Carmen Electra sat at a corner table at The Grill Restaurant in Los Angeles, far from the window where the afternoon sun washed the front tables with its hot smog-tinted light. The agents and power brokers from Century City and Wilshire Boulevard sat in the conspicuous tables chatting, playing with their Blackberries and Treos, while glancing over their shoulders to see who might be watching or not watching. Carmen at this moment preferred to stay out of the light because this is what she was instructed to do. She nursed a green tea and played with a bread stick, sucking its end but not taking a bite.
At the entrance to the restaurant, Denise Richards appeared in tight jeans, a black loose blouse and distressed leather boots that were tucked under the jeans. A green canvas shoulder bag hung on her left side, and she was in sunglasses, the kind that Lance Armstrong would wear in the Tour de France. Denise walked right through the restaurant, creating a little bit of a wake of head turns from the Blackberry wielders. Denise sat down in the back, out of the glow, opposite Carmen.
�Sorry I�m late,� said Denise.
�So why did you call me? What�s this big secret meeting you wanted, which ain�t so secret here at this place,� said Carmen.
�Carmen, I have to keep up appearances. I am cresting a wave here, and I am going to surf this for as long as I can. I have to appear like we are meeting secretly but still let everyone know about it. It is good that our secret meeting is not secret� said Denise.
�Well, I am not sure anyone saw me on the way in,� said Carmen.
�It doesn�t matter. They saw me. Besides, I am the one on the front pages, not you. I am the cover story,� said Denise.
�Denise, I am in a top grossing movie. You�re on the front pages because you�re getting divorced and you�re saying nasty things about Charlie. There�s a difference between getting attention for being a bitch and getting attention for one�s work,� said Carmen.
�Yeah, right, Carmen, like you made some major artistic contribution to Scary Move 4. Give me a break,� said Denise.
�At least I am in a big movie. And I was on Leno last month. Last month, Denise. You think Leno is going to have you on to talk about Charlie Sheen?� said Carmen.
�Look, we can discuss our relative worths another time. I want to know what happened on the set of Scary Movie 4,� said Denise.
�I knew it,� said Carmen.
�Was he fucking around on the set?� asked Denise.
�Not that I know of. I was doing my work,� said Carmen.
�Would you stop it already with the work. You are not an actress, Carmen. You�re just a thing, an item, a prop with tits,� said Denise.
�I don�t have to listen to this,� said Carmen.
�It�s not your fault. You�ve been placed in this position by the business. Maybe you can act, but the way you are used, the public will never know it,� said Denise.
�So you think I can act?� asked Carmen.
�Was Charlie fucking around? Was he doing drugs? What did you see? What did you hear on the set?� asked Denise.
�Charlie and I did lines,� said Carmen.
�Coke?� asked Denise.
�We ran lines. We read our lines together, stupid. I don�t do coke anymore,� said Carmen.
�OK, OK. Did he come on to you?� asked Denise.
�Of course not. I am married, and I let everyone know it,� said Carmen.
�Like that would stop Charlie,� said Denise as she picked up a bread stick and bit the end off.
�Look, Charlie was barely there. He had a small part, it was like a cameo. And he seemed to be real buddy buddy with David,� said Carmen.
�Zucker, David Zucker?� said Denise.
�Yes. I mean Charlie�s got this nothing little part, and he and David are like hanging together, going off into David�s trailer. We were all wondering where the director was, and then bingo, David would appear with Charlie, both smiling, almost giggling,� said Carmen.
�What are you saying, like they were doing drugs in David�s trailer?� asked Denise.
�I ain�t saying nothing,� said Carmen.
�You got to give me something, Carmen. That bastard is threatening to drag me through the mud and maybe even take the kids,� said Denise, as she glanced to her right, nodded and removed her Lance Armstrong sunglasses. At that moment, a photographer moved in quickly and snapped two photographs, the flash going off twice. Denise smiled. Carmen looked confused, her face contorted. The photographer hustled out the front door of the restaurant. The Hollywood suits craned their necks to see what the hub bub was about.
�Thanks for the photo op, Carmen. I got what I came for,� said Denise, as she put on her Lance Armstrongs, got up and sauntered out the restaurant directly into a black Chevy Suburban waiting for her on the curb.
