Part 24 (1/2)
”You're cutting off my circulation,” Michael said through a smile.
”Sorry.” I loosened my grip on his forearm.
”You did great.”
”They're going to play that quote on a loop for three days.”
”After a while, you just stop watching television.”
We stood in front of another camera, another host, but my half step to the right was allowed. I was in the safe zone. She asked Michael questions that seemed complex in the disorienting buzz, but I knew they would come off as simplistic on a screen.
Each stop was different, with a different expectation of me. I stood on my feet and said words thanks to his hand on my back. The pressure of his palm was a grounding wire to my physical balance and verbal skills.
Were you shooting him when you met?
Have you ever sold a picture of your date?
How did you two meet?
Do you have a camera?
Are you excited to be on the other side of the rope?
Can you tell us how Mister Greydon got that black eye?
I answered the yes and no questions, but Michael managed to steal the complex ones with a joke and a smile. He was home, but I felt as though I was at his parents' house at Christmas, tested with every question and slice of turkey, as he gently protected me from myself.
Deanna walked in front of us, pressing her earpiece. ”Mister Greydon is entering the lobby.”
Then we pa.s.sed through the gla.s.s doors, and it was over.
His hand on my shoulder, my arm around his waist, he spoke close to my ear. ”I'm sorry. I didn't expect that. They usually ignore the dates.”
”I understand the rush,” I said.
”That goes away, trust me. It's nothing compared to kissing you.”
”Oh, shut up.” I think that, despite my words, I flushed. He was wearing me down, layer by layer, like a heat gun peeling off coats of paint and toxic lead whitewash to the bare wood.
The lobby of the theater was nicely done but purely functional. The snack counter was open, but no cash registers were ringing. Everyone was busy talking in their evening dresses and snappy suits, voices and laughter echoing off the high ceilings and marble floors. I spotted three photographers in black by following their flashes. More hired guns shooting for c.r.a.p pay.
I didn't have another second to take in the scene and see what was different about it, because Michael was approached with congratulations and handshakes. I knew most of them by name and face, but they didn't recognize me, or they pretended not to. Studio execs, talent agents, managers, hangers-on. Sometimes Michael introduced me; sometimes the exchange was so short, he didn't. I was courteous but said little, laughed when I was supposed to, and held on to Michael for dear life.
The word bandied about most was ”Congratulations.” The consensus I gathered was that this was more than a movie for Michael but something groundbreaking.
During a spare second, when he pulled me away from one glowing couple, I leaned into him and whispered, ”This must have been the performance of a lifetime.”
”They're all just working hard to not mention my eye.” He looked at me as if memorizing the details of my face.
”What?” I asked, tingling red in the cheeks.
”Can't wait until later, that's all.”
Brad walked sideways through the crowd to get to us. He was wearing plaid shorts and a suit jacket and tie. His sungla.s.ses were transparent enough to make his eyes visible. As soon as he saw me, he put up his middle fingers.
”Hey, how did those come out?” he said to me as he shook hands with Michael and slapped him on the back.
”I'll send them to you.”
”You're all right, Laine. I don't care what my agent says.” He said it with a laugh, as if I was in on the joke.
Gene Testarossa, like a fly hovering over a plate of raw meat, came up behind Michael. ”Can I talk to you?”
He didn't acknowledge me or Brad. Even when Britt, with a glittery sling on her left arm, tapped Brad's shoulder, and they hugged, Gene kept his focus on Michael.
”Hey.” Michael poked Brad in the chest and gestured toward me. ”Watch her.”
”What do you think I'm going to do?” I said.
”You? Nothing. You're perfect.” He pointed at Brad with two fingers and put the two fingers to his own eyes then back toward Brad. ”Eyes.”
”You got it, bro.”
Gene pulled Michael away.
Britt made it a point to press her lips together until Michael was out of range, then she grabbed my shoulder. ”I think I'm in love with you.”
Brad cackled.
”I'm sorry?” I said.
”You are exactly what he needs.”
”Oh, I-”
She slapped Brad in the chest. ”Yes or no? Was he not the most boring little s.h.i.+t in the world?”
”You never met my parents,” Brad said.
”Then when I found out he broke a window at the Fall Gala thing? I swear I applauded. Hug me. Hug me now.” She held out her good arm and enfolded me in half an embrace. A flash went off.
Britt turned toward the girl with the c.u.mbersome camera and kissed my cheek. Brad, as attuned to a lens as a shark to blood, got in the shot. Me in the middle of two badly behaving stars and Michael nowhere to be seen. I was seen inside the unit, caught at the edge of the vortex and sucked down the drain. I forced a smile.
Maryetta muscled through the crowd to take her lover's arm. ”Who is this?” she asked ”This is the paparazzi I was telling you about,” Britt said.
I shook Maryetta's hand, and we exchanged greetings. It wasn't until that moment that the surrealism of the situation hit me. Maryetta directed experimental theater, and she was the least famous of all those people, yet I'd photographed and sold even her image.
What the h.e.l.l was I doing there? Where was Michael? I wasn't supposed to be there. I belonged on the other side of the rope, in the dark corners. Where was my camera? How was I supposed to do my job without it?
”I'm going to the ladies' room,” I said. ”Excuse me.”