw to my nose, and soon we were asleep.

Three hours later, James and I were sipping lemon drops in the outdoor courtyard of Spago Beverly Hills. We were giggling under the open night as he nibbled house smoked salmon and hog island oysters. I was happy with my platter of beet cakes. There was a gentle breeze playing with my blouse and teasing the little trees around us.

James was wearing a white silk shirt and an expensive yellow tie from Pink’s London. He’d called me so that we could match our outfits, just like other moneyed couples in L.A. I had been forced to admit that I only had one available choice. But now I realized that opulence was rather cozy, and it was hard to imagine that I’d ever thought otherwise.

“How ironic that a man driving an ancient heap of shit could afford whatever he wanted,” I said.

His smile faded, “My parents could afford whatever I wanted.”

“What’s the diff?” I asked, finally feeling like part of the worthwhile crowd.

“See how quickly integrity wears away in the face of ease and luxury?” he asked.

He asked this lightly, but it felt like a calculated stab, “I think your mother was very gracious in light of your carelessness. I mean – you could have killed us both driving that rust can.”

“I thought you said it was your fault.”

“And I thought we split the difference.”

“One little lump sum and you turn yourself inside out – immediately abandon your lefty ideals?”

“What lefty ideals?” I asked.

I wasn’t sure what he’d said under his breath, but I heard the snicker.

“No, I would just accept my good fortune and be thrilled for it, instead of accepting my good fortune and sulking for it.”

James ignored me and ate a piece of salmon.

“Why not just appreciate your roots, and make your movies?” I asked.

“Because there are always strings attached, no matter how subtle.”

“Well then – grow up and get a job.”

He looked in every direction but mine.

“Do you ever want to be married, James? I mean – like with a wife and kids?”

I wasn’t quite sure where the hell
that
had just come from.

“It’s not a big desire of mine.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“It’s someone else’s idea of happiness.”

“Is that what your parents want for you?”

“Of course it is.”

“Really?”

He wiped his mouth with the perfect cloth napkin and tossed it across the table, “I can’t tell you how many dinners I’ve suffered through with well-meaning Republican girls.”

“Suffered through? So are they all like Ann Coulter?”

“No, they’re not. Some are very beautiful, and well… poised.”

I nearly choked on my beet cake, “Poised? Okay. So I bet you grew up in a gated community?”

“What’s with the sarcasm?”

I gulped back my lemon drop, and signaled to the waiter that I needed another one – fast. I wasn’t exactly sure what was up with the sarcasm, or the surging resentment I was now starting to feel for my knight in matching colors.

“I grew up in a couple of places – one of our summer condos
was
gated. So what?”

“So quit pretending you could ever understand what it means to struggle.”

“I never said I could.”

The lemon drops were surely to blame for my sudden and acidic turn. Or maybe it was something else. Maybe the possibility of a real-life man had me in way over my head. Maybe I just didn’t want any of it. Maybe my mother could go take an extended hike.

“What does it mean to be a man in the twenty-first century, James?”

“I haven’t really got a clue. What does it mean to be a woman?”

“I think it’s more complex.”

“Why is that?”

“Because of roles and biology and choices. I don’t know. It’s hard. It’s like that Chaka Khan song. But I can’t be every woman.”