Drive

Drive or no drive? No matter which way you go or how you live your life, someone will have some opinion about it... I like people that just tell me stories about things instead of their opinion. You can capture the same moment but it’ll never be what someone else experienced. Instead of worrying how they experience it, just let them enjoy the moment.

You can enjoy those who are on the same road as you and let the others who aren’t driven by the same impulse do their thing. 

Enjoy!

Kisses, m.

There’s No Dance Music in L.A. 

(5-6-16)

Lost. I’m lost on the highway and there’s nothing but a voice on the line. She’s been talking for a least a half hour. The woman on the line was calling and hanging up when I answered, so I stopped answering and put her on speaker. She hears me breathing and knows that someone is listening so she keeps talking. 

Confessing. Dying. Wallowing.

“Chloe, I’m sorry. I think I’m dying. I love you.”She says it with a conviction that tells me she’s not playing. I can feel you crying for her so I imagine Chloe is a bitch like Felicia to make you disappear. But you don’t. 

I released this beautiful voice to the road and decided to follow the setting sun because there’s nothing on the radio. I turned it off when the girl blowing me at the airport announced that “there’s no dance music in L.A.” and decided she wasn’t hungry anymore. I told her I wasn’t a DJ but she wasn’t amused about my being a musician so she climbed in the backseat for a nap after telling me to find Sunset. 

Somewhere on Sunset the lines on the road start to merge and the buildings around me are taller than I thought they’d be. I need a hit. But I keep driving. 

“There’s nothing like driving in L.A. to teach you patience,” Wayne said to me when we were stuck in traffic on the 405. It’s the only last real memory of Wayne that I can conjure up without thinking of the violence. 

Violence breaks the silence when the girl in the backseat starts screaming. I think she’s hurt or something but she’s just dreaming. This girl is dreaming of the terrible things that will come to take her away from living while the one on the phone is begging for something terrible to make her stop living

Walking into the house is like a dream. Wayne isn’t playing when he says, “time’s up” and goes over to the bar in his study. He’s making a Cognac on the rocks when Gina sits me down with a push of her hands on my shoulders. I’m not sober and you fucking left again. I can see the skull of that man Wayne “handled” last year. It was an “accident” but not the kind where people walk away. It’s something of reminder that Wayne keeps when people piss him off. He leaves it out on the table with all the implications that remain with it. It implies nothing but betrayal between best friends and love for your enemies. Somehow I can’t stop staring at the skull while I take a hit my brain starts to wander...

“Alas, Poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio: a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy: he hath borne me on his back a thousand times; and now, how abhorred…” 

The dialogue of Shakespeare snaps into my brain bringing with it the sharp and quick sting of a dagger being shoved through my skin. I can feel the memory of words crawl backwards within and there’s nothing I can do because I’m losing my mind without you. It’s nothing like I thought it would be like. You’re not here and I’m all alone. Just like that girl on the phone was when she was dying with her tears looking for her lover, Chloe and all this is happening. Happening. Happening when I look at the skull on the table. I can’t help but feel the pain of knowing that I didn’t know anyone. Not truly the way that man knew Yorick. He knew him and there’s nothing and no one that I can speak the same for. It’s like watching my body leave me behind and I no longer want another hit. I just wanted you gone. And now I’m alone.

I think of getting up and leaving the room and maybe I do because I feel like everyone is gone and I just wanted you gone because all you think about is her. I finally move because that fucking skull won’t stop reminding me of dying or losing you. 

“Where are you going?” Gina sings into my ear and I keep thinking I said something or that she’s reading my mind when the thought of finding you comes back into my head. 

“Fucking Adrian, where are you? Look at me! Come back!” Gina’s pissed but you’ve taken off waiting for me to find you again and it’s always like this when things become less than clear. 

Clear. The water in the bathtub is clear when I get in. Jemma watches me as I get into the water. I’m naked and I wonder as she’s still looking if she’s thinking that we’re sleeping together. I don’t want to sleep with Jemma. But I don’t stop her from getting into the tub with me. 

“Adrian…”

“Don’t talk Jemma,” I kiss her and tell her I miss her. It’s not a lie because I know you miss her. This means I miss her too. But I can’t feel that pain of loss. I’m just in the moment holding her. She’s trembling. I wish she wasn’t living this life. It’s hard to watch her stop being herself but it doesn’t matter. She’s in my arms and she’s my Jemina again. 

“I love you.” She looks in my eyes and says it before putting her head on my chest. I can feel her warm tears on my skin as she sobs. Between her tears and breathes I want to feel like I’m home but I can’t. I’m lost. 

I’m lost.

And I’m at the beginning of the one place I can’t remember being before I decided it didn’t matter if I found you. 

The Hollywood sign. 

It’s bigger and smaller than it looks and there’s a good chance you’re somewhere dancing with the reds while the bottle of pills stays empty in my pocket. I must have said something out loud because before I can look for another color of candy a voice reaches out into the night. 

“That’s not the Hollywood sign,” the stupid spoiled whore in the backseat who won’t blow me or get the fuck out of the rental car says. “You’re parked next to the billboard on Sunset that lights up for the tourists. It’s a fucking eyesore.” The little bitch shuts up and starts snoring again. It’s then I decide I need another car. 

