Stefani Joanne Angelina Germanotta walked into Dressing Room #34 at the Staples Center in Los Angeles after the conclusion of the 2010 Grammy Awards. She was in seven-inch soled shoes with ten-inch heels, and her shoulders were burdened with what could best be described as silvery balloons that rose above the top of her bleached hair. Stefani, otherwise known as “Lady Gaga.” slammed the door shut, making a sound that penetrated her temples and made her flinch. Stefani turned to face her reflection in the makeshift mirror bolted to the wall of a room that Stefani knew was not designed as a dressing room. The Staples Center is set up to house many different kinds of events, mostly sports, and has only a handful of what entertainment professionals consider “full-service” dressing rooms, with bathrooms, hot tubs, a kitchen, a fully stocked refrigerator, and a lounge area. The walls of Room #34 were cinder blocks, painted in what Stefani considered a dull yellow, and there was definitely not a kitchen or lounge area. There was a sink. And the card table set in front of the mirror is where she plopped her two Grammy Awards. She went to the sink against the wall to her right and washed off all her makeup. Her eyes were think with black, and as she splashed her face, the black ran down her cheeks, giving her a gothic appearance. Stefani pulled out the hardware hidden in her hair which released the long strands which fell to her shoulders. She then ripped off her wardrobe, tearing it in places, and as each piece came off, she threw it to the floor. By time she was down to her white underwear and bra, she sat in the chair facing the table and looking at her two Grammys.
There was knock at the door. ”What” yelled Stefani.
“Security,” announced a man’s voice through the closed door. Stefani rose and opened the door.
“Yeah?” asked Stefani, standing in her underwear as she was scratching her right armpit with her left hand.
The security guard was taken aback by the bare appearance of Lady Gaga.
“You are going to have to vacate in thirty minutes,” said the security guard.
“What the fuck are you talking about? This is my shit-hole dressing room. I’m going decompress,” said Stefani.
“You can’t. This is Derek Fisher’s room,” said the security guard, a tall African-American man.
“Who the fuck is Derek Fisker?” said Stefani.
“He’s a guard for the Lakers,” said Stefani.
“The Lakers. Jesus Christ, is there like a fucking basketball game on tonight, huh? No. I doubt it. So tell Derek Fisher to come back tomorrow,” said Stefani.
“No can do, ma’am,” said the security guard. ”Basketball takes precedence over everything here,” said the guard.
“Well then tell him to come in with me here like this in my underwear, OK. He won’t mind if I hang out while he does whatever he wants to do in this cinderblock prison cell,” said Stefani.
“He just wants to get into his closet and pull something out,” said the guard.
“Yeah, well, OK,” said Stefani.
“I’ll go tell him he can come,” said the guard.
The guard turned to go, and then stopped to address Lady Gaga.
“If you ask me, I think you should have gotten Record of the Year for Poker Face,” said the guard.
Stefani stood and looked at the guard.
“Oh yeah?” said Stefani.
“Yeah,” said the guard.
“You want to come in. Join me for…for whatever,” said Stefani.
“Come in?”
“Yeah, like come into my dressing room. I’m sure Derek whatever his name is can give us time to….you know,” said Stefani.
The security guard looked down the hallway. He then looked at his watch. Stefani walked into Room #34 and stood at the table next to her Grammy Awards. She unsnapped her bra and it fell to the floor, exposing her breasts. She then fingered her Grammy Awards.
“You want to touch them,” asked Lady Gaga.
The guard came into the room and shut the door.
John Edwards was pacing back and forth in his study. He was in boxer shorts and a white dress shirt. He was wearing white sports socks with a navy blue strip around the top. Think of Tom Cruise sliding into frame in his underwear in Risky Business. Edwards was on his Blackberry Bold.
