Bruce Wagner - Still Holding

Drew Barrymore approached with two gays in tow. It was Becca’s moment of reckoning.

“You are so scary. Do you think I could call you on the phone? Like when I’m having a shitty moment in a relationship? Which is pretty much all the time. ” She turned to the gays, who laughed in chorus. “Or how about when I just really don’t want to deal with my family — or lawyer or agent or whatever? Couldn’t you just, like, come over and kind of live through stuff that I’d rather not?”

“Drew,” said Becca, gasping from the thin air. “I’d come and wash dishes if you asked.”

She knew she sounded like a rube, and the queerfolk winced, but Drew laughed, laying a hand on Becca’s arm to put her at ease. Becca nearly burst into tears.

“Oh my God!” said Drew exultantly, a lightbulb going off. “You could have a baby for me!”

The gays laughed some more and one said, “She could fuck for you.”

“Thank you, no,” said Drew. “I’d rather do that myself. For now. ”

More laughs from the gays. The beautiful black girl from Saturday Night Live came over with the true Cameron, who saucily threw an arm over Becca’s shoulder. “Well,” she said. “If it isn’t Dylan Sanders…”

Becca sucked it up and said, “Flip your goddamn hair!”

Everyone laughed and she felt redeemed.

At 20 thCentury-Fox

LISANNE CALLED Tiff Loewenstein. She’d been meaning to do that as a friendly follow-up to their gala at the Casa del Mar, but she had a hidden agenda as well. Tiff got on the phone right away. His lunch had canceled and he asked her to join him at the commissary.

It had been a while since she’d been on the lot. Lisanne loved the bustle of a studio. The hallways of the executive building were cool, creamy, and hushed, for that wonderful retro mausoleum effect. Everything was perfectly production designed, with a forties ambience. Deeper into the honeycomb and closer to the offices of power, posters of blockbuster films gave way to gauzy Hurrells of bygone stars: Davis, Cagney, Crawford, Hepburn.

She was met in the anteroom by one of three secretaries, then led back to his plush Art Deco domain. Tiff rushed over from his desk, kissing both her cheeks. He immediately informed her of two upcoming events for which he “sorely” needed companionship on the weekend. Friday, he was to receive the KCET Visionary Award (Biltmore ballroom); the following night, he would be honored at a benefit for the Children’s Burn Foundation (Beverly Hilton). “What, may I ask, is your availability?” he said, somewhat wryly.

It didn’t seem like the right time to ask how things were going on the home front, or if they were going at all. Since he was dateless for his tributes, she assumed the worst.

“You’re in luck. As it turns out, I’ve been relieved of my duties as Karl Lagerfeld’s muse. I’m completely at your disposal.”

He laughed, took her arm, and swept her out.

• • •

“HOW’S THE KIT Lightfoot movie going?” she asked, after ordering.

Tiff occasionally waved to well-wishers — only rarely was he approached in full greeting. As a rule, it was understood the mogul was not to be disturbed.

“Phenomenal. I think it’s gonna be a big hit.”

“He’s really good.”

“Number one. Very down-to-earth — an old-fashion movie star. And he gets the biggest compliment I have. Know what it is?”

She shook her head.

Tiff said, “He’s not a prick.”

“Do you know him? I mean, very well?”

“What, you have a crush?” His antennae were up.

“I meant, do you ever socialize —”

“Because he’s very much a twosome, you know,” he chided.

“So I heard,” she said, rolling her eyes.

“I’d be very jealous if you wound up on his arm at a benefit.”

“I would never be unfaithful,” she said, patting his hand. “Unless, of course, I was the honoree — then I just might drag him along. Naturally, he would have to consent.”

“Fair enough. All’s fair among love and consenting honorees.”

“Are they still shooting?”

“For two more weeks.”

She got very brave and casually said, “I’d love to visit the set.” Better just to come out with it.

Two men interrupted to say hellos, then the food arrived. She would have to find a way to circle around again.

Since they’d been seated, Lisanne had noticed heads consistently turning toward one of the booths in the back.

“Is that Russell Crowe?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.

Tiff glanced over and laughed.

“See the blond kid? Adam Spiegel —Spike Jonze. He did Adaptation and Being John Malkovich. ”

“I know who he is. I love his movies.”

“He’s sitting with Charlie Kaufman.”

“ That’s Charlie Kaufman? God, he looks like J. D. Souther.”

“Who’s J. D. Souther?”

“He wrote songs for the Eagles.”

“Well, that’s him —Garbo himself. Two Jews from Verona. Spike’s a rich kid. The Spiegel catalog. Der Spiegel says that’s a myth, but he’s full of shit. You know who he’s married to, right?”

“I love her. Are they doing a project with Russell Crowe?”

“I wish. They’ve got a meshuga project that Charlie’s writing, about look-alikes. That’s who that guy at the table is — a Russell Crowe look-alike.”

“What is that.”

“Bottom feeders who come to Hollywood and get jobs impersonating movie stars.”

“Sounds kind of interesting.”

“Maybe too interesting. When someone wants to spend forty million of the studio’s money, I need more than ‘interesting.’ Now, if we could get the real Russell Crowe to be in their movie and pay him ‘look-alike’ prices, that would be interesting. Who knows. Could happen. You still didn’t give me an answer — which benefit would you favor, Ms. McCadden? The Friday or the Saturday?”

“That’s a tough one.”

“Tell you what. Go to both and I’ll make you a deal.”

“Shoot.”

“You can bring something to your friend for me.”

“My friend?”

“Mr. Lightfoot. See, I have a gift for him. Come to both benefits and you can be the messenger. I’ll so anoint you. Because I’m a very anointing person.”

KIT SAT ON A cushion in his private zendo, facing the Benedict Canyon hillock that rose up like a ziggurat. A landscape architect had trucked in tons of dirt for the effect.

He stared at an abstract, shifting patch of sun on the teak floor a foot or so beyond his knees.

His next film, an Anthony Minghella, had fallen through. He was scheduled to do a Ridley Scott but not for at least ten months.

He thought of going to India for the Kalachakra Tantra, the annual Wheel of Time rite in which thousands of initiates experience rebirth en masse, coming through childhood to visualize themselves as buddhas. Seeing the Gyuto monks had triggered the notion of pilgrimage. The Dalai Lama, his teacher’s teacher, was scheduled to preside over a gathering of some quarter million devotees. Kit had attended such a ceremony before with His Holiness in Madison, Wisconsin, albeit on a far smaller scale.

There, in that unlikely place, the actor had spoken words of promise, before infinity: “O all Buddhas and Bodhisattvas, please take heed of me. I, Kit Lightfoot, from this time henceforth until arriving in the essence of enlightenments will generate the excellent unsurpassed mind of intention to become enlightened in just the way the Protectors of the three times become definite toward enlightenment.” A sand mandala representing a palace was created, and the pilgrims were mentally guided through it. After a number of days, the rituals and blessings ended when the Dalai Lama himself swept up the colored sand with a broom, in readiness for dedication to the waters.