On

Many years ago I was afraid to be alone. Now, I don't know what I'd do if I couldn't have time alone to reflect. I think when you are always on and trying to be what they want you to be you lose perspective of you who you are. Ultimately you start to question if it's fun. Is it still fun? I have more fun being very boring more than I do being interesting. 

Anyhoo here's an old one from my novel about being what they want you to be. A lot of people haven't read it. The ones that have keep asking me to release the book already. 

Enjoy!

Kisses,  m.

5 a.m.

(9-2-2010)

My bare skin is cold. It’s 5am when I wake up. I look over at this interesting naked man in the bed who is only wearing smeared lipstick and too much eye make-up. He looks more like a member of The Killers circa 2005 than just some guy. I roll over and start pulling the newspaper off of my arms, my face and out of my mouth. He kept trying to put this tissue paper in my mouth last night. Something about eating my words that I can’t remember. It’s not more than two feet away I see the blunt force object that he wanted me to hit him with. Flashbacks of screams pokes and paper being shoved in my mouth are at the front of my headache. He rolls over to reveal that he’s still hard. I just want him to leave already and let this be over.

I keep thinking how the mornings after the interesting nights are always the hardest to clean up. Comings and goings at all hours. Mornings though are usually spent with men in this fashion. The interesting ones, who aren’t at all concerned with why I’m spending time with them, where it’s leading, and this one is the worst kind. He doesn’t know. He thinks we are connecting. Bet he even thinks this is my place. Damn. He’s awake. Wanting more. They always want more. Maybe he’ll roll over and fall asleep again afterwards.

It’s almost always 5am. When it happens. When I wake up. I could complain like other women about being alone, but typically I’m not. I could complain that it’s another man and another bed, but I won’t. Even while this one is wanting, giving more and screaming out her name, it’s all ok. Although I want him to leave so I can be alone, I let him stay because he doesn’t know.

Its evening, another night, and another place. Its 5am somewhere else I suppose. Eight hours from now in the future that has happened yet. The bed is completely saturated in a thick sticky wetness and I’m still wearing a very large strap-on. Rolling over there’s an older man in the bed with his hands bound by leather cuffs. Next to him there’s a thin man face down with fresh contusions running up his bare back. Between his legs there’s a cord and a stop. I can feel the stickiness in my hair as I pull it forward. Pieces of my blonde look black from this wetness. I wipe the stickiness from my face and remove the brace from my mouth while getting out of bed to step out of the leather garter belt. I need a shower and a cigarette.

There’s a man standing in the bedroom doorway when I come out of the shower. He’s waiting while another man removes the boy from the room. The older man is looking out the window at the brightly lit view of Paris and masturbating. He yells in Mandarin that the view is beautiful, his favorite. The man at the door is speaking Mandarin. He is doing this for that man’s benefit. I ask him in English “what do you want me to do?” and he yells in Mandarin for me to come see the view. I go and see the view. The man at the door keeps watching. He touches my hair before telling me in Mandarin to spread my legs and lean up against the window. I do. While he comes close to finishing up, the man watching steps in and closes the door. It’s at this moment I’m pretty sure I don’t get paid enough.

It’s 8am. Adrian’s awake again. This time he wants me to sit on his lap while we eat breakfast. Tells me something about being able to connect. I don’t want to eat after he says this. I don’t want to eat while doing this, but I do. I ask him about her, the one he screams about while we’re eating breakfast. While I’m sitting on his lap, connecting I ask because he doesn’t know. It’s ok to ask because he doesn’t know. He doesn’t’ want to talk about it and finds another way to ruin breakfast for me.

After I’ve showered again and removed the pieces of cereal from my hair I call the airport for his flight change while he rinses the pieces of toast and eggs off. My instructions were explicit that he leaves town today between three and eight. The airline rebooked his flight for 3:15 and I’m trying to find his passport when I find something interesting in another pocket of his jacket. The other interesting thing peaks my interest as I read the name from his passport to the woman on the line. I flip it over and try to figure out why he’s holding it in his pocket. The woman confirms the flight and he comes out of the bathroom as I hang up the line. I ask him about her again, Felicia. He drops his towel and asks me if I want another shower. I think why the hell not. If we’re going to go another round it may as well be in the shower.

It’s 10am and not long after another shower when I surprisingly feel more connected to this man. It’s after a moment of raw emotion that he shared instead of using me. A moment when he trusted me and confided in me some of his war-torn damage experienced at the hand of a woman he loved.

“You want to know about her?” he says between biting and pulling at my bottom lip.

“Uh-hmmm,” I moan while water pulsates against my back in a circular pattern.

“6 months.” His tone changes along with his hand movements.

“And…”

“I thought that was...” He gets a little rougher.

“Don’t.” I hold his face to stop him from pushing. “Just tell me.”

“There was always… always another.”  He stops and I understand there’s pain.

There’s nothing left to say when this man breaks. No words to help with this release. I just wrap myself tighter around his body and hold him, letting him fall through the cracks.

We’re lying on the floor and he’s playing with my waist. Telling me about the imaginary lines that come out of my abdomen and lead me around in the world. Leading me to him. Then him to me to another shower.  There’s laughter instead of tears when he’s telling me this. And I’m glad he doesn’t know.

