6
Downtown L.A. makes me miss New York. Or makes me try to pretend that I am there, depending on the way the light is hitting the buildings. Because on a really bright, flat-light day, there is no way around the fact that I am on the West Coast and not in Manhattan. Even though the buildings here were built by men from back there and from Europe who went through Ellis Island before coming to L.A. to create tall office towers and high apartment buildings with beautiful, scrupulously detailed work of marble, terra-cotta, and tile just like in New York. But once L.A.’s collective consciousness decided it should have its own style based on easy weather and roomy land, bungalows with courtyards sprang up and two-story stucco structures became more alluring than the Gotham-esque towers of downtown.
But not to me. One of my favorite aspects of designing jewelry is being downtown—daily, usually—in the jewelry district, a universe comprised of a few bustling blocks that looks like Manhattan’s Midtown filled with an international community. I’ve been here all afternoon and still have one more contractor in another building to see before everything closes: Dipen, an engineer from India who learned how to cast jewelry when he came to California ten years ago. He just moved offices, and I hope to God that means his schedule isn’t backed up.
As I make my way toward the tinted-glass double doors to leave 608 South Hill Street—a building filled with stall after stall and floor upon floor of importers, wholesalers, and retailers; diamonds and pearls; stringers, casters, and setters; gems and stones of all kinds; bronze, titanium, and platinum; wedding rings and colored gold all glittering—I almost don’t notice my cell phone ringing. I manage to find it in my bag, push the green button, and shout a “hello” over the cacophony of sidewalk noise I have walked into.
“Are you still going to that show tonight?” Reggie says, jumping right in.
A sort of friend, Sydney, gave me comps to the opening of her one-woman show because I helped her find musicians for it. I had asked Reggie weeks ago to go with me, but he refuses to see anything live other than blues because he swears the musicians are all dead and only appear to still be breathing.
“Yeah, I kinda have to. Why?”
“I stayed up all last night reworking part of the script, and wanted to come by with some Manderette takeout and read it to you.”
“I’d so much rather do that,” I say, crossing Hill Street at Sixth to get to Dipen’s building, which is over and down one block. The sunlight on Pershing Square looks like God adjusted his louvered blinds, reminding me that I need to hurry up if I’m going to catch Dipen still in. “I really don’t feel like seeing her show—I couldn’t even get anyone to go with me.” I don’t mention that Michael was the only other person I asked—he’s swamped at the station, so we’re hooking up tomorrow night. “But I promised Sydney I’d be there and, you know, bad friendship karma, so…Can I hear your stuff another night?”
“You love Sydney’s shows.”
“I know, but I could be working on sister-bride’s veil or hearing your script. How’s Thursday night?”
“Probably. Breakfast ma?ana?”
The theater in Santa Monica is a mob scene when I arrive. I am surprised at how momentous her opening night is, but I guess Sydney’s film career distinguishes this from the normally ignored L.A. theater event. A local news crew is creating a vortex of hierarchy for everyone trying to get inside. The famous are stopped to comment toward the camera and smile, while the rest are passed over, our bodies so much scenery for the finery going by. The crowd conveys me into the auditorium, and I quickly jump out as it passes my seat’s aisle. The chair beside mine is one of the few empty ones and its emptiness exudes a loud silence into the noisy air, informing everyone of the ticket left unused.
As people keep pouring in, I pick up the program to kill the remaining minutes before the show begins. I read Sydney’s bio and the director’s, glance at the credits of the musicians whom I know, then notice a list of people thanked for their help in making this show possible and am surprised to see my name on it—that was nice of her—near the top since they are alphabetically arranged. A woman jostles my leg as she sidles past me to reach her seat. The audience is mostly settled, just a few stragglers are wandering in. I turn back to the list to see if I know any other names on it when suddenly I get a strange sensation, like the building’s about to explode. I turn around and in walks Andrew Madden, my ex-never-thought-I-could-breathe-without, whom I have not laid eyes on in almost four and a half years.