Carmen sat at the table, confused. A photo with Denise Richards smiling and Carmen Electra looking upset. How would that play? What would people think? All Carmen knew was that it plays well when your smiling and bad when your not. That bitch. But then, any publicity was good. Carmen sipped her green tea as the waitress placed a check on her table.
Two female Miami-Dade County police officers struggled to control May Andersen who was kicking with her long legs and screaming obscenities. The officers were shorter than May, so it was difficult to hoist her down the hallway. They straddled May on either side, holding her by the upper arms, with May�s bare forearms held behind her back. May turned her head toward one of the female officers and spit on her face as the officer pushed her into the lime green holding cell. May was thrown forward, but immediately turned and jumped like a rabid dog at the cell bars as they slid closed on wheeled tracks, making the loud sound of metal on metal. May grabbed the steel bars and shook them without success. The bared door was firmly set closed, and her skinny muscle-free arms were useless. The two officers stood at the closed door, both sweating and relieved to have successfully caged May Andersen without succumbing to the temptation of slugging her in the face. They were trained to use restraint. In other circumstances, the officers would have smiled and possibly said something to May as she was screeching from her jail cell. But the officers were confused by the behavior of this tall lanky world famous super model with bruises to her face and arms. May had been brought from the Miami International Airport where she had hit a flight attendant in the face twice, nearly knocking her unconscious. This all happened in flight on a jet that had departed from Europe.
�Fuck you bitches. You think you so important, you fucking bitches,� screamed May as the officers maintained their composure.
Across from May Andersen�s holding cell was another cell identical to May�s. A wire thin Asian woman, maybe no older than nineteen, was watching the drama that unfurled on the second floor of the Dade County Women�s Detention Center. The Asian had large round eyes with straight black hair that hung to her hips. Her hair covered one eye, and she seemed to disappear behind her hair. She was wearing a soiled tight black skirt ripped up the side and a black sleeveless tank top. She had her elbow leaning on the horizontal flat bar that ran from one end of the cell door to the other. Her other arm was extended upwards where she clasped her hand around a vertical bar as if holding herself up. The Asian girl was barefoot.
The officers walked down the hallway that brought May to her cell and left through the heavy steel door that had a narrow vertical double pane bullet-proof window along its edge. The door bolt sounded like a thunder clap.
May turned and kicked the aluminum framed cot that supported a pancake thin mattress.
�Fuck,� said May as she sat on the cot.
�Hi,� said the Asian girl.
May looked up and toward the Asian girl.
�I don�t talk to criminals, bitch,� said May as she rubbed her forehead to remove the skull-shattering headache she was fighting.
�My name�s April,� said the Asian girl.
�Cute,� said May.
�I don�t think it�s cute when the month is April like now,� said April.
�You not shitting me? Your name is April, huh? So you not making fun of me,� said May.
�I do not know what you mean.� said April.
�Yeah, like you don�t know I am May Andersen,� said May.
�Am I supposed to know you are May Andersen?� asked April.
�You fucking Americans all have sense of humor, but you are not funny,� said May.
�You have an accent, like from Europe, right?� asked April.
�Like from Europe. I wrong. No sense of humor, just stupid. You Americans are stupid. It is a Danish accent,� said May.
�Oh. Cool. I never met a Danish person,� said April.
�Look, I have splitting headache. Please do not talk to me,� said May.
�What you in here for?� asked April.
�Because I stand up for my rights. The bitch stewardess gave me a scotch when I asked for rum. Stupid, stupid, stupid. So I gave her a good clink to the face. She made such a big deal of it, like falling back and pretending to be hurt,� said May.
�You hit the stewardess?� asked April.
�What the fuck you in here for?� asked May.
�Prostitution,� said April.
�Oh yeah. I did that. Well, not really. But back in Amsterdam it is legal, you know. It should be legal. We should be able to do whatever we want with our bodies, right,� said May.
�It�s legal in Amsterdam? Amsterdam is in Danish land,” asked April.
“Danish land? You idiot. Amsterdam is in The Netherlands. I am from Denmark,” said May.
�Denmark. Cool,� said April. April sat down on the cot in her cell. �I�ve never hit anyone before. Does it feel good to do that,� said April.
�Fucking fantastic. I am going to hit the judge when I see him. I am going to hit the police. I am going to hit the next person who does not do what I tell them to do,� said May.
�You are joking, right?� said April.
