Guest No. 94

Like the old Mark Twain tale, and the mysterious stranger Satan.  Except no, I need to be quick.

One of the few constants that still remain in my life, through all the years, is In-N-Out.
My double-double and my strawberry vanilla shake.
It's an oldie, but a goodie.
And now it's time for school again.
Vancouver was a dream.
Was it?

It's playing tricks on me.

Beach Blonde

Met Gala Scene

She's at the Met Gala.  At the Met Gala, before you even get into the place, it's ritual custom to get one thousand photographs taken of you.  She's good.  She walks the red carpet at a constant pose.  Some famous designer draped upon her.  It'll be in the tabloids for a week, for sure.  She's smart, which is scary.  Her eyes never stay on the same lens for more than a second.

But these are pros on the other side.  The best.  The best cameras, the best flashes.  A second's all they need.  After all, they're in it for the money.

So is she.  

Once in, the necks crane.  It's her.  She's used to it.  She looks for people she knows.  Say what you will about her vanity, that girl can scan a room in under three minutes.  A room of three hundred faces lit low from the high rafters.  Three minutes tops.  She's knows a lot of the faces, doesn't care for most.  Ah, a friend.  That bitch, she's by the bar.  So typical.

She feels his eyes on her bare back (that famous designer despised dresses with backs) like the midnight sun in the dark, like a heat lamp or coming out of shade in the summer day, and her flower opens to him and she turns to look at him, and what she sees she's most certain of.  She's never seen him before.  Not ever.  Not even once, not in the papers, nowhere.  

Set at the other end of the bar with a pencil in hand.  He twirls it in his fingers and then writes in a palm-sized black notebook on the bar.  And then he twirls again and writes a little more, not glancing at the pencil and the words coming out, but at her.  She's coming towards him now.  Then back down at the words.  Then back at her.

She's curious.  Which, to be true, is a feeling usually lost on her.  But she's curious.  It's in her eyes, this curiosity, and in her eyes are reflected his own.  When they're looking at her.  He's still writing.  What the hell is he writing?  

When he stops writing as she nears, he doesn't break her gaze.  The pencil's still in his hand though. His left.  With his other, he cleanly swipes a tumbler off the bar and empties the contents, golden, save the ice cubes, and then she's on him.

"Hello, darling."

"Let me guess," she says.

"Guess..."

Her eyes flick to the empty tumbler, then back to his face.  At this range he's much more real.  He didn't shave today, perhaps yesterday though.  It's an almost fresh face.  There's no product in his hair either, which is a shame, she thinks, because it would look so good with a little style to it.  It's wild.  Not in a long way, not disheveled, but in the way of someone who's constantly running his fingers through it.  

"Ah, the drink. I like this. By all means.  Read me like a book, love."

"It was a fine whiskey, wasn't it."

"Brave try.  It usually is actually.  But no, tonight it's tequila, equally fine.  It's a night for uppers."

"And tequila is an upper," she concedes.

"Tequila and champagne, Miss... I didn't catch your name by the way."

"It's Kendall."

"Well Miss Kendall, I must say.  You're quite the stunner."

"What are you writing?"

"What do you mean?"

"I saw you writing and then you stopped.  What were you writing?"

There's a piece of paper on the bar, note-sized, that he quickly folds in half with one hand and sees into the inner pocket of his jacket.  "Oh, it's nothing."

"Nobody writes nothing. I want to know."

"Have a drink with me first, then maybe I'll tell you."

"No, tell me now."  It's strange.  This rejection.

He smiles, and glances over her shoulder.  "I think your friends coming.  Tell her she's pretty for me, will you?"

She turns, and he kisses her on the cheek, like an old French friend.  And then he's gone.

"Kendall! Oh my God, who was that?"

It's like a dream she remembers from long ago.  "I don't know.  He said you were pretty though."

"Oh my God, really?  

What do you think?  

Too glam?  

Kendall?  

Oh my God, Kendall.  

Snap out of it."

