Playing Along (10 page)

“Nice job, babe,” says Tim, keeping his eyes on the road.

Lexi leans back in her seat and picks up one of the stranded Barbies. “So, you’re setting me up with Bradley?”

“Yes,” they both say in unison.

“Are we having sushi?”

“Noori Noori in Beverly Hills.”

“Sounds good. Tim, would you mind turning some music on?”

“Sounds good? That’s it?” asks Meg.

“That’s it,” says Lexi, refusing to fall prey to any of the labels Meg wants to stamp upon her, most notably Stubborn Single Friend. She might well have said no had Meg suggested it, but that’s only because she wants to concentrate on her career at the moment. Dating has become so tedious.

“No prob,” says Tim, clicking on the stereo and mumbling under his breath to Meg, “I told you so!”

The song “I Knew It” and George Bryce’s enticingly tender voice floods the car.

Lexi coils the Barbie’s synthetic blond hair around her middle finger, trying not to imagine anything about Bradley—she’s learning from Russell that first impressions are often nothing to go on. She notices Annabelle has chopped into one side of the doll’s hair leaving her with half a mohawk, streaked green with a marker. She’s also scrawled tiny black hearts up and down each arm and hacked her pink dress into a micro-mini. She looks like Punk Barbie. Barbie after a binge. An apt nemesis to her Malibu counterpart. Lexi holds punk Barbie up to the window, and as the song picks up tempo, she dances her from side to side. A little girl with glasses in a neighboring car smiles at the impromptu sideshow. Lexi returns the grin.

GEORGE
17
^th
November, 2009
Los Angeles

“I love LA,” announces George, as the boys are shuttled from the airport to their hotel in West Hollywood in a black van with mirrored windows and built-in screens on the back of each seat.

“Not as much as I love Vegas,” says Simon, who has had a permanent smirk on his face, since spending a very long evening with one of the make-up girls from the video shoot.

“Better than a sandwich, huh, mate?” says Duncan with an exaggerated wink.

“Very amusing,” says Simon embarrassedly, as he checks his phone for the hundredth time in the last hour. “Stacey says she might drive down to LA this week to see the acoustic.”

“Don’t reply.” says Duncan, “Leave her hanging for a day or two and she’ll be begging for more…”

“Oh puh-leaze, Dunc,” says Anna from the backseat, “that’s rubbish advice. You think all women have brains the size of a pea.”

“Not all women, Anna.”

“I would say Stacey’s was more in the range of an artichoke,” adds Simon.

“And he brings it back to food,” says Gabe.

“Text her now, Simon. Tell her you’d love to see her again.” Anna pats him reassuringly on the shoulder. Simon glances over at George to get his reading.

George is perplexed by the conversation. It’s not that he’s not pleased for Simon. Good on him for following the pact and putting himself out there. But he was convinced that Stacey the make-up girl was coming onto him yesterday in the trailer. What had he done to put her off? Or maybe she wasn’t interested in him at all. Surely he can’t be as clueless as all that? He should be able to distinguish between a friendly chat and a full fledged flirt fest. Maybe not. George finds American women have a knack of being boldly enthusiastic, making even Fanny look demure. According to their website and sales, South American women go insane over Thesis and doubly insane over George. When they toured Brazil he felt like McCartney. He could say with confidence that he saw women swoon. Maybe he should be trying to meet a Brazilian woman. Damn. Here he was again over-thinking everything. It was like repeatedly burning the toast, no matter how hard he tried to rescue it before the surface charred to black.

“Earth to George,” says Simon. “What would you do?”

“I’m an unreliable source, Sim. I’d…I’d write her a song.”

“Ahh, you’re so sweet,” says Anna.

“Start by texting her,” says Mark.

“A song?” asks Simon

“A
yes
,” says Mark.

“You’re all a bunch of girls,” says Duncan. “I’m in the wrong band. I should be on the party bus with the Kings of Leon.”

“That’s an idea,” says Gabe, “except they already have a drummer. Although… has there ever been a band with two drummers?” He turns to George, their in-house music trivia archive.

“Genesis, Adam and the Ants, The Grateful Dead…” rattles off George without faltering, while making a mental note to get some Cuban bongos for the acoustic show. He really needs to stop thinking about women, or the lack of them more accurately, and start thinking about arrangements, and musical saws and harpists. He wants the show to be raw and magical. An eclectic arc of instruments with his voice, simple and true, spanning the curve. So he can’t seem to seduce one woman, but he will seduce a whole audience. Mesmerize a room full of fans.
That should be enough for anyone
, George tells himself,
enough for me
.