�Nope. But you can�t do what I do. I am famous. I am a super model with a gorgeous body and a perfectly luscious face, as if crafted by the hand of god. I make twenty-five thousand American dollars for five hours work. That�s five thousand American dollars per hour. That says I can hit. That says that the world lets me hit people I do not like,� said May.
�I�ve been hit, but I never hit anyone. I won�t get a chance, anyway. This is the third time I�ve been caught. Three strikes and your out in Florida. My lawyer tells me I will have to do three years,� said April.
�Well, that�s because you are who you are. My bail was set for $3,000, and I will be out tomorrow, and trust me, back in Denmark by the next morning,� said May.
�My bail was set at $300,000. Guess they think I will disappear or something,� said April.
�Do the math. That means I am a thousand times more important than you. A thousand times more gifted, more blessed, more beautiful,� said May.
April looks up at May. �You are very beautiful,� said April.
�I am beautiful even at my worst. Even when I am ugly, I am beautiful,� said May.
�Three years won�t be too bad. Maybe I can learn something,� said April.
�Just learn your place, girl. Just learn your place and you will be fine. Now shut up so I can rest and get rid of this fucking beautiful headache,� said May.
May lied down on the cot with both hands on her forehead. April looked over at her. April�s eyes started to water up. Not really a cry brewing, just a little sad, just a little scared. She guessed that she was not beautiful as her mother told her. She figured that she must be ugly. Know your place, she thought. She looked down at the concrete floor of her jail cell and thought about trying to find her place.
Harrison Ford sat in the leather love seat next to Calista Flockhart. Harrison�s personal doctor sat behind the desk facing the two lovebirds.
�So you want another one?� asked the doctor.
�Yes. On the left side. The symmetry now bothers me,� said Harrison.
�Like me. See,� said Calista as she gently tapped her left ear lobe which contained two small gold hoop earrings.
�One on the right, two on the left, is that it?� asked the doctor.
�Yes,� said Harrison.
�Why don�t you just stop wearing an earring on the right side, then you will avoid the symmetry, as you say,� said the doctor.
�It�s just something I want to do,� said Harrison as he smiled at Calista. Calsita smiled back.
�I got to tell you, Harrison, that my kids love your movies,� said the doctor.
�That�s great,� said Harrison.
�But, you know, it is hard for them to see you, to see Indiana Jones and Han Solo with earrings,� said the doctor.
�It�s not really any of your children�s business, now, is it?� said Calista.
�No sweetheart. I understand what the doctor is saying,� said Harrison. Harrison turns to the doctor. �When I played those characters, they did not have earrings because that was not the character. Indiana Jones and Han Solo would not have worn earrings. But this is me. I think you can explain that to your children,� said Harrison.
�I tried. But they do not see the difference. They keep asking me, why does he want to wear earrings? Why does he want to wear earrings, they keep asking,� said the doctor.
�Is this really your kids asking? Maybe it is you who does not want Harrison to wear earrings,� said Calista somewhat irately.
�Well, I got to tell you, Harrison, that you look awfully silly with those earrings. I mean, maybe if you were twenty, but your over sixty for chrissake,� said the doctor.
�Look, doc, I can get this done somewhere else,� said Harrison.
�It�s the vanity. The vanity makes you weak,� said the doctor.
�This is ridiculous. We don�t have to sit here and listen to this.� said Calista. She turns quickly to the doctor. “You are so yesterday. A man wearing earrings is like a man wearing Nikes. It’s now a male thing,” said Calista.
�I am sure I am so yesterday, as you say. I am not up on the latest cultural trends. Hey, I still write letters rather than use email. But I bet no one has told you, Harrison, how absurd those little gold hoops look on your ears. They are all scared to tell you. But no one, I mean no one wants Harrison Ford wearing earrings. Just like I don’t want to see you in high heels,� said the doctor.
�Harrison, can we go? This guy is a Republican, right wing, homophobe. We do not have to put up with this incredible verbal abuse,� said Calista.
�I am not abusing Harrison and I am not a Republican, thank you. Harrison Ford represents a hero to me. Granted, it may all be fantasy. But nevertheless, if you are going to make your living at creating a symbol, a myth that people want to believe, then maybe a simple thing like dropping a fashion accessory might be a small price to pay to preserve that myth for the public,” said the doctor.
