Bruce Wagner - Still Holding

They were by the ocean, making a movie. Filming was delayed because an animal got caught in a generator and the crew was trying to free it with long, lacquered sticks. Kit lay on his side on a peaceful promontory overlooking the water. He was sketching in the sand, and something about the way he concentrated reminded Lisanne of the monks she’d seen at the Hammer Museum. A talking baby was there, like in one of those old Ally McBeal s. When Lisanne woke up, she couldn’t remember anything the baby had said.

She thought the dream was psychic because a few minutes after she arrived at work, Reggie gave her a pair of tickets to see the monks perform that very evening at UCLA. She thought of who she might ask but no one seemed handy. She decided to go alone.

• • •

THERE WERE ABOUT a dozen of them onstage, but this time they wore elaborate costumes and headdresses. A small photo of H.H. the Fourteenth Dalai Lama rested on an altar, with an architectural model of a many-layered temple beside it. Microphone headsets were the monks’ only bow to modernity. The characteristic amplified yoy-oy-yoy-oy-yoy throat chants accompanied drums and weird metal instruments, creating a haunting cacophony of sounds. At varying times, the holy men looked as if they were making signs and signals with their hands like ballplayers, but Lisanne hadn’t rented binoculars so couldn’t be sure. The man beside her was snoring and no one seemed to mind. A row ahead, a bored little boy fidgeted. Lisanne thought it sweet that his father had brought him to the ceremonies.

Slowly and fantastically, it dawned upon her that just one aisle over and four rows down, sat none other than Kitchener Lightfoot, flanked by Viv Wembley and the comedian Paul Reiser. Kit’s eyes were closed. He looked as if he was mediating.

After a few minutes of obsessing, Lisanne looked down at her program to distract herself. It said that tantric meditation was considered the “quick” way to enlightenment. Books of the tantra described not just one Buddha but thousands. A tantric meditator was supposed to visualize that he or she was actually one of those Buddhas, and she wondered if that’s what Kit was doing that very moment.

Her mouth moved as she silently read that

Vajrabhairava’s name means “Diamond Terrifier.” His bull-like face indicates that he has overcome Yama, the bull-headed Lord of Death. From the top of his head emerges the small peaceful face of Manjushri, who embodies all of the wisdom of all the Buddhas; Vajrabhairava symbolizes that wisdom transcends death.

Maybe Kit was just going over lines in his head, for tomorrow’s shoot… or maybe he was thinking: Who is that girl across the aisle, four rows back, the Rubenesque milkmaid who charmingly does not even notice how totally into her I am? Who is that amazing, secretly pregnant, sweet-faced executive assistant who could have no possible way of knowing that I am only sexually excited by similarly proportioned women who also happen to be phobic about flying? I need to have her in my life!

She gave herself the chuckles amidst all the sacred rituals. But try as she might, she couldn’t imagine what was going on in the head of Viv Wembley or Paul Reiser.

A Colony of Angels

ELAINE LEFT a message for her to call back as soon as possible. It was urgent.

Cameron Diaz — the true Cameron — was throwing a birthday party for Drew and got a brainstorm to have the “Angels” there, along with half a dozen other look-alikes. Elaine had already managed to get hold of the Cameron and the Lucy Liu, Cher, David Letterman, Donald Rumsfeld, Jim Carrey, and the Pope. When Becca asked if Rusty would be there, Elaine said no. Becca was relieved.

• • •

SHE HAD NEVER been inside the Colony. The guard waved her through, and she felt a curious, unexpected sense of belonging. When she saw the true Kid Rock climbing into a pickup, her nerves got all jangled and she wondered if she’d be able to pull this off.

A stern coordinator was waiting — the party wasn’t yet under way — and Becca was ushered into a kind of bull pen set up in the garage. Costume and makeup people descended on her with pins, Pan-Cake, and cigarette breath. The Cameron was sitting in a chair having her zits covered, Lucy’s hair was being straightened, and a bug-eyed, too-old Tobey Maguire was in the middle of a close shave. The Cher, who Becca thought to be a really good Cher, wandered in smoking. She said she didn’t think this was the true Cameron’s house; a makeup person concurred, but no one seemed to know who the house belonged to. Sting supposedly lived down the street but was never in residence, and the coordinator said Elaine told her that he rented the house out during the summer for ninety thousand dollars a month. Becca had a hard time believing that anyone would rent a house for that kind of money.

The true Cameron poked her head in and shrieked when she saw Elaine’s Angels.

“Oh my God! It’s fantastic!” she said, clapping her hands together. “You guys are incredible. ”

The Lucy said, “Flip the goddamn hair!” and that went over big — the true Cameron split a gut. The true Selma Blair wandered in, and Becca was beside herself. She couldn’t wait to tell her mom. And the party hadn’t even started!

The Angels were brought in for maximum effect, when the birthday was in full swing. Ben Stiller was there with his wife and baby, as were the true Demi Moore with the true Ashton, and the true Tobey. When Cher showed up, she clucked her tongue at her double — Becca figured the singer had seen her share of impersonators and wasn’t as psyched as the younger stars about having a look-alike. The true Rose McGowan arrived with Pink and Pamela Anderson, the latter sans Kid Rock. Rose went and talked to the Cher, who evidently she’d once hired for Marilyn Manson’s birthday. Tom Hanks mingled with the look-alikes and seemed to get the biggest kick out of the hammily decrepit, hunched-over Pope, whose “day job” turned out to be that of a somewhat wealthy Valley restaurateur. Becca and the Cameron were hoping against hope that Sting would drop by. No such luck.

There were so many famous people that she became numb. (She spaced out after seeing Jackie Chan with Owen Wilson. It all became a blur.) But the celebs weren’t very engaging; except for Tom and Rita, they preferred talking amongst themselves. Becca liked schmoozing with faces she didn’t recognize — that was much more intriguing. She figured that anyone who had been invited in the first place was by definition “a player,” a behind-the-scenes heavyweight. Those were the people who might actually be helpful in the long run. One turned out to be the writer of her all-time favorite movie, Forrest Gump. He lived a few doors down. His mom had just died, and he was so sweet and open about it that soon there were tears in his eyes and in Becca’s too. They were joined by a cordial, unassuming fellow named George and his exuberantly pregnant girlfriend, Maria; he turned out to be a bigshot Simpsons writer. They talked about all kinds of interesting things, and then the Forest Gump man introduced her (first as Drew Barrymore then as Becca Mondrain) to Tom Hanks just as Tom was leaving. Rita was saying her good-byes but soon came over. Tom was funny in a pretend-dark kind of way and started chatting with Becca like she was the true Drew. Then he did a kind of triple take, as if he’d been tricked, screwing up his eyes to have another look. “Drew better watch her back,” he said menacingly, as he sidled out. He did this cute thing where he kept looking over his shoulder at her with hooded, accusing eyes before smiling warmly then tipping an imaginary hat in good-bye. Rita looked like she wanted to stay a little longer, but her husband gently led her by the wrist. Becca was sure to make eye contact with her, though, mindful of the fact that it was Rita who discovered My Big Fat Greek Wedding as a stage show, and Rita who convinced Tom and everyone else to take a chance on putting up the money for a film version. Maybe she would see Becca onstage one day and extend her the same opportunity. Hollywood was full of those kinds of stories.