“All in favour of a sushi stop raise your right hand!” George admires the way Gabe can call the court to order. For a change, everyone agrees and Mark even playfully tickles Anna under her arm and she manages a very genuine giggle. Morale is up. George feels brighter. He does love LA. City of Angels. Land of possibility. Although you couldn’t guess it from the car window. One bland mini-mall after another linked by wide, faceless streets. But George knows this is a town full of surprises and ultimately best explored through a zoom lens.

LEXI
November 17
^th
, 2009
Beverly Hills

Ten minutes into the dinner and Lexi has decided this feels less like a double date and more like an unexpected ambush. Noori Noori Sushi is a trendy hotspot where the fresh sushi, displayed in plastic pods, circles the interior of the restaurant on a conveyor belt, running a loop inside the tables. Whoever is closest to the conveyor grabs the dishes, as well as fielding requests from the rest of the table. Technique is everything.

“I know it’s tempting, guys!” says Jason, their excessively friendly waiter. “But take it from me, two hands are crucial. It’s not as easy as it looks and picking up the plates requires both of these little buddies!” He waves his hands playfully in the air for a moment too long. “Okkaaaaay! Drinks? Sake? Sapporo?”

“Let’s go crazy and have both!” says Bradley, Tim’s work colleague from the bank and Lexi’s date for the night.

“You’re on!” says Jason, before Lexi can order an iced tea.

Bradley has recently moved from Chicago. He’s wearing beige loafers, a gold watch and he uses the word “hilarious.” A lot. Before Jason had arrived on the scene, he was proudly showing the table his right ear, which he claims used to be pierced.

He continues where he left off, “Check this out. I’m not yanking your chain. I’m telling you—I was wild in my college days—it was hilarious! Look.” He leans in far too closely to Lexi, forcing her to examine his fleshy earlobe. She can just about detect a small ridge where the skin has healed. And now she’s expected to eat?

“Yes, that’s very, very funny. An earring—wow.” Lexi nudges Meg’s foot under the table, but Meg is undeterred.

“Lexi wears earrings—don’t you, Lex?”

“Yes, yes—I do. Wear earrings. I do.”

“Man that mutherfucker hurt when it went in. I mean—for sure I was hammered at the time, but let me tell you, the pain stays with me.”

“You must be very sensitive,” says Lexi, amazing even herself with the comic irony.

“You could say that,” says Bradley, “I mean it’s not like I listen to Barbara Streisand or anything. I mean that would be hilarious, right? I bet when you first saw me you didn’t think ‘now there’s a guy who listens to Streisand,’ because if you did—you’d be way off base.” Bradley runs his hand nervously over the top of his hair, cemented skywards with heavy duty mousse.

He looks over expectantly at Lexi, “No, I didn’t think that, Bradley. That wasn’t the first thought in my mind at all. You, Meg? That’s assuming that tonight
is
the first time you’ve met Bradley?”

“Oh, yes,” says Meg, apologizing with her eyes. “Tonight is the very first time we’ve met, but Tim has told me so much about you, Bradley, none of which involved Streisand.”

“Good man, Tim!” says Bradley, reaching over the table to shake Tim’s hand. “He’s a great guy, your husband, Meggy. Life of the party at the office. Hilarious. Absolutely hilarious!”

“You said it,” says Meg, now returning the toe nudge under the table but with slightly more force.

This is going to be the longest dinner in history
, thinks Lexi despairingly. Should she go to the restroom and pretend to be ill? Should she go to the restroom and sneak out the back door? She’d love to, but she knows unfortunately she’s not that cruel. Lexi prays for the drinks to arrive quickly, resigned that she is in it for the long haul and her only hope might be to get embarrassingly drunk.

“So Bradley,” says Tim, obviously eager to change the subject, “Why don’t you do the honors and grab some of those eats. That yellowtail sashimi looks the business.”

“At your service,” says Bradley, “I’ll deliver the goods.”

