The Hollywood Guy (22 page)

“Don’t untie me.”

When it was over and he released her, she curled into his arms and told him she loved him. He told her the same, but it was a lie and both knew it.

Naked, Pete checks himself out in the mirror. He sucks in his gut and moves horizontally in and out of frame; this angle renders his potbelly unnoticeable. He can do all the yoga he wants but still needs to lose ten, fifteen pounds.

He lays out a black silk shirt and slightly rumpled linen suit. What he’s forgotten are his pointy dress shoes with the slick leather soles for dancing. Pete steps onto the balcony and dials Cleo. No answer, he disengages without leaving a message; maybe she’s writing and doesn’t want to be disturbed.

He gets dressed; the linen suit and silk shirt make him appear thinner and the red sneakers add a quirky touch. Pete meticulously combs his hair. Rose did a nice job and the gel glistens darkly. He clips on his shades, checks himself out one last time in the mirror and feels good until he opens the door and finds the straw porkpie hat that he discarded in the coffee shop returned to his threshold. He picks it up, steps back into the room and sends the hat sailing over the balcony railing.

As Pete waits for the elevator, Barbara and David appear at the far end of the corridor. He watches them approach. Still no loving body language that he can detect. His agent dresses conservatively, likes to blend in. She looks fabulous in a metallic lime green sheath that rides tight over her torso, so sexy after all these years. Stiletto heels accentuate her legs; red lipstick highlights her voluptuous lips. She always knew how to package her attributes. When they first met, a button was always popping open on her tight shirt and her hair tended to the wild side. He loved her curly tangled mane and all the fussing that went with it. Tonight the only off note is her birdlike do.

She regards Pete with a wry smile; she picked out what he’s wearing, minus the sneakers, five years ago. “You clean up nice.”

“I even washed my mouth out with soap.”

“Is that an apology?”

“Seeing you with him was a shock to my system.”

David observes the ex-couple bantering playfully, feels acid refluxing in the back of his throat. “I’m glad you left Matthau in the room,” he interjects breezily. “Marcello is a way better look for you.”

“What movie?”

“
Divorce Italian Style
.”

The wedding of Priscilla Gasparian, an Armenian/Italian-American and Jeff Johnson, black father/Jewish mother, is a joyous, multicultural affair. Set outside against a backdrop of sailboats, powerboats and water skiers, the bride and groom are to be married under a traditional Jewish chuppah at sunset. Officiates include an Armenian Orthodox priest, a rabbi, a Baptist minister and a Catholic monsignor. A string quartet plays Bach with a Jazz feel.

Pete sits between Bobby and Barbara, comforted to be thigh to thigh with his ex-wife.

“Beth is really excited to be working with you,” she whispers.

“She made it happen. You look great in that dress.”

“And there’s a boy involved?”

“Jackson, talented kid.”

“You know she dropped out of Santa Cruz?”

“Didn’t you go to France in your junior year to get away from a history teacher who wanted to marry you?”

“Was she doing drugs in Woodstock?”

“Besides smoking grass?”

“Were pharmaceuticals available?”

“Everything is available everywhere.”

“You know your daughter is taking antidepressants?”

“Kind of.”

“I was actually happy she left that college, I thought Paris would be a good experience for her. She needs to get outside her culture for a little while.” Barbara starts to cry. “I’m so worried.”

Pete holds her hand. “Woodstock is good for her.”

Barbara pulls away. “She said you’re in love with a porn queen.”

“We have a professional relationship.”

“Oh I forgot, you’re celibate.” She starts laughing.

Before he can explain, Bobby elbows him in the ribs.

“Soong Lee wants to know how you feel?”

Pete smiles at her. “No headache and no back pain.”

Bobby nervously taps his foot a mile a minute.

“You okay?”

“I’m losing my daughter.”

“You just found her.”

“Don’t be smart.”

“Like you putting me on the same floor as my ex and the putz?”

“You need to come back to the fold.”

“What fold?”

“Marcus still wants you on the series.”

“Bobby, let’s enjoy the wedding, that’s why I’m here.”

“Do you think it’s too late for me?”

“For what?

“To finally get married.”

“You were married to Morgana.”

“Less then a week, she had it annulled, so technically I never was.”

“Did Soong Lee say yes?”

“Not yet, but I’m hoping she will.” Bobby takes Soong Lee’s hand and kisses it.

