Table by the Window - Part 7
For author's notes see Part 1
I woke up surprisingly invigorated in just two hours. Technically speaking - I didn’t wake, I was woken - by an insistent ring of the phone. It was an in-house phone not a cellular, and I grabbed the receiver just a second before the answering machine kicked in. It was the director, calling from Philly, and he sounded really pleased to find me at home.
- Look, - he said, - I’m sorry to bother you… but it’s an emergency really… see, I’ve just got that phone call from the city administration. They are closing the main street for repairs on Saturday, and plan to open it again on Sunday evening. Well, I sort of talked them into letting us film there right before they open it. Will need some lighting being so late in the afternoon, but still might save us a lot of money and the location is perfect there… - he stopped uncertainly, but I knew what he wanted to ask me without words.
- I will have to come back on Sunday, instead of Monday then.
- Uh… look, m’ boy, I know I promised you, like, a full week… but this is really a godsend, you know how tight our budget is… Eh… how are you, by the way? Better? - it was hard to say whether it was genuine concern that made his tone anxious, or just the worry about making his first movie work, but remembering our last talk I was ready to grant - it was a mixture of both. I counted on my fingers: I had come back on Monday, that was when I dined with Mom, spent the night in café, next day visited Jane, so today was Wednesday, and I would have to fly there overnight or take the earliest flight on Sunday to be on time. That left me with three to four nights in L.A. - not a lot of time to follow on my promise to Jane and to myself.
Still work was work, and I felt it would be very ungrateful of me to refuse to come - after the understanding he had shown to me by giving me this vacation.
- Thanks, I’m really much better, and I’ll be where and when you need me - ready to work.
- Excellent, dear boy, excellent, I knew I could count on you. Well, see you then. - He disconnected, leaving me in a strange but hopeful mood, restless and over-energized at once. I ached for action, for motion - both literally and metaphorically. The timeline was pressing. Had been pressing all along, what’s that one day! There was no delaying anymore; I needed to do something, to come up with a plan. Yes, a plan! That was a reasonable way, a sensible way to go.
And go I did - this time in a very literal sense: I just couldn’t keep still. So I popped into the kitchen, shoved a frozen pizza in the microwave, ran back to the room to dress, ran back to the kitchen because I had forgotten to turn on the percolator, ran to the bathroom to shave (oh yes, indeed), gulped down the scalding coffee with sizzling pizza (there was really ample time to go to some restaurant and have a proper meal - but it meant waiting, sitting around while they get my order, then waiting more for a bill - definitely not an option for me right now), revved the bike and off I went as some mad rocket into the gathering dusk.
I was of course way and way before the usual hour, so I parked the bike as near to the café as found a place and went walking aimlessly in a big circle that should have brought me back in just about the time. The pent up energy provided by my short nap needed spending and the steps brought both rhythm and sense to my thinking, I saw it all much clearer now. Of course, Jane was right: I had no other route but to get to speak to her, to know her - and it couldn’t make the situation any worse than it already was, right? I’d let my fears overpower me, let them rule me - and that was stupid. Now let us see what could happen, imagine she is not what you’ve thought her to be - then surely the shock of this discovery will rid you of your darned obsession once and for all. It can be painful, yes, but not nearly so painful, as if you let your delusion grow and feed upon itself. But if indeed she is almost… nearly… just close enough to the image that you created… Shit, I couldn’t imagine what would happen then!.. But it was all good; these things are better left to grow, to take the natural course… As for your fear that she might know you when told the name, that her reaction would be tainted by all the true and false things she might have thought or read about you throughout the years - you could well introduce yourself as Charlie (thanks Jane again!). It was your given name after all. And you can see then by her reaction whether she knows who you really are or not… And then… Oh God, then you’ll just have to play it by ear, you can, I know…
I bloody couldn’t, and so I knew… I got cold sweat just thinking I’d have to approach her with some starting line… and what starting line?.. Nothing clever just came to mind… Just something, anything, pray… God, man, you’ll work yourself into another angst-ridden delay, if you do this… Just think positively… The chance will present itself. Just give yourself a word that once it does - you wouldn’t forfeit it because of some stupid fear. Or lack of a starting line.
By the time I was nearing the last turn I felt filled with a new resolve, and, man, it felt good! I even started whistling something completely out of tune, and when a group of teen-age girls approached me shyly from across the street - pens outstretched and cameras on the ready - I didn’t have the usual pang of embarrassment and an awkward sensation of being some walking monument to be photographed by, by all means, but actually tried to start a friendly banter - without luck, cause the girls were mostly reduced to uncontrollable giggles, yet even that couldn’t quite spoil my mood. I’ve made an effort to think up some kind and encouraging words for every one of them, just as they - without knowing - had given me an encouragement that I needed. Look, they were young enough to almost be my daughters, and visibly, palpably shy, yet they found the strength and courage to approach me and ask for my time. Was I more of a coward then them? I hoped not.