Somewhere it’s 5am when I’m naked, standing on the edge of a balcony in the middle of LA. Its 80 degrees and a man behind me is whispering in my ear and pressing himself against me. Telling me that he’s only happy when it rains while he leans in then wraps his hands tighter around my waist. Another man is spraying us with a large water hose while he leans in further. I try to shift my weight while his happiness interferes with my balance. The water feels good on my warm skin while the man’s laughter hurts my head. But he’s so happy. And this is what that feels like.

The happy man isn’t happy for long and decides that Vicodin chased by a hand job from a Korean Masseuse is a better idea instead of me, the blonde from behind on the balcony while he pretends its raining. The masseuse arrives and he decides that I can’t watch but the man with the large water hose can. I’m in the hall calling back the woman who arranges these things. I’m on the seventh ring when the happy man is on all fours getting spanked by the large water hose man while the Korean girl is trying to do her job. I turn away to handle my business.

“Annie, it’s me.” I whisper in the line.

“I’m glad you called. I’ve got another one that’s interesting.”

“I’m tired of interesting.”

“You’ll like this one. It’s in France.”

“Why France?”

“This one travels. Business.”

“Why me?”

“He has some specifics that… you’re the only one of my girls that doesn’t have restrictions. Unless…”

“Unless what?”

“Has anything changed? No. I’m just tired of interesting. When do I leave?”

As I hang up the Water hose man and the Korean girl are the outside of the happy man’s sandwich. This is what happy feels like now.

Lunch is in a tiny sandwich place around the corner from the brownstone in Brooklyn I’m supposed to live in. Adrian seems happier today than yesterday. Much more like a person. I think this is the first time I’ve called anyone by their name afterwards. Or had lunch with them. He smiles a lot and I think it’s charming. He tells me about his friend Alex and mentions a girl Jemma he used to date but is friends with. Tells me about going to LA. Then he talks to me about Andy and asks how I know him. I tell him the truth. That we’re associated by some business. He keeps smiling and so I tell him about Rembrandt instead of Van Gogh to change the subject. He loves discussing art and I’m not ready to ask about the interesting thing I found in his pocket this morning.

We’re walking around the park talking about the Met, my work and then he somewhere between two trees he kisses me. I don’t know what he’s thinking but it’s nice. I decide that its time I asked him about the interesting something from this morning. That tiny piece of paper that rested so neatly between the two folds of his pocket has a story to tell and there’s no way it could go unnoticed.

On the flight back from Paris I realize that it’s actually 5am somewhere I used to be. I keep thinking about the colors in the morning when dawn breaks across the horizon as I check my email from Annie. She has another interesting job that I might be able to help her with. I respond that I need more money for that last job. I’m ordering a Vodka Martini from the steward when her response back tells me it’s already in the account and that I need to make verbal contact with the client before taking the next job. She says it is interesting and sends her apologies. I phone the client who isn’t shy about the details. He says his name is Andrew W. and that I must call him Andy because everyone does. Then he tells me that I’m for a friend of his, but he can’t know about it. He needs me for about two days and that there are specifics I must be aware of. I tell him I’m in because specifics are what I do.

It’s a little before 5am when a man picks me up at the airport. He brings a bag of clothes and tells me to change. I do. Then I ask for Andy. He says when we get there you’ll meet him. He tells me that I’m going to be pretending to be a friend of Andy’s and that I’ll be staying at a place in Brooklyn before telling me I work at the Met for the next two days. He hands me a Louis Vuitton bag full of cards, incidental money and keys with an address for the place in Brooklyn. A place where I’m supposed to do whatever is wanted and things will get interesting. I pull on the remaining pieces of the ensemble when he wants to know more.

“What’s your name honey?”

“Is that important?”

“It is if you want to get paid? Full service. Full name.”

“Can’t I just use a fake with your friend? It isn’t like he’ll know.”

“Look, honey. Quit playing games. Just tell me your name...”

Chelsea Raye Grant. That’s what my mother used to yell at me when she wanted me. Sometimes it was when I would be out by the pool working on my tan instead of going to school. I don’t know why but when he asks for my full name I’m thinking about that last time she got mad at me. It’s been years since I’ve seen her but that feeling of nostalgia creeps into my mind for a moment and I’m remembering her face. The way her mouth curled up and her teeth showed. Recalling those final words between us is like opening an old box of photos. It’s not how you remembered but it must be the truth. The sting of her slap when I told her I wanted to go to New York and be a dancer. How much I wanted to study art and live in SOHO instead of going to Stanford for Law or Medicine like her and my father. Just like I was one of her patients, she informed me of how wrong I was that I was ruining my life. And she’d probably tell me she was right if she were here now. Maybe she was right. I don’t know.

“Honey, you ok. Sorry about that.”

“No. I’m alright. No one has used my full name in a long time.”

“See your badge. For the Met. It has your name now.”

“Oh, tell me about your friend.”

“He’s interesting.”

“I thought so.”

It’s not anywhere near 5am when we’re sitting on a park bench and watching the world around us connecting. I’m lying across his lap and he’s playing with my legs. I think we’re almost comfortable enough to talk about this interesting thing. It’s taken a while to get the courage to ask him about it but I think it’s time when he takes off my right shoe. I smile and slip my hand into his pocket.

