THIS ONE IS SPECIAL, RENA IS WAY WOUND UP. WAY.
They have asked specifically for her. She went in and met the agency people in New York and everybody loved her. This is it.
It distracts her from the headache Billy has become. She visits him once a week, but he either lies there mute or goes on long rants begging her for forgiveness or cursing her out. His trembling and finger-tapping has gotten worse. The nurses say it’s a side effect of the meds. They throw words at Rena: Thorazine, Stelazine, Haldol, Xanax. They say Billy is bipolar. They say he spits out his Lithium. They mention electroshock therapy.
Marissa is back in the picture, plans to fly out with her, they’re best friends again. To celebrate, Rena stops by to see Barry and cops a bundle. She doesn’t plan on doing the whole thing, but it seems stupid to buy three bags. Besides, there might be a situation.
At the airport, Rena snorts two tiny lines of heroin in a stall in the terminal bathroom. When she gets back to the first-class lounge where Marissa is sitting, the dope hasn’t kicked in. She can’t go back to the restroom, Marissa might get suspicious, so Rena waits until they are onboard to slip into the head and finish the bag.
Marissa blabs about the menu and the movie. Rena nods out and misses the whole three-course meal. Marissa has the sundae, wraps a blanket around herself and takes in the movie like she’s never seen one before. She ignores Rena’s beauty sleep. Party girls are like that.
When they land, the limo drives them straight up to Shutters. Rena is strangely clearheaded. So when Marissa says she wants to hang out in the lobby people-watching, Rena retreats to her room and snorts more heroin. She’d been in L.A. for an hour and has already knocked off three bags and is barely high. She hits the speed-dial on her cell phone.
“Yeah?”
“Hey, this shit is no good.”
“Untrue, sweetness.”
“Barry, I’ve done three bags already.”
“You’re building up a tolerance. It happens.”
“That’s crazy.”
“Oh, yeah, crazy. Best thing to do is lay off for a couple of weeks. Don’t want to get a habit.”
“Don’t say that, Barry.”
“Hey…”
“Whatever.” Rena hangs up on him. She ends up drinking three little bottles of Johnnie Walker Black and puking in the bathroom. After the booze wears off, she figures the best thing to do is to sniff one more bag, order a pot of coffee and take a shower. An hour later, caffeinated and finally sedated on dope, Rena stares at the TV, mummified in her Shutters robe.
Talking to Barry has put her in a pissy mood. Plus she doesn’t like Los Angeles anymore. All anyone does is go to bars and hang out, or go to parties and hang out. A city of pavement and attitude.
Last time out, she’d let an actor pick her up at a small party at a producer’s house in Bel Air. She’d seen the guy in a movie, he was Latino and sexy, so why not? It wasn’t going to lead to anything, and she didn’t expect it to. He was so handsome there was no point in falling in love with him. And he had a gentle way of talking. Very sure of himself, nice cologne. He steered her out behind the pool house and kissed her gently up against a palm tree. Said that was all he wanted from her. One kiss. It was like starring in a movie with him. But then the kissing kept going. And then he didn’t even ask. He unzipped his pants and what else could she do?
With his thing in her mouth, she thought of Frank. Which spoiled it a little bit. But he smelled good. And in the cool night air beside the pool his cock was blood warm and felt right. He lost it a little bit when he was coming and she could feel that, feel him losing his control, exposing himself totally, his soul. She was thrilled to be so intimate with a real movie star. As he came he barked a few words in Spanish. She swallowed his cum, rose up before him and he kissed her again and then they held each other in the night air. He whispered, “Our secret, right? My girlfriend would be very upset with me if she knew.”
When they went back inside, the people in the house were oblivious. Later the beautiful movie star zoomed off in his Testarossa. He never asked her name. Didn’t even say good night, just glanced at her as he was going out the door and gave her a knowing look, but that was OK, too.
The morning after the flight, Marissa wakes Rena at six
AM
and miraculously, she feels rested. The opiate residues pinging around her metabolism blend with anticipation and put her in a good mood. She and Marissa drive up to the shoot in Malibu together.