Then - as I was being photographed with the second of them, huddling close enough by my side for me to feel the rather sharp end of her umbrella stick right into my thigh, and using all my acting abilities not to wince for pain but to look as pleased and gracious as befitted the moment… I saw her. It was in the distance, I couldn’t be sure… Oh no, I was sure. I couldn’t mistake her for anyone at this stage… I saw her crossing my street, heading to the café… I saw my chance going, a chance to just stumble into her on the street - the perfect occasion that even didn’t need any thought up lines… I almost saw it in my mind: a casual - “Hi!” - “Hi!” - “Going to our café?” And it could have proceeded anywhere from there - two strangers, yet not complete strangers meeting up on the street. And it would have been only logical then - to sit down at her table, or invite her to mine… I must have moved impatiently, my body aching to run to the corner, to intercept her while it was still possible… And then I saw the eyes of the girls. Of those two I hadn’t yet been photographed with. And I knew I couldn’t. I couldn’t just run away, and leave them standing there with this eagerness being slowly replaced with cynicism and hurt. I was a miracle for them. And for their sake I had to let my miracle go. No, not go - wait. There will be other chances, and if we wrap it up soon, who knows, maybe I can still intercept her before she goes inside.
Finally disengaging myself from the eager foursome I walked away, gradually hastening my steps, until I was almost running as I turned the corner. And I made it - she was still halfway to the café - I could still reach her. I suddenly saw it as if from aside - me running after her along the deserted and dimly lit street… in L.A., at midnight… I must have been mad. It was one thing to bump into her by chance, or overtake her going on a slightly brisker than hers pace. But to come to her panting after a real run… to probably scare her first by the sound of someone chasing her down the street… hardly a romantic opening. I stopped, leaning against the wall, and searched for a cigarette.
She looked so impossibly graceful as she walked… I know it sounds crazy - what could be graceful in a sight of a grungy clothed, too straight-backed woman walking away with this loose-hipped almost masculine walk? Yet this was the sight I could watch for ages: every movement of hers - I could watch for ages, and never get tired. So I guess, it was love, even though this word got stuck in my throat every time I tried to speak it - or think it, at that... I didn’t know about love. Hell, I was so utterly unprepared for it. I felt much more comfortable with “obsession”. Yes, scared as hell - but obsession was something that possibly could be cured. And “love”… I didn’t know how to deal with love. In my life… oh yes I had my share of women. I lusted, wanted, felt infatuated (for a time), fell in and fell out (never specifying “in and out” of what). But love was… serious. Like, really wanting to spend my whole life with… someone I still didn’t know if really existed. Let alone - shared my feelings.
I felt all my fears and doubts resurfacing double-force. And there was no Jane anywhere near to talk a few chosen wisdoms into my head. Actually, as I saw all too clearly now - I had avoided thinking about it for a whole day. I thought about the need to “do something” - a simple order, seemingly easy to follow, and about the ways to do it… relegating the question of “love”, and the things it entitled, to the deepest, darkest corner within my mind. Because there was still this problem even sweet Jane couldn’t give a solution to: what if she was indeed what I thought her to be, oh yes… but she didn’t love me back… didn’t have even the slightest interest - her smile but a friendly gesture she would give to most everyone, if he happened to be sitting across from her for these long-long months? Was there anything in me worth loving? Worth the interest? I didn’t feel it. I felt as boring and ordinary as any other person - maybe more so. So very unlike the publicity image created for me by the media. And this image was haunting me for too many years to let me firmly distinguish who was attracted to me, and who - to this cartoon fellow who felt as a lucky but very distant relative of myself. And he was one thing I didn’t dare evoke to lure her attraction.
God, where was this resolve I found earlier - I again felt drained, as I searched for something, anything, some reasonable way of action. As I neared the door.
I knew I still was close enough on her heels - even with another cigarette smoked (another five minutes of doubts onslaught) - still close enough to come up and say simply: “I saw you on the street, we seem to keep the same hours… blah-blah-blah” (something else as innocuous), or maybe even: “I saw you on the street and was glad - as if we were already acquainted, and isn’t it strange that we aren’t…”, or something else again… but a reluctance that had gripped me now was too hard to shake. Did she indeed show even a hint of interest in my person? Would my intrusion be welcome or just a bore? Something distracting her from the work at hand or a long awaited first step? And wasn’t it strange that watching her so closely for so long - I had absolutely no clue as to her attitude towards myself? As if I had unconsciously shrunk from making any assumptions about this matter, of trying to read any kind of reaction into her face, when I found it occasionally turned in my direction. Was I doing it because I was afraid to find disinterest? Or because her interest would mean I’d need to take this step much earlier, when I wasn’t ready (as if I was ready now)? Or indeed - was it the very “assumption” nature of whatever I could see that scared me with a possibility of deeper yet disappointment? To get mistaken about her character (remember, when I had watched her I still was thinking it was scientific interest that made me do it) was one thing. To get my hopes high by thinking she might… well, like me - was quite another. The more I thought about it, the more confused I became.
And time didn’t stop, and I was standing before the doors, still not going in, and knew that doubts didn’t make things done - one thing I had to learn the hard way throughout my acting carrier - doubts didn’t make things done, especially in a limited time-frame that I was left with. God, I needed some plan, some understanding - but this new role of a person in love was way too novel to me (at least in my real life).
Yet move I did, and opened the doors, and went inside - the simple act of passing by her table sending heat waves up and down my body, but thankfully they did not result in anything more drastic than a shameful blush, which I hoped wasn’t overly apparent, as I lowered myself at my table and made a big show of taking out the notes - anything in fact, but they still were stacked within my bag since coming from Philly (more an act of omission than clever thought on my part) - and hid my face behind the opened script.