Oh, my God.
I immediately throw my program onto the floor so I can duck down to retrieve it, as chaotic gushing explodes in the theater. Andrew Madden is one of those particular people this town breeds who become internationally well-known. For almost four decades he has been a movie star, director, producer, studio head, and basic all-around grand Pooh-bah of La-La-Land. I keep my head down near my feet in hopes that Andrew won’t see me as he walks on by.
Please, dear God.
Audible commotion is erupting row by row, giving me a kind of auditory tracking system of Andrew’s procession down the aisle, so I wait until it moves forward a safe distance before I finally peek my head up to look cautiously around. The back of Andrew’s perfect head—and how is it possible for the back of a head to be so perfect?—is moving elegantly away from me, so I sit back in my seat, but hunched down low.
Thank you, God.
Okay, I’ll be fine. He didn’t see me, didn’t even notice me. Now just stay down in the seat and pray that this horrible fiasco, all from helping a friend with her goddamn show, quickly ends—which it will. Then I can go home. Okay, just breathe. I’m all right—it’s fine. Andrew didn’t even notice me.
What is his fucking problem?
No, wrong reaction. Thank God he didn’t notice me is how I feel. I don’t want him to see me here by myself. It’s good that he walked on by. But why couldn’t Michael be with me? Damn his stupid radio shows. He should be here with his arm around me, all Mediterranean husband—I mean, handsome—next to Andrew’s golden, incredibly fucking gorgeous-beyond-words looks. Michael who?
Fuck, that is not the right attitude. Not even how I really feel inside. It isn’t? All right, stop. This is insanity. Big deal—Andrew’s here. Who cares? Only every single other person in this theater. But not I. Andrew Madden—whoop-de-do. So he’s here. I could care less. Here with Holly. His wife.
On the one hand, that pretty much says everything. On the other, this is the second time I have seen Holly, in person and live. I met her once years ago on the subway in New York, not long before I moved to California. I was with Tim, the man I was living with at that time, and she was with her husband—her first—and a female friend she would not stop hugging as the train rattled and swooped, stations passing by.
It was late at night, and the subway car was almost empty, so her husband easily spotted Tim when we boarded at the Houston Street stop. They had grown up together in the city; introductions were made all around. Holly lifted her head from the friend’s shoulder, blond hair only then not hiding her face, and gave Tim and me a glance before putting her head back down. She had clearly been crying, but laughed for most of the ride, always leaned against her friend, as if clinging to the last known vestige of joy.
“She’s drunk,” Holly’s husband mouthed to us as he stood above her, his hand on the rail steadying him. “Karen here is leaving tomorrow for a year in Australia,” he went on in full voice.
Tim nodded as if that explained all, and smiled. Then the two of them caught up on each other’s lives while I watched Holly cleave onto Karen. I don’t think she was aware I was there, but I knew who she was from the local news stories she did, mostly movie premieres, fashion stuff, and celebrity interviews.
Our exit came before theirs. We said our goodbyes; Tim and Holly’s husband promised to have lunch, Karen shook my hand, and Holly lolled against her more firmly—as if the departure of total strangers was too much a foreboding of what tomorrow held in store. When Tim and I were halfway across the platform, I heard through the still-open train doors a long trill of Holly’s laughter descend into a distinctive wail; then the subway bell rang its two-note tone, the doors slid shut, and the train carried them off. The reverberation of that cry left me unsettled for days. Her husband had seemed like a nice man. I wondered what he was really like inside.
Anyway. Andrew and Holly have settled into their seats at the theater just a few rows in front of me and a little to the right. That’s closer than I’d like, but safe, I decide, because I am completely out of their (Andrew’s) view.
Okay, so I just need to make it to the lights going down, which should be any minute now, then the show will distract me, I hope, or at least keep me under the cover of darkness until it ends and I can get out and run. I am immediately grateful to Sydney for not having an intermission; at least I’m saved from that hellish interval of milling around. The outburst over Andrew has subsided to a low thrilling roar of whispers and nudges from an audience completely flustered since the most famous and talented performer is sitting among them and not appearing onstage.
