I got up to go to the bathroom and shot a dirty look at the guy in front of me, then recoiled when I realized it was -- of course -- the devil.
"What the fuck?" I whispered to him. All around us, most of our fellow travelers were asleep, but the devil was plugged into a headset, fixedly gazing at the in-flight movie.
"Watching a movie here..." He waved me away.
I yanked his plug out. "I thought you were going to Memphis. This plane's going to--"
"Connecting flight," he whispered, grabbing back his cord. "Do you have any idea how expensive the direct flight was? Ridiculous. You'd think I was in charge of air travel in this country."
"Do you have to lean back all the way? My knees are in my fucking gut."
"It's comfortable."
"You're killing me."
"Don't be so melodramatic. If you need more room, lean your own seat back."
"That'll just fuck over the guy behind me."
"So then he leans his seat back. And so on. It's the way of the world. It works for everyone."
I shot a quick look down the aisle. "But then you get to that guy at the very end, against the bulkhead. He can't lean back at all."
The devil grinned lazily. "Well, all right then -- it works for almost everyone."
"That's--"
"Don't you have more pressing issues to consider?" he asked, indicating Sherrie with a movement of his head. "It won't take much, you know."
"I'm not going to do that."
"That? She's a human being! She's a her, Randall."
"I didn't mean... Jesus. I mean I'm not going there."
"Interesting. So that's where you draw the line." The devil shrugged and jacked back in and nothing I said or did could persuade him out of his reverie.
I retreated to the bathroom, stunned to find I was hard. I waited for my erection to subside so that I could piss, but kept lingering on the fantasy of Sherrie blowing me. Suddenly I was no longer concerned with the grime on her knees. The plane was quiet -- I considered jerking off, but thought of my father telling me to keep things in hand.
The erection was no longer a problem. I pissed.
Wherein I Eat Part of a Bag of Peanuts
I was one of the few passengers awake when the flight attendants wheeled the cart into the aisle. I was pecking away at my laptop, noodling around with the book. I took a hot tea and a packet of peanuts.
The devil reached back and snagged half of the peanuts before I could stop him.
Wherein I Hollywood
PDX was a blur. We were in town for something like twelve hours, I believe, and I didn't even remember signing books. Sherrie assured me I did.
I barely remembered landing at LAX. It was after midnight, I know, and I'm sure we took a cab to the hotel. I dreamt so powerfully of sleeping with Sherrie that I woke up convinced she was next to me in bed. When she wasn't, I padded into the bathroom, certain she would be there.
She wasn't. Nor was the devil. I crawled back into bed, relieved that I'd kept my word to myself.
You still have a week to go on tour, I told myself. You could still--
I slept.
The next day, Sherrie called me at nine, waking me after a blissful and foreign seven hours of sleep, the most I'd gotten on tour to date. I thought of Tayvon and tried not to pat myself too heartily on the back for surviving so long without sleep.
I lay on the bed, absent-mindedly playing with my morning wood as Sherrie talked. "Remember," she said, "you have the Hollywood people for brunch at ten, so you'll need to be in the lobby by five of or so."
I had completely forgotten about the Hollywood meeting. Apparently, I had Hollywood people now. When had that happened? I didn't remember requesting them. Or interviewing them. Or anythinging them. They just were. I wished for Sam by my side to guide me through this meeting.
"OK," I told her, simultaneously guilt-ridden and thrilled to be touching myself while talking to her. "I'll see you then."
"I'm not going to be there," she said with all the propriety of a Victorian novel. "This is between you and your movie folks. We don't have anything to do with it." "We" meaning the publisher, of course.
"Right. Right. I wasn't thinking." I also wasn't playing with myself any more. I hopped out of bed and headed for the shower. I had only spoken to the Hollywood people once or twice on the phone, to set up this brunch. Malcolm Warner ("not one of the brothers," he liked to joke) and his assistant, Crystyl, as I recalled. Why was I accreting "people" now? Was I paying them? What the hell was going on?
Sam had explained it to me, but it had been in the early days of my sudden fame, and I was too distracted by the press and too annoyed at my lack of money to pay attention.