I didn’t see the lines though, nor had I any intention to work on them that night. Instead, I turned the pages of my notes until I found a clean one, and on this page I draw out a plan. I thought it out as meticulously and methodically as I could - it’s in my sign, remember? - the lists, the plans… I still have it now. My notebook’s opened on that page as I’m writing to you this letter - four simple lines, what seemed then as a perfectly sensible plan, what seems now as just another way to postpone the events.
But, all things considered - that was the only way I knew to make myself stick to my guns and not be swerved by doubts, or a natural messiness I was prone to succumb to. Make a plan - then follow it meticulously step by step. So - in perfect accordance to the point A - I unobtrusively relocated the chair, leaned on my hand, so that it partly covered my face, and pretended to be engrossed in reading the script, when in fact my gaze was directed a little above the page, the whole relocation meant to offer me an opportunity to watch not her directly, but her reflection in the window glass. It felt vaguely devilish and unfair, a sort of cheating, but I needed to know whether she showed at least a partial interest in my presence, and I could not think up a better way than to watch her at length.
The task I set for myself was not an easy one, as I kept being distracted by the tiniest things about her appearance, or fell into daydreaming about the way this little curling lock right above her ear would feel to the touch (a dangerous avenue of thought as you might guess), or what it could be like to say something funny to make her laugh or smile (the tricky part about this was imagining something funny that I could say, and though many people had told me that I could be an entertaining company, right now I was not sure that all my conversational skills wouldn’t fail me utterly as soon as I was close to her). Once or twice it seemed to me her gaze was turned into my direction, but the impression was fleeting and watching a reflection I couldn’t be sure I had the directions right. Then once again - I saw her gaze at me in the window glass, her face thoughtful, a row of even, slightly yellowed teeth biting into the lower lip, but even then I couldn’t be sure whether she really was looking at me and not just outside - immersed in her own thoughts. And damn, I felt like a stalker, a private eye - deep resentment towards my own actions building within myself, as I knew I would have felt extremely uncomfortable if someone was pulling the same kind of trick on me. Yet, on and on I continued watching, growing desperate by the moment, I needed something, anything, any kind of proof that would tell me I had but a glimmer of hope - of attention returned.
But all I got was another pair of furtive glances, roughly in my direction, momentary, in passing, when she raised her head to ponder what to write next. And she was starting to move around restlessly in her seat, these little uneasy movements of a person whose inner radar was telling - she was being watched, her back tensing, her hands going more often in search of a cigarette or idly playing with spare pencils, her brows meeting in a quizzical frown. Then - unexpectedly (I was daydreaming again) - she looked straight at me - in reflection her eyes met mine for a fleeting second - wide, questioning, tinted with a sadness of disbelief, or a hope forlorn or… whatever… cause, shit, involuntarily I lowered the eyes - a person caught at voyeurism, a teenage boy caught while looking through the peak-hole into the girls’ bathroom… I felt so ashamed.
A whole minute have passed before I dared to look back at her. She was sitting utterly still, not writing, not smoking even, a little blush playing high on her cheekbones, hands lying on the table and the eyes lowered as if she suddenly found her own fingers extremely interesting... Oh yes, she caught me all right… But was this current state she was in a good sign or bad? Was she feeling the same kind of inner flush that had left me breathless, or did I just scare her by showing an unwanted attention? After a while she took her pencil again, tried to write, then left it lying, took out a ciggy (I saw her hand trembling a little as she held up the lighter), then looked in the window again, but this time I was watching her so closely I managed to lower my eyes to the notes well in advance. I didn’t dare another encounter through the glass - I didn’t want to scare her altogether. Not before I was ready to proceed on to the point B.
Not long thereafter she rose and went out of the café, and I went right after her… No, I mean, I didn’t go after her, of course, just left the café waiting but a few minutes after her departure, jumped onto my bike and rode through the streets and out into the canyons in hope that the wind and speed might clear my thoughts. No such luck. After a while I decided to call it a night, but ended twisting and turning in my bed to almost the first light of the dawn, not so much thinking about the freaking point B, which - you can probably guess - included the actual process of approaching, as chastising myself for not taking the chances that this day had provided. Not on the street, nor later in the café. So, yes, I had this problem - in my youth mostly I would just go with the first impulse, which usually had got me in trouble, and later on I decided to learn myself to linger a bit - and think it over in a sensible way. Apparently I had succeeded only too well. Funnily enough my caution didn’t extend to the filming choices, I usually knew from the very beginning whether I want to do this or that movie or not, and if I wanted - I went after it with the unswervability of a fired cannon, not stopping before actually begging to let me play the part I especially liked. So what was so different with not work-related things? What made me so aloof? I didn’t know.
My sleep was short and uneasy, interrupted at an ungodly hour of 10 a.m. by a phone-call that was so strange and unexpected, that waking up after another forty minutes of sleep I almost thought it was a part of my dream. The one who called me was my agent, Ben… Nothing unexpected so far, right? After all he was the only person officially entitled to wake me at any hour day or night if something important cropped up concerning my current or possible future projects. Only he wasn’t calling about no projects, man!
- Are you, really, in L.A. or was it your restless spirit Katie saw yesterday revving down West Sunset at well beyond the speed-limit?
- I’m here, Ben, cut the crap, and before you start - I know I should have informed you about my coming, but I’m only back for a couple of days, so - what’s on?
- Eh, actually nothing new - work-wise. I just wanted to ask - as you are in L.A., maybe you’d like to take part in my bachelor party tonight? I know, it’s a short notice, but I thought you were in Philly, till Katie this morning… well, I’ve told you already about that… I mean, it’s all a little impromptu, but it will mean a lot for me if you came, after all I’ve been your agent for what? More than ten years?