“What’s this?” I ask him pretending not to know.

“I don’t know. Maybe you should reach a little deeper.”

“I will.” I pull out my hand and the folded paper comes with it.

“What’s it look like?” he says. I unfold it then show him.

“It’s a sonogram.”

“It’s nothing. Garbage. Throw it away.”

“If it’s nothing why do you have it?”

“Because she gave it to me.”

“Who? I don’t understand. Is it yours?”

“Felicia. Was.” He pushes my legs aside and gets up. “Throw it away. Fuck, I need a hit.”

“Come on.”I get up and touch his arm then face.

“She wanted to hurt me again. So she did.”

“I’m sorry.” I don’t have the words again so I just hold him. Further into the cracks.

The car picks up a man in front of Tiffany’s. Its 5am. I can’t believe this is what I’m doing for the next day when he stumbles in looking for someone named Alex. The man dressing me in the car introduces us. I smile and tell him good morning. He smiles and tells me I look like the Mona Lisa with blonde hair only prettier. I laugh and he keeps telling me he loves my laugh. The man in the car rubs my thigh and winks.

At Andy’s there are a handful of people that Adrian talks to but doesn’t know while doing lines. I don’t feel comfortable with the drugs, but he seems to be coherent enough. There’s a Jack, a Mina, a Michael, a Sam, a Betsy Ross Grandison from Long Island that looks like a linebacker in a pair of sole-less heels. It seems that there’s simply everyone except an Alex at this morning event. An Alex that Adrian insists on finding. Somewhere between Betsy’s shoes and Adrian’s lines, my introduction to Andy is fabulously staged. We’re simply a pair of old friends reuniting for a bit of business. Adrian stops doing lines and talks with us about his missing friend Alex. Andy pulls me aside and whispers a reminder about the details. Details about his flight being booked for LA and the overwhelming need to talk him out of it in my own interesting way. There are more details that include something about this missing Alex who hasn’t left yet and is leaving tomorrow morning instead. Andy faux kisses me before saying that he has to leave the party, but we’re welcomed to stay until Adrian’s flight later.

11am. I‘m wondering when this will get interesting as I continue to talk with Adrian about art and reinforce the lies they want me to tell him. About my connections and the arrangements I’ve made for his flight. About this place in Brooklyn. About the work at the Met. He loves the lies. Somewhere between 11:30am and Noon after leaving his friend Alex another message he tells me he’s never ridden the ferry to Staten Island. I tell him we should go and that he has plenty of time before he has to be at the airport. It’s a lie, but we can’t sit around and wait for his flight if he’s supposed to miss it.

At the airport terminal there’s a woman that takes the itinerary and then turns it into a ticket. While I’m getting the ticket I remember how the ferry ride proved to be more difficult than interesting to get through without his candy reminded of this because I can see him trying to take a hit from the counter. Shrugging his head and missing the hit. It was the same way he shrugged when I kept asking him to put it away because I didn’t feel comfortable around drugs earlier. And then I see him trying to use his phone again while a security guard watches. Even on the ferry between talking to me and looking at the view he was trying to call his friend Alex. He kept telling me about the view of the city, how it’s beautiful and he loves it before telling me I’m Mona Lisa in the middle of the ocean. The woman says it will be another five minutes to process the ticket. And I think of him telling me about Van Gogh and the whores before telling me about his ear.

The woman is finished. It’s been ten minutes instead of five. When she hands me the boarding pass I’m still thinking about him earlier and realize that it was the longest time I’ve spent on a boat since I was a child with anyone other than my father. He looks happy when I return to him with the ticket. The flight is soon but I tell him we could do other things instead of flying right now because he doesn’t need to know why he can’t get on that plane. He doesn’t know he’s being manipulated when he tells me he wants to but he can’t. Using my best my smile I tell him there are always later flights. I rub his hand gently and tell him that he doesn’t need the candy anymore. He doesn’t know so it’s okay to say it. Then I touch his face and tell him that I want to show him my place in Brooklyn. While I keep rubbing his hand and touching his face he tells me it’s okay but we’ll need to stop for some things and I know this is where it gets interesting.

In a cab on the way to the airport he says he wants to tell me more about her. I didn’t ask to know. He just tells me this before he tells me he’s going to do a line. I look at the rearview mirror and the driver is watching. I tell him I’ll make it interesting if he skips the line and the story. He smiles and says “how interesting?” as he unzips his pants. The driver is still watching in the mirror and turning his head around. I tell him let’s get out and talk about it. This makes the driver upset and he goes back to looking at the road. Somewhere along the way I find myself kissing him in the back of the cab instead of doing anything interesting. He never tells me more about her and I’m still glad he doesn’t know.

We’re at the airport. He’s taking his time in the bathroom and I know why. I don’t want him to go. Go back to the drugs. Go back to his disconnect from the pain. I like the lie that we’ve become. It isn’t real but the illusion is so much better. He’s emerging from the men’s room dancing to the airport musak version of Big Pimpin. There’s a security guard that moves with him to the beat and a kid that gives him a high five mid shuffle. The whole moment is ridiculous, and I think I want him to stay more. But he’s leaving. Telling me that he’ll see me next time and I know that it won’t be true. Because even though I’m me, I’m really not. And because even though he’s him, he won’t be soon. For the moment he’s kissing me and I’m kissing him back before he goes through airport security and leaves when I want him to stay. Because it’s ok if I’m not alone.

