Daniel Price - Slick

Meanwhile, on the other side of Hollywood, the publicity team at Paramount Pictures invited Alonso to Monday’s star-studded premiere of Down to Earth , the new Chris Rock reincarnation comedy that was opening next week. Alonso was naturally encouraged to bring Harmony and all her free media attention. Wisely, he declined. His only mistake was telling Harmony about it.

“But I love Chris Rock,” she whimpered to me. “I want to meet him.”

“I’m sure you will someday.”

“So when do I finally get to do the celebrity thing?”

“Monday,” I promised. “That’s when you mix it up with Larry King.”

“I’d rather mix it up with Chris Rock.”

Ironically, Chris Rock was originally scheduled to mix it up with Larry King on Monday, until they bumped him for Harmony. Little did she know she was dissing him twice.

“Be patient, honey. If we get you out there too soon—”

“I know. I know. Credibility. You want me to play hard to get.”

I grinned. “Just think of it as abstinence on a wider scale.”

Harmony wasn’t amused. She wasn’t in good humor at all.

“All right. Something’s up. Talk to me,” I said.

“I’m just starting to feel a little cooped up in here,” she admitted. “I’m even getting sick of looking at the ocean.”

“You want to change hotels?”

“No. The hotel’s fine. I guess it’s just… I don’t know. I’m kind of feeling isolated.”

“Tell me what I can do to help.”

“Well, for starters, you could come visit me.”

She knew it was a long shot. That didn’t make me feel better. I would have loved to see her again. My new fantasy — my chaste fantasy — was to smuggle her out of the hotel and take her on a nice long drive. Anywhere. It didn’t matter.

There were, of course, logistical problems.

“Honey, you know I would, but the press is all around your hotel. It’s like the Oscar preshow out there.”

“Chuck said he could sneak you in.”

“Uh, what are you telling those guys about me?”

“Nothing,” she said. “I never even gave them your last name. What’s the big deal?”

“No. It’s fine. Just…be careful what you say around them. About everything.”

Christ, that was dumb of me, not to mention cruel. Here she was complaining of isolation, and I’d just put a wall between her and the few people she could see.

“I just thought you might like to see the new drawings I made,” she replied dejectedly. “I can’t show you over the phone.”

Dumb. Dumb. Dumb. “Is this for your book?”

“No. That’s still all in my head. I was just doing landscapes and stuff. I’m practicing for the book.”

“I still think it’s a great idea. I can’t wait to see it.”

“Yeah.”

Our conversation hit a sudden patch of dead air. This new awkwardness was driving me crazy. A few more seconds of silence and I would have grabbed my car keys. I would have told her to order up dinner for two.

“Scott, when this is all over, are you still gonna have to hide from me?”

“I’m not hiding from you. I’m hiding from them.”

“Yeah, but how long are you gonna have to hide from ‘them’?”

I sighed. “I don’t know. It’ll be a while before you and I can go out for Chinese food.”

“It’s not that. I was just hoping you could be my official publicist or something. I mean when this is all over.”

As much as I liked the notion, and as much as I loved that she asked, I knew it could never happen. Even if the Judge paid me under the table, there were still several dotted lines connecting me to Mean World. Officially attaching myself to Harmony would only invite suspicion, most likely investigation.

“I’m more of a crisis manager than a celebrity rep. I wouldn’t be the best person for you. We’ll set you up with someone good.”

“Okay.”

“But that doesn’t mean we can’t be friends.”

I was hoping she’d be touched by that. Instead, she fell into an odd fit of giggles.

“What?”

“I’m sorry,” she said, still snickering. “I want to be friends. I mean we are friends. I just got a picture of you chilling at my place, kicking back with a 40 and listening to Wu-Tang.”

I smiled along. “That’s more than I can picture.”

Of course, I didn’t tell her what I could see. My newest fantasy was to fly her around the world in a two-seater plane. We’d land at exotic ports, stay at exotic hotels, and at each scenic vista, I’d stimulate her with fascinating bits of local history. It wasn’t an entirely chaste vision. I couldn’t seem to get us out of the exotic hotels.

But my media high was finally beginning to subside. I could feel my galvanized id slowly settling back to normal. What a relief, too. It was getting a little too raucous over here in my psyche. All in all, I preferred the quiet.

________________

[pr_demon] Yo.

[mrvl_girl] Yo yo.

[pr_demon] I tried buzzing you for a chat this morning.

[mrvl_girl] Sorry. I only come out at night. During the day I pretend to be a web designer.

[pr_demon] How’s that going?

[mrvl_girl] The pretending? Quite well. What are you doing home?

[pr_demon] What do you mean?

[mrvl_girl] I mean it’s Friday night. Shouldn’t you be out on the town?

[pr_demon] What makes you think I’m an “out on the town” kind of guy?

[mrvl_girl] Because when I first met you, you were just a dude cruising around Westwood at 3AM. At least that’s how I struck you.:}

[pr_demon] I was coming back from the airport.

[mrvl_girl] Really? So were we.

[pr_demon] Another “find & retrieve” for Madison, huh?

[mrvl_girl] No comment.

[pr_demon] Right. I forgot.

[mrvl_girl] But I did notice that you weren’t alone in your car.

[pr_demon] That was just a friend from New York.

[mrvl_girl] *scans for subtext*

[pr_demon] A _married_ friend from New York.

[mrvl_girl] Okay, but someone in this household thinks you have a special woman in your life.

[pr_demon] That seems to be the rumor.

[mrvl_girl] Do you?

[pr_demon] Nope.

[mrvl_girl] Special man?

[pr_demon] Nope.

[mrvl_girl] But you _are_ hetero.

[pr_demon] Yes. Non-practicing.

[mrvl_girl] You and me both, pal.

[pr_demon] But you’re married.

[mrvl_girl] Scott, if you think marriage guarantees constant, frequent, or even occasional sex, then you’re stunningly naŨve.

[pr_demon] I think you meant “naive.”

[mrvl_girl] I did. This program seems to barf its umlauts.

[pr_demon] You mention your ex-husband all the time but you never talk about the current one.

[mrvl_girl] What would you like to know?

[pr_demon] What’s his name? What does he do? How long have you been married? How does he put up with you?

[mrvl_girl] Neil. Captions. Four years. Shut up.

[pr_demon] Captions, as in “closed captions for the hearing impaired.”

[mrvl_girl] Yep. He’s one of the guys who types them up, usually for live broadcasts. He does a lot of sports events. I believe he’s doing the Grammys in two weeks.

[pr_demon] Wow. He must haul ass on the keyboard.

[mrvl_girl] 220 words a minute.

[pr_demon] 220?!!

[mrvl_girl] I know. That used to really turn me on.

[pr_demon] How is that even possible?!

[mrvl_girl] It’s not a keyboard. It’s a 10-key touchpad, like the stenographers use. He just plugs it into the network console, and it all gets encoded into the broadcast.

[pr_demon] Wait. I think I read something about this.

[mrvl_girl] Television runs on 20 visible lines of data. The 21st line is hidden right out of view, until you press the Captions button. Then it gets pushed up to where everyone can see it.