P.J. Morse - Clancy Parker 02 - Exile on Slain Street (12 page)

“One of those what?” Hare asked.

“A plastic baggie,” I over-enunciated. My stomach growled. I wanted that damn sandwich. My hand started drifting toward the jar of peanut butter, and I was thinking about ways I could hit Hare without damaging the camera.

“It’s a SturdyBag. You have to say ‘SturdyBag,’” Hare told me.

“You’re kidding, aren’t you?”

“SturdyBag!”

“Hey, are you gonna brand our asses, or what? Can you even use this footage?” I grabbed the peanut butter, leaned back and started winding up my arm like I was ready for a pitch.

Hare laughed. “We can use everything!”

Tortoise agreed. “Yeah, I like that ‘brand our asses’ line. How the hell did you get on this show?”

I was getting tired of hearing that. “All right, all right!” I slammed the peanut butter jar on the counter and started waving the butter knife around. Then I put the knife down. Who knew how they would edit it? They might make it look like I was stabbing somebody.

Speaking of stabbing somebody, Topaz showed up just as I was ready to have a bite, so I shoved as much of the sandwich as I could into my mouth. I really was hungry, and she wasn’t going to keep me from my food.

Topaz leaned in and angled her face toward the camera. No one yelled at her because she knew her positions perfectly, and she was meaner than I was. “Damn, girl,” she said. “You fall off the turnip truck from Gardenia? You eat like a pony!”

I swallowed and hoped there wasn’t peanut butter and jelly on my teeth. I had to defend Gardenia, for Muriel’s sake. “We do have civilization in Gardenia, you know.”

“How civilized can it be if you chew with your mouth open? You’ve got peanut all on your tongue.”

I began to tee up a verbal shot regarding what I thought Topaz put in her mouth when she was working in Vegas, but Hare interrupted me. “This is all good stuff, but can you guys talk about Patrick first?”

Topaz shifted gears faster than I could. “You know, I don’t think you’re really here for Patrick. I think you’re here for a ticket out of Gardenia.”

I stuffed the rest of the sandwich in my mouth. I knew they could cut it out later because they had multiple angles, but I tried to chew in an aggressive fashion. “No talking with your mouth full!” Tortoise cautioned.

I swallowed again. “That ‘you’re not here for him’ crap is the oldest line in the book, Topaz! You don’t think we have TV in Gardenia?” I asked, trying to channel Muriel. “We have satellite dishes!”

I was briefly distracted from defending Gardenia by a spraying sound. Andi had opened the fridge door and was squeezing whipped cream straight into her mouth. “Mmm-mm!” she hummed, slamming the can on the counter.

I was tempted to start fighting again, but Andi wasn’t done. Then she started grabbing up small jars of jelly and tubs of margarine, piling them up on the ledge of her fake breasts. She walked out of the room, stopped, paused, and came back, grabbing a bag of bread while balancing everything else on her chest.

Topaz massaged the bridge of her nose. “That child… Jesus, give me strength!” Then she looked at the camera and me. “I’m not done with you. Just because you have TV doesn’t mean you’re not trash.”

I waved what was left of my sandwich in Topaz’ face. If I had to make it so many times, I was going to make it worth it. “Stop disrespecting my town! I don’t disrespect Vegas! Patrick doesn’t disrespect Gardenia! He’s from there!”

“He don’t disrespect it to your face! And stop spitting your nasty-ass sandwich in my face, bitch!” she started moving her chin in a way that signaled big trouble, at least on daytime TV talk shows.

I kept chewing and clicking my teeth in the most annoying way possible. I didn’t move as she took a step toward me. I could see Hare making a “wrap it up” gesture with his finger. “Eat it,” I told her.

The only way for me and Topaz to resolve our personality conflict was for both of us to start beating on each other, but it was too early in the show for that. So I stalked off.

Topaz watched me leave, and I heard her say, every word as clear as Windexed glass, “Choke on it. And I know you’re not here for him.”

It didn’t matter what I said in response. She was right. But I had to admit that I was looking forward to that date and bragging to Topaz about getting some alone time with Patrick. This whole job was bringing out an ugly mix of my aggressive and feminine sides.

Chapter Thirteen:
First Date

W
hen we stepped out the front door, I expected a limo, which was standard on dating shows. But I did not expect the black stretch Hummer from the day before to return. I thought that was just for show and we’d be in the vans the rest of the time, but the challenge winners really did get a few perks.