“5am. Wake up.” Her words come off the line without a hello.

“It’s 3:45pm. I’m not asleep.” I tell her. The plane has only been in the air for thirty-five minutes and its time for the next job.

“Are you ready for the next one, 5am?”

“I guess so.”

“This last one wasn’t too specific I hope.”

“No. Not at all. I didn’t mind it so much…”

“How was it?”

“Anything but interesting.”

Interesting. This is more than interesting that I’ve been left alone. I take a hit while looking at a pair of diamond earrings that I can’t afford without cash in my hand but it doesn’t stop me from looking or thinking about buying them. Shopping without money in your hand isn't recommended but I can't get back into the car. Can I? There’s a man with a hat looking at me in the store window when I realize that it’s just you looking at me and Alex is really gone now. The car left less then fifteen minutes ago and only I got out. There must be a mistake is all I can think when it happens. But it happens and calling Alex’s line only gets me Andy. Andy tells me he will send a car, but it is going to take some time. I tell him that time is all I have. He tells me his friend is coming to get me. I need another hit while I wait on the curb. After 30 minutes a homeless man takes a hit from me while passing through. I can’t seem to remember what happened before Alex left but it wasn’t good because you're still hear in my head all silent and smug. It wasn’t something you said, was it? I keep wondering if I will catch up to Alex before he leaves to LA. I don’t want to miss the flight. But you tell me it’s too late when a car pulls up. There’s a man and a woman inside. I don’t know them but she’s beautiful and I want to get in. So do you. Let’s go. 

Grab

Being yourself and giving no fucks to anyone's perception is the ultimate way to live. I'm not saying it gives you license to be a dick. I'm saying it's ok to tell off anyone who tells you to change. They're the one with the problem with you, not you. The right people love you as is and your flaws. If you want to be better change for yourself, not to win acceptance. Because those who accept you will never need to be won over. Being true to yourself is the sexiest thing anyone can do!

Do grab a hold of yourself and be you? 

Here's an excerpt from my novel... about that it'll be out later this year. 

Enjoy!

Kisses, m.

Grab

“She's so busy trying to be a better version of me that she fails to realize that he's rejected the best version of me for a version of her. It was never me, always her.

In reality, to get & keep that man... all she really needs to do to is grab a hold of herself and stop trying to being me. Because me, that's something he does not want.

It's something I silently wonder as I watch her change herself to be me again as he walks away.”

- jemma - the perspectives

Photo Credit: Terry Richardson 

Perfection

Someone tells me "you're perfect" the other day... I've learned to smile at kindness but at times I'm uncomfortable with the comparison because I'm human & grateful to have flaws. With that said, I'll say I'm not perfect but I am perfection...

I'm human. I freak out. I say & do the wrong things. I'm hardly rich. I'm comfortable. But I'm no where near close to wealthy. I have struggles, budgets and debt like most people.

Yeah I have a good job that lets me pursue things I am passionate about too. I'm so grateful that people support those passions and I am able to continue them; also I'm able to help others. For all the wrong things I say and do, I do many right. I remain composed when others freak out. I'm human but it's not a flaw. I'm perfect as myself because those very human things create perfection! And I love myself!

True, I'm not that ideal image of perfect but like you & everyone else, I'm the best I can be as myself. Because life is perfect for living... Now. 

I will say there's perfection in everything as it is... And to the right people you are that. Love yourself enough to believe you are great as you are without being others. Being yourself is being amazing. 

And loving yourself means letting go of someone who doesn't see your perfection and expects you to be different. Trust that someone will see your perfection... Everyone sees perfect differently. There's someone out there

Anyhow! Here's one from the novel about trying to be the perfect version of yourself but instead of being you... You swallow everything you think is perfection.

Do you swallow everything you think people want of you?

Enjoy!

Kisses, m.

Swallow.

Actress.

What do you do?

 No, really.

That’s what I used to tell them when they asked what I did for a living. It didn’t matter that I wasn’t. They’d all get that same look in their eyes. Like “WOW!” I’ve hit the jackpot. And telling them the truth that I was a model or a singer or a struggling photographer didn’t peak their interest the same way. It’s like telling a man you are a flight attendant. You can’t believe how he loves the idea of it. But somehow he does. Only for me it’s actress. So I became one.

At every reading I’m sure I’ve got every line wrong and stepped on everybody’s cues when he tells me how great I am. I think I’m a better singer, or photographer. Most of all the only reason he’s telling me I’m great is because he likes my face. A face that launched a thousand billboards. A recording contract. A movie. A place on TV. And that face saves me every time.

Monday morning I get in from a weekend in Napa. There was a wedding in a private vineyard near Yountville. I remember the smell in the air like it was a perfume clipping from a magazine. The memory stays with me all morning. All morning when I read Billboard instead of Variety and I call Inza for the next reading and she says she isn’t coming. I’m not really surprised since she broke up with Ava she hasn’t been focused on work. Since we broke up I’ve only focused on work. My agent keeps sending over this Dostoevsky based script that I’m not inclined to do. I’ve already expressed to my assistant that it’s “not fucking going to happen” but it keeps coming back to my desk. On my desk there’s a message from Jemma about the reading. She’s filling in for Inza and wants to know if I need a ride. I call her and say pick me up at four. We can have lunch. I swallow two Valiums and call Pierre for a hair appointment.