Edwards: So tell me, how did this tape get out, Rielle?…I saw you throw it in the garbage. I saw you do it after we watched it, remember?…No, no, I distinctly remember you placing it in the garbage. I did not tell you to preserve it…no…I was not stoned…I was not so stoned that I would forget such a thing…and by the way, thanks for giving me a heads up on getting the call from the National Enquirer. What, the money I gave you was not enough?…forget it. OK, just forget the fucking thing…Excuse me, what? You want what? Child support? You fucking goddamn bitch…all the goddamn money you been taking is not enough? Now you fucking want child support…great….don’t tell me what I can and can’t afford. I did not want a child, Rielle…you are so fucking lucky there are laws….laws against murder, because I would break your fucking neck, do you hear me. Too fucking bad we don’t live in Saudi Arabia…I’d be able to just get rid of this problem with one call. Just one call I’d be able to lock you up or cut out your tongue. So fuck you, and fuck your goddamn Frances, whatever her name is.
Edwards throws his Blackberry against the wall where it shatters. He falls to the floor and grabs his forehead trying desperately not to cry. He raises his head, takes a few deep breathes, and slowly rises. He walks over to his desk and opens the bottom drawer revealing a small 22 caliber handgun. He looks at it, standing, motionless, staring at the gun. He then slams the drawer shut.
Hillary looked at her thin stainless steel wristwatch. The time was 7:45 PM. Her throat had a slight burn from the speech she just gave in a Walmart parking lot to a crowd of Walmart shoppers and employees. There was no microphone, so she had to raise her voice to a level she knew was going to come back and haunt her. Not to mention the dry eyes Hillary confronted from the cool breeze blowing in her face during the Walmart speech. After the crowd gave her a cheer in response to “I am one of you,” Hillary Clinton moved quickly to a black Chevrolet Tahoe and got into the back seat surrounded by Secret Service. Hillary’s next stop was to be Charleston, a good forty-minute drive from the Walmart.
Hillary was alone in the backseat. The driver was Secret Service. In the passenger seat was another Secret Service agent. The side trip to the Walmart had been unplanned, and it threw a bit of chaos into the day because Hillary was not with any campaign staff, who were all waiting for her in Charleston at campaign headquarters. It was the Secret Service, the two in the front seat and the other two in the Chevrolet Suburban behind, that acted as Hillary’s traveling staff, helping her set up at Walmart and announcing Hillary’s presence to the Walmart store manager. The news media was there only because someone in Charleston had thought to send a wire out an hour before she arrived at the Walmart.
Hillary felt tired, her arms heavy, and she could hear herself breathing. As the car moved at sixty miles per hour down a long winding stretch of thick green backwoods, Hillary spotted the Green Tick Diner approaching on the side of the road.
“Stop at that diner. I need to go the bathroom,” said Hillary to the driver.
The Chevy Tahoe pulled into the lot, followed by the Suburban from behind.
The parking lot was empty but for three pickups, all from the 1960s and all Fords and all light blue. Hillary noted the near droning similarity that everything took on for her in West Virginia.
Hillary wanted to throw water on her face and maybe get a Coke. The protocol was that two Secret Service agents were to recon the diner before Hillary left the vehicle. The agent advised the waitress at the register that Mrs. Clinton was planning to use the bathroom. The waitress, maybe about fifty, wearing a red wig with a cigarette dangling from cracked red lips, nodded without any noticeable reaction to the famous visitor in the parking lot. Hillary entered the diner, smiled at the red-wigged waitress and was guided to the ladies room by one of the Secret Service agents. The agent had made certain the bathroom was empty and stood sentry at the door to prevent anyone from entering while Hillary was in the bathroom. As Hillary passed the Secret Service agent, he handed her a black can of Coke Zero which he had purchased from the dirty blond twenty-year old girl that worked the counter. Hillary grabbed the can of Coke Zero without eye contact as she passed the agent and entered door to the bathroom that shut behind her as she looked up into the diner’s ladies room.
The ladies room had three stalls and three sinks. The sinks were embedded in a grey linoleum counter top. The linoleum had the thin-lined boomerang shapes, each about the size of a paper clip, as if thrown on the top randomly. Hillary popped the Coke Zero’s top and took a long swig. She placed the can next to the sink and examined herself in the mirror. She had chosen the sink closest to the door, but it hardly mattered since the mirror she faced was cracked in various places, rivers of break lines running in all directions. One ran through the image of Hillary’s face as she noticed her makeup was caked and uneven from the nearly continuous wind she had faced all day in West Virginia.