She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes quickly and shakes it off before realizing her hand's clenched on something, right hand.  It's a piece of paper, palm-sized, folded over once and ripped on one side.  In penciled and clean writing it says:

Well, you're just about the prettiest thing
I've seen since spring.
Call me tomorrow
310.227.6314

"310. That's an LA number."  She's whispering to herself, her tight lips curling ever so slightly on one side.

"What that? Kendall baby, I missed it.  And what's that?" She's noticed the note.

She folds it up again and reaches through the side of her dress, first up (fuck! that's right, no bra), then down (thank god I wore panties) and slips the folded note into her tight silk-thin panties, right over her clit.  She bites her lip.  "Nothing," she says, grabbing her friend by the arm.  She's drunk, the friend.  "Who else is here?"  Meanwhile in her mind she repeats the number over and over and over again, seven times because she read somewhere it takes seven repetitions to really remember something.

3102276314. 3102276314. 3102276314. 3102276314. 3102276314. 3102276314. 3102276314.

Writing Of Summer From A Winter

I was getting ready for Argentina this time last year, early June.  The gloom was in the air in Santa Monica, and it was winter in the South.  America de Sud.  I told myself that it was somehow fitting because I was going down there to write a book about Winter.  A strange winter, a difficult one, that took all of a year to plow through.  From Santa Cruz in the early fall, right up to the next October autumn.  With a long cold winter in between.  Yes, it's about a low, but hey, I had fun too.

This book is about Winter, true, but truer still I pray this story rings with the coming Spring.  That Spring, the one in the book didn't come until the summer.  'til the lease was up in Santa Cruz and I moved back down to LA.  In the summer, and sometime in July like pressure looking for release, I found it.  Or I should really say it was given to me in the female form of my good friend Lili.  And probably not in the way that you immediately pull away from that.  We were at a bar with some friends--bare with me.

So we're at this bar and we're drinking and talking just over the music in a dim-lit bougie hole-in-the-wall place by the pier in Santa Monica.  We didn't see each other often, like we used to in high school, so we always had a lot of catching up to do, and she's the kind a gal that's definitely fun to catch up with.

She always had her mystery men.  She'd secretly faun over and flirt with them.  But that life was a separate one, of more meaning and importance to her, than the one I used to be privy to.  Back before Paris.  But anyways, that's why I think she was so interesting in a way.  She always had some greater secret, some cunning that she's devised behind her eyes.  And well, you know me, dear reader.  I've always been one for a secret or three.

Miss Lili sometimes (rarely) had some for me.  Sometimes it's just so simple of a thing to say that can start some whole master ball rolling.  If it were marbles, this would be the slammer I'm talking about. It takes two things to send you that high: one, high pressure built up like rocket fuel, and two, a catalytic ignition.  Or hell, if the pressure's high enough, all it takes is a release valve; an escape route.

That's short sighted, but oh well.  Lili was studying abroad in the fall.  Studying "International Relations."  Uh-huh.  That night at the bar she said, "Come to Paris and write for a bit."


[stop]


What were those weeks like? Remember!

I can feel the seed sprouting in the sun here on the terrace at Boulevard.  Oh, this Sutton Place.  There were girls.  There was drugs and festivals, and two jobs up North, and living at home down South (see Running Away), me and my bicycle and my surfboard.  And of course my trust Ford Explorer Sport, the White Mamba.  And at the end, it all coming to a head, and release.  It's like Igby Goes Down.  Gag.  Somebody punch me.

The Globe And Mail

I never worked in construction, so I can't really say I know too much of the matter.  However, I am familiar with the feelings he's so enamored with.  That ant mentality, and the power of small things.  He had somewhat of a jarring experience to snap it into prominence, a fall, a hanging between certainties at a construction site.

Mine was on a tropical island.
After a night of motorcycles and beer.
And redemption as an antiquated belief system.

See, I believe in the truths, the uncharacterized and real defined tenets of naturalized crime and punishment.  I believe in comeuppance.  I believe in that which we deserve in our lives based on what we've done and how we've treated others.  I believe in respect, and in the certain specifics in my mind that come with earning it.  I believe in the value of design and the beauty of words.  I believe in a reasonable return-on-investment.  I believe in photography.