Fred, the Santa who delivered me to the mansion on the first day, was standing out front, and he was freshly groomed for the cameras. He was wearing a suit, and his beard had been trimmed slightly, but he still looked like he just left the North Pole. He offered me and Lorelai his hand, which we needed because it was hard to climb up into that car.

Once we got inside, I realized just how insane the stretch Hummer was. Neon lights lined the inside, while yet another bar ran along one side. An intercom was set up every few feet, just so we could inform Fred of our whims and wishes. A privacy screen separated Fred from us, but we could roll it down from controls in the back, along with the other windows in the car.

I could see how the Hummer was useful for reality television. Patrick and his dates could snuggle up and enjoy adult beverages — and Major Rager — while Tortoise, Hare, and Kevin had a clear view of the action and plenty of room to set up their equipment. Ever the amateur mixologist, Patrick took advantage of the bar, making all of us Manhattans. It was funny watching Hare sipping a Manhattan with one hand and steadying the camera with the other.

The Hummer had serious shock absorbers, though. Our drinks barely sloshed as Fred maneuvered the car through Belvedere, although I wasn’t sure how the car would cope with the narrow San Francisco streets. I was also worried that some outraged eco-activists might attack the car on the grounds that it was a shameless gas guzzler.

Kevin wanted some shots of us partying, but he was grouchy because Lorelai and I weren’t exactly party-hearty. We were chatting quietly with Patrick about where he’d been and where he’d toured. I asked him what his favorite place was to play, and he started talking about Vienna. Lorelai said she passed through there once after filming a monster movie in Hungary, and I had visited on a class trip. We were all swapping stories about dodging drunks at the local
heurigens
.

Kevin asked, “Can one of you sit on his lap during all this travel talk?”

Patrick groaned. “Aw, man, we’re having a conversation. You know… a conversation. In which information and ideas are exchanged. We are getting to know each other before taking it to the next level — what normal people do. No offense, ladies, but I’m not ready to say that I’m in love quite yet.”

“None taken,” I said, but Lorelai stuck out her lower lip.

“I’m serious. Can we at least get some party shots?” Kevin said. “Half the audience doesn’t know where Vienna is! I don’t know where Vienna is!”

“That’s not very charitable toward the American educational system,” I said.

Kevin rolled his eyes. “Can you please just sit on his lap?”

I rolled my eyes, but I shifted over on my seat and made myself comfortable on Patrick’s lap. Lorelai began clapping, “Me next! Me next!”

Patrick leaned in and kissed me, and I tasted the same Chapstick. I was starting to like it. He whispered in my ear, in German, “
Du bist sehr hubsch
.”

“I can hear you,” Tortoise grumbled. “Do you have to be difficult today, Patrick? Could you try to speak American?”

“Aw, c’mon, live a little!” Patrick yelled.

I pulled away. “Is it Lorelai’s turn? Switch off?”

Patrick laughed. “May as well. See, Kevin, Katherine here knows how to play the game!”

Kevin grinned, showing no sign that he already knew me. “Indeed she does. Lorelai, your turn.”

Lorelai pulled herself on Patrick’s lap, and Tortoise and Hare got some shots of their kissing. Kevin encouraged me to look jealous. I found that to be surprisingly easy. Patrick was fun, and his attitude toward the show was healthy. I thought he would be a cheesy sell-out, and he wasn’t as dumb as I thought he would be. Well, maybe in some ways, he was dumb — being on reality television struck me as dumb, period — but I was enjoying being around him. And his lips were spectacular. I stared into my Manhattan in a sulky fashion and clinked the ice against the edge of the glass.

“That’s great!” Kevin said. “Nice work!”

Once the crew had the coverage they needed, we sat back with our Manhattans and commented on what a good driver Fred was. He had been honked at a few times, and some tourists took pictures of the limo, but he steered us to North Beach without incident. We pulled up in front of Bimbo’s, a supper club/rock venue. The Marquee Idols had not yet had the pleasure of being on the Bimbo’s marquee, but I had been in the audience at many of the shows there.

Only this time, when we walked inside, it was deathly quiet — no bands selling merch near the entrance, no hipsters scrounging for dollar bills to give to the bathroom staff, no opening bands doing anything for attention.

