Faces in Time (19 page)

Omar pats him on the shoulder and says, “Best of luck, son.”

Gary nods in his direction and walks over to the director.

Omar and Chester keep walking.

“That was very nice of you.”

“Every once in awhile I try to do something nice,” smirks Omar, “You know, throw everyone a curveball.”

“How did you take care of that reporter?”

“Easy. I look at the logo on their equipment and mention that I know their boss. Usually I do; sometimes I only know their boss’s name. Then, I’ll invite them to my next party. I’ll take a guess at how old the reporter is. If they’re forty or older, I mention Rosalee Gretan will be there. If they’re under forty, I’ll mention Christina Branson. If they’re under thirty, I’ll mention Jennie Harris will be there. If the reporter’s a woman, I just offer to get her a casting appointment in my next project. A lot of movies need a reporter in them—it’s best to use a real one for authenticity anyway.”

“Do you give them what you say?”

“Sure. Those actresses are at every one of my parties looking to score more work, and every boy from their generation had a crush on them when they were on TV. I just make sure the actress that I mentioned is escorted and protected at the party. No cameras are allowed anyway. And just because I get a girl a casting appointment, it doesn’t mean she’ll get the part. If she’s good, she’s got a shot; if she’s terrible, she shouldn’t have it anyway. I just get their foot in the door to get a chance at it. It’s all really not that hard.”

“If you say so, Omar,” Chester responds as a slew of blinding flashes go off to his right.

“But, it’s a lot harder to write a good script, huh, Chaz?”

Chester nods his head, and then asks pointing to the place where the incident between the writer and the reporter happened, “Is it always this way?”

“What? What happened with the writer? Yeah, it’s always that way. The public perception is that the actors make the movie; the writers are not important. They think the movie could be made without us altogether, or that anyone could do it as good as we can. It’s the same reason why people don’t tip at a fast food restaurant.”

“What?” poses Chester with a quiet laugh.

“We don’t tip at fast food restaurants because they’re not glamorous, but they take our order, fix our drinks, cook the food, package the food and serve it to us. It’s everything that we get at a fancy restaurant. There are tables for us to eat at a fast food place too. If you leave a mess, someone will have to come clean it up. And, the fast food employee serves a lot more customers in one hour than a regular waiter handles in a whole shift. It’s definitely just as hard of a job, if not a harder job altogether. If it weren’t harder, people would rather work at a fast food joint than another restaurant. They don’t work there because it’s harder, and we have this image that working at another restaurant is higher class. We tip the one that we deem higher class. There’s really no difference. Just our collective pretense. Just like the actors are the stars, and we’re nothing.”

“Omar! Omar!” shouts a former teen star with crow’s feet scratching their way through his temples, “How’s that new show coming along?”

“
Cold Streak
? It’s looking good despite the hack writer.”

“Looking for guest stars? I’m looking for work.”

Chester’s eyes rotate away from the conversation, sliding over people walking down the red carpet lane into the theater, some movie posters, and finally landing upon a large display. It is a scene set up in the same fashion as the movie poster. A cut-out standee of the hero is placed next to the real-life car used in the movie,
Midnight Bandit
. Leaning on the hood and trunk of the car are two live models in bikinis who smile and wave at the people entering the theater.

Behind the models is a giant screen looping an extended trailer for the movie with high action scenes cut rapidly together. Against the wall of the theater to the left of all of this is a giant twelve-foot-high mirror that runs the length of the display, making the garish exhibit appear far vaster than it is.

Most people smile at the models or are taken in by the flash of the gargantuan screen. Either way, they pass quickly, eager to get inside the air conditioning and get to their seats.

But, Chester stops and stands in front of the display. He sneers at the lifeless standee of the lead actor, complete with racing gloves, a leather jacket and matching pants, a gun in one hand, and the obligatory hip sunglasses blocking out his eyes.

The lead actor’s stage name is Max Stone, and later this week he’ll make headline news. Not for the success of tonight’s premiere movie or a great opening weekend, but he’ll be known for slamming his Ferrari into a hot dog stand during the same week that he starred as the world’s greatest race car driver in
Midnight Bandit
.