I made it to the lobby by ten of, easily, my stomach rumbling loudly enough that I was grateful for the bustle of the hotel to cover it up. Malcolm and Crystyl arrived promptly at 9:55. He was nothing like I'd imagined -- I'd been expecting some sort of nebbishy old guy, wearing a patchy jacket and baggy khakis. Instead, Malcolm was six-two, built like an aircraft carrier, with a thick mop of brutally black hair that looked as if it would never, ever have the temerity to go gray. He didn't look like a movie agent -- he looked like a movie star.
Crystyl, thank God, was mousy and plain. My libido couldn't handle another hot one.
We picked at food in the hotel's quite-nice restaurant. At that time of day, we were the only ones there. Malcolm ordered a caesar salad, Crystyl a southwest chicken salad. I had been eyeing the cheeseburger, but since they both ordered salads, I did the same -- Asian fusion. I thought, ever so briefly, of Gym Girl.
I let the small-talk -- How's your tour going? Seen anything interesting? Met anyone fun? -- wash over me for a little while, delaying the inevitable movie-talk. I was suddenly, unaccountably out of my depth. I needed Sam at my side. Gruff Sam. Take-no-shit Sam. These Hollywood types seemed nice on the outside, but I knew sharks and piranha swam within, concealed in dark shoals.
I had to keep reminding myself that they worked for me.
This would, after all, only be the first of many such meetings in the future. Flash/Back was the current big-time lust object for Hollywood, but within a few months, I'd be having this same discussion for Down/Town. And then probably Night/Light and the others.
"So," Malcolm asked, stirring his iced tea, "the big question right now is: Do you want to take a crack--"
"--at the screenplay?" Crystyl finished for him as he sipped at his tea. They had been doing this all during brunch: Malcolm would start something, then shove his fork in his mouth and Crystyl -- who must have had the timing of a metronome and the observational skills of a narc on stakeout -- would immediately finish the sentence for him.
That was the big question? I bit back the hysterical laugh that boiled just below my throat. I had sold my soul to the devil and profited off the rape and torture of an innocent young woman, and that was the big question? If only it were so! It would be nice to live in a universe that stupidly simple.
"Probably not," I told them. Sam and I had actually discussed this at one point. He argued that it was "big money" (to go with the big question, perhaps?) to write the screenplay. "And they'll probably never even use it," he added, "so you can just crank something out." As if that were an inducement for me: To write something so bad that no one would want to produce it or otherwise use it.
Additionally, my understanding -- again, via Sam -- was that writing at least an early draft of the screenplay would get me some Hollywood cache (to say nothing of the Hollywood cash; you're welcome), would make me a "viable option" in Hollywood, meaning that Sam could, in the future, insist that any and all movie deals include me "taking a crack at the screenplay" for big bucks and possible screen credit, no matter how badly I botched the job.
"Life's too short," I told them. "I'm working on this new book... I'm a novelist, not a movie guy, you know? I just--"
"Hey, that's cool," said Malcolm. "No problem." He grinned expansively. "This is actuall
y a little better for us, to tell you the truth. I mean, it would be all right -- it would be fine -- if you wanted to, but I have to tell you: Del MacCarter has expressed an interest. He has this idea to go meta with it--"
"--to tie the Lacey stuff in with the book itself," Crystyl picked up, "with Lacey and Laura both played by the same actress."
I wondered what the deal was with them. I didn't think they were married -- no wedding rings -- and Malcolm seemed out of her league, assignation-wise. But they were totally in sync, the way lovers or spouses are. And I noticed matching tattoos on the insides of their left wrists -- tridents. Or maybe pitchforks. It was tough to tell.
Malcolm finished chewing. "Sort of life commenting on art and art commenting on life, you know?"
That was a direction I'd never considered. "Don't... Don't we need Lacey's permission to do anything with her? Wouldn't we have to buy the rights to her story, too?"
Easier said than done. Lacey wanted nothing of Hollywood. Fiona, gossip had it, was trying to break through the Simonson bubble. Her and every other agent in the world.
