The ritual of application was like riding a bike, even after a year. Foundation blended out the slight pinkness of my scar tissue but couldn’t hide its cobbled texture. I could cheat with lip liner, redraw the left corner of my mouth, but I couldn’t erase the deep vertical slash through both lips where they’d split to the teeth against concrete.
Putting on eyeliner took a kind of scrutiny I’d come nowhere near since my fall; I noticed for the first time how the scarring had pulled the corner of my left eyelid out of shape. I tried to wipe the liner off and reapply, but then I had to stop because my eyes were too wet. I grabbed tissues and tried some of the imagery Dr. Davis and I had worked on: a snowy cabin in the woods with a crackling fire. Once I was calmer I took a deep breath, deftly created the illusion of symmetry with my eye pencil, brushed on some mascara, and called it done.
Down in the kitchen there was a sandwich waiting for me. Teo had already finished eating his and was poking around the fridge, muttering something about marinades and leftovers while Monty the cat wound figure eights around his feet.
I’d never have expected to like a sandwich with no meat, but the way Teo made mine, I didn’t miss it. Sweet cucumber, onion, buttery-fresh avocado, some kind of tart cheese, tomato, and crisp lettuce with just the right amount of freshly ground pepper. An ecstatic profanity escaped me; Teo snorted and told me to wash out my mouth.
“I am never washing my mouth,” I said. “I may keep the last bite of this sandwich in my cheek like a hamster.”
“Gross, and not necessary.” Teo picked up the insistent cat, who seemed to be made of elastic covered in rusty steel wool. “I can make you lunch anytime, if you stop hitting people. I love cooking.”
“That’s hot,” I said.
He responded with awkward silence, filled only by the cat’s loud purring. A bite of my sandwich went down sideways.
“So,” Teo said when the moment had passed. “Ever been on the Warner Bros. lot?”
“Not since I worked as an extra.” It had been an easy way to watch other directors work, requiring no résumé or references.
“I called ahead to let Berenbaum know we’re coming. If you need to do anything else to get ready, be quick.”
Mr. Yesterday’s Jeans was insinuating that I wasn’t presentable enough? “What about you?” I said. “When’s the last time you had a shower?”
Teo put the cat down irritably. “This isn’t a date, Roper. Get in the car.”
“No. If can manage a shower, so can you. This is a big deal to me; I don’t want you walking in there smelling like sweat and cigarettes.”
“For fuck’s sake,” said Teo. But he slouched upstairs, picking off cat hair as he went.
? ? ?
The Warner Bros. lot, like all major studio lots, is a massive complex of buildings that dwarfs certain small towns. Every building has the same warm butterscotch-taffy exterior, accented with lush landscaping that gives the place a homey, welcoming feeling. It’s an illusion, but a nice one.
During my days as an extra, I had always parked in the garage across the road and waited for the WALK light to wheel my suitcase of clothing changes and supplies over to the main gate. This time, we got to drive the car right onto the lot. Teo gave the guy at the security booth his ID and got a pass for the dashboard of his crap car. The security guy didn’t look nearly as judgmental of us as I thought he should.
Berenbaum had his own little bungalow on a shady back corner of the lot, a cozy stucco outbuilding with a dozen parking spaces out front. Teo pulled right in like he owned the place, and despite the pass we’d been given, I couldn’t help feeling like an intruder. Even tourists were given a warmer welcome here than extras; the sight and smell of the place brought back sense-memories of debasement and exhaustion.
As we got out of the car, I winced at the loud, grinding creak of the passenger-side door and glanced around for Berenbaum’s trademark red Valiant. Of course it wasn’t there; you don’t drive an icon to work every day. Teo as usual was not slowing down for me, so I hurried to catch up, making heavy use of my cane.
Just inside the door of the bungalow was a cozy reception area with barely enough room for the sexy assistant’s desk and a few soft chairs. As if I weren’t dazzled enough, the walls were hung with illustrious photographs from Berenbaum’s career. In the oldest of them he had shaggy dark hair and bell-bottoms, but by the time we got to his first Oscar acceptance his hair was already zebra-striped white. Most of the photos showed him as I had always known him: a craggy, snow-capped man with intense dark eyes.
And then there he was, standing in the doorway behind the reception desk. He had to be pushing seventy by now, but aside from a comfortable sag in the middle and some deep crevices around his mouth and eyes, he looked ready to live another half century.
“Teo,” he said warmly.
He reached out to shake the kid’s hand while I forgot how to stand up. I used my cane to steady my wobble and put out my own hand just in time for it to receive the same quick, decisive shake.
“Another new partner?” Berenbaum said with a wry smile as he gestured for us to precede him into his office.