She turned the faucet on and cupped her hands, collecting a small pool of cool water drawn from a well in the back of the diner. She splashed the water on her face and grabbed a paper towel from a stack lying on the counter top. She removed her makeup. She did not wish to be caught by the media without makeup, but it was unlikely the media would be anywhere near the Green Tick Diner. And quite frankly, she hated makeup. She found herself lopping on more and more of it to cover up more and more facial lines and hanging eye bags.
The toilet flushed. Hillary stood erect. The stall door, which was not shut, opened and out walked with a slow limp an old woman slumped forward, her head sticking out and down, the hump of her back nearly as high as the top of her skull, which peaked out through thinning silver hair. The old woman did not look at Hillary but moved slowly to the counter top, turned on the faucet and leaned on the linoleum with twisted hands. She was wearing blue jeans and frayed converse sneakers. The jean were cut about two inches above the ankle, exposing very pale skin treaded with blue veins. She was wearing a yellow T-shirt covered with a brown leather jacket.
Hillary glanced at the door with a moment of surprise, half expecting the Secret Service Agent to pop his head in. But the old woman made no noise that would have brought the agent rushing into the bathroom. Hillary relished these private moments, and so was irritated that the agent had not cleared the bathroom. How had he missed this old woman? She thought it was possible that the agent merely noted that each stall door was open and assumed that no one was sitting on any of the toilets. Well, I guess in West Virginia closing a stall door is not customary, Hillary thought.
“You that Clinton chick?” said the old woman as she was looking down at the water running down the drain. The old woman’s body position had not changed since she found her support on the linoleum counter top. It seemed like she was fighting some uncomfort or pain.
Hillary resisted a response. But that would be impolite, and as much as she had been accused of lacking any sense of civility, it was her inclination to be gracious.
“Yes,” said Hillary.
“What you doing here?” said the old woman.
“Well, there’s a primary today, and I am campaigning,” said Hillary.
“They’re ain’t nobody lives in this part,” said the old woman.
“We are driving to Charleston where my campaign headquarters is located,” said Hillary.
“Charleston folk are a bunch of crap-eaters,” said the old woman.
Hillary had never heard the term “crap-eaters” and wanted to ask, but she was then caught off guard.
“Hey, you ain’t that Hillary chick. That Hillary chick is an old hag. You trying to mess with me?” said the old woman as she glared at Hillary.
“No. No. I am Hillary Clinton,” said Hillary.
The old woman stared at Hillary, squinting her eyes.
“Hey, yeah, OK, I see it. You just ain’t got makeup on, is that it? You don’t look half bad without that shit on your face,” said the old woman.
“Thank you,” said Hillary.
“I voted for the black guy. What’s his name?” asked the old woman.
“You voted?” said Hillary.
“At the firehouse. This morning. Voted for the black guy. O somethin’,” said the old woman.
“Obama,” said Hillary.
“Yeah. Him. People ’round here don’t like the black guy cause he’s skinny and always smilin’,” said the old woman.
“Is that right?’ said Hillary.
“Shit. I need a drink. S’pose you could drop me at Bunn’s Bar down the road?” asked the old woman.
Hillary was inclined to tell the old woman that she was in a rush. But that would make no sense, and the old woman seemed to have an accurate bullshit meter.
“I need a drink too,” said Hillary.
“Nah. Bunn’s not for you. It’s filthy. Dirty shit all round. The crap-eaters in Charleston have plenty of clean bars fit for you,” said the old woman.
“What do you drink?” asked Hillary.
“Gin. Gin stinks, and I like to be reminded I’m a drunk. The crap-eaters in Charleston don’t smell their own shit. I like to smell mine. So can you drop me? At Bunn’s? It’s on the way,” asked the old woman.
Hillary really wanted to go to Bunn’s Bar and hang with this old woman for most of the night. She needed a gin too, though she preferred vodka.
“Sure. We’ll drop you off,” said Hillary.
“I voted for the black guy. I ain’t apologizin’. Just saying I voted for the black guy. To be different. And he’s different, you know,” said the old woman.
“Yes. I know. I know,” said Hillary.
