If You Were Here

under their single-button blazer, but it’s possible I just don’t understand every nuance of haute couture. The September issue of Vogue can teach one only so much.

To confirm, I ask, “You want to film our walk-through?” The producer accompanying the sound guy nods.

“We need to show Vienna taking command in a professional environment,” the producer confirms. “When she speaks to you, try to defer to what she says. We want to put a positive spin on this.We’re out to show a whole new side of Vienna.”

According to Dlisted.com, her last few ventures ended badly. Turns out even the most avant-garde fashionista draws the line at carrying a cat-skin handbag. Rumor has it that Anna Wintour decreed Vienna’s signature perfume smelled like “hepatitis B and poor decisions.”

I’m still holding my consent form and processing what’s happening around me. If I sign this, does that mean they’ll use my image on-screen? I’m a bit ambivalent about this. On the one hand, no publicity is bad publicity; on the other, I’m not sure that particular axiom applies to publicity in conjunction with Vienna.

Vienna’s entourage includes a cameraman, a couple of guys carrying heavy lights, a makeup artist, two hairstylists, and a personal assistant, in addition to the aforementioned sheepish sound engineer and producer.

“What are you, like, waiting for?” Vienna snaps. Then she grabs her assistant, bends her over to create an ad hoc writing surface, and slaps my consent agreement on the center of the assistant’s back before thrusting a pen in my face. “Sign it.”

In the background, ten movers and six packers have gathered to watch the action unfold. A few are taking cell phone pictures, and who could blame them?

I hastily autograph the sheet while the first hairdresser tries to fluff Vienna’s coif. Vienna’s seemingly already satisfied with her do — a prim French roll adorned with feathers, sequins, and dangling crystals — and shoves her out of the way with the heel of her palm. Luckily, the stylist’s fall is cushioned by a battery of empty boxes no doubt destined to hold my wastepaper baskets.

Vienna waves her arm in the air as though roping some imaginary cattle and begins barking orders to various crew members. “Hey, fatty! Yo, retard! Smelly guy! You, dead tooth, come here and get me in profile. I’m ready for my close-up! And. . action!”

I guess that neatly explains the crew’s pained looks.

While Vienna and her posse move to the center of the living room, a packer notices the few remaining glass shards from last night’s altercation and attempts to retrieve them. “No, no, please!” I blurt. “We’re not taking that with us! Those are pieces of broken window.”

Vienna’s interest is suddenly piqued. “Wait, my window? You broke my window?”

“Um, didn’t you notice the enormous board where the center casement window used to be? We had a drive- by shooting here last night. Pretty scary, but don’t worry: We’re fine and insurance will cover the replacement costs, so, really—”

Vienna snaps her fingers behind her back and mouths, Make sure you’re getting this, to the camera operator. She lunges toward me and stands an inch from my face in classic reality-show confrontation mode. “You broke my window? You bitch! You fucking fake-ass phony bitch! I’m going to sue you! I’m going to sue your fat ass off! You don’t get to break my window. You’re not seeing a dime of your security deposit. I mean, I could, like, buy and sell you! Yes! I’ll do that. I will do that! Buy you! Sell you! Because you suck! You’re, like, a big ugly bag of Polish sausage stone-face slut!”

I’m a what?

I mean, I understand the words she’s saying individually, but all together like that? Not so much.

Vienna continues her tirade, now with twenty percent more spittle and some intense neck rolling. Is she going to bust out the you-go-girl finger wag? And. . there it is! “I hate you, I hate this house, I hate work, I kind of love Britney, but you? You I hate and I hate your asshat-face.”

I look around at a roomful of stunned personnel. “I’m sorry. Is anyone else following this?”Vienna’s personal assistant points behind Vienna’s back and pantomimes inhaling an enormous rail of coke off the staircase. Her makeup artist sighs and quickly repacks all the lotions and potions she’s just unloaded, while the lighting gentleman snaps off the big box lights. Her producer has assumed a position best described as “face-palm.” I’ll bet when he envisioned Vienna “taking command in a professional environment,” it didn’t shake out like this.

Vienna’s not finished with her diatribe. She starts in on what I assume is her thesis statement.

“So fuck you, fuck your bathtub, fuck the Japs, fuck your grill, fuck your mother, and fuck your fucking fuckity fuck.Your dogs are cool. But fuck your cats and your fucky face.”

I wonder, am I supposed to be intimidated by her yelling? Cowed? If so, I’m going to make for terrible television. I mean, I’ve heard worse stuff coming out of Babcia’s mouth while wishing me a happy birthday. And really, I’m too busy for this nonsense, especially when Jake Ryan’s house is waiting for me. I’ve got to put a stop to this.

“Um, hi, listen, sorry to interrupt while you’re rolling,” I say, offering the producer an apologetic look. “Quick favor? Those guys over there?” I gesture toward the movers. “I’m paying them by the hour. So if it’s not too much trouble, could we either start the walk-through or finish up with the fucking fuckity fuck?”

A giggle escapes from the previously unscathed second hairstylist. And that’s all it takes.

In one deft motion, Vienna whips off her impossibly high sandal and hurls it in the direction of the laughter. Thanks to Sir Isaac Newton’s first law of motion, a triple-strapped Alexandre Birman python wedge produces more drag than, say, a baseball, so despite what I’m sure is Vienna’s extensive knowledge of all things aerodynamic, she ends up picking off Manny, the foreman of the moving crew. She clocks him right in the head, and Manny crumples and hits the ground with a thud.

At this point, the producer grabs Vienna around the waist and begins to drag her out the door. “I think we’re finished here. Thank you,” he calls as he wrestles her down the steps and to the gate, the rest of the crew scuttling out behind them.

I rush over to Manny to see how he’s doing while his coworkers offer up yet-to-be-packed bags of frozen peas and cold drinks. We get him up and try to assess his level of consciousness. Manny insists he’s fine, but I’m not so sure. That shoe must have weighed six pounds, and she pitches like a Cy Young Award winner. I set him up on the couch and beg him to rest as long as he needs.

As I try to calm everyone and reorganize the boxes, I have to wonder — how does that girl go through life generating so much bad karma with so few repercussions? Every time I think, Oh, the universe will eventually right itself, in regard to Vienna, she ends up making out with Robert Pattinson⁷⁶ or appearing on the VMAs. Sure, she had a few bumps in the road — like her family attempting to make her work⁷⁷ for a living — but for the most part, she’s bulletproof.

That’s when I notice something important I’ve left unfinished, and I can’t help myself. “Wait, wait!” I call, running after Vienna and her crew. I reach them just as they’re done putting all their gear back in the van and are about to take off.

“Do you guys still need my consent form?”

Mac and I are tucked into bed after what’s proved to be an arduous thirty-six hours.

Unfortunately, we’re not tucked into bed in our new house. Due to Vienna’s antics and Manny’s head injury, the movers didn’t have enough time to unload the truck in Abington Cambs after filling it up. So we agreed that they’d simply store everything overnight and we’d see them in the morning.

Kara’s parents insisted we stay with them, and you don’t say no to the Patels,⁷⁸ so we’re upstairs in their guest room watching television before we go to sleep. My sweet little Daisy and Duckie are so exhausted from running around their new backyard that they’re too tired to climb up on the bed with us. This may be the first time we’ve slept alone since we adopted the dogs.

“I can’t keep my eyes open.” Mac yawns. “Where’s the remote?”

I reply, “I don’t know, and I think I’m too tired to get up and find it.”