The lights flicker once, then go back up, then flicker again. Just go down, lights, please, and plunge us into wonderful concealing darkness so I can’t see Andrew and he can’t see me and I don’t have to look at Holly. Suddenly, as if my thoughts were his cue, Andrew turns around and looks at me.
Just looks at me. The way he used to gaze at me across his bed.
Then he waves. A fingers-up-and-down wave. Which I find odd, and wonder if it is a habit he picked up from his two kids. And still he is looking at me. A time-has-stopped look. A no-one-else-is-here look. Then he waves again. But I still haven’t responded to his first wave, other than the fact that my eyes are unable to leave his. Unable to leave his the way the earth is unable to leave the sun. My hands feel glued to my lap and I am suddenly finding it very hard to get the muscles of my mouth to smile, and exactly what size smile do you use for an ex-never-thought-you-could-breathe-without anyway? I cannot figure this out, so I just kind of half-wave, half-cover my sort-of-smiling mouth and look away.
The houselights suddenly go down as if they were timed for him. Then Sydney comes on stage singing a big grand song and I try to stay focused on her, but I can’t stop looking at Andrew. The patter Sydney does between the songs helps a bit, and her jokes are distracting to an extent, except that all I do during each one is compare when I laugh to when Holly does and try to figure out which one of us is more in sync with him. Then during what I guess would be called a “romantic number,” Andrew’s and Holly’s heads lean toward each other in an aren’t-we-enjoying-this-the-most-since-we’re-married sort of way, which I have a strong little feeling is for my benefit. At least on his part. I have no doubt she doesn’t even know who I am, much less that I am here.
Mercifully, the lights fall to complete darkness, signaling the show’s end, then they come up bright, brighter, brightest for Sydney to receive her applause. The crowd is on its feet, clapping and whooping, and the audience between Andrew and me conveniently blocks my view of him, so his of me. The irritated looks I get from the people in my row as I trip and push past them to get out to the aisle as they try to keep applauding are worth the freedom I gain as I use this perfect chaotic moment to slip out.
The second I am outside the theater, I break into a run to my truck like I am being chased by banshees, then I quick get in, even locking the door behind me as if that will keep Andrew from seeing me from all the way inside. And Holly. That’s an introduction I have no desire to repeat. Not that she’d remember me. Or that Andrew would even greet me in front of her, or offer an introduction. Though actually, he might. With him, who knows? He might think it’d be fine, no reason in the world not to.
Hightailing it out of the parking lot, thank you, Chevy engine, I remember that I was supposed to go to the opening-night party afterward, so I leave a “loved your show; can’t—cough, cough—make the party” message at Sydney’s home, so she’ll know how sincere I am.
When I reach a secure distance from the theater in that barren part of the 10 near Centinela, I pull over to the shoulder, put my truck into park, and lift my hands to cover my face. I thought tears would come, but they don’t. I am in too much shock.
There are moments right after something has happened to me, catalytic or catastrophic, when I am truly amazed that the physical objects in my life continue to look the same as they did before. Like when I was in the waiting room, right after the doctor told me and Suzanne that Momma had died, I could not believe that the hospital I was sitting in was still standing, hadn’t shattered and crumbled to the ground, no longer able to hold itself up. “My entire world has just changed,” I thought. “How can this physical object still be the same?” I figured maybe I had stumbled on a koan, one of those Zen Buddhist mysteries you meditate on, and supposedly after you sit still long enough, it reveals itself to you. The emptiness is revealed. You can finally see past the illusion into the truth. But I didn’t know—I had never tried.
Sitting here on the side of the freeway with every privately held image of Andrew streaming through my brain, I’m just grateful my truck doesn’t explode because it sure feels like my heart is going to.