Page 61 of Hollywood, Ending

“My character knows what it feels like to kiss your character in front of two cameras, a boom mic, and a bunch of people. That’s different.”

She’s silent for a while, then finally nods and says, “We should go to that party.”

_____

And so we do. It’s after eleven by the time we get to Brooklyn. The party is in a third-floor apartment and everyone there is young and attractive. A girl with big, curly hair asks me if I want to go into Ophelia’s bedroom to do drugs, and I say Which drugs, and she says Probably cocaine if I know Ophelia, and I say I think I’m okay. Juniper knows everyone and I don’t know anybody so I get a plastic glass and pour myself some of the wine that’s in the kitchen. A girl asks me if I know how to make a martini and I tell her that I do, so I make her a martini and then Juniper appears and kisses me on the cheek and says, Isn’t Ophelia hilarious? I haven’t actually met Ophelia yet, but I smile and say, Yes, and then for a while I talk to a handsome young guy who is filming a movie where he’s the lone survivor of a plane crash. We talk about how the wine is warm, and the guy seems really sweet, like the kind of person who’s interested in acting as acting not as a vehicle to celebrity, and then his girlfriend comes up and he introduces her as a director, and she says, Mostly of commercials, and I say that commercials need directors, too, and she says, You make it sound like commercials are orphans, which makes me think about how all of us are sort of orphans, just of the ostensibly adult variety, trying to figure out how to make martinis and friends and art together. The party is really fun, and I like being there and then Jaya Hudson-Rowe shows up and hugs me, saying, It’s the boy who loves me. Everyone tries to be cool around her, but it’s Jaya, and I think about how much work it must be to be Jaya Hudson-Rowe all the time, even at Ophelia’s party, and how she must’ve enjoyed spending an evening with me drinking martinis if only because I had no idea who she was.

Jaya’s new girlfriend is there with her and she tells me she’s already seen the movie because she works at a studio and that I’m incredible in it and I say thanks and by the time I actually figure out who Ophelia is, it’s only because someone brings out a little handmade cake with candles on it, twenty-two candles, and I keep thinking we are all so young. Our joints are still good. Whatever has begun to harden in us is still soft in that apartment.

4

The next morning, I wake up with a slight hangover and go downstairs to meet Jill from The New Yorker. I recognize her from when I met her just before seeing the movie, but don’t know whether to shake her hand or hug her. She comes in firmly with a handshake and says, “How’s your junket been?”

“I’ve had worse jobs,” I tell her. “In fact, all my jobs were worse jobs.”

“I find them rather dehumanizing,” she says. “Honestly, never been a fan of the celebrity profile, but my editor says I’m good at them, and as you say, I’ve had worse jobs. Shall we start with some breakfast?”

We get in a cab. She doesn’t have a recorder out, and she isn’t taking notes. I ask her what she doesn’t like about celebrity profiles, and she says, “You’re trying to get people to buy movie tickets and I’m trying to get people to buy magazines, and those goals are sometimes in tension. But mostly, and don’t take this the wrong way, but I think part of the reason I’m assigned these is because I don’t find celebrities particularly interesting. What did you do before this?”

“I waited tables at a restaurant in the East Village.”

“See, if I’d interviewed you then, before all the media training, we could’ve had a great conversation. What’d you learn from serving?”

“A lot. It was an Italian place. Mostly couples. The great thing about serving is that a lot of people don’t think of you as a person, so you get up close to other people’s lives. People falling in love, breaking up, trying to figure out whether to put their kid in a new school. You see it all, and it’s out in public, and they never notice you noticing.”

“If you like not being thought of as a person, you’ll love being famous.” Jill laughs. I can tell that she is trying to make me comfortable so I’ll slip up, but I still like her.

At breakfast, she pulls out the recorder and asks me about the movie, about how I prepared for it. She asks me about Juniper, how we were different in our processes. She asks me if Juniper wears perfume, and I say no, and for a moment I can smell her. Jill says that she writes a lot about perfume because writing about smell is the most interesting challenge she’s come across, and then she asks me how Juniper smells, and I say, “I can’t describe it. Like when you’re inside on a rainy day, maybe.”

“You say I love you a lot. That’s come up in several of the conversations I’ve had. Do you love Juniper?”

“Very much.”

“Do you care to comment on the rumors?”

“I do not.”

“See, the media training kills the conversation.” She takes a sip of coffee. “Did the studio tell you to appear to be in love with Juniper?”

Ellen has taught me to answer the question I want to answer, not the question I am asked. “Nobody has to tell me to love Juniper. She’s just so kind, thoughtful, and funny.”

“A few weeks ago, a fan got into Juniper’s car, and you threw him out. Do you remember that?”

“Vividly.”

“That man’s name was Allen Marksville.”

“Okay.”

“Allen Marksville is a fifty-two-year-old white male from Los Angeles. I interviewed him. When I asked him to name his favorite episode of the show Juniper was on, he couldn’t. Couldn’t describe a single plotline. Didn’t know the name of Juniper’s character.”

“Okay,” I say again. I am starting to sweat.

“That surprised me. It made me wonder if Allen Marksville was actually a fan of Juniper’s at all.”

“How did you even find the guy?”

“I’m a good reporter. Why would a fifty-two-year-old guy who isn’t a fan of Juniper’s pretend to be a fan of Juniper’s?”