- Wait, wait, wait… - I interrupted, not sure I was hearing correctly. - Your what? Bachelor party?!..
- Uh… - he sounded discomfited, - you see, me and Penny, we are flying to Reno tomorrow to… eh… walk the aisle, I guess…
- Why, my congratulations, man! But how come? - Penny was his assistant and they had been sleeping together on and off for at least as long as Ben was my agent, possibly longer, neither showing any sign of wanting to tie the knot. Come to that the same description well applied to Nancy and John, don’t you think? Was it a new trend, or what? Last year everybody already married divorcing, this year the whole Hollywood aflame with marrying rush? I winced as my attempt at humor struck too close to my own home and the things I was thinking about the last few days - finding a soul-mate to share a life with, yeah?
- Eh… you see, - as far as I know it was the first and only time Ben was finding it difficult to speak out the words, - I mean, I do understand it is sudden, but… eh, you see, it’s a secret for now... Pen, she’s pregnant, and I… I rather fancy being a father… So, - he continued a bit anxiously, as I pushed the “mute” button right before going into a loud “Oh fucking shit!” - frankly, I was too shocked for a more coherent answer. - Tell me that you will come!
- Eh, double congrats… Shit! - I released the button. - Double congrats, man… sure, I will.
- Great! And I’ll have the opportunity to introduce you to Andy McRow, y’know, this new photographer, who’s the talk of the town now. It’d be good, if you did a photoshoot with him for the coming promos. All your photos are some few years ago, what are you thinking, man? The mags are craving for something fresh… Ah, yeah, and Matt Damrose, nothing positive for now, but he could be the new director considered for that script that you wanted, so it can’t hurt if you talk with him a bit, while you have a chance…
And it was straight business for another fifteen minutes. What can I say - that’s Ben, a man who would use even his own bachelor party to talk shop.
The day was filled with a sort of hectic activity - for the life of mine I couldn’t decide what would be a proper gift (gifts?) for two people I knew so good, but who now opened from a completely new side to me: something for the house? But I wasn’t all that good at house decorating myself, besides - I wish I knew if they were going to live at Ben’s or look for a bigger home now that they would be a family. Something for the child? But it was too early, and Ben did say it was a secret, even if I was moderately sure he told this same secret to half the other guests. In the end I settled on a bottle of really good Bordeaux for Ben -he could open it during the bachelor party if he wanted - and a beautiful fleur de orange broche for Pen.
All the time as I zipped hither and thither around the town, I was fighting the growing reluctance to go to the party, for the simple reason that I wanted to be in the café tonight - if only to make sure that my stalking of the previous evening didn’t scare her altogether off. But I liked Ben and appreciated what he had done for me throughout the (not always easy) years of my carrier, and attending this gathering that was so important for him seemed small enough a repayment of the debt of gratitude that I felt.
As the impromptu parties go - this one was sure prepared well in advance - I think that half of the male population of the tinseltown was roaming the brightly lit recesses of Ben’s house by the time I arrived. I dutifully addressed the aspiring bridegroom, dutifully spoke with all the important people he pushed me towards - the list including but not limited to the Andy-smth. photographer and Damrose, who was already seriously drunk, dutifully conversed with a pair of fellow actors about the projects Ben was currently rigging up for them, and dutifully observed (believe it or not - for the first time in my life) the whole somewhat desperate paraphernalia of drinking and dirty jokes and other “boys’” stuff that a bachelor party was supposed to be, as if all those things would become completely off limits once the proverbial “knot” is tied on the next day.
Hmm… that is to say, I participated in it of course, at least as far as the drinking… as to the other things… I somehow was not in the right mood - their attractions spoiled for me by an unexplainable certainty, which kept strengthening the drunker I became - that my previous actions and inactions had lost me the only chance to speak with the woman of my dreams - for sure she wasn’t in the café today - scared by my unusual and unexplained attention - I knew she was gone for good!
This certainty was currently pervading all my coherent thoughts, robbing me of any desire or ability to celebrate and making me stand out in the surrounding frolicking as the statue of doom. It was actually unfair to my host - or at least so I explained it to myself, while calling for the taxi, but the taxi driver was (I suppose) mightily surprised when asked to do a big detour - only so that we could pass by the lighted windows of a third-rate round-the-clock coffeehouse - before he took his drunken celebrity-passenger back up into Beverly Hills.
For me though this detour meant naught but pure salvation, my breath unconsciously kept for a couple of blocks before the café and then coming so sweet and fresh as if I was learning the art of breathing anew - from scratch... For she was there. Good God, she was there… What a relief!
But it couldn’t go like this anymore. The paranoid fear that spoilt me the evening had shown it beyond proof. For better or worse I would have to proceed with the point B next night - before it were too late.
Come to think of it - tomorrow was a nice moment to proceed with it too - I still didn’t know if she worked somewhere during the daytime, but it would be a Friday night - surely she wouldn’t be working Saturday? - and that could give us time to meet and talk, and go somewhere and get acquainted outside the café before it’s time for me to return to Philly.
Warming to this decision, I paid the driver almost twice over for his troubles, stumbled into my dark house and slept as soon as my head touched the pillow, leaving the finer aspects of the planning for the morning, when the heavy drinking clears from out of my head and my heart wouldn’t pump so furiously in my chest at the pure excitement of hopes renewed.