Modern Guilt

When I take a deep breath and step back to blink twice for fresh eyes, I can't help but think to myself, "What a strange and wonderful place this is that all my life's stumbling's taken me to."  To be a necessity in some wonderful woman's eyes, it's what any man would dream of, isn't it?  Or maybe that's the catch, the rump right there.  I never needed anyone in my life.  I had people, but I ran away. I was good at running, and I was always honest, which made me tricky, I suppose.  Did I need them though?  No.  There was never a need, I don't think (or maybe I'm just being daft) I never needed anyone.  But for forever and as long as I can remember, I'd always wanted and wished to be needed.

The old adage holds true: be careful what you wish for, as they say.  Except I think it'd be a hard stretch to call me careful.  Lazy, yes.  Scattered, most definitely.  But not careful.  No, being careful's about holding back, which personally I think is a waste of time.  The only thing I've been "careful" about is probably publishing books, and look how that's turned out.  No, if I'm going to be something when it comes to wishing, I'd rather be grateful.

Grateful.  Cognizant.  Deserving.

I need to deserve this, and that's how she makes me better.  Thank you, Claire.

Dustin Hoffman

Incredible actor.  The Graduate, have you seen it?  A must see, absolutely.  The crux of it is this tug-of-war between innocence and adulthood.  Well no, it's much simpler than that as well.  It's cat and mouse, predator and prey too.  It's the difference between what's right and proper and a societal norm, and what fervor of reality can really be.  It's not everyday, but it's out there, and it's perfectly possible; through any lens, with any set of characters.

And so what's easiest to see through other than the lens of one's own life?  So the setup is this: Two girls living in LA, roommates (because living by yourself is boring).  One recently received a Masters in Business online, she's the Graduate.  The degree was paid for by the company, she works in TV.  Roommate, best friend, soundboard, comic relief, etc. (see Caitlyn Ritter in Apt. 23) is a hair/make-up artist.  They met on set.  The Graduate is a producer, older, working with the studio.

At a work event, gala, awards ceremony, whatever, Graduate's boss makes an introduction, an older man, accomplished, show-runner/creator.  He's handsome, polite/cordial, maybe a little distracted.  He wears fine clothes and an expensive watch that he checks quite often.  He tells the Graduate he'd very much like to see her again.  They date.  He has a son, Archie.

Archie's younger, adopted at an older age by show-runner/creator.  He'd wanted a son, had never married (wasn't the best with women, always busy, like producer from Californication maybe?) Found him at a foster home, had flipped through his notebook, adopted him, took him home, and turned his story into an award-winning show.

Took notebook, by force basically, force of will, "I'll buy you another notebook, I'll buy you ten notebooks, this one's mine."

They don't like each other, not anymore.  Not after that.  But he's his son now, and father's always hoping to scoop up another hit.  Has the maids read the notebooks.

"I just write poetry in it now, a short story every now and again to keep his lips moist.  I'm not an idiot, I know how to keep my stay because honestly, this stay ain't bad.  I mostly stay out of sight.  Half the time, I think he just keeps me close, keeps me happy because he doesn't want it getting out."


Meetings:

(1)
Nice dinner at Big House with Creator; fancy, chef-prepared, waited on, candle lit, outdoor in the Hills, sees the son come in with a girl through the glass windows.  "Who's that?"
Pause, "That would be my son."
"You have a son?"
"I have a son."  He's a man with secrets apparently.

(2)
Party at the Big House.  Lots of people, best friend comes along, she likes to party.  Graduate sees her with Archie.  There's eye contact.  Graduate is at her man's side the whole time pretty much, has a few moments with best friend.  It's a launch party, new TV show.

