Like I’m doing, I say to myself, as I realize I am peering in through the glass of the front door.
Like I did, I say again, which is how I met him in the first place.
I step back from the deck. I’m tempted to sit on his top step. To enjoy the quiet of his remote home, but I’m worried I’ll get caught. The thought of him coming home early, of him surprising me, and telling me I’m a fool, there’s nothing to worry about, let’s just be together…
It’s thrilling.
It’s wonderful.
It’s…not going to happen. Not necessarily.
Relationships take work. At least that’s what all the magazines tell me. If we want to be together, we have to work at it.
I sigh and climb down his porch steps, beginning my walk back home. The sun is setting and I hear crickets and sparrows and other evening creatures begin to stir.
We need to decide if we want to work at it. Only then, do we figure out how, all the details that come with our differences in life style.
But first, I need to figure out if I’m willing to work at it, to let my guards down.
I turn briefly, seeing the outline of his house against the fading light.
As I turn towards home, I hear my mother’s voice in my mind, women like us, and I know where I need to go.
33
David
Angelo is drumming his fingers against my tabletop. Eyes on me. Facing me.
I don’t know what he’s staring at. I’m just sitting across from him. Beer in hand.
The house is silent. Well, apart from his fingers.
“No Nobu?” he says finally, watching my every move, and I feel like I’m being tested.
“We went last night. I’m happy to go again, if you want.” I smile. It’s fake and forced but it’s not like I’ve never had to fake and force a smile before. I’m an actor for God’s sake. It’s half of what I do.
He nods, still studying me.
“How’s the script?”
I pause, beer bottle against my lips, and nod, swallowing slowly. “I didn’t finish it.”
His eyebrows go up this time, looking like he got the answer he wanted.
“But I like it,” I add in a hurry. “It’s got potential.”
Mentally, I rack my brain until I remember the brown envelope he mailed to Midnight last month, the bulk of pages inside. It’s somewhere on my kitchen counter, my other kitchen counter, back East. I don’t think I’ve even opened it.
“Really? So you’re interested?”
We’re looking at each other, unmoving, like two opponents in a poker match.
Before I can open my mouth, he leans forward, breaking the silence. “David, let’s cut the shit. What’s going on?”
Again, I open my mouth, but before I can say anything, he continues, “Because I don’t think you’ve read the script. I don’t think you’ve even opened it. If you had, I would have gotten an earful.”
I put my beer down on the table. “Ok. I haven’t read it. And I haven’t opened it. In fact, I don’t think I’ve even opened the envelope it came in. It’s still in my house.”
Angelo looks around.
“My other house,” I add. “What is it?” I ask.
“It’s a sequel,” he says, after a swig of his beer.
“To what?”
“Saviors of Space.”
Before I can stop myself, I shrug, my frustration apparent.
“I knew that would be your response.”
“Then why did you send it to me?”
“To see what the hell was going on with you? I figured, if you were where you said you were, mentally, you’d call me and shout. If you were panicking about your career, you’d call me and we’d negotiate salary. But you didn’t do either. You didn’t even mention it. I’ve been with you for over 15 years David. When have you ever just ignored a script I sent you?”
I shrug.
“For the record,” he takes another sip of beer, “it’s not a bad sequel. Films in Tokyo. You’d be done in two months.”
“How much?” I ask, swirling the last of my beer around the bottom of the glass.
“For a single film? I think we can get twenty for the picture, and 2.5 from the back end.”
I nod. It’s a good contract. More than I’ve ever made for a single film, except for the last two. Not bad for a sequel.
“You interested?”
I shake my head.
“Jesus, David-”
“When is it enough, Ange?” I use the nickname I gave him years ago, before I was a household name, before he represented several household names. Back when we were kids, both broke and ambitious, moving out to L.A. to make a name for ourselves, to prove ourselves, the way so many thousands of people do, year after year.
And we are two who made it.
Made it all the way to the top.
But when you’re at the top, you have a different perspective. When you finally get the view you always wanted, you realize it’s a very different sort of view.
I repeat my question. “When is it enough?”
Angelo looks at me. Tilts his head to one side. His beer is empty, but I don’t offer him a second one.
“Before I answer that,” he pauses, glances at his empty bottle, then back up at me, “you gotta remember the industry you’re in. The business you’re in. It’s not forgiving. There are no take-backs. There are no do-overs. You’re in as long as you’re in, and when you’re out, you’re out.”
“Didn’t someone tell us that, at a party?” I smile at him, remembering back years ago, when we were invited to some big Hollywood party, with huge names and famous faces, the two of us dressed in the only nice shirts we had, both scared as shit.
He nods. “I never forgot it. You were talking with old school actors, and I was talking with old school producers and agents. And one of them said to me, ‘The secret to success is