Continued in - Part 8
I woke up surprisingly invigorated in just two hours. Technically speaking - I didn’t wake, I was woken - by an insistent ring of the phone. It was an in-house phone not a cellular, and I grabbed the receiver just a second before the answering machine kicked in. It was the director, calling from Philly, and he sounded really pleased to find me at home.
- Look, - he said, - I’m sorry to bother you… but it’s an emergency really… see, I’ve just got that phone call from the city administration. They are closing the main street for repairs on Saturday, and plan to open it again on Sunday evening. Well, I sort of talked them into letting us film there right before they open it. Will need some lighting being so late in the afternoon, but still might save us a lot of money and the location is perfect there… - he stopped uncertainly, but I knew what he wanted to ask me without words.
- I will have to come back on Sunday, instead of Monday then.
- Uh… look, m’ boy, I know I promised you, like, a full week… but this is really a godsend, you know how tight our budget is… Eh… how are you, by the way? Better? - it was hard to say whether it was genuine concern that made his tone anxious, or just the worry about making his first movie work, but remembering our last talk I was ready to grant - it was a mixture of both. I counted on my fingers: I had come back on Monday, that was when I dined with Mom, spent the night in café, next day visited Jane, so today was Wednesday, and I would have to fly there overnight or take the earliest flight on Sunday to be on time. That left me with three to four nights in L.A. - not a lot of time to follow on my promise to Jane and to myself.
Still work was work, and I felt it would be very ungrateful of me to refuse to come - after the understanding he had shown to me by giving me this vacation.
- Thanks, I’m really much better, and I’ll be where and when you need me - ready to work.
- Excellent, dear boy, excellent, I knew I could count on you. Well, see you then. - He disconnected, leaving me in a strange but hopeful mood, restless and over-energized at once. I ached for action, for motion - both literally and metaphorically. The timeline was pressing. Had been pressing all along, what’s that one day! There was no delaying anymore; I needed to do something, to come up with a plan. Yes, a plan! That was a reasonable way, a sensible way to go.
And go I did - this time in a very literal sense: I just couldn’t keep still. So I popped into the kitchen, shoved a frozen pizza in the microwave, ran back to the room to dress, ran back to the kitchen because I had forgotten to turn on the percolator, ran to the bathroom to shave (oh yes, indeed), gulped down the scalding coffee with sizzling pizza (there was really ample time to go to some restaurant and have a proper meal - but it meant waiting, sitting around while they get my order, then waiting more for a bill - definitely not an option for me right now), revved the bike and off I went as some mad rocket into the gathering dusk.
I was of course way and way before the usual hour, so I parked the bike as near to the café as found a place and went walking aimlessly in a big circle that should have brought me back in just about the time. The pent up energy provided by my short nap needed spending and the steps brought both rhythm and sense to my thinking, I saw it all much clearer now. Of course, Jane was right: I had no other route but to get to speak to her, to know her - and it couldn’t make the situation any worse than it already was, right? I’d let my fears overpower me, let them rule me - and that was stupid. Now let us see what could happen, imagine she is not what you’ve thought her to be - then surely the shock of this discovery will rid you of your darned obsession once and for all. It can be painful, yes, but not nearly so painful, as if you let your delusion grow and feed upon itself. But if indeed she is almost… nearly… just close enough to the image that you created… Shit, I couldn’t imagine what would happen then!.. But it was all good; these things are better left to grow, to take the natural course… As for your fear that she might know you when told the name, that her reaction would be tainted by all the true and false things she might have thought or read about you throughout the years - you could well introduce yourself as Charlie (thanks Jane again!). It was your given name after all. And you can see then by her reaction whether she knows who you really are or not… And then… Oh God, then you’ll just have to play it by ear, you can, I know…
I bloody couldn’t, and so I knew… I got cold sweat just thinking I’d have to approach her with some starting line… and what starting line?.. Nothing clever just came to mind… Just something, anything, pray… God, man, you’ll work yourself into another angst-ridden delay, if you do this… Just think positively… The chance will present itself. Just give yourself a word that once it does - you wouldn’t forfeit it because of some stupid fear. Or lack of a starting line.
By the time I was nearing the last turn I felt filled with a new resolve, and, man, it felt good! I even started whistling something completely out of tune, and when a group of teen-age girls approached me shyly from across the street - pens outstretched and cameras on the ready - I didn’t have the usual pang of embarrassment and an awkward sensation of being some walking monument to be photographed by, by all means, but actually tried to start a friendly banter - without luck, cause the girls were mostly reduced to uncontrollable giggles, yet even that couldn’t quite spoil my mood. I’ve made an effort to think up some kind and encouraging words for every one of them, just as they - without knowing - had given me an encouragement that I needed. Look, they were young enough to almost be my daughters, and visibly, palpably shy, yet they found the strength and courage to approach me and ask for my time. Was I more of a coward then them? I hoped not.