Fred found a chair and broke out a copy of
Sports Illustrated
to read while he waited. A manager started chatting Kevin up, pointing out everything he did to make the place perfect for the show. I heard Kevin swear the venue would be mentioned at least three times during the episode.

I walked past the entryway into the concert hall, and I saw two tables were sitting out in the middle of a floor that I had usually seen packed with standing crowds. The tables had been draped with red tablecloths. I also saw multiple bartenders in white jackets, and Patrick was conversing with one of them about the greatness of Fernet-Branca. Bimbo’s was sparing no effort if a single airing of
Atomic Love 2
brought tourists to their club.

Kevin grabbed me and Lorelai. “We gotta move fast. They’re having a fundraiser tonight, and we need to get what we need and head out.” He set me down at one of the tables on the dance floor and Lorelai down at another, like we were already enemies. In fact, we looked at each other and smiled, and Kevin barked, “Don’t look at each other unless you’re sneering!”

“But I don’t have a motivation for sneering at her,” Lorelai said.

“Make something up,” Kevin told her. Then he saw Patrick at the bar. “God, is Patrick talking booze again…” He vanished.

Lorelai and I sat for about 15 minutes and practiced snarling at each other while waiters plied us with champagne laced with Fernet-Branca. I wasn’t good at the snarling, but pretty soon Lorelai was giving me looks so convincing that I couldn’t tell if she was acting or not.

Then Patrick emerged from behind a heavy red curtain, armed with a Gretsch, a Duo Jet. I was less interested in his performance and more interested in that guitar. I wanted to try it myself. I always thought that I’d know I’d made it if I could afford a Gretsch.

“This one’s for Sean,” he said, driving his pick down the strings and launching into the band’s top-10 ballad, “Hard in the Heart.” The lyrics weren’t romantic in the slightest (“Hard in the heart / you look the part / what I conclude / we die too soon”), but the way he sang them had Lorelai tilting her head and looking at Patrick with glassy eyes. I had to admit I was impressed as well. His voice wasn’t as good as Sean Morgan’s, but he could sing more than adequately. And I always had trouble resisting men whose knowledge of guitar playing went beyond knocking out three chords. His hands flew over the frets, and he threw in a guitar solo that wasn’t in the original song, but he kept it just restrained enough for it not to be too showy.

I was mesmerized. I stood up. I thought I heard Tortoise grumble, “Going rogue!”

I dropped my professional guard and walked toward the Gretsch. I could hear the steps of Tortoise and Hare behind me, but I kept my eyes on that guitar.

Patrick kept singing, and I looked up at him. I fancied myself a good guitar player. I didn’t just pick up the instrument because I wanted to start a band. I shifted to guitar lessons after playing violin as a kid. I knew my stuff, and I took classes. I knew that Patrick Price wasn’t a rock fraud.

When he was finished, I asked, “Can I try it?”

He handed the guitar to me, and I suppressed the urge to try out anything by the Marquee Idols. I also turned shy. What if he didn’t like our songs? What if he thought we were poseurs, just trying to recapture the rock spirit of a few years ago?

Instead, I played a song by Asphalt, “Salton Dust,” which had a pleasing up-and-down rhythm that fell in between the grunge era and ironic indie-rock, with the added bonus of a reference to the part of California where Patrick grew up.

Patrick flashed a thumbs-up. “Asphalt — whatever happened to those guys?”

I smiled. I wanted to tell him I was on their label. Then I faded into something better known, Soundgarden’s “Black Hole Sun.”

Then I looked up at Lorelai. Since I had monopolized Patrick’s attention, she finally had enough motivation to sneer. Kevin began signaling that I needed to stop.

I reluctantly handed the guitar back to Patrick. “I’m sorry. I got carried away. It’s your guitar, after all.”

“When you said you played, I thought you just meant acoustic, campfire stuff.” He smiled. Did I detect genuine interest?

I shook my head. “Nope. I’ve had lessons for years. I’ve never played one of those, though.” I pointed at the Duo Jet, a thing of beauty.

When I stepped off the stage, Kevin gathered me and Lorelai and said that Patrick was going to spend time with both of us individually and that we might have to reshoot a few scenes because the lighting in Bimbo’s was dark. I thought Patrick and I had a moment with some emotion in it, and now we were going to have to chase after it and fake it. I guess two people enjoying a music connection isn’t the kind of thing that resonates with a television audience.