“I am fucking sick of this shit. Do you hear me?” said Brad Pitt as he stood in Nike running shorts, barefoot and bare chested. Brad was yelling at a closed bathroom door. In the bathroom sat Angelina Jolie, naked, sitting on a white toilet in Suite 1407 of the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel in Manhattan. Angelina’s head was slung forward supported by both palms that were pressed against her forehead as if she were fighting a headache. Angelina sometimes could not figure Brad. She was loving and loyal. She submitted to Brad’s sexual tastes, which were rather pedestrian, thought Angelina. Nothing like Billy Bob Thornton. Billy Bob was unpredictable in everything from sex to food to politics. Yeah, this caused stress at times, but it also kept each day interesting and unique. Like the time Billy Bob sprinkled cocaine all over Angelina’s naked torso and licked it up as he was pumping away. Angelina has white powder all over her face, and the whole thing exploded in one large orgasm, simultaneously, as it should be thought Angelina. Immediately after, Billy Bob wanted to watch Seinfeld with his head on Angelina’s hair. It had to be on Angelina’s hair. And so Angelina let Billy Bob do whatever, and they both belly laughed at the Seinfeld episode.
The unpredictability did not limit it self to sex. You could not pin Billy Bob down on his politics, either. Some days he sounded like the true blue Hollywood Democrat, and on other days Billy Bob was a shotgun toting redneck Republican right out of a trailer park in Texas.
Angelina massaged her forehead thinking that she never had Billy Bob moments with Brad. Brad Pitt, the scion of predictability. Always the missionary position, always with the same exercise routine, always trying to be the politically correct father, always trying to be the politically correct Hollywood Democrat. And always getting angry at predictable moments. Angelina would always know when it was coming. With Billy Bob, his anger was totally unpredictable. Billy Bob could break a table because the waffles were over-cooked or under-cooked, or because the pillows were not fluffy or too fluffy, or because Angelina had not washed her hair or had washed it too much. Angelina never knew what was going to set Billy Bob off. God, she missed those times.
And so what was Brad yelling about? She had predicted it. Brad had been saying that they should get involved with the upcoming presidential race between the Democratic candidates (of course, only the Democratic candidates), and so he asked her which Democrat would she support. Angelina had not thought about it, actually thought it was too early to get involved. But she told Brad that she thought Barack Obama was cuter than Hillary Clinton but that Edwards was too cute. Brad took that as Angelina’s political support for Obama. And so the next day, Bard Pitt came out publicly for Obama and offered to campaign for him. The Obama campaign politely declined, thinking Pitt too Hollywood, and Brad was all in a twit about it.
“Why didn’t you support me with the Obama thing? I look like a fool. Fuck, you have me do things and then I look like the asshole. Carrying the fucking babies around. Hauling your shit from one airport to the next. I am sick of it,” yelled Brad.
“I love you, baby,” said Angelina. She said it like she said it in Mr. & Mrs. Smith, the feature film Brad and she made together. Brad was fun back when they made that movie. But it was all play, shooting guns and fighting with each other was like one long fuck fest for Angelina. Though at times she had Billy Bob on her mind when they were throwing punches and pressing their lips together on the set. But Angelina knew that when she reverted to her character in Mr. & Mrs. Smith, Brad quieted down, predictably.
“I love you too. So what are we doing today?” asked Brad.
“I’m going to take a shower baby and then we’ll go back to LA. How’s that?” asked Angelina.
“You’re the best,” said Brad.
Angelina rose from the toilet, turned on the shower, and got in, washing herself with the large bar of soap that she had purchased earlier that week. It was the kind of soap that Billy Bob liked. Angelina’s massive head of hair got wet and she let her head fall back and felt the hot water run down her large breasts and pretended they were Billy Bob’s hands.
Harold James Hoey sat in a stainless steel chair with stainless steel armrests. His head slumped forward, a dish towel in his right hand, and he was snoring. It was 3:34 AM on the morning of Wednesday, October 24. As always, Harold was alone in the sub-basement kitchen of the White House. He had cleaned all the Presidential dinnerware and Presidential plates. He had noticed that the White House chef the evening before had made duck with orange sauce. Harold knew that President Bush liked duck, and this was a frequent menu item notwithstanding Laura’s instructions to remove as much of the fat from the duck as possible.
“Harold.”
Harold woke and felt the crick in his neck and the sting in his throat, a result of the slumped head and the dry snoring. He cleared his eyes. It was President George Bush. He was holding in his right hand two keys on a chrome key ring.
