The Animators(18)

It’s been an eight-week, ten-city promotional tour since Florida, a blur of more sour-smelling rental cars and threadbare hotel comforters, the feeling of never having slept enough and always having eaten too much. I’m not in great shape. Sore, chunky from our time on the road, ass melding to the driver’s seat of a low-end Chevy, sepia-toothed from smoking too much, slamming McGriddles and Mountain Dews from the grief of it all, promoting Nashville Combat, which has been called both “regional psychodrama” and “token manipulation” by critics. It’s been discussed as a class struggle piece, a work of fourth-wave feminism, dark comedy worthy of an Oscar, a gross failure, a triumph. We have been condemned and applauded and we don’t much care either way: We nearly piss ourselves every time we see our names in print.

And we have twenty minutes until we’re due on NPR and still no sign of Mel. None at all.

My phone vibrates. I wince—I won’t be able to hear a phone ring for another six months without the fear of bad news on the other end—but it’s a text from Donnie:

You just hit number 100 at the box office for the summer season. That’s an INDIE ADULT CARTOON with LIMITED BACKING in the top 100. This is HUGE! You’ll have LOTS to talk about on Glynnis!



I haven’t seen Mel since we landed at JFK three days ago. I try a few numbers: Surly Cathie hasn’t seen her, either. Indian John lost track of her the night they saw the Reverend Horton Heat at Mercury Lounge. Directs me to Fart, who I call until his voice mailbox is full. She never replaced her iPhone. Of course.

This is not good. The NPR interview is important. The host of Art Talk, Glynnis Havermeyer—critic, writer, figure-about-town—was keen to meet us after she caught a screening of Nashville Combat at the Angelika. Donnie might have worked for months to get us this interview, harping hard on her connections, plying Glynnis’s assistant, a snotty little reprobate named Fenton. But Glynnis booked us herself. It is an embarrassment of riches.

I turn and spot Mel weaving across Sixth Avenue. When I see the screwy little tilt to her head, my throat ices over with dread. She’s fucked up, maybe a third loosey-goosey. But she’s upright. And spruced: sneakers unscuffed, vest buttoned, a mid-eighties blazer of the Brooks Brothers variety. The shadow of a black eye traces the left side of her face.

“Morning,” I tell her.

She cruises over and spanks me on the ass. The doorman glances up. She winks at him. “Don’t worry, she likes it,” she says. Jabs the elevator button.

“I take it whoever you spent last night with didn’t wake you up for this.”

“She woke me up to bone. I remembered this on my own. What kind of unprofessional dickbag you take me for?” She slings an arm around my neck and jostles me companionably.

“Still no phone?”

“Nope. But what can you do.” She shakes her leg, jingles the change in her pockets, cracks her neck.

I’m developing a talent for getting impressions of Mel’s hangovers via osmosis—variety, intensity, source. It’s like getting something gooey caught in my antennae. This morning, the vibe is hard liquor spiky with something else, something like how I imagine burning batteries must taste. I lean in, smell: low-level rummy with, yes, something sweaty and metallic underneath. I grab her chin, peer into her eyes. Visine’d but too fat around the pupil. Pretty skittery for the here and now.

“What are you on,” I say quietly.

She rolls her eyes. “So suspicious. It’s no bueno, Kisses, the way you’re on my dick all the time.”

“Don’t call me that.”

I debate telling Mel about the box office returns. It’s good news, but I’m beginning to question for whom. I look at her rummage through her pockets, a slight sheen of sweat making her face shimmer, and add up all the good things this summer that just seem to lead to less accountability, not more. An effect I suppose I should have known in theory. But you can know almost anything in theory.

“Did you know Fart’s roommate works for Mad?” Mel says.

“I don’t care.”

“He also enjoys smoking crystal.”

“Jesus Christ, Mel.”

“I know,” she says. “It had been a while, but hot damn. I mean, woo.” She narrows her eyes. Whispers, “Woooo.”

“I can’t believe you.”

“Oh, come on. I smoked it by accident, and then I was like, well, okay. Let’s do this. Let’s ride this gravy train.”

My voice rises before I can catch it. “Who have you been hanging out with?”

“Dude. These guys were strictly amateurs. Lots of Xbox to be played. Nary a Hells Angel to be seen.”

I lay my head against the elevator and moan.

“I’m fine,” she says. “I’m on the downhill slope, man. Perfect time for an interview. I’ll sleep it off this afternoon.”

“Are you telling me you didn’t sleep last night?”

“Disco naps. I’m great, I’m telling you. Let’s do this thing.”

“Just hold it together,” I say, clenching and unclenching my fists. “Please.”

“How about cooling it with the directives, little lady?”

“They might ask about your mom. Did Donnie mention that to you?”

“I got the email,” she says, rolling her eyes. “It’s fine. I got this. Okay?”