Bruce Wagner - Still Holding

They got some diet Cokes and wandered to the terrace.

The city view was awesome. A cluster of look-alikes huddled in a group: the Cameron that she already knew, a Kit Lightfoot, a Benicio, a Billy Bob, and a guy named Joe Sperandeo, who had been featured in Los Angeles magazine because of his resemblance to Brad Pitt. Some girl who got fixated on the true Brad and broke into his house to take a nap ended up getting fixated on Joe too. Becca heard the laugh of the true Cameron, who came clopping onto the terrace with Sofia in tow. She laid eyes on Becca and yelped with pleasure, throwing her arms around her like a long-lost friend. Becca almost peed her pants.

“Isn’t she amazing ?” said Cameron to Sofia. “She was at Drew’s birthday — you were in Japan. Drew was so freaked out. I mean, it was really disturbing for her, but in a good way.”

Becca did her “flip your goddamn hair” shtick and Cameron tittered. Then Sofia, who seemed even nicer than her husband if that could be possible, told Becca how incredible she looked and Becca was bashfully glad. She somehow mustered the poise to say how much she loved The Virgin Suicides before Rusty reclaimed her, rakishly introducing himself while the other look-alikes excitedly hovered close by. Cameron giggled over Rusty’s resemblance to his temperamental counterpart (there had been a buzz that the true Russell, already cast, was expected for the reading) and howled when she saw her own doppelganger eavesdropping at the edge of the impromptu clique. The Cameron look-alike’s teeth looked like giant, lipstick-stained Chiclets.

As Becca and Rusty wandered back to the living room, John Cusack arrived. He was much taller than she had pictured. Benicio Del Toro came in close behind him, and his eyes were so hooded that she thought she would die; he was the only man in the room who could compete with her Rusty. Someone pointed out Charlie Kaufman, who was there with a girl named Kelly Lynch, not the actress but the personal assistant to the songwriter Leonard Cohen. Along with working actors and Sofia’s friend Zoë, other Silverlake denizens arrived — Donovan Leitch and his sister Ione Skye, Moon Zappa, Amy Fleetwood, and a daughter of Robert Wagner and Natalie Wood (Becca didn’t catch the name). They grabbed scripts from a box and took seats.

Annie was always telling Becca about hip industry table-reads, and now she was finally participating in one herself. (She wasn’t actually at the table; she was on a folding chair just behind Rusty, and that suited her fine.) She was so proud to be with her peers, and her dashing man. Her looks had got her in the door, and of that she wasn’t going to be ashamed. She was determined to be assessed by her merits as an actress alone. The others — the cheap Cameron and the Kit, the sleazo Billy Bob and off-the-rack Benicio — were lame and starstruck. They looked sad and out of place, like the losers left standing in musical chairs. She hoped the people who mattered would see through her Drewness to the Becca Mondrain within. If anyone in the world had the genius and sheer aplomb to look and really see, to make the most of who she was underneath it all, well then surely that person was Spike Jonze.

Coup de Grâce

KIT PLAYFULLY POSED with a family of German tourists outside Fred Joaillier, on Rodeo. A small crowd began to gather. More tourists with cameras ran over from the other side of the street.

It didn’t take long to pick out the engagement ring — a pear-shaped sixteen carats. He flirted with the older saleswoman throughout the transaction. A guard had the valet bring the car to the alley. Kit ducked out, to avoid the mob.

• • •

THAT NIGHT HE and Alf had a late supper at Bar Marmont.

“Where’s Viv?”

“Letterman — I already told you that.”

“Well excuuuse me.”

“Goin senile?”

“Nope. Goin retard,” said Alf.

“Retread.”

“Tardo. Tardatious.”

“So what’s happening with you and Cameron?”

“Why?”

“You still having a thing?”

“Uh… it’s not really going on.”

“What the dillio?”

“I think she was playin me.”

“Oh. I see. You got your heart broken.”

“No—”

“Oh man, you did. ”

“ No —” said Alf, suppressing a smile.

“Oh shit! Oh no! She blew you off!”

“Don’t bust my balls.”

“Threw you away like a fuckin tampon! Took your heart-cherry and stawmped on it!”

“You are outta control. ”

“ These boots are made for walkin’! And that’s just what they’ll do!”

A square in a sport jacket walked over.

“You’re Kit Lightfoot.” He looked at Alf and said, “I know you too.”

“You won the lotto,” said Alf, in freeze-out mode.

“You guys are really great actors. Can I bring my girlfriend over? She said it was you, but I didn’t believe her. She’s a big fan. Maybe you could sign her hand — or her tit! — or something.”

“You know what?” said Kit. “We’re off tonight.”

The square didn’t understand.

“We’re not workin. We’re just hangin,” said Alf, grinning professionally.

“That’s cool,” said the square. He was embarrassed but sucked it up. “How bout if you don’t sign anything. Just come and say hi when you leave. That’d mean a whole lot to her.”

“I don’t think so,” said Alf. Can you believe this?

“Sorry,” said Kit.

“We’re not doing the Universal Tour thing tonight,” said Alf. “We’re off the tram.”

“Some other time,” said Kit.

“OK — right on. Catch you later.”

After he left, Alf said, “Are they letting anyone into this fuckin place now?”

A security guy came and apologized. When Kit was in the club, they liked to keep a closer watch.

“We’re off the tram,” said Kit, with a laugh. “What the fuck does that mean?”

• • •

THE VALET HAD the G-wagen in front. Alf got in while Kit bolted to the liquor store for cigs. He was at the counter paying and didn’t see the square, who swiftly approached and brained him with a bottle. The girlfriend screamed. Kit collapsed. They ran out. The clerk gave chase. The actor’s foamy rictus looked like a sardonic smile.

“And fuck you too, superstar!” yelled the square from the street.

Late Bloomers

HE SHIFTED IN her belly as she tried to sleep. (She’d finally gone to the OB-GYN and learned it was a boy.) The movement stopped. She drifted off.

Yesterday, Robbie had called to inquire listlessly about the baby. She didn’t feel at all connected to her high school lover. It didn’t even seem like he could be the father, but no other possibility existed. She had a fleeting born-of-the-ether thought.

Midnight. She stirred awake and padded to the living room. The petals of the mandala were closed. (She liked closing them at night and opening them in the morning, but now that she had awakened, Lisanne wanted to commune. She wanted the deity to share her bumblebee breaths — she’d become official celebrant and caretaker of the numinous, night-blooming mandala.) Leaning over to delicately midwife the Buddha’s coppery dilation, Lisanne had a wicked thought: I could sleep with Phil then tell him the baby is his.

She lay on the couch and drew the blanket up. A cold lunar light shone down upon the spirit-machine. She remembered the handsome guru talking of the moon-in-the-water meditation and wondered why she hadn’t gone back for the weekly dharma talks. She wanted — needed — to know more about the nectar that dripped from the crown of the head, saturating one with bliss. She wanted — needed — to be in the world, not of it.