Malcolm batted the idea out of the air with a lazy hand-wave. "Like she's gonna say no to you? The studio'll give her a sweetheart deal, don't you worry. In the public mind, this book is inextricably caught up with Lacey. Tying them tighter for the movie--"
"--isn't the worst idea, you know."
I was finally getting the hang of looking at Malcolm while listening to Crystyl.
Inextricably? Was that true? The thought made me go squirmy inside myself. I didn't want anything I'd written inextricably connected to anything or anyone except for me. They were my books. No one else had written them. No one else had any claim on them.
I excused myself and headed to the mens' room. Stared at myself in the mirror. Like the restaurant, the bathroom was empty. I had a sudden paranoid pang: Had Malcolm arranged this, to give us some alone time? Shouldn't a restaurant -- even a hotel restaurant -- be busy at this time of day? Why was no one here?
A toilet in one of the stalls flushed and the devil stepped out. He considered the sink, then shrugged and began washing his hands.
"How's it hangin', Randy?" He glanced crotch-ward. "No action lately. Still haven't bent that cute little publicist over a hotel sofa and plowed her like the back forty, eh?"
"Shut up."
"Is this a new Randall I see before me? Are you going to be all faithful to Manda and shit?" He grinned. "Hell, you haven't even thought of Manda since you left for tour, have you? Have you?"
I said nothing. Which said everything.
"It's OK, Randall." He stared into my mirror eyes. The devil's eyes were nothing exceptional. Except that they were the devil's.
"You're a big-shot now," he said. "You transcend the bullshit morality of the world. You should fuck as many women as humanly possible. It's what your dick is designed for, right? The Old Man made it that way, so if you think about it, it would sort of be a sin not to use it that way."
"Do you believe any of the shit you say?" I demanded.
The devil shrugged. "Probably about a third of it. Now you figure out which third."
He turned back to the mirror and mimed smoothing his non-existent hair back. "But my beliefs or non-beliefs are my problem, broseph. Your problem is what you just heard in there--" he jerked his head towards the restaurant proper "--from Frick and Frack."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Sure you do." His eyes gleamed wickedly in the mirror. "That bit about Lacey being inextricably tied to your book. That's driving you nuts, isn't it?"
"Maybe."
"Almost as bad as everyone misconstruing the book in the first place, eh? 'Oh, Mr. Banner! Your book changed my life!' 'Randall, it's such a wonderful, uplifting--'"
"That's enough. Yeah, it bothers me. A little."
"More than a little, but you get points for not denying it." He pretended to enter points into an imaginary ledger. "It's bothering you a lot. And that's fine. It's perfectly normal and human and you shouldn't feel guilty about it."
"I'm not sure you're the authority on what anyone should or shouldn't feel guilty about."
"Hey, I'm the perfect authority! But look -- I'm just saying that in this instance, you have a solution to your problem. An easy one." He grinned and snapped his fingers. "Best part is, it's all in your control." With that, he sauntered out.
I leaned over the sink and glared at myself in the mirror. I knew what he meant. I guess I'd always known.
I needed something mine. Entirely mine. Something wholly of me, something I didn't have to share with Lacey.
I thought about what I'd inscribed in her copy of Flash/Back.
Maybe that one was her book. But this one -- this new one -- was completely and utterly and entirely mine.
I had to finish the new book. Soon. Tayvon's misgivings to the contrary. I had to.
Back out in the restaurant, Malcolm and Crystyl were perusing the dessert menu. My mouth watered at the thought of dessert, but I waited to see what they would do first. When Crystyl ordered a fruit plate, I gave a tiny sigh of relief and ordered the beignets.
"So let me tell you where we stand," Malcolm said, and since there was no food left on the table and dessert hadn't arrived yet, I only had to listen to him. "We're moving ahead quickly. We're not greenlit yet, but that's just because the studio wants to see a script first. Now that we know you're not interested, we can get Del going. Ira Gold is already attached to produce. He's eager to see Del's script. And where Ira goes, Kiki goes, of course. We can't announce that yet -- she's tangled up in some bullshit contract with MGM for now -- but--"
"Wait. Wait a sec. Kiki. You mean... Kiki Newman?"