(3)
Next morning, coming home, Archie's there in his underwear.  Friend is in the shower.  He put's his pants on, but not a shirt.  "You know what? I actually haven't the faintest clue where that might be... But come on, it's summer, and I run hot."
They small talk until friend comes out in a towel, and his shirt in his face.
"You're home! And you've met Archie, I see.  Archie, this is [Graduate].  [Graduate], Archie."
"[Graduate], hello."  And to Friend: "Ah, and that's where my shirt's been. Well, ladies," finishes coffee, "I must be off.  I've got work in thirty minutes."
Friend: Workin' on a weekend?
Graduate: You work?
Archie: No rest for the weary, love. (mouths) call me.  (to Graduate) It was a pleasure.
Girlfriend storytime: "I was actually talking to ACTOR for five minutes before his girlfriend walked over."
"You're such a little slut! Do you know who that was?"
"I don't know, the bartender?"

Archie's too charming, not a gentleman mind you, but a charming little shit.  And he curses like a sailor.

And eventually he's going to fuck his dad's girlfriend.  He's made up his mind about that.  He's a genius, but only pertaining to things he truly cares about.  He's cunning and manipulative.  He's Mrs. Robinson.

Big Minds: Archie, Graduate
Small Minds: Creator, Friend

Scene:
Creator's flying out of town for work, up north to Vancouver.  Graduate spends the night kisses him goodbye in the morning out the door.  She makes coffee.  Girl comes down, "Archie said there's water in the kitchen." She's a mess kinda.
"You're Uber has arrived."
"Oh, they usually have water in the car don't they. Ok, bye." She leaves.
As soon as the door shuts Archie sneaks down with a towel around his waist, smooth getaway, and unknowingly flashes the Graduate, and she sees him off guard, seeing her only after it was too late (long hallways, sweeping stairwell, whatever), then an awkward standard, "I just saw your penis" talk, before she says she really should be going.  "I really should be going," she says.
"Wait! Have you had anything today? You know, to eat?"
"I was just going to-"
"Because Maria's just made all this lovely food for two and Angela's up and called an uber for breakfast." Looking at the food... "I can't eat all that."
There's bacon.  We should know that the Graduate loves bacon.  And it's the fucking best-looking bacon she's ever fucking seen.

[cut to commercial]

There's a scene before at brunch with roommate that she goes off about bacon.  I should say on and on really.  She really fucking loves bacon, they both do.  It's  bonding point for both of them, the last piece of bacon, like Lady and the Tramp.

Things I Tell Myself

I'm going to marry this woman.

And I've never had a starter anything.

Similarity / Familiarity

I may or may not be writing from the future technically, as I'm not exactly sure what day it is.  All these days may be the same though up here in the temperate North, and I mean that in the most inexplicable way.  It's wonderful, to put it lazily, and lazily is most definitely the way these days.  I feel relaxed, at peace, and my girl's the happiest she's been in years, she says.  And here, in this sphere of reality, I want to do nothing but write.  It's strange.  And yet, it's not unfamiliar, this feeling.  I know it well, I've felt it before.  It's life without design.  Organic living.  

Canada, Ay

Do you know what I love most about flying?  It's the sensation that sways me.  It's two Caesars and the sound of the air pumping through the cabin.  It's the pressure building in my ears as we descend.  It's me and bae.  And I've got so much work to do.  
I can't wait.

Vanilla Latte

June starts not with a bang, but a whimper in the haze of a Santa Monica marine layer.  "We'll surf tomorrow," I said in bed, "I promise."  It's a slow start to a summer month, but that isn't to say that everything is going to happen this month.  We're going to Vancouver, Claire and I.  It's a week for her work, and for me it's everything but.  A week free to do this life in a way I vaguely remember.  To do everything again, and I mean everything.  To take pictures and write, but more importantly I think, to move forward.

I've been of the mind lately that writing things down will make them so.  At the very least, having it written let's me see how things should be.  It's a medium for thoughts, one much more concrete and set in stone than the buttery net in the sand that is my mind trying to hold onto good ideas, onto maps of the path.  Maps are meant to be written down.  They're spatial.  For me, they need to be written out before my own eyes, the physical ones, not the mental because two eyes are better than one, and I'm a wanderer.  I wander 'round, around, around, around 'round, around, ooo.  So here it is, the map.

Things I'll do, why, I'll s (1) send out query letters, (2) fix the website, (3) do hotel research, (4) find a shirt printer.  And of course do homework.  And write and write and write a pilot.