As I continued to portray his inner monologue as I imagined it, I finally let at least one of my eyes slide wearily over to his face and saw that he was not only laughing, he was laughing that silent and hard laugh reserved for true enthusiasm. Almost forty years later, I still think of it as one of the greater moments of my life. My “love” life.
I tried not to let my relief interrupt my imitation and returned my gaze to the disenchanting room around us, but I didn’t intend for my portrayal to go on much longer—why press my luck? I mean, this could really be a game changer. If my portrait of my costar as a smug, scruffy-looking nerf herder went well enough, Harrison could unexpectedly (but gently and responsibly) leave his wife, and after a barely noticeable, dignified amount of time, he would marry me (in an unsentimental, tasteful way) and we would subsequently astonish everyone—including ourselves—by remaining together for the rest of whoever died first’s life. And all because I dared to do an imitation of him, for him, in the pub one night! That was the beginning of his realizing that I was the only person with whom he felt comfortable enough to be . . . well, still uncomfortable, but now at peace with finding the world a constant disappointment. I continued to swagger toward him, and then next to him, finally letting my eyes return to him.
To my amazement I now saw that he was still laughing, which almost caused me to laugh, but instead I was able to maintain my portrayal, stretching my lips to their side limits to indicate what perhaps might be identified as a smile, but what turned out to be a cease between scowls before returning my expression to its relaxed smirk mode. I remember distinctly that this was the part of my impression that amused him the most.
Not that anything could convince me that our little dalliance was much more than that. A summer romance without the romance—or without the summer for that matter. Now that I had elicited this amazingly enthusiastic response from him, the danger was that I would want to get him laughing like a human during all our upcoming evenings together. It was bad enough that I was doing it already tonight. Please, God, don’t let me feel the need to encourage him to be Mr. Chuckles on the set as well.
That would be a great idea, right? Making it my life’s work to cause Han Solo to giggle his way through an asteroid field or howl with laughter at how ridiculously hairy his Wookie copilot was. How about a spit take in full view of some unobtrusive mynocks?
No, Harrison was not on this earth for me to goad into uncontrollable fits of laughter. I would have to control the impulse to entertain him, most importantly so as not to call attention to the possibility that we were more than just costars. Maybe not much more where he was concerned, but I was not so lucky.
Ah, men.
If I’d never succeeded in coaxing this coveted laughter of his out into the waiting world, I would never have known what I was missing—just that I was missing something, besides his not being single or accessible or, for the most part, warm. I wouldn’t have been able to imagine his laughing wholeheartedly, or known how amazing it felt to actually be with the person you were with and feel that he liked you! You know, in that ongoing, let’s-keep-seeing-each-other way.
This was the first time I felt as though Harrison liked me. Not because he wanted to sleep with me, or because no one else was around in a way that was convenient. He liked me. I’d made him laugh. I’d done an imitation of him, for him, even though I was afraid of how he’d react, and it had worked out! Take a risk, win a prize—or borrow someone else’s prize for the duration of the film and hope things aren’t too awkward when you film the sequels.
When he’d returned to his paranormal self, we sat smiling at each other, each waiting for the other to—what? Say something! Say something!
“I do other imitations,” I finally offered, my shoulders up to my ears in a shrug. “But I don’t think they’d go too well in this particular environment.”
He lit a new cigarette and I quickly retrieved one of mine, letting him light it with another match while avoiding his eyes.
I went on. “Judy Garland for one—but you probably wouldn’t like it.”
“Why?”
“It’s pretty loud and includes some dancing and a lot of makeup.”
He nodded, picking some nicotine off the tip of his tongue and flicking it away. “Any more quiet ones? Like mine?”
I thought for a moment, searching for a funny reply. What to say? Make him laugh! Make him like me! Oh, please make him like me! Then everything will be fine or thereabouts. But no punch lines came to deliver that body blow that would reignite the blaze of his smile. What a jerk I was. I’ve always been a jerk and always will be. He hates me now and thinks I’m boring and stupid. B & S.
“I could do an imitation of my college boyfriend. He was super quiet.” “Super”?! Who says “super” and lives? Certainly not me.
Harrison raised his eyebrows slightly. “Oh?”
“Yeah, well, maybe all boyfriends are quiet.” Not boyfriends! Harrison wasn’t my boyfriend and would never be. Fix this!
“Well, I wouldn’t know about all boyfriends really,” I rattled on. “Simon’s really the first boyfriend I ever had. And I don’t really—I’m not actually looking to—”
Harrison’s face had whitened and his eyes were suddenly concerned. A slight frown threatened. “What do you mean, your only boyfriend?”
I blinked. What had I done now? I struggled for something to say.
“What about all those guys you talked about?” he asked. “That Rob guy—the photographer—and Fred and Buck and . . .”
Still frowning, I said, “Fred? I didn’t sleep with him, I know him. Hey, you know him, too! Does that mean that you slept with him?”
Not waiting for a response, I continued, somewhat indignantly, “I don’t sleep with all the men I know and I don’t sleep with them just because I bring them up in conversation! Christ, if you thought that I slept with every man who found himself in some story of mine, you must think that I’m like a hooker or something! A slut! So I guess that made it all right for you!”
“Made what all right?”
“To fuck hookers! Your big, slutty costar . . . me!”
He interrupted, “All right! Enough!”
“Fine,” I said, totally sulking, “but you shut up also.”
(A version of that happened. A much toned-down version, maybe with fewer words and a lot less volume.)
Harrison was looking at the rug on the floor in front of him, blinking. Why was he so upset? Why did he want me to have slept with everyone with a penis that I brought up in conversation? He seemed so disappointed that I was as inexperienced as I’d suddenly revealed myself to be that I considered confessing that I’d let Buck feel me up under my shirt after the Shampoo wrap party (and then felt like a slut for days), but instead kept silent and watched the side of his suddenly serious face for clues as to why it was a bad idea that I’d only really been with him and Simon (oh, okay, and I’d slept with Griffin once in Las Vegas, but that didn’t count because he was a friend and we never did it again).
I thought men liked it if you were inexperienced. Was that only in Victorian times? Hadn’t I once heard that some men even paid to deflower a girl—not that Harrison had deflowered me in any way (as though you could deflower someone a little). If so, was I then implying that he had maybe batted away a petal in the deflowering process? What was I meant to do here? How could I return him to the laughing Harrison from just moments ago—a time that, in the ensuing confusion, was now rapidly beginning to feel like weeks ago? Would he ever completely forgive me for not being sexually . . . what? Sophisticated? Experienced? For being a nineteen-year-old who, despite using four-letter words with such ease and familiarity, didn’t turn out to be the pro, Scarlet Woman, tramp nymphomaniac I seemed to be?
It didn’t occur to me until decades later that perhaps what disturbed Harrison was the implication that he was subsequently burdened with something very like responsibility, in that he had somehow been given a gift he hadn’t wanted or expected.