Then - as I was being photographed with the second of them, huddling close enough by my side for me to feel the rather sharp end of her umbrella stick right into my thigh, and using all my acting abilities not to wince for pain but to look as pleased and gracious as befitted the moment… I saw her. It was in the distance, I couldn’t be sure… Oh no, I was sure. I couldn’t mistake her for anyone at this stage… I saw her crossing my street, heading to the café… I saw my chance going, a chance to just stumble into her on the street - the perfect occasion that even didn’t need any thought up lines… I almost saw it in my mind: a casual - “Hi!” - “Hi!” - “Going to our café?” And it could have proceeded anywhere from there - two strangers, yet not complete strangers meeting up on the street. And it would have been only logical then - to sit down at her table, or invite her to mine… I must have moved impatiently, my body aching to run to the corner, to intercept her while it was still possible… And then I saw the eyes of the girls. Of those two I hadn’t yet been photographed with. And I knew I couldn’t. I couldn’t just run away, and leave them standing there with this eagerness being slowly replaced with cynicism and hurt. I was a miracle for them. And for their sake I had to let my miracle go. No, not go - wait. There will be other chances, and if we wrap it up soon, who knows, maybe I can still intercept her before she goes inside.
Finally disengaging myself from the eager foursome I walked away, gradually hastening my steps, until I was almost running as I turned the corner. And I made it - she was still halfway to the café - I could still reach her. I suddenly saw it as if from aside - me running after her along the deserted and dimly lit street… in L.A., at midnight… I must have been mad. It was one thing to bump into her by chance, or overtake her going on a slightly brisker than hers pace. But to come to her panting after a real run… to probably scare her first by the sound of someone chasing her down the street… hardly a romantic opening. I stopped, leaning against the wall, and searched for a cigarette.
She looked so impossibly graceful as she walked… I know it sounds crazy - what could be graceful in a sight of a grungy clothed, too straight-backed woman walking away with this loose-hipped almost masculine walk? Yet this was the sight I could watch for ages: every movement of hers - I could watch for ages, and never get tired. So I guess, it was love, even though this word got stuck in my throat every time I tried to speak it - or think it, at that... I didn’t know about love. Hell, I was so utterly unprepared for it. I felt much more comfortable with “obsession”. Yes, scared as hell - but obsession was something that possibly could be cured. And “love”… I didn’t know how to deal with love. In my life… oh yes I had my share of women. I lusted, wanted, felt infatuated (for a time), fell in and fell out (never specifying “in and out” of what). But love was… serious. Like, really wanting to spend my whole life with… someone I still didn’t know if really existed. Let alone - shared my feelings.
I felt all my fears and doubts resurfacing double-force. And there was no Jane anywhere near to talk a few chosen wisdoms into my head. Actually, as I saw all too clearly now - I had avoided thinking about it for a whole day. I thought about the need to “do something” - a simple order, seemingly easy to follow, and about the ways to do it… relegating the question of “love”, and the things it entitled, to the deepest, darkest corner within my mind. Because there was still this problem even sweet Jane couldn’t give a solution to: what if she was indeed what I thought her to be, oh yes… but she didn’t love me back… didn’t have even the slightest interest - her smile but a friendly gesture she would give to most everyone, if he happened to be sitting across from her for these long-long months? Was there anything in me worth loving? Worth the interest? I didn’t feel it. I felt as boring and ordinary as any other person - maybe more so. So very unlike the publicity image created for me by the media. And this image was haunting me for too many years to let me firmly distinguish who was attracted to me, and who - to this cartoon fellow who felt as a lucky but very distant relative of myself. And he was one thing I didn’t dare evoke to lure her attraction.
God, where was this resolve I found earlier - I again felt drained, as I searched for something, anything, some reasonable way of action. As I neared the door.
I knew I still was close enough on her heels - even with another cigarette smoked (another five minutes of doubts onslaught) - still close enough to come up and say simply: “I saw you on the street, we seem to keep the same hours… blah-blah-blah” (something else as innocuous), or maybe even: “I saw you on the street and was glad - as if we were already acquainted, and isn’t it strange that we aren’t…”, or something else again… but a reluctance that had gripped me now was too hard to shake. Did she indeed show even a hint of interest in my person? Would my intrusion be welcome or just a bore? Something distracting her from the work at hand or a long awaited first step? And wasn’t it strange that watching her so closely for so long - I had absolutely no clue as to her attitude towards myself? As if I had unconsciously shrunk from making any assumptions about this matter, of trying to read any kind of reaction into her face, when I found it occasionally turned in my direction. Was I doing it because I was afraid to find disinterest? Or because her interest would mean I’d need to take this step much earlier, when I wasn’t ready (as if I was ready now)? Or indeed - was it the very “assumption” nature of whatever I could see that scared me with a possibility of deeper yet disappointment? To get mistaken about her character (remember, when I had watched her I still was thinking it was scientific interest that made me do it) was one thing. To get my hopes high by thinking she might… well, like me - was quite another. The more I thought about it, the more confused I became.
And time didn’t stop, and I was standing before the doors, still not going in, and knew that doubts didn’t make things done - one thing I had to learn the hard way throughout my acting carrier - doubts didn’t make things done, especially in a limited time-frame that I was left with. God, I needed some plan, some understanding - but this new role of a person in love was way too novel to me (at least in my real life).
Yet move I did, and opened the doors, and went inside - the simple act of passing by her table sending heat waves up and down my body, but thankfully they did not result in anything more drastic than a shameful blush, which I hoped wasn’t overly apparent, as I lowered myself at my table and made a big show of taking out the notes - anything in fact, but they still were stacked within my bag since coming from Philly (more an act of omission than clever thought on my part) - and hid my face behind the opened script.
I didn’t see the lines though, nor had I any intention to work on them that night. Instead, I turned the pages of my notes until I found a clean one, and on this page I draw out a plan. I thought it out as meticulously and methodically as I could - it’s in my sign, remember? - the lists, the plans… I still have it now. My notebook’s opened on that page as I’m writing to you this letter - four simple lines, what seemed then as a perfectly sensible plan, what seems now as just another way to postpone the events.