The beach is cluttered with tables of food, equipment vans, people addressing little headsets. A friendly girl in a baseball cap runs up to Rena, checks her name off on a clipboard and escorts her to the makeup trailer. In the overlit box the hair and makeup folks are full of caffeine and good cheer, sharing dirty jokes and dropping names of supermodels they’ve worked with. They all have tattoos. One hair girl has a pierced tongue. If they aren’t making someone up, they’re working on themselves. All eyes are on the mirrors. Coffee brews, music beats on the sound system and Rena’s gay hairdresser shimmies and hums while he brushes her out.
Rena is one of three girls on the hair conditioner gig. A blonde, a brunette and a redhead. Everyone has great hair, of course, and the hair people are thrilled to blow and chemicalize it to the max. The cold spitting ocean is only yards away, and that’s a problem. But these are experts, they aren’t defeated by saline humidity.
The other two girls live on the West Coast, so Rena doesn’t know them. They seem a bit younger, a bit fresher. Don’t talk much. Are they frightened? Rena isn’t frightened. She’s saved a bag of dope in her knapsack if she needs it. Marissa has told her it’s going to be just like a photo call, probably easier.
The trailer door opens and a burly guy with a full black beard flings himself in. Like the others he is teeming with energy and optimism and greets everyone with tremendous animation. The director, obviously. He knows the other two girls, but he’s especially gracious to Rena and she likes him right away. He’s as wired as a squirrel in a cage and Rena is relieved when he goes. Marissa pops her head in, but when she sees the director has left, she slips away. Rena is in makeup for three hours.
The shooting begins and the director isn’t happy, endlessly adjusting the light, playing with filters and giant fans and reflectors. He seems perpetually unsatisfied, and all the friendliness he displayed at first evaporates. Now he doesn’t smile at all. Rena thinks, when this is over, I’m going to sleep with that guy.
The director finally gets the lighting the way he wants it, but the performances don’t make him happy. He asks Rena to say her seven words over and over again, patronizing her like a four-year-old. Eventually he’s done with the other girls, but keeps working Rena. At one point he whispers in her ear, “Do you need something? We can get you whatever you need.” Take follows take. Every time Rena looks up at the camera crew, they’re smirking or cracking jokes. It’s as if they’re waiting for her to screw up.
Lunch is called and Rena sits with Marissa, who says she thinks it’s going very well. The director walks by and makes a show of checking his watch. He says nothing to Rena.
After lunch the assistant director releases the other two girls. They continue to shoot Rena. The director chews out his assistant. At one point he leaves Rena in the middle of the beach and speaks very emphatically on his cell phone for fifteen minutes. When he returns a bloom of sweat stains his linen shirt.
Finally, the director leaves and doesn’t return. A half hour later, the first AD tells Rena she’s done for the day and can go get cleaned up. Rena asks if she’s supposed to work tomorrow. The AD says he doesn’t know.
Back in her room, Rena is snorting her last bag of dope when Marissa calls to tell her she has been fired from the hair conditioner shoot. The client has decided they’d rather feature only two girls. They say it creates a “better dynamic.” Marissa assures Rena that it’s not her fault. Then she tells Rena that she isn’t feeling well and won’t be making the movie premiere tonight. When the concierge calls Rena to tell her that her car has arrived, Rena decides to go to the party alone.
On the Avenue of the Stars a dozen limos queue up before the theater. The red carpet runs two hundred feet, lined with roped-off paparazzi. Women in fancy gowns and pantsuits accompany men in suit jackets and tieless white silk shirts. The lobby is packed with overdressed people vying for free popcorn and Pepsi.
Rena has never seen so many beautiful women in one place. It’s as if every blonde in West L.A. has shown up. Trophy wives, ex-model girlfriends, starlets, wannabe starlets, even professional athletes have arrived to show off. And these are only a fraction, a mere fraction of a fraction of the total—all stunning, or almost stunning—of the babe population of L.A. basin.
Cameras pop, actors smile and wave. The starlets are taller than Rena thinks they’d be, the men shorter. Agents and managers hug their clients. Producers and studio execs kiss and hug one another. Everyone is happy to see one another.