The string quartet plays a fanfare. A young man wearing a teal suit leads an older black woman with white hair and a shining smile to a front row seat.

Bobby narrates. “The best man escorts the groom’s grandmother on his father’s side. She’s eighty-five years old, very sharp.”

Another groomsman in a matching suit leads a stunning Jewish woman down the aisle to her seat; she’s had a lot of work done.

“The groom’s grandmother on his mother’s side, eighty…. Both grandfathers are deceased.”

Pete isn’t paying attention; he’s fascinated by Barbara’s beautiful neck revealed by her short haircut.

Bobby continues as Pearl Gasparian, a stylish woman with big hair, strides down the aisle solo. “Pearl, the bride’s mother, owns a beauty salon in West Palm. Do you think if I had married her my life would have been different?”

“You’d be getting married for the third time.”

A handsome, biracial couple takes their turn down the aisle. Bobby picks up the narrative. “The groom’s parents. She’s a successful Ashville realtor and he’s a tenured professor at the University of North Carolina.”

Pete’s focus remains on Barbara’s liberated neck and the adjacent earlobes he loved to nibble.

Eight teal groomsmen, fraternity brothers forever, escort the bridesmaids in matching strapless blue chiffon, positioning them decorously on the bride’s side of the aisle, then take positions on the groom’s side.

“The groom, Jeff Johnson.” Bobby again.

Jeff, 5:5, exchanges low fives with his taller groomsmen, steps under the canopy to face the holy fathers. The music swells and the wedding guests ooh and ahh as an adorable little girl scatters rose petals.

“Somebody’s niece.” Bobby smiles softly. “A real cutie.”

Finally the string quartet plays the Wedding March. Here comes the bride on the arm of her dad.

“Bill Gasparian, Allstate insurance claims adjuster,” whispers Bobby somewhat jealous.

Bill beams with pride as he escorts his daughter down the aisle. Priscilla is a raven-haired beauty in a creamy satin gown.

“DK, she bought it used online,” Bobby says with pride, “saved more than a thousand dollars.”

Pete marvels at Priscilla’s resemblance to her biological father. He glances at his friend, kvelling beside him.

Father delivers daughter to the husband-to-be and takes a seat in the front row but not before throwing Bobby a fraternal wink. Priscilla is four inches taller than Jeff, who clearly loves to see his bride-to-be in the spotlight.

Pete’s attention returns to Barbara’s neck, his lips are magnetically drawn to kiss it.

“Don’t.”

“Hush, you’ll disrupt the wedding.” His lips linger; she melts.

The ceremony begins with the Orthodox priest intoning in deep Armenian over the bowed heads of the kneeling couple.

“The height difference is insurmountable,” Pete whispers in Barbara’s ear.

She giggles. “It’s their first marriage.”

“Starter.”

She takes his hand. “Maybe they’ll get it right.”

The rabbi chants in Hebrew.

“You were a beautiful bride,” Pete whispers.

“I was three months pregnant.”

The minister begins his version of the marriage vows.

“You hated the honeymoon restaurant I chose.”

“Moose steak clashed with my vegetarian leanings.”

“A path you abandoned shortly after.”

“For the baby.”

Priscilla and Jeff stare into each other’s eyes, pledge to bear one another’s weaknesses, grow with each other’s strengths, forgive one another’s failings, in sickness and health, for richer or poorer, till death do part. Repeat after me, I do, I do, with this ring I thee wed, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, I now pronounce you man and wife, break the glass and kiss the bride.

Bobby is crying, David is crying, Barbara is crying, Pete is too cynical to believe these two young people are mating for life. He imagines a new anniversary tradition based on cumulative years, multiple partners. For instance, he was married three times: nine plus three plus twenty-three equals thirty-five years. If he marries Cleo, in five years they can celebrate a fortieth wedding anniversary, throw a big party, invite everyone.

Jeff kisses Priscilla deeply. The string quartet jumps into a soulful version of “Love, Love, Love” as pairs of white doves are released and soap bubbles float in the twilight. Good vibes radiate among the guests. Pete wants to take Barbara in his arms and kiss her, but David manages to maneuver between them. He’s saved from behaving badly by his vibrating cell phone, Annabeth calling. He walks away from the happy scene. “Hey Bethy.”

“Daddy, I am totally nervous. Everything is so LA out here.”

