The Anomaly(2)

Molly—assistant producer—twenty-eight, confidently attractive in generic Southern California style, destined for better things. Surgically attached to her iPhone, never without a binder, usually smiling in a way that says it really will be better for all concerned if you just do what she says.

Pierre—midtwenties, pointlessly good-looking, our cameraman. I don’t know why he’s called Pierre. He’s not French. His parents aren’t French. He can’t speak French and (I checked) has never even been to France. It’s annoying. Pierre is convinced he’s on the fast track to Hollywood and one night when he’s annoyed me even more than usual I’m going to tell him I’ve been there and it’s not as much fun as it looks. But not yet, as the most annoying thing about Pierre is that he works hard and is genuinely talented, certainly a lot more so than the past-it journeymen who’d normally accept this type of gig. Plus he has rich parents and comes with his own high-end gear and so Ken loves him, insofar as Ken’s capable of loving anyone who isn’t actively handing him either money or a drink.

Finally, a temporary addition to our merry band, a woman I’d met for the first time that morning when the Kenmobile picked her up from a bland little house in Burbank. Mousy, pale, a neohippie type in floaty multilayered clothes with hemp shoes and an ankh necklace. I was still struggling to address her as Feather, though that appeared to be her actual name.

And then yours truly, of course.

But that’s enough about me.



Molly led the way into the hotel and supervised checkin. Ken went first, naturally. Once processed, he told Molly to get his bag sent up to his room and announced that he’d see us all in the bar in an hour—at which point he marched straight over to it, to do an hour’s predrinking. His dedication in this regard is legendary.

Pierre and Feather went next, and wandered off toward the elevators together, Pierre draped in black canvas tech bags. Theoretically he brings them inside to stop people stealing the gear from the car, but I suspect the primary intention is to show off his gym-muscled arms as he hefts them to and fro.

I finally stepped up to the desk next to Molly and smiled at the registration clerk. “Hey, Kim,” I said, reading the name from her badge. “How’s your day?”

She frowned, which was not the desired effect. After a moment, however, it became clear she was trying to place me, and then that she had. “Whoa,” she said. “You’re that guy.”

“That guy?”

“Yes,” she said. “You are. The YouTuber. That archeologist guy. Unsolved mysteries and stuff.”

This, I should note, seldom happens. My grin in response was charming, and the accompanying shrug could have been used as a Wikipedia illustration of “self-deprecating.”

“Guilty as charged,” I said. “I am indeed Nolan Moore.”

“Wow. My dad hates your show.”

“Oh. Why?”

“He’s an actual archeologist. Or was. Now he’s a professor at NAU in Flagstaff. He’s real smart. I tend to go with what he thinks.”

“Good for you. Well, I’m sorry he doesn’t like the show. Can I check in now?”

She clattered on her keyboard, peering at the screen. “Actually, I don’t seem to have a reservation under the name Nolan Moore.”

“It’ll be under Roland Barthes.”

“Why?”

“Long story.” Actually, it was a fairly short story. A very successful movie actor I used to go drinking with in a previous life told me that one of the ways he’d made it seem like he was, or might soon be, famous—in the early days—was checking into hotels under an assumed name. For the mystique. Every now and then I experimented with doing the same. This encounter was not the first evidence that it was a really dumb idea, certainly outside Hollywood.

“I’ll need to see ID in that name.”

“I don’t have any.”

She looked up with an unapologetic half smile.

“Molly,” I said, “sort this shit out, would you?”

I stomped back outside to have a cigarette.





Chapter

2



Having showered and tweeted and replied to the few nonasinine comments on the show’s YouTube channel, I spent an unedifying half hour wandering the parking lot, smoking diligently and looking at the view—360 degrees of desert, sporadically enlivened by stunted shrubs; the lights of a gas station twinkling in the distance as dusk settled in. At seven I walked into the hotel bar, ready for refreshment.

Ken was holding court at a center table, Molly on the couch beside him. They stick together like glue while in production, mainly so they can shout “No” in unison every time I suggest some cool unplanned thing we could do. Feather perched on a chair opposite, looking enthusiastic in a nonspecific way. No sign of Pierre yet; presumably he was either in the gym or meditating in his room, two habits he’s mentioned multiple times and for which I have not yet, miraculously, slapped him.

Ken saw me enter and held up two fingers. I glanced at the women but Molly shook her head and Feather merely smiled, not understanding the question. Of course, there was waitress service, but when Ken wants another large vodka he kind of wants it now, and though I’m theoretically the star of this thing, I’m generally the one expediting it. Molly is Ken’s bitch for anything to do with work, but drinks aren’t work, so when it comes to those she’s adamant that she isn’t. The complexity of the interacting hierarchies within a small group is beyond the scope of my tiny mind. I mainly just do what I’m told.