No, my passion is chromium diopside. Why buy into all the haters and their jealousy when you can flaunt all the glamour of old Hollywood at a price point that makes our jewelry the best investment a swank, savvy, fashion-forward woman can own? Our motto is: More Emerald than Emeralds. But let a strong, smart woman get to the lead position in any industry and the legacy media will say she got there by torturing people to death. Just look at Sheryl Sandberg.
For those haters who say Mitzi Ives was a killer, I have just one question. “What happened to the bodies?” Show me all those dead bodies.
Jimmy hated sitting in the middle. The people, he complained, the ones seated behind them would kick his seat by accident. The ones sitting on either side would elbow him without thinking, or they’d whisper. The people sitting in the row in front of him would be too tall. No, the center of any theater might be the best viewing location from which to watch a movie, but the benefits were outweighed by the distractions. This was the reason home theaters were exploding.
“Tonight will be different,” Mitzi told him. “Trust me.”
Jimmy didn’t understand about the rough cut. About the screening of the rough cut. He was just excited to get a pass onto the studio lot. She’d tried to dampen his spirits by explaining. This was no tuxedo-and-klieg-lights event. They’d be watching the prerelease cut of a Civil War picture. And not a particularly good one. And no one would be dressed any better than any casual Friday.
Not that Jimmy knew what a casual Friday was. The best he could muster was a clean do-rag wrapped around his caked dreads.
Why they’d been invited to this shindig, Mitzi couldn’t fathom. Every evening was a choice between reading a classic book or going out to an industry event. In brief: whether to spend her time with smart dead people or alive idiots.
In the lobby of the studio’s theater no one ventured near them. As if an invisible shield held them back, nobody approached her or addressed them. It might’ve been the bruises on her neck or the halfhearted way she’d applied concealer to her fractured nose and swollen eyes, but she knew she was a pariah for bigger reasons.
Here, every hello was a request for a job, either a job-job or a blow job. Mitzi could accept the fact that she was everyone’s dirty little secret. Like a child star they’d all fucked the second before she was legal.
Jimmy was stupid not to see what she was. She hated him for his blindness, but she still wanted to be seen as something not corrupt. Even if right now he was ogling a nearby actress. The blonde wore a strapless gown so wired and boned that it made her breasts look like something being served on a tray. Her lashes were so loaded with mascara that her eyes looked like two Venus flytraps.
Jimmy, just dirty and unkempt enough to pass as a millionaire celebrity, leered at the woman. “Is that Blush Gentry?” He sloshed his drink in the direction of the younger middle-aged blonde, a woman who fit somewhere between trophy wife and soccer mom. Her curls brought to mind drive-in movies. A generation of movies where a monster or mental patient had stalked and eventually killed her. The blonde curls still looked good. The waist was almost the same waist. As if she sensed Jimmy’s leer, her blue eyes found him.
Mitzi knew the dance. In a moment Blush Gentry would break away from her conversation with an assistant nobody, and she’d make a beeline to see if Jimmy offered a better prospect for a new role. Yesterday’s drug connection was today’s executive producer. The marijuana industry was bankrolling independent projects, big projects, just as a means to launder the profits no bank would accept. Jimmy, with his neck tattoos and pockmarks, looked just the type to have a project to cast.
Straightaway, the actress locked her gaze on him and approached them. “Hi,” she said, extending a beautiful hand, a hand that had once been lopped off with a meat cleaver. “I’m Blush.”
Starstruck, Jimmy’s pitted face flushed. His tattooed hand met her not-severed hand. “I’m Jimmy.”
Although Blush didn’t acknowledge her, Mitzi offered her hand. “Mitzi Ives.” Adding, “Ives Foley Arts.”
The actress touched hands with Mitzi, not making eye contact, and said, “Thanks, but I do all my own screaming.”
Give it a minute and the actress’s business card would appear, complete with links to her online highlights reel. And Jimmy would reciprocate with a screenshot of his GED. A big-shot mogul he was not. At that, his new best friend would get busy working the crowd for a better job prospect.
People saw Mitzi and looked straight through her until an industry tub made passing eye contact, all belly and whiskers. She told Jimmy, “I’ve got to do business.” And headed for the foyer and the toilets.
In the women’s room she stood at the sink and watched the door behind her in the mirror. The her in the mirror looked back with busted, bloodshot eyes. The industry tub walked in without hesitation. Looking around to make certain the place was otherwise empty, he said, “Word is you have something special you’re auctioning.”
The trend was that people consumed their media alone. Minus the ready laughter of others or the screams of an audience, the magic just didn’t happen. Studios knew this. As did distributors and theater chains. That’s why they held so-called contests and gave out free tickets to press screenings. Young people who felt they’d won something would be euphoric. Who better to pack the house with when a handful of local critics would be