Men run their eyes over Rena like the professional appraisers they are. She knows she’s looking good. But no one approaches, no one makes a move. Tonight is not for picking up the odd piece of ass. Tonight’s too important to waste time with hobbies. There’s money to be made, a pecking order to climb.
In Paris, in New York, backstage behind the runway, the dressers and the stylists and the hair and makeup guys, they all know me, they are my family. Here, who am I? A no-name, a body. A nobody. Paul was right about me. Bones. With money. What do I do? Nothing. Exist. It’s like I’m carrying a giant shell on my back, like a hermit crab, the place where I live, where I hide and stay safe. My face.
In the bathroom, Rena snorts the remainder of the dope. During the movie, she nods off. After the applause everyone rises and she’s straight again. People flow out of the theater toward a huge chunk of the Fox lot, only a few hundred yards away, where the party will take place. Rena joins the crowd as it migrates into the Fox lot and suddenly feels trapped.
Rena finds the fringe of the party where a chain-link fence has been erected. Security men lead Alsatians along the perimeter. Rena aims herself toward an exit gate where three beefy black guys in tuxedos and earsets stand guard. One, a guy with big brown eyes, says sweetly, “Can I help you, miss?”
“Do you know where I can find some coke?”
The sentinel throws a look to his colleagues and says, “The bar’s that way, miss.” As he points, Rena sees the holstered gun. Then her eyes meet his. Who is this guy? Ex-cop? Veteran? DEA agent? Dangerous. What am I doing?
Back at the bar Rena finds herself jammed up against a tall guy wearing a Prada tux asking the bartender for seltzer water. His eyes don’t linger on Rena. In that fraction of a second, she knows. She follows him as he steps away from the bar.
“Hi.” She says it flatly. No flirt.
He continues to scan the crowd. The guy’s dapper, cool. He lets his eyes flicker over her. He says, “You in the film?”
“No. Just visiting. From New York.” Rena knows she’s right about him. She can feel his immunity to her charm. But he isn’t gay. It’s something else.
“Used to live in New York.” His tone is even and smooth. Cool. A little like Barry. A little like Fred.
“Uh-huh. I figured. You remind me of an old friend of mine.”
He exhales and says, “Well, it was nice meeting you. Say hi to New York for me.” He walks away.
Rena takes a step with him. “I’m sick. I have to get straight.”
He grins a wise grin and says, “Say hi to everyone in Tribeca for me.”
“Please?” She bites her lip.
“ ‘Get straight.’ I’m not sure what that means.”
“I don’t have a connection out here. I just burned through a bundle in twenty-four hours. I’m strung out.”
He pauses. “You have cash?”
“Yes.”
“I’m supposed to meet the producer of this piece-of-shit movie. We’re supposed to discuss a writing assignment but he’s off getting drunk with the director. Everyone knows this thing is a bomb. He’s not going to show his fat ugly face tonight. OK. We’ll take my car.”
They drive down to the Santa Monica freeway and head eastward, hip-hop chugging on the radio. On the black leather of the backseat lie piles of glossy red bound scripts, emblazoned with the CAA logo. They exit downtown, then backtrack along Wilshire westward. Near MacArthur Park, he pulls into a doughnut shop parking lot. A dark guy wearing an unbuttoned flannel shirt saunters out to the car. Rena tries not to listen. The window powers up and they are back in the flow of the midnight traffic.
They’re smoking the tar before they’ve hit the highway. By the time they enter the lobby of Shutters, they are stuporous. In her room, not much is said while they work on another black pea. Rena feels her shoulders unlock with relief.
Her companion stands. “Well, it’s about that time.” Even though he’s high, she can feel his uneasiness.
Rena says, “I owe you.”
He says, “You took care of it.”
Rena pulls him to her. “But I want to do something for you.” Don’t lose this guy. You never know when you might need him again. Maybe tomorrow.
Rena drops to her knees and fumbles with his pants. She thinks, the sooner he comes the sooner he goes and I can get good and fucked up. After five minutes he nudges her head away.