“You were born in Santa Monica, raised in the Palisades, you’re a California girl.”

“I talked to Jackson, he said he missed me. I was going to tell him I didn’t want to be involved with anyone right now, but instead said I love you.”

“Do you?”

“I don’t know.”

“When I met your mother I was down, down, down on love but sparks flew and I knew.”

“I’m confused.”

“Enjoy how you feel.”

“Thanks dad. Any tips for tomorrow?”

“Don’t oversell. Just turn on the music, turn up the volume, and get out of the way; the Sidewinders will do the rest.” Pete hangs up, can’t believe she asked for his advice.

Drinks and appetizers are being served on the patio. Families intermingle, sampling baba ganoush on pita, skewers of barbecue chicken, and little Armenian meatballs with raisins and roasted pine nuts. Groomsmen pour glasses of champagne for thirsty bridesmaids. The room is buzzing.

Pete, enjoying an Armenian meatball, slices through the crowd on the way to a table spread with platters of mini knishes and pigs in a blanket but can’t get past Bobby who is holding forth to Soong Lee, Barbara and David who has his arm possessively around his ex.

“So, he says.” Bobby imitates Pete. “I’m carrying an extra bag, you’re light, take mine.” Bobby pauses, leaving space for a laugh that he gets. “He doesn’t ask, or say please. It’s a statement of fact and he doesn’t even know me.” Pause, more laughter. “I don’t want to cause a scene so I do what the big guy says. Turns out he sits next to me and we’re in for a 36 hour flight because we get stranded in Gander, Newfoundland when our plane needs repairs.”

Pete has heard his friend tell this story a hundred times. “Bobby, everyone knows how we met.”

“I don’t,” says Soong Lee.

“Me neither,” lies David.

“En Francais,” Pete suggests. “Pour un changement.” Another thing Pete likes to do with his friend is speak foreign languages they may or may not know.

Without missing a beat, Bobby continues in exaggerated faux French. A gifted mimic, he uses lots of body language and hand gestures to describe meeting two Swedish girls in a bar at the Gander airport.

The story of meeting Bobby on an NYU charter flight to Europe is actually true. Pete, the unsophisticated sociology major from the Bronx campus, was standing in front of him on the check-in line. The charismatic film student from Washington Square stood out in a crowd: that’s why Pete saddled him with an extra suitcase. In those days you flew to Europe via a short stop in Newfoundland to refuel. When their plane required emergency servicing, they were stuck overnight. Pete was shadowing Bobby when he made a move on two Swedish girls, Greta and Turid, also stranded. They had uncomplicated smiles, pale blue eyes, white skin and straw hair. Bobby was angling for a threesome but Pete included himself in. The girls were carrying a bunch of hash to sell in the States. They ended up in a hotel room smoking a spliff laced with Lebanese Gold from Baalbek. Turid chose him. Greta kissed Bobby. The two couples fucked side by side in a big bed, the girls, on top, holding hands as they rode the boys into the sunset. In the morning, Bobby took a Polaroid of Greta and Turid staring directly at the camera, comfortable in their nakedness. For Pete, sex had always been a grudging campaign of desire. The girls he had known were programmed to resist. The Swedish girls were dreams come true. Bobby fell in love with Greta and wrote long passionate love letters to her from all over Europe, hoping to see her again. “Ascend with me to paradise,” he wrote, “I hold out my hand.” She replied, “Get lost.” Turid gave Pete a cutting of blond pubic hair that he still had somewhere. Sharing that experience forever sealed his friendship with Bobby.

Pete drifts over to the bar and orders a double shot of bourbon, easy on the rocks, marveling at the persistence of sexual memories. The Swedish girls’ Polaroid - long legs, small breasts and cherry nipples – is page one of
Bobby’s Girlfriends,
a secret photo album chronicling his friend’s sexual history. Pete is one of the privileged few to have feasted on this celebration of conquest, luminaries included. The variety of women and the breadth of their display, including naked pictures of his three wives, are impressive.

Pete enjoys another Armenian meatball and samples the excellent baba ganoush. His mother hated to cook and until Samantha he thought good food was only available in restaurants. Sam introduced him to coq au vin, roast leg of lamb and roasted vegetables, trifles rich with fruit, double cream and liquor. What great meals they had in their tiny apartment, friends around the oak table, rocking music on the stereo, and frequent eruptions of dancing.