Calista glared at the doctor. Harrison listened patiently. The doctor continued.
“Harrison, I mean no disrespect, but you and the myths you have created represent everything that men stand for. And do not kid yourself. Those myths, those fantasies are important to our culture. And then you show up with goddamn earrings. It�s like James Bond in drag. It makes me uncomfortable,� said the doctor.
“Uncomfortable? See, you are a homophobe,” said Calista.
�Calista, please,” said Harrison as he turned to the doctor. “Doc. Look, we can have this discussion another time. Would you just add the other hole to my left ear, please,� said Harrison.
�Actually, I guess I should be happy. When you called to make this appointment, I thought you were going to ask for a facelift. So I guess I should be happy that this is just about an earring,� said the doctor.
�You do facelifts?� asked Harrison.
�Yes,� said the doctor.
�OK, well, let�s get started with the earring, shall we,� said Harrison.
�Yes, of course,� said the doctor.
The doctor gets up. �I will get the equipment,� said the doctor. He left the room, leaving Harrison and Calista alone.
�He is sort of an asshole, and I bet he is a closet Republican and god knows what else,� said Calista.
�He does facelifts,� said Harrison.
�He’s not touching my face,� said Calista.
�I was referring to mine,� said Harrison.
Calista looks at Harrison. “You don’t need a facelift sweetheart. But maybe a nose ring,” said Calista with a smile.
“I have too many nose hairs to deal with,” said Harrison.
“Sweetie, you got hair on your ear lobes too,” said Calista.
“I do? Damn,” said Harrison.
Continued From Yesterday.
�Me. I�m over here, next to you. Underground,� said Harold.
�Oh. You dead?� asked Billy.
�Yeah. You too, huh. I take it from the little ceremony that you died in Iraq,� said Harold.
�Nope. I died at Walter Read Hospital in Washington. But I got my injuries in Iraq. My jeep was hit with a bomb. It caught on fire. I lost both my legs. But that ain�t the worst. It was the burns. My entire body was burned through. No skin. My right eye melted. The pain was real bad. The morphine didn�t help. They kept me alive for a week at the hospital. I was glad to die,� said Billy.
�Yuck. I guess I was lucky. A bomb blew my head off. Died instantly,� said Harold.
�You mean you don�t have a head right now?� asked Billy.
�They reconstructed some of it. Put the bits together,� said Harold.
“I am glad that the whole experience is over, and I can now relax,� said Billy.
�That�s what I thought. But after you lie here for awhile you start thinking, and you get real pissed off,� said Harold.
�Pissed off? You can�t get pissed off after your dead,� said Billy.
�Oh yeah you can. Wait and see,� said Harold.
�What are you pissed off about?� asked Billy.
�The whole thing. I mean it�s over. My life is over. And I just turned twenty. I had twenty years. That’s it. I�m pissed,� said Harold.
�I got you beat by four years. I turned twenty four a few months ago. I was playing baseball for the Portland Sea Dogs up in Maine; a farm team for the Boston Red Sox. And the Guard called me,� said Billy.
�You play baseball? Wow. You might have made the majors?� asked Harold.
�Well, you always hope that,� said Billy.
�Did you see that President Bush through out the first pitch on opening day?� asked Harold.
�Well, I didn�t see that. That was the day my jeep got blown up,� said Billy.
�That sucks. Cheney through out a pitch too,� said Harold.
�I�m going to miss baseball. And my friends. And my family. Jeez, I �m going to miss a lot of stuff,� said Billy.
�Yep. That�s when you start getting angry. You start thinking like what was the point,� said Harold.
�Well, there was a point. I mean we�re trying to do something over there,� said Billy.
�Do the math. Was it worth giving up your family, your friends? Was it worth giving up baseball forever? Was it worth it for what we are doing over there?� asked Harold.
�It�s forever, huh?� said Billy.
�Yeah. That�s what this thing is. Death. It�s forever,� said Harold.
�My mother once told me that nothing lasts forever,� said Billy.
�The whole thing sucks man. I didn�t go to college because I had to get a job to help with my mom. My dad died a few years ago, so I had to get a job after high school. To help out. To help my mother and sisters. I have two baby sisters. Then the Guard called,� said Harold.
�I guess I can see why you�re pissed off. It ain�t good over there. You know after its all over, and we leave Iraq, I am going to guess that the place will still be a mess,� said Billy.