Pierre says swallow this and like it and I tell him not today. We’ve finished helping each other out in the most inventive ways. He tells me I’m a dramatic bitch and I can’t help but play along. He loves it when I need my hair done and I love it when he takes me on short notice. What I can’t help is that I’m almost the right shade of brown and my tan is finally fading out nice.

Lunch with Jemma proves to be interesting. She’s one of my favorite bit players on the set. There’s been no animosity between us since the beginning. Inza however can be childish. And jealous. Lunch with Jemma isn’t a ploy, but Inza will notice. Jemma loves white wine and salads. I can’t help but indulge her with this token meal. I want her to notice how much we are the same and how beautiful I am. The moment lasts for another few hours and we sync up at the reading. I can feel that magic when we kiss and I know that there’s more to this than I can imagine.

Tuesday brings the reveal on my campaign for Malcolm’s people at that tiny denim company. It’s an ad for jeans where I’m topless and blonde. It’s before the brown and after I had the tan. I think I have too many freckles. Jemma looks beautiful when she tells me they aren’t noticeable. I call my agent back to tell him about the spread when she gets into the shower. My assistant Kaya shows up with another pile of scripts that I keep sending back including the Dostoevsky, that I keep refusing on quality versus substance. It’s not the name that I’m refusing I’ve read the book; it’s that it’s a poorly crafted modern adaptation. I’ve told my agent on the line for the fifth time “I’m not fucking doing it”, when I notice that Jemma’s left and somehow last night didn’t matter to another person even though it mattered to me.

It’s 2:30 pm on Wednesday. I remember its Wednesday because at Noon Alexandr Reed’s assistant phones me up to remind me about my fitting in the San Francisco showroom next Tuesday. Alex will be back in town and ready to see me personally. It’s exactly at 2:30 that I’m having a breakthrough. This moment when all of it has clarity. I call my therapist and tell her about my breakthrough.

“Dr. Grant.” I speak into the line with a breath of anxiousness.

“Chloe. Weren’t you coming in on Friday?”

“Yes. But I need to talk for a minute. It’s alright you can bill me for this.”

“Go ahead.”

“None of them ever thought I was worth it in the end.”

“Who?”

“The lovers, the friends, the people I thought mattered most, didn’t stick around or fight for us because I didn’t matter to them… and”

“Chloe, calm down. Are you able to come in for a session today?”

“I don’t know.  I- I- I realize that Inza ended things because it’s easier to walk away when it doesn’t matter. And it’s this thing that hit me like a ton of bricks. And I can’t breathe.”

“I can prescribe something for the anxiety.”

“I don’t want any pills. Pills tie me up, keep me in a cage and leave me restless.”

“Chloe take a Valium and come in. We can talk. I’ll clear my afternoon.”

“Dr. Grant, I don’t want to come in. I’m fine. I can handle this. I just needed to talk. To tell someone. Anyone. And…”

“Alright Chloe, if you change your mind my secretary will fit you in. Take a Valium and relax.”

When she hangs up the phone I’m almost in tears. It feels like my therapist just gave me the brush off too. I take out my Prada bag and look for my silver pill box. Tiffany’s engraved with my initials. There they are. The tiny little calming agents. I get one out and toss it down the hatch. But I can’t swallow the pill. Just like this realization. It’s stuck in my throat. Hard feeling of tightness. The hot tears are present when I try to breathe. I can’t. But this is ok. At least I know I didn’t matter to her. And she doesn’t deserve me. She never did. All that time. This is the truth but saying it and thinking it won’t make the tears stop. I didn’t matter. Five years together and I don’t matter. Not enough to be out together. Even after Ava. Even now that she’s living with Grayson Cane and I’m stuck in our old place. It’s not even my taste. It’s this old Spanish looking thing that isn’t really Spanish. I think of how much I hate the carpet in the hall. And the pill goes down.

It’s 2:45 pm Thursday somewhere in Mulholland. There’s a party at Jimmy Jay-Jay and Monty Booth’s. Jimmy, he’s a friend of my agent… “FRED!” is the first person I see there. Jemma has brought a friend. He’s pretty high. But it doesn’t matter everyone is or will be. Jemma has been gushing about her callback for this guy that’s quasi-important. I’m not impressed by films with big names and little plotlines although they do make good money and launch careers. Jemma should be happy. I keep talking with her friend, Adrian whatever, who keeps asking about my job. I tell him actress slash model and he lights up, but doesn’t listen to the part about my photos and vocal work. He’s more concerned with my taking naked photos for Malcolm for the labels. It’s boring but he’s cute. I want to know more about Jemma and I think he knows more. I give him my number before they leave.