"Yeah. Her agent is--"
"--my ex-girlfriend."
They stared at me. I don't know why I blurted that out, regardless of the fact that it was the truth.
"Really?" Crystyl squeaked, saying something of her own for the first time since she'd introduced herself.
"I, uh," Malcolm recovered. "I was going to say that her agent is negotiating her out of the MGM deal so that she can be in our movie, but..."
"Kiki Newman is going to be in my movie?" I don't know when I started thinking of it as my movie, but neither of them corrected me. Suddenly, the whole movie thing became real to me. Maybe this actually was going to happen. Maybe I should have taken a shot at the screenplay after all.
Kiki Newman!
"Does she want to play Laura?" I asked, scarcely believing my luck could hold out. I had always thought Kiki Newman would be perfect for Laura. Hell, I'd practically seen her in my mind's eye as I'd written Laura's dialogue.
"Who else?" Crystyl asked, then handed off.
"She's dying to be in it," Malcolm told me. "She had a deal for four mill at MGM, but she's ditching it to come to our movie instead. For less money. That's how badly she wants to be in this picture, Randall."
Less money? I pictured Fi gritting her teeth as she accepted the inevitability of a smaller commission check.
Good.
"That's incredible. Maybe..." I don't know what possessed me to say this next bit, but I did. "Maybe I could meet her some day. I'm a big fan," I hastened to add, feeling like the world's biggest rube.
Malcolm and Crystyl shared a knowing look. "I think that can be arranged," Malcolm said. "Actually, it's probably impossible not to arrange."
Just then, dessert arrived. Malcolm attacked his creme brulee, so Crystyl forewent her fruit plate. "She'll be at the party tomorrow night."
The party?
Wherein I Do it by Text
That night, while pounding away at my keyboard in my hotel room, I broke up with Manda. Via text message. It went like this:
Her: How's H'wood? I miss you!!! xoxo
Me: I'm sorry 2 do this like this, but I need to see other people.
There were other messages from her, but I ignored them. I don't know why I did it then and there and in that fashion, but as soon as I sent t
hat text, I realized that I'd been building up to this subconsciously for weeks, if not months. Manda had been my rebound. And it had gotten serious because she had gotten serious, but why did I have to live through her? If I'd been in love with her, would I have cheated with Gym Girl? Would I have eyed up Sherrie the whole tour?
I couldn't stay with someone just because she was happy. And I couldn't do it just because I was afraid of turning into my father. That last phone call with him had made me realize: I wasn't going to be him. I wasn't going to end up alone. I was a success. There would always been someone who wanted to be with me. Yeah, I'd sold my soul to guarantee it, but so what? It. Had. Worked.
That night, the devil appeared in my dream (I think it was in my dream), wearing a parka and snow boots. He said, "That was cold, bro. Even to me." But he smiled when he said it.
I just didn't care any more. There were bigger things, more important things going on. My world had changed, expanded, ballooned. Getting the movie made: That mattered. Figuring out this new universe of mine: That mattered. Finishing the book: That mattered enormously. That was the key to finally shaking off what I'd come to see as the shackles of Lacey Simonson. She'd propelled me to stardom, yeah, but I had saved her sanity, so we were more than even as far as I was concerned. There was only so much oxygen in the room, and every time someone spoke of Flash/Back, she inhaled a little more of it. Her name had become synonymous with that book in the public consciousness. Was I benefitting from it, regardless? Sure. But I didn't know who Lacey Simonson was when I conceived of the story and wrote it and fretted over copyedits and page proofs and published it to no acclaim and middling reviews. And it was time to decouple myself from her for good.
It was my book. And she had taken it. So now I needed a new book that could be mine. That was all that mattered. New book. New world. New life.
Old girlfriend?
No.
The next morning, I woke up early and returned to the keyboard. The devil brought me room service and lounged nearby, snacking on my wheat toast as I wrote and wrote and wrote.