�I don�t care if it�s a mess or the Garden of Eden. I would still be pissed. I�m dead and buried, man. It’s over. Who cares what happens in Iraq. You think Bush really cares, I mean really really cares about Iraqis, I mean enough to put me here in this grave? No way. I mean, I don’t know what moved the man to send me to that cesspool and have my head blown off. He traded my life for some Iraqi’s right to vote. Fuck that. I can tell it�s raining, right?� asked Harold.
�Yeah, it�s raining,� said Billy.
�I�m dead and buried in the wet earth, in the rain, and I didn�t even make it to drinking age and Bush is throwing out pitches on opening day. That�s why I�m pissed. I mean, did he come to your funeral? Did he come to my funeral? Has he gone to anyone�s funeral?� said Harold.
�Well, he wasn�t at mine,� said Billy.
�Bush wasn�t at my funeral either. But he was at opening day. He was playing baseball on the day you got blown up,� said Harold.
�Look, I don�t want to be angry. It�s not going to get me anywhere. I want to be at peace,� said Billy.
�That�s just an idea you have about being dead. Being at peace. It ain�t peaceful. It sucks,� said Harold.
�I guess we are going to become friends now that we are here. Here forever, huh,� said Billy.
�How much you want to bet we will be here, dead and buried with people startin’ to forget about us, we’ll be here next year when Bush and Cheney throw out pitches on opening day,� said Harold.
�Damn. How am I going to follow the Red Sox now?� asked Billy.
�See what I mean. This place we�re in. It sucks,� said Harold.
�Yeah. I see what you mean,� said Billy.
The rain continued. The earth became wet. The gravediggers returned, and in the rain, in the mud, the gravediggers buried Billy.
Harold Hoey returned from Iraq with no face. It was the noon heat that made his head sweat under the heavy helmet. An itch developed over his right ear. He stopped walking, turned to the right and noticed Iraqi children in casual dress kicking a red soccer ball on the opposite side of the chest high makeshift metal fence that was erected along much of the perimeter of the highway that connected the airport with downtown Baghdad. As he watched the children, the head itch got worse. Harold took his helmet off as one Iraqi child kicked the red soccer ball over the fence in his direction. The red ball came to rest about five feet from Harold on the brown grassy patch between Harold and the fence. Harold was scratching his head and looked at the red ball. He bent down to place his helmet on the grass with the intent to retrieve the red ball for the children. As the helmet hit the grass, Harold heard a click. He looked down and in that quarter second between the click and the explosive blast from the road side bomb, Harold realized what the meaning of the click was. A quarter second is plenty of time to grasp the nature of what is about to happen, but no time to contemplate it. The blast hit Harold in the face and threw his body several feet back onto the pavement. The red ball was blasted in the opposite direction toward the fence and came to rest near a ditch that gullied under the bottom of the metal grating of the fence. An Iraqi child retrieved the red ball and the kids continued to play soccer. Harold died instantly, and now three months later he lied peacefully in an oak casket in a grave in a cemetery in northern Vermont.
Billy Brunt was lying in a casket which was above ground over an open grave pit that was immediately adjacent to Harold Hoey�s gravesite. Bill Brunt�s family and friends had left about an hour ago after a brief ceremony that was too secluded to include the customary flyover of US Air Force fighter jets. To substitute for the jets, a sixty-seven year old Vermont National Guardsman shot a blank from his pistol into the air, holstered his gun, and then handed an American flag folded into the shape of a triangle to Billy�s father who was sitting on a metal folding chair as the Guardsman said �this is from a grateful nation.� Billy�s mother, also sitting on a folding metal chair, was dressed in all black. When Billy’s mother heard the words �grateful nation,� she cried. Billy�s relatives and friends were all standing. Billy�s father lowered his head and placed the flag on his lap. Billy�s relatives cried. Billy�s friends cried. The three gravediggers leaned against nearby headstones holding shovels waiting to bury Billy. It started to rain. Billy�s parents left. Billy�s relatives and friends left. The gravediggers decided to take an extended lunch break.
Harold Hoey, below ground, and Billy Brunt, above ground, were alone, together in a northern Vermont cemetery.
�Hi,� said Harold.
�What? Who said that?� asked Billy.
To Be Continued.
Next Page » /
previous posts »