But, all things considered - that was the only way I knew to make myself stick to my guns and not be swerved by doubts, or a natural messiness I was prone to succumb to. Make a plan - then follow it meticulously step by step. So - in perfect accordance to the point A - I unobtrusively relocated the chair, leaned on my hand, so that it partly covered my face, and pretended to be engrossed in reading the script, when in fact my gaze was directed a little above the page, the whole relocation meant to offer me an opportunity to watch not her directly, but her reflection in the window glass. It felt vaguely devilish and unfair, a sort of cheating, but I needed to know whether she showed at least a partial interest in my presence, and I could not think up a better way than to watch her at length.
The task I set for myself was not an easy one, as I kept being distracted by the tiniest things about her appearance, or fell into daydreaming about the way this little curling lock right above her ear would feel to the touch (a dangerous avenue of thought as you might guess), or what it could be like to say something funny to make her laugh or smile (the tricky part about this was imagining something funny that I could say, and though many people had told me that I could be an entertaining company, right now I was not sure that all my conversational skills wouldn’t fail me utterly as soon as I was close to her). Once or twice it seemed to me her gaze was turned into my direction, but the impression was fleeting and watching a reflection I couldn’t be sure I had the directions right. Then once again - I saw her gaze at me in the window glass, her face thoughtful, a row of even, slightly yellowed teeth biting into the lower lip, but even then I couldn’t be sure whether she really was looking at me and not just outside - immersed in her own thoughts. And damn, I felt like a stalker, a private eye - deep resentment towards my own actions building within myself, as I knew I would have felt extremely uncomfortable if someone was pulling the same kind of trick on me. Yet, on and on I continued watching, growing desperate by the moment, I needed something, anything, any kind of proof that would tell me I had but a glimmer of hope - of attention returned.
But all I got was another pair of furtive glances, roughly in my direction, momentary, in passing, when she raised her head to ponder what to write next. And she was starting to move around restlessly in her seat, these little uneasy movements of a person whose inner radar was telling - she was being watched, her back tensing, her hands going more often in search of a cigarette or idly playing with spare pencils, her brows meeting in a quizzical frown. Then - unexpectedly (I was daydreaming again) - she looked straight at me - in reflection her eyes met mine for a fleeting second - wide, questioning, tinted with a sadness of disbelief, or a hope forlorn or… whatever… cause, shit, involuntarily I lowered the eyes - a person caught at voyeurism, a teenage boy caught while looking through the peak-hole into the girls’ bathroom… I felt so ashamed.
A whole minute have passed before I dared to look back at her. She was sitting utterly still, not writing, not smoking even, a little blush playing high on her cheekbones, hands lying on the table and the eyes lowered as if she suddenly found her own fingers extremely interesting... Oh yes, she caught me all right… But was this current state she was in a good sign or bad? Was she feeling the same kind of inner flush that had left me breathless, or did I just scare her by showing an unwanted attention? After a while she took her pencil again, tried to write, then left it lying, took out a ciggy (I saw her hand trembling a little as she held up the lighter), then looked in the window again, but this time I was watching her so closely I managed to lower my eyes to the notes well in advance. I didn’t dare another encounter through the glass - I didn’t want to scare her altogether. Not before I was ready to proceed on to the point B.
Not long thereafter she rose and went out of the café, and I went right after her… No, I mean, I didn’t go after her, of course, just left the café waiting but a few minutes after her departure, jumped onto my bike and rode through the streets and out into the canyons in hope that the wind and speed might clear my thoughts. No such luck. After a while I decided to call it a night, but ended twisting and turning in my bed to almost the first light of the dawn, not so much thinking about the freaking point B, which - you can probably guess - included the actual process of approaching, as chastising myself for not taking the chances that this day had provided. Not on the street, nor later in the café. So, yes, I had this problem - in my youth mostly I would just go with the first impulse, which usually had got me in trouble, and later on I decided to learn myself to linger a bit - and think it over in a sensible way. Apparently I had succeeded only too well. Funnily enough my caution didn’t extend to the filming choices, I usually knew from the very beginning whether I want to do this or that movie or not, and if I wanted - I went after it with the unswervability of a fired cannon, not stopping before actually begging to let me play the part I especially liked. So what was so different with not work-related things? What made me so aloof? I didn’t know.
My sleep was short and uneasy, interrupted at an ungodly hour of 10 a.m. by a phone-call that was so strange and unexpected, that waking up after another forty minutes of sleep I almost thought it was a part of my dream. The one who called me was my agent, Ben… Nothing unexpected so far, right? After all he was the only person officially entitled to wake me at any hour day or night if something important cropped up concerning my current or possible future projects. Only he wasn’t calling about no projects, man!
- Are you, really, in L.A. or was it your restless spirit Katie saw yesterday revving down West Sunset at well beyond the speed-limit?
- I’m here, Ben, cut the crap, and before you start - I know I should have informed you about my coming, but I’m only back for a couple of days, so - what’s on?
- Eh, actually nothing new - work-wise. I just wanted to ask - as you are in L.A., maybe you’d like to take part in my bachelor party tonight? I know, it’s a short notice, but I thought you were in Philly, till Katie this morning… well, I’ve told you already about that… I mean, it’s all a little impromptu, but it will mean a lot for me if you came, after all I’ve been your agent for what? More than ten years?