“I got them,” said President Bush.
Harold stood; slowly, since that is really the only way Harold could move these days.
“Got what, sir,” said Harold with dish towel still in hand.
“The keys to the wine cellar. Got them from Peterson. Had him make me a set,” said Bush.
The President tossed Harold the keys, who dropped the dish towel to catch the keys which were thrown a bit too fast for Harold’s taste.
“Go get me a chilled bottle of Pinot Grigio. Dry. Very dry,” said the President. “I’ll just grab a glass and sit here at the counter.”
Bush sat on a wooden stool at the center island butcher block counter that contained the large stainless steel sink.
Harold walked to the end of the room where the wooden door to the walk-in refrigerator stood like a prison door. The keys were Medeco, and the wood door indeed had two dead bolt locks. Why two Harold had no idea. He had seen Mr. Anderson open the door and remove wine and bottles of vodka, but he had never been inside himself. The keys went in like butter, and the bolts turned smoothly. He then pulled the large horizontal wood handle toward him which was at waist hight and the door opened. A rush of cold air hit Harold in the face. A series of three light bulbs automatically went on as Harold entered the refrigerator. There were two wine racks on either side of the room, running the length to the end about twelve feet. On the far wall was a portrait of what appeared to Harold to be Ulysses S. Grant. There were hundreds of bottles of wine. Harold fingered a few of them, but there were just too many to try to find a dry Pinot Grigio. In fact, he wouldn’t necessarily know a Pinot Grigio from a Chardonney.
“Having trouble?”
Bush stood at the refrigerator door.
“Well, sir, I just wouldn’t know…I am not sure where to start looking,” said Harold.
“Hey, look at that. Is that Grant? Watching over the White House booze. That’s funny,” said Bush as he grabbed two bottles off the rack. “Here we go. Two Chardonneys. And they are dry. Dry enough. Let’s close this up and have ourselves a drink,” said the President as he walked out of the refrigerator.
Harold followed President Bush out, closed the heavy wood door and locked the dead bolts. By the time Harold walked back to the kitchen center island, President Bush has already had one of the bottles open with a full glass of wine in a glass tumbler. Harold noticed that the President was not sipping but gulping. And in one quickk clip, Mr. Bush was already pouring himself a second glass.
“Want some, there, Harold?” asked Bush.
“No, sir,” said Harold.
“Hey, I’m the President. You got to drink when I ask you to,” said Bush.
Harold did not know what to say. He had had a rule all his life: one never drinks on the job…never. His father taught him that by drinking himself to death. And so Harold made sure to keep his work very far from drink.
“Just kidding, Harold,” said Bush as he downed another glass. “You got those keys?” asked Bush
“Yes, sir,” said Harold as he placed the refrigerator keys on the butcher block next to the President.
Harold noticed that the bottle of Chardonney that the President had opened was almost empty.
“You know I don’t regret a thing. Not a thing. I’m President. You can’t get any higher than that. You can’t have more success than that. I am at the top, there, Harold. The tippy top. Yeah, OK, yeah I made a few mistakes. But everyone makes…yeah, everyone everyone. I’m not the only one, Harold. I mean I haven’t killed anyone. I haven’t raped a woman. I have never hit my wife. Never. Never would do that
The President stood, more slowly and uncertainly than Harold did when he got up from his stainless steel chair.
“You finish the bottle. And put the other one back in the…hey, you here tomorrow night, Harold?” asked the President.
“Yes, sir,” said Harold.
“Good. Good. You’re a good man. You started with Reagan, right?”
“Yes, sir,” said Harold.
“He was a good man too. He was a good man. You’re a good man. And, hey, yeah, I ‘m a good man. I’m headin’ up. Upstairs. Got a day tomorrow, you know. Got a day,” said President Bush as he walked down the corridor that led to the stairwell to the upper levels of the White House.
Harold stood for a moment. He grabbed the nearly empty bottle of Chardonney, poured out the remaining wine into the sink and through the bottle in the recycle bin. He then washed the President’s tumbler. Afterall, that was his job. That was Harold James Hoey’s job, to wash the President’s ’s dirty dinnerware.
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