South shows up on Sunday, but the set’s empty. He goes home. They’re leaning on a van. He catches a familiar duffel bag.
“This is mine,” he says stupidly.
“Shouldn’t keep your key in that fake rock,” Seven announces.
“We couldn’t find any clean underwear,” grins Rebecca, “so I bought you some–”
“You what,” says South.
“You needed underwear!” says Seven. “For the kidnapping!”
“The network–”
“Won’t tell us anything for a week,” says Rebecca. “We’re going to the beach.”
Seven hauls open the door.
Then it’s Dandy Warhols on a boombox, the stereo’s broken, and three hundred miles to Coronado.
They shuffle around, wiping their palms even in the icebox AC. South asks, “So this is a ‘meet and greet?'”
“Meat market, really,” says Moses.
“There’s a pun in there,” says Seven. “Please don’t find it.”
Bailey’s waiting behind the door. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he says, “our principals,” and then they’re in with the sharks.
Seven’s all teeth and sexy danger; South and Moses pair up and slay a whole tribe of execs, and Rebecca is God’s own golden girl. She looks invincible. They’re all invincible. South never knew he could do this. Before they went in, she squeezed his hand.
Seven appears on day five–just as everybody’s murmuring about when Bailey’s going to cast the part, he walks in after lunch with a minor cult hero. The crew goes fanboy; nobody gets anything done.
“Welcome to the weird names club,” says South when they shake hands. He’s trying to be casual in a tiny g-string. It’s not easy.
“Bailey says he’s doing a shower scene today,” says Seven drily, “then mentions I get to work with Rebecca Chiltern if I sign. Just mentions.”
“Your conclusions are your own!” calls Bailey.
“It’s cool,” says South, “my ass is better anyway.”
“You take notes during the dailies?” South asked Moses, the second day of principal, when he saw the little pocket pad. Moses just grinned.
The next night, South had his own notebook and ballpoint, getting down about half of what Bailey said (half legibly, anyway). He switched to a felt-tip when he realized it wouldn’t dent the pages.
At the end of the first week, he edges by Moses and sees the pages of his notebook, and of course there are no notes: Moses draws. All the right shots, broad shading, their faces and hands when they catch the best light.
They split a cab. The cab smells like lemons.
“How do you think it went?”
“What? Oh–”
“How’d you–”
“Great,” he says quickly. “Great. Yeah. It’s such good text.”
“Can’t always tell on the read-through,” she says. “But I agree.”
The cabbie avoids the strip, for which South is grateful. They pass little hotels: neon legs and adobe.
“So,” he says. “Heh. I should be up front about this.” He looks at his hands. “You’re just incredibly professional, and I’ve developed this huge crush on you. And I absolutely–it won’t interfere with the work.”
She’s smiling. “It never does.”
Afternoons, he wakes to the smell of eggs and onion. The only way up to his squat above the restaurant is a fire escape; Garrison makes do without electricity, and washes furtively with their hose.
He buys lunch from the little blind cook, his only human contact. He’s said he avoids the front counter because he’s horribly disfigured (but really his face is still all over the news).
They have a ritual: Garrison knocks at the kitchen door, and she jokes about saving table scraps; he tells her she looks pretty today. She brings his check, his change, his prison food.
“I didn’t really know him,” Verry says. “He was in my orientation group.”
“Doesn’t matter.” Pan looks five years older than he did a year ago. “There are maybe ten people here who believe–I mean, why a memorial?” He sighs. “The guy’s been dead six months, we graduated a year and a half ago…”
“But it’s so crowded!”
“Heh. That’s what I’m saying.” Pan pulls at his napkin. “We’re here to get lai–I shouldn’t make that inclusive. But.”
Verry sips again without actually drinking. She admits, privately, that she wouldn’t have come without losing that ten off her thighs.
“I’m having flashbacks.”
“Sorry. Just a second–”
Pause.
“I’m having ninth grade flashbacks.”
“Late bloomer?”
“Not as late as you, apparently–”
“Shut up.”
“I know you don’t really need it, but you’ve worn one of these before. Right? Ever?”
“Shut up, Rose!”
“You’re wearing one now.”
“Shut up! It’s backwards to me, I have trouble–”
“It’s not backwards.”
“Yes it is.”
“Not to you.”
“Yes, because–”
“Imagine like you’re putting it on around your tummy, okay? Before you turn it around and hook the straps over your shoulders.”
“Is that how you do it?”
“Is that not how you do it?”
“You’ll see it when you close your eyes,” says Louis. “We’re almost there, cherie. Look.”
Ella’s eyes are a slice of iris. “La vie–” she whispers. “So–the scent–la vie–”
“One thing left,” says Louis. His voice is richer than shadows. “I promise to care for you. Heart and soul.”
Ella’s hands are spotted and callow. Her nightgown pools around her little form. “Yes,” she gasps. “Yes, Louis.”
She dies. Roses burst through her lips, her ribs, her sex. She arches to Louis’s laugh, a flare of trumpets–but shouldn’t they be silver?
Why, she barely wonders, are these brass?
It’s a strange kind of anonymous intimacy, thinks Ishmael, like old-style confession, or purchased sex. They’ve got maybe two feet of space between them. They’re each engaged in a very private activity, each pretending he can’t hear.
There’s the contest of patience, too: who’s going to stand first? Ishmael was here earlier, but his opponent may not even know he’s competing. If Ishmael gives up, not only will the other man hear him cleaning himself, he could well walk out before Ishmael’s gone. The anonymity would shatter.
He settles down, puts elbows to knees and prepares for the long wait.