Bruce Wagner - Still Holding

Phil Muskingham was the anemic thirty-nine-year-old heir of a San Francisco telecom clan. He had a minor facial tic and a bad haircut. He wasn’t witty, but he wasn’t unfunny either and seemed to genuinely like her, in spite of her weight, which definitely made him more appealing. (Lisanne had been steadily gaining and thought that Roslynn must have broached the issue to the “catch” beforehand to make sure it was OK.) He was flirting with her, and she wasn’t used to that. He could have been one of those people who got turned on by fatties — hell that’d be OK too. Bring ‘em on.

The awards part of the luncheon was to begin soon. As coffee was served, Phil asked Lisanne if she wanted to walk the grounds. They set off.

“I know where I’ve seen you before,” he said. She couldn’t imagine. “Were you at a gathering a few months ago, in Bel-Air? Kind of a yoga thing?”

“Oh my God, yes!” she exclaimed in disbelief. “But — what were you doing there?”

“The Gubers are old friends of the family. Lynda— Tara —is always after me to start meditating.”

“The Yoga House.”

“I call it Yoda House. House o’ Yoda.”

“I remember you. You were next to me. You were fidgeting. ”

“Back problems. I can’t sit like that.”

“That is so funny. You were harmonizing. ”

“Gettin spiritual,” he said, with a goofy smile.

She thought he was cute.

“I can’t believe that was you!” she said. Maybe it was a sign from matchmaker heaven.

“Hey, didja hear about the swami at Pink’s? They asked how he wanted his hot dog, and he said, ‘Make me one with everything. ’ ”

“I’ve heard that,” Lisanne said, sweetly groaning.

“So… you wanna go somewhere sometime?”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. We could go out. We could go to Pink’s and be one with everything.”

“Sure,” she said, insouciant. “Why not?”

She was actually being asked on a date. We could go to a movie. Or to the delivery room together.

“Well,” he said, drolly. “I guess that’s better than just ‘Why?’ ”

They laughed. A downsized version of the Vienna Philharmonic began to tune itself, and they headed back so as not to miss the encomiums about to be sung for the studio mogul and his wife.

Dashed Hopes

BECCA DIDN’T TELL Annie about the orgy at the Four Seasons. She avoided Rusty the following week. She had a yeast infection anyway.

When she thought about it, her stomach turned. She knew everyone was really stoned, and that made the reality at least a little less harsh in her head. She didn’t think Grady had been inside her but wasn’t really sure. It made her paranoid that she might catch something. Becca flashed on fooling around with Cass, smelling her smells and licking her pussy, reaching up to rub the taut, protuberant belly while Cassandra sucked the men. She was obsessing so much about the evening and feeling so guilty that she got a flu. At her worst moment, Becca was dialing home to Virginia to confess. But then the fever broke, so to speak, and she decided on a new tack: she would pretend it hadn’t happened. When they were together again, if anyone made some smarmy reference or even hinted at a replay, she would tell them they could all go fuck themselves.

• • •

WHEN THE CASTING director called to say that Spike Jonze wanted to meet, Becca nearly fainted. Sharon suggested they go to the Coffee Bean on Sunset, to “strategize.”

She said that Spike was making a film about “the nature of celebrity and what this town does to people.” The script was by the genius Charlie Kaufman, and they were already signing up big actors (Russell Crowe, Raquel Welch, Cameron Diaz, Benicio Del Toro, John Cusack), but the real stars — the heart and soul of the piece — were look-alikes. Supposedly, Spike didn’t want to do any special effects like he did with Nic Cage and his “brother” in Adaptation; that it was important the actors resembled the stars instead of being exact duplicates. They were throwing out a wide net for look-alikes who could act, and of course Becca qualified because, as far as Sharon was concerned, she was an exceptionally talented actress who just happened to moonlight as a Drew Barrymore impersonator. Becca asked if Elaine Jordache was involved in the production. Sharon hadn’t heard the name.

In the parking lot, they clasped hands and Sharon said that she had a really good feeling about her meeting with Spike. She kept gently pinching the pressure point between Becca’s thumb and forefinger. It hurt a little but felt good too. Becca closed her eyes and asked how she knew about that kind of thing and Sharon said she’d actually trained in shiatsu and deep tissue massage; that was what she did in her college years to get by. She told Becca she would do bodywork on her if she wanted. Then she gave a quick, firm rub to the back of Becca’s neck, saying she had “a few rocks back there.” She kissed Becca goodbye on the lips but with mouth closed.

• • •

HEART IN THROAT, Becca immediately called Rusty. She was eager to share the news with him. Also, it was a feel-good way to close the book on the whole creepy sexcapade.

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying,” she said enthusiastically, “that I’m supposed to go see him tomorrow morning — some place on Gower. Rusty, I am so totally terrified!”

“Supposed to go where, ” he said testily. Obtuse.

“This address on — no, Ivar. To see Spike Jonze! Oh my God, I have to rent Adaptation… I mean, I already saw it but not for a while. And I never saw Human Nature —but that’s by a different director, not Spike [she was already on a first-name basis]. Still, it’s by Charles Kaufman — I mean, he wrote it — so I probably should see it…. And Annie says there’s some other movies — the one George Clooney directed, that Drew’s in — I should— Ohmygod, Rusty, I looked on IMDb and Spike’s from Maryland, where Annie’s from! Did you know he was an actor? He was in that movie The Game and that movie Three Kings ? But I don’t think I’m going to rent those. Not until he gives me a part!”

“Would you please shut the fuck up?”

“What?”

The air went out of her.

“So you called Elaine?” he said accusingly. “Or did she call you —did Elaine call you, Becca?”

“No! Rusty, what is wrong ? Elaine had nothing to do with this. Sharon never even heard of her. Sharon said—”

“Sharon?”

“Sharon Belzmerz—”

“Sharon who ?” he asked sarcastically.

“Sharon Belzmerz. She’s a casting director, at Warner Brothers. I told you about her — I met her through Cyrus. She put me on tape.”

“Oh. Sharon Bullshitz put you on tape. Oh! Oh. Right.”

“I ran into her that night we were at the Four Seasons”—here she did start to cry, with the forced, fractured memory of in-suite high jinks. Don’t go there. “Sharon said that someone saw my tape, someone— But why — why are you so—”

“I met with Spike Jonze, OK? OK, Becca? I already fucking met with him. Do you hear what I’m saying? I know all about the ‘look-alike’ project. And they’re not trying to find any ‘Drews,’ OK? I read the script, which not even the fucking studio has read, OK? He gave me the script. And they’re not looking for Drews. ”

“OK. All right.” Her voice grew thin as she capitulated. “He just said he wanted to meet me.” Hating herself for whining. For backing down. Hating him. Fighting for breath. “He saw my tape.”