- Wait, wait, wait… - I interrupted, not sure I was hearing correctly. - Your what? Bachelor party?!..
- Uh… - he sounded discomfited, - you see, me and Penny, we are flying to Reno tomorrow to… eh… walk the aisle, I guess…
- Why, my congratulations, man! But how come? - Penny was his assistant and they had been sleeping together on and off for at least as long as Ben was my agent, possibly longer, neither showing any sign of wanting to tie the knot. Come to that the same description well applied to Nancy and John, don’t you think? Was it a new trend, or what? Last year everybody already married divorcing, this year the whole Hollywood aflame with marrying rush? I winced as my attempt at humor struck too close to my own home and the things I was thinking about the last few days - finding a soul-mate to share a life with, yeah?
- Eh… you see, - as far as I know it was the first and only time Ben was finding it difficult to speak out the words, - I mean, I do understand it is sudden, but… eh, you see, it’s a secret for now... Pen, she’s pregnant, and I… I rather fancy being a father… So, - he continued a bit anxiously, as I pushed the “mute” button right before going into a loud “Oh fucking shit!” - frankly, I was too shocked for a more coherent answer. - Tell me that you will come!
- Eh, double congrats… Shit! - I released the button. - Double congrats, man… sure, I will.
- Great! And I’ll have the opportunity to introduce you to Andy McRow, y’know, this new photographer, who’s the talk of the town now. It’d be good, if you did a photoshoot with him for the coming promos. All your photos are some few years ago, what are you thinking, man? The mags are craving for something fresh… Ah, yeah, and Matt Damrose, nothing positive for now, but he could be the new director considered for that script that you wanted, so it can’t hurt if you talk with him a bit, while you have a chance…
And it was straight business for another fifteen minutes. What can I say - that’s Ben, a man who would use even his own bachelor party to talk shop.
The day was filled with a sort of hectic activity - for the life of mine I couldn’t decide what would be a proper gift (gifts?) for two people I knew so good, but who now opened from a completely new side to me: something for the house? But I wasn’t all that good at house decorating myself, besides - I wish I knew if they were going to live at Ben’s or look for a bigger home now that they would be a family. Something for the child? But it was too early, and Ben did say it was a secret, even if I was moderately sure he told this same secret to half the other guests. In the end I settled on a bottle of really good Bordeaux for Ben -he could open it during the bachelor party if he wanted - and a beautiful fleur de orange broche for Pen.
All the time as I zipped hither and thither around the town, I was fighting the growing reluctance to go to the party, for the simple reason that I wanted to be in the café tonight - if only to make sure that my stalking of the previous evening didn’t scare her altogether off. But I liked Ben and appreciated what he had done for me throughout the (not always easy) years of my carrier, and attending this gathering that was so important for him seemed small enough a repayment of the debt of gratitude that I felt.
As the impromptu parties go - this one was sure prepared well in advance - I think that half of the male population of the tinseltown was roaming the brightly lit recesses of Ben’s house by the time I arrived. I dutifully addressed the aspiring bridegroom, dutifully spoke with all the important people he pushed me towards - the list including but not limited to the Andy-smth. photographer and Damrose, who was already seriously drunk, dutifully conversed with a pair of fellow actors about the projects Ben was currently rigging up for them, and dutifully observed (believe it or not - for the first time in my life) the whole somewhat desperate paraphernalia of drinking and dirty jokes and other “boys’” stuff that a bachelor party was supposed to be, as if all those things would become completely off limits once the proverbial “knot” is tied on the next day.
Hmm… that is to say, I participated in it of course, at least as far as the drinking… as to the other things… I somehow was not in the right mood - their attractions spoiled for me by an unexplainable certainty, which kept strengthening the drunker I became - that my previous actions and inactions had lost me the only chance to speak with the woman of my dreams - for sure she wasn’t in the café today - scared by my unusual and unexplained attention - I knew she was gone for good!
This certainty was currently pervading all my coherent thoughts, robbing me of any desire or ability to celebrate and making me stand out in the surrounding frolicking as the statue of doom. It was actually unfair to my host - or at least so I explained it to myself, while calling for the taxi, but the taxi driver was (I suppose) mightily surprised when asked to do a big detour - only so that we could pass by the lighted windows of a third-rate round-the-clock coffeehouse - before he took his drunken celebrity-passenger back up into Beverly Hills.
For me though this detour meant naught but pure salvation, my breath unconsciously kept for a couple of blocks before the café and then coming so sweet and fresh as if I was learning the art of breathing anew - from scratch... For she was there. Good God, she was there… What a relief!
But it couldn’t go like this anymore. The paranoid fear that spoilt me the evening had shown it beyond proof. For better or worse I would have to proceed with the point B next night - before it were too late.
Come to think of it - tomorrow was a nice moment to proceed with it too - I still didn’t know if she worked somewhere during the daytime, but it would be a Friday night - surely she wouldn’t be working Saturday? - and that could give us time to meet and talk, and go somewhere and get acquainted outside the café before it’s time for me to return to Philly.
Warming to this decision, I paid the driver almost twice over for his troubles, stumbled into my dark house and slept as soon as my head touched the pillow, leaving the finer aspects of the planning for the morning, when the heavy drinking clears from out of my head and my heart wouldn’t pump so furiously in my chest at the pure excitement of hopes renewed.
Continued in - Part 8