Lexi feels momentarily sorry for him, as he leans towards the circling sushi. Who is she to be so superior? He’s not her type, but without the hair mousse and the beige loafers he could be decent looking. So far he’s apparently only interested in himself and is severely lacking in subtlety, but the night is early, he might have a question or two in him yet. He’s nervous. He’s harmless. He’s… but before she can complete the last guilt-induced platitude, she turns to see a plate of immaculately arranged sashimi fly through the air, as if in slow motion. It glides over the table and lands with a monumental crash on the floor, splattering Lexi’s metallic flip flops and Bradley’s beige suede loafers with a spray of brown soy sauce. Paper thin slices of yellowtail and pale pink ginger lie strewn around them like road kill. Five sushi chefs cheer something Japanese in boisterous approval. Neighboring regulars snicker.

Lexi’s not sure whether to laugh or cry. Jason rushes over wagging a disciplinary finger.

“Easy, fella. Let me guess, you only used one hand?”

“Busted!” says Bradley, holding up both. “I thought I could—”

“I’ve heard it all before,” says Jason. “You thought you could impress your girlfriend and prove the neurotic waiter wrong. Why don’t you try again, following my directions. I’ll get this cleared up.”

“That’s hilarious!” says Bradley, reaching for his Blackberry. “I’ve gotta Tweet this—what a complete crack up. Get it? Crack up?”

Lexi grabs hold of Jason’s arm before he can leave, pulling him towards her. Tim and Bradley have moved on, consulting with each other on exactly how to best remove the sushi plates inflicting the least amount of damage.

“Jason… the drinks…” says Lexi in a pleading whisper. “Bring the drinks—I beg you!”

“Right away,” says Jason, giving her the thumbs up.

“And just so you know,” says Lexi in a confiding tone, “He’s
not
my boyfriend.”

GEORGE
17
^th
November, 2009
Beverly Hills

The band’s van pulls up outside Noori Noori, a sushi restaurant Gabe has heard is excellent. As the valet parker opens the door, George catches the bizarre sight in the front window of a plate cartwheeling through the air, sending food flying. He pauses.

“Did you see that?” asks George, looking back at Simon quizzically.

“Food fight!” yells Duncan, “I’m in!”

“I might have steered us wrong,” says Gabe. “Looks like it’s a Yo Sushi production line.”

“Spare me the gimmicks,” says Simon, who considers authentic Japanese food to be a close second to a vintage sandwich.

“Let’s go to that one on Melrose,” says Mark. “You can’t beat an old trusty.”

“I’ll call over there,” says Gabe, apologizing to the valet parker as he reaches over to close the door again.

George has a sudden urge to get out of the car and walk. People in LA appear to have an aversion to walking which makes it even more appealing.
I’ll be a rebel
thinks George.
I’ll walk to Melrose
. He has this idea that he is less conspicuous in LA because the town is teeming with famous people—most of them gagging for recognition just to confirm they exist. In comparison, George just ends up looking vaguely familiar, like the boy you once went to school with or the guy who works in the supermarket. The more famous George becomes, the more he fantasizes about being innocuous. The paradox confounds him—how his lifelong ache to be special has led him to a place of yearning to be ordinary.

Before the door closes, he impulsively hops out.

“George, I thought it was unanimous?” says Gabe, looking confused.

“It is. It was—it’s only that I’ve decided to walk.”

“Are you off your rocker?” says Duncan. “We’re in LA. You don’t do that here.”

“You might get shot,” says Anna in all seriousness.

“Or abducted,” adds Mark, forever dry. “And we’re not paying ransom.”

“Come on, George, I’m hungry. Get back in,” says Simon.

“Look fellas—honestly—it’s no big deal. It will take twenty minutes. I’ll see you there.”

Gabe looks especially concerned. “George, it’s not a good idea, really. I just don’t feel right about it. Why walk now?”

“I want to,” replies George, wondering if this will be enough.

“It’s because I let a juicy one rip, Gabe,” calls Duncan from the back seat. “Release him!”

George feels determined now to follow through, even though he could just as easily climb back into the car. He knows this is beginning to border on the ridiculous. The most mundane thing has become an oddly meaningful act of defiance.

“I don’t need a secret service detail—yet. I’ve got my phone on me. I just need to stretch my legs. I’ll see you there, Gabe, I promise.”

Gabe looks bewildered and reluctantly closes the door. As the van drives away, he rolls down the window, “Are you sure you know where it is?”

“I know!” says George, feeling a surge of liberation. He could get lost. Disappear. Resurface. Re-invent himself in another guise. He thinks of all his fans, all the people he’s never even met who feel a claim over him. He could transform himself into one of them. Spend his days monitoring his own website contributing to conspiracy theories about his own disappearance. Trippy.