Aftermath of Dreaming(16)
“Yeah, I kinda have to. Why?”
“I stayed up all last night reworking part of the script, and wanted to come by with some Manderette takeout and read it to you.”
“I’d so much rather do that,” I say, crossing Hill Street at Sixth to get to Dipen’s building, which is over and down one block. The sunlight on Pershing Square looks like God adjusted his louvered blinds, reminding me that I need to hurry up if I’m going to catch Dipen still in. “I really don’t feel like seeing her show—I couldn’t even get anyone to go with me.” I don’t mention that Michael was the only other person I asked—he’s swamped at the station, so we’re hooking up tomorrow night. “But I promised Sydney I’d be there and, you know, bad friendship karma, so…Can I hear your stuff another night?”
“You love Sydney’s shows.”
“I know, but I could be working on sister-bride’s veil or hearing your script. How’s Thursday night?”
“Probably. Breakfast ma?ana?”
The theater in Santa Monica is a mob scene when I arrive. I am surprised at how momentous her opening night is, but I guess Sydney’s film career distinguishes this from the normally ignored L.A. theater event. A local news crew is creating a vortex of hierarchy for everyone trying to get inside. The famous are stopped to comment toward the camera and smile, while the rest are passed over, our bodies so much scenery for the finery going by. The crowd conveys me into the auditorium, and I quickly jump out as it passes my seat’s aisle. The chair beside mine is one of the few empty ones and its emptiness exudes a loud silence into the noisy air, informing everyone of the ticket left unused.
As people keep pouring in, I pick up the program to kill the remaining minutes before the show begins. I read Sydney’s bio and the director’s, glance at the credits of the musicians whom I know, then notice a list of people thanked for their help in making this show possible and am surprised to see my name on it—that was nice of her—near the top since they are alphabetically arranged. A woman jostles my leg as she sidles past me to reach her seat. The audience is mostly settled, just a few stragglers are wandering in. I turn back to the list to see if I know any other names on it when suddenly I get a strange sensation, like the building’s about to explode. I turn around and in walks Andrew Madden, my ex-never-thought-I-could-breathe-without, whom I have not laid eyes on in almost four and a half years.
Oh, my God.
I immediately throw my program onto the floor so I can duck down to retrieve it, as chaotic gushing explodes in the theater. Andrew Madden is one of those particular people this town breeds who become internationally well-known. For almost four decades he has been a movie star, director, producer, studio head, and basic all-around grand Pooh-bah of La-La-Land. I keep my head down near my feet in hopes that Andrew won’t see me as he walks on by.
Please, dear God.
Audible commotion is erupting row by row, giving me a kind of auditory tracking system of Andrew’s procession down the aisle, so I wait until it moves forward a safe distance before I finally peek my head up to look cautiously around. The back of Andrew’s perfect head—and how is it possible for the back of a head to be so perfect?—is moving elegantly away from me, so I sit back in my seat, but hunched down low.
Thank you, God.
Okay, I’ll be fine. He didn’t see me, didn’t even notice me. Now just stay down in the seat and pray that this horrible fiasco, all from helping a friend with her goddamn show, quickly ends—which it will. Then I can go home. Okay, just breathe. I’m all right—it’s fine. Andrew didn’t even notice me.
What is his f*cking problem?
No, wrong reaction. Thank God he didn’t notice me is how I feel. I don’t want him to see me here by myself. It’s good that he walked on by. But why couldn’t Michael be with me? Damn his stupid radio shows. He should be here with his arm around me, all Mediterranean husband—I mean, handsome—next to Andrew’s golden, incredibly f*cking gorgeous-beyond-words looks. Michael who?
Fuck, that is not the right attitude. Not even how I really feel inside. It isn’t? All right, stop. This is insanity. Big deal—Andrew’s here. Who cares? Only every single other person in this theater. But not I. Andrew Madden—whoop-de-do. So he’s here. I could care less. Here with Holly. His wife.
On the one hand, that pretty much says everything. On the other, this is the second time I have seen Holly, in person and live. I met her once years ago on the subway in New York, not long before I moved to California. I was with Tim, the man I was living with at that time, and she was with her husband—her first—and a female friend she would not stop hugging as the train rattled and swooped, stations passing by.
It was late at night, and the subway car was almost empty, so her husband easily spotted Tim when we boarded at the Houston Street stop. They had grown up together in the city; introductions were made all around. Holly lifted her head from the friend’s shoulder, blond hair only then not hiding her face, and gave Tim and me a glance before putting her head back down. She had clearly been crying, but laughed for most of the ride, always leaned against her friend, as if clinging to the last known vestige of joy.
“She’s drunk,” Holly’s husband mouthed to us as he stood above her, his hand on the rail steadying him. “Karen here is leaving tomorrow for a year in Australia,” he went on in full voice.