I’ve invited Jemma to this party with my friend Malcolm who directs music videos in addition to so much more. He’s very nice and very unavailable. Tonight this place belongs to some jet setter named Paul and the view is amazing. Not as nice as Frankie’s view. Frankie is a photographer friend. She looks and dresses like a man, and her place is at the top of this building. I love her place but it’s something out of a magazine. Malcolm tells us we’ll go upstairs in a bit. I’m inclined to go now. Frankie is dancing by the cappuccino machine telling that Adrian fellow about some drugs upstairs. She’s a raving lunatic but it’s all so charming and I always look amazing in her photos. Paul introduces Jemma to Grayson Cane before excusing himself. I’m laughing on the inside and decide I want to talk with Adrian more. I like his attitude. Frankie takes us upstairs and we’re having fun until it gets so boring. Malcolm leaves when no one is looking. Jemma leaves with Grayson. Adrian leaves. Frankie wants to do some lines and fuck. I start talking to someone before leaving with him.

Friday I’m leaving on a jet plane again. This time I’m not alone. There’s someone who possibly appreciates me. The somebody I met last night when I should have been calling Inza again. But I can’t help but wonder will it ever be in front of me again. Even if I have to turn around to see it, will I come face to face with it again? Or is it just like hitting the jackpot? One in every millions upon millions is a winner. Is that what they see when I tell them I’m an actress? It’s early on Friday and I have too many questions for this hour when the person next to me is asleep and I can’t help thinking all by myself.

It’s 3:22 pm at the corner of Fifth Avenue and somewhere when I call my therapist again. I can’t help feeling guilty for cancelling our session from 3000 miles away. Secretly I’m hoping that she’ll still talk with me. Not talk to me about this need to find validation through others but really talk to me. I think about cocktail parties and men that talk to women her age while the lunch time receptionist puts me on hold again. Then as I listen to the musak version of “Bring on the Dancing Horses” I look at the street sign that says don’t walk and I can’t remember ever wanting to walk more in my life. So I hang up the line and start walking. There’s no one moving ahead and no cars driving through the intersection. The world feels dead for exactly fifteen seconds and I reach the other side.

At a quarter past eight he gets up and lights a cigarette. We’ve just finished having sex when he tells me that there’s a woman watching us from the high rise across the street. She has a telescope and isn’t wearing a shirt he says and leans against the window. I roll over on my side and smile at the unseen intruder as he waves. My phone is ringing and it’s my therapist. He keeps telling me that it didn’t feel like I was really into it and that he wishes I were like his last lover who liked to…

“Swallow the pill” my therapist firmly insists into the line. Keeps telling me I need to take another Valium and stop calling for therapy and show up. I tell her that I’m in Manhattan until Monday. She asks about the Valium again as I’m walking to the kitchen and sitting at the table trying to remember where it was when I tell her I forgot it at home. This is before I tell her that there isn’t a way to reschedule the appointment right now. I reach over into my bag and remember that there’s another kind of candy I could be taking when I realize we have company. Then I remember about men and actresses. He doesn’t appreciate me the way that someone who loved me would. And then I think about Inza who isn’t over Ava and what will happen when she finds out about Jemma. After all that I wonder if it will be in front of me again. Is there a statute of limitations on the crimes of love? All this wondering doesn’t stop me from swallowing some pills and following him back in.

It’s 8am on Sunday morning and we’re getting ready for brunch. The someone who appreciated me had to leave last night but he didn’t go alone. He left with someone he met at this party last night and I really don’t feel that bad about it. My assistant Kaya arrives early bringing the pills, the books, the camera and the scripts including those I didn’t want to read along with her. I tell her to turn up the radio, it’s playing that song where they keep saying “I’m only human” and I can’t help but sing along. She smiles and tells me how she loves my voice. I tell her to buy a CD. We both laugh and I tell her to “stay like that” because I want to take a picture of her ‘just like that’ and she lets me. It’s then I ask her to skip brunch and get us an earlier flight to San Francisco.

Tuesday morning I manage to change my hair thirteen times before my fitting with Alexandr Reed. The soundtrack of the day is sponsored by Radiohead. OK Computer is playing during the fitting. By 1:10 pm he’s been pushing up my breasts and pulling at my waist while cursing on the phone with a man named Adrian. This makes me think of Jemma and wonder about Grayson Cane with Inza. It’s not quite a coincidence but my assistant Kaya shows up with a phone call at the same time. It’s Jemma and I make a face. Alexandr excuses himself and I quickly fall out of the garment on top when I rush toward the windows for some privacy. Open privacy.

“Chloe?”

“Yes, darling. How are you?”

“I’m fine. Just wondering if…”She pauses for a minute.

“Darling what?”

“I’m calling for Inza. She’s been… h-h-u-r-”

“What does she want? She could call herself.”

“Inza’s been admitted to the hospital under supervision. You should come see her.”

“I don’t have time for this I’m being fitted for that dinner thing next week. Aren’t you coming?”

“Chloe, look she’s asking for you. She keeps saying you’ll understand why she did it. Come when you’re back.”

The line falls dead and I’m standing topless in front of an open bay of windows while some Karma Police are being called in. Kaya brings me a glass of water and some Valium. I swallow and take in everything else. I don’t know if I’m more upset that she didn’t call herself. Or that the call wasn’t the guy that appreciated me the other night. Or perhaps it was me wanting Jemma to want to talk to me more.

Seventeen minutes until 3:30 and we’re at this place in the SOMA still. I tell Kaya to bring me a double shot of Vodka in a glass of ice. It’s most definitely five o’clock somewhere and I can’t get through to Inza’s assistant. Alex has already finished sewing me back into the altered dress so Simon can Polaroid the finished results before we call it a day. Between sips of my Vodka rocks we take headless pictures of my body in the gown to destroy all others before it. I’m amazed when I’m talking to Alex to find out that he’s friends with Jemma. It’s then I realize that Adrian on the phone is Adrian from the party.

When we are alone I ask him what he thinks of Inza while he removes the stitched in pieces of me. He listens to me about my lost week and I listen to his. About his friend, my friend, the lovers, the strangers, and how these things keep us both wondering.

“I wanted to matter to her the way she mattered to me.”

“Honey, keep drinking the Vodka and maybe you’ll get over it soon.” He tells me and swallows a large swig of the poison.

“Do you think I’ll run into it again? You know… l-o-v-e.” I have to spell it out like it’s a dirty word.

“We all do. It’s only a matter of time. And stop wasting time with these people when they’re obviously not interested in you.” He emphasizes you with a wave of his hands at my bareness.

“Thank you Alex. For everything. The dress is going to be gorgeous. I hope it works out for you. Andy sounds… ”

“Shhh.” He gives my naked stomach a kiss and whispers. “He’s here waiting to go to dinner.” Then points to a man talking to Kaya in the corner. “We all do.” He smiles and resumes unstitching the pieces on my hips.

We’re at BLOWFISH eating this amazing shi-shi sushi and taking turns doing Sake bombs when I realize that a lie is easier to swallow than the truth. There’s a man sitting at the table next to Kaya drinking with us. Every time we down one round every voice in place yells “SAKE BOMB” and it’s all amazing because I’m drinking this guy under the table. He tells me I’m so skinny that he wants to force feed me a box of Saltines to get me through the night cause he’s convinced I won’t make it even one more day. I just smile and tell him it’s my “thing” that I’m like a former Agnys, a former Kate,  a former Gabriella, a former HELENA, a former TYRA, a former NAOMI, a former LINDA and it’s just like that without a last name. I smile and tell him it’s all very TWiGGY with a hint of Madonna before telling him the new truth. This man is amazed when I tell him the truth. And tells me in disbelief before trying to change the subject.  

“If it’s possible she may be skinnier than TWiGGY,” he tells Kaya in front of me.

“Tell me about you.” I say anything after he’s discovered the truth but loves it because he thinks it’s a lie.

“I’m a plumber.” He lies because he thinks I am. So I play along.

“See, now that’s pretty interesting.”

 “Ah, not really I’m a commodities broker. But you’re joking with me about being on TV.”

“Look at the TV on the left bank above the bar.” I can see my own face staring back from the sea of media. I smile and point.

“Well. How about another shot? Liar.”

“But there you see…” I keep pointing and he keeps smiling because he enjoys the lie.

“There’s no way. I can’t believe that’s you.”

“There’s my picture.” Kaya pulls out a copy of the EW spread and lays it out. “Do you believe me?”

When he tells me to “fuck off” because they make those on Pier 39, I get up and tell him “next rounds on me” before telling him I’m a librarian with a bad habit of spanking on the first date. This makes him laugh and he slaps me on the ass and says “why didn’t you just say so in the first place?” before he asks Kaya for her number. I’m the opposite of offended and swallow another shot by myself. SAKE BOMB!

Actress. That’s what I used to tell them. Not model. Not singer. Not artist or photographer. The thing that used to light me up the same way it lit them up. Hitting the jackpot every minute of every day becomes routine. How many millions upon millions can you get before you start giving some of it away? Sometimes I tell them I’m a flight attendant when they don’t recognize me. I wonder, what do you think about that?

“I have to get back now. Is it there anything else you need Ms. St. Claire?” she asks gets up from the seat next to me.

“I’m fine. Call me Chloe. Tell me do you tell them you’re an actress?”

“No. And I’m sorry to hear about your friend Inza Madison. Are the rumors true about her…”

“Honestly I don’t know what rumors you’re talking about.”

“Ms. St. Claire, I mean Chloe. Sometimes I do.” She says with a wink and a finger to her lips before walking away.

Of course she does is what I think as I wait for the plane to begin its final descent.

In Stinson looking out over the beach and smoking a cigarette while I’m talking to Alex on the phone. Alex is fitting some model, another naked model, for this new gown in his showroom. He tells me she’s an actress and model. I tell him she gets naked for money. I tell him that hookers get naked for money. I tell him in conclusion that he’s fitting a hooker. It’s an argument that never quits when I tell him to blow it off and come out. Do anything. Let’s get wet. He tells me nothing I want to hear. The fog is rolling in and around the coastline like a giant hand that’s grabbing a hold with no intention of letting go. I’m still telling him we should get together at Zebra or Defiance for the party later when she comes up from behind and grabs my waist. Who isn’t as important as why she’s doing it. When I start raising my voice I really don’t want to anymore. I’m on the coast overlooking the fog coming in and she’s standing behind me waiting for what comes next. I tell Alex to come out later. Bring his friends, naked or not, straight or not. I toss the line in the ocean and she kisses me softly and shows me some bare skin as she walks back in. I take a hit and follow her in after I wonder where you went again.