To further warrant public ridicule when Chester watched it happen the first time around was the lawsuit involving minor injuries to the seventeen-year-old passenger, who happened to be the daughter of a studio executive. The rumor was Stone was leaning over to steal a kiss when his exotic Italian sports car invaded Walt’s Weiner World splattering his hood and windshield with hot dogs, relish, and mustard, leaving one broken and dangling frankfurter hanging off the rear spoiler.

Although Chester’s sure people walking past will either think he’s mad and snickering at nothing or a pervert and leering at the girls posturing in their thongs around the car, he doesn’t care.

The humor is irresistible in being at such an ornate movie premiere gala, saturated in hype from every angle, for a racing film whose lead actor will crash his car and his career in a few days while trying to coax a kiss from an underage girl. It’s almost enough to make his snicker a smile, but he thinks of the woman who still holds his heart and that makes a genuine and warm smile impossible.

“Oh, Mr. Fuze,” coos a voice as soft as a slow current over dangling bare feet.

The last time he heard this voice, his heart turned to wax and melted all over his soul, running liquidy fingers burning their paths across his tender-most being, scalding him in a grip of heartache and then cooling into a layer of melancholy that has insulated him from the warm touch of hope. A crack has just formed the moment he heard the female voice. Before he even turns around, red winds dig into the layer of congealed heart matter, and green warmth radiates through the openings made by the ruby colored breeze.

When his eyes take in the image of her, the wax melts into its liquid lava state. He can feel the pain and tenderness working through it, kneading itself into her shape. The muck of his destroyed emotions breathes with life for the first time since he saw her last. Its lumbering, excruciating journey to numbness is reversing itself; tingles pulse through that which has mimicked the dead, water through roots shriveled by drought.

Unsure if it’s joy, panic, or both, he realizes that the gun of action is being cocked before him, and he has little say as to whether it will slay him with happiness or resurrect his emotions only to restart their tedious process of melting, burning, and a slow freezing death.

Despite his fears and the gripping emothermal war in his chest, his lips form a fragile smile, his eyes shine with excess fluid, and his mouth opens to speak before his mind can form a word.

“Mr. Fuze, I am in your debt.”

“Wh-what?” smilingfonnt>

“How did you know about, Dane?”

His smile gains strength against gravity and habit, “Just observant, I guess,” eyes growing troubled as his voice grows more serious, “Are you okay, Rhonda? Did anything happen?”

Now, her smile is the one turning awkward, “Yes, horrible damage. Terribly regrettable.”

“Oh, no,” he says as he reaches out to touch her forearm, but stops very close.

“My poor garbage can will never be the same,” holding her face serious.

“Your garbage can?”

“Yes, the angry fool kicked it into the street and stomped it into a lumpy potato shape when I refused to kiss him goodnight.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, a kiss on the cheek for the ride home wasn’t enough for him apparently. So, he knocked the trash over. He got really mad when he realized I had gone inside and locked the door while he was in the middle of his trash-can kicking tirade. I did watch through the blinds in my kitchen window. One of his kicks missed the can he had knocked over and smashed into the trash that had spilled out on the ground—got garbage all over his pants. But, he was gone before the police showed up.”

Chester exhales loudly, and his smile grows wider.

“And that,” she says pointing to his chest that has just sighed, “is why I owe you an apology. You weren’t trying to harm me, Mr. Fuze, and I’m sorry that I ever thought so. First, I noticed how right you were about Dane. To tell the truth, I might’ve ended up with him if I wasn’t looking to see if you were right. Took me awhile to realize that you weren’t trying to take me home. It was that you begged me to take a cab—away from Dane, but away from you too. Am I wrong, Chester, or were you just worried about me?”

His jaw makes a few false starts before pushing out, “Ya-yes, Rhonda. I was scared you were going to be hurt, and,” pausing, “I’m sorry that I didn’t follow you anyway. Hope that doesn’t freak you out. I just felt guilty that I didn’t make sure you got home safe.”

“And, what if I would’ve asked him inside, Mr. Fuze? What would you have done then?”

“Cry. Alone.”

Her lips push together starting a fire of warmth. It loosens his tongue.

“Just wanted to be there in case you wanted him to leave and he wouldn’t.”

“Sweetie, are you mad at me if I say that still scares me a little bit?”

“Of course not. You need to be careful.”

His eyes drop to his shoes. A hand followed by red streams cups his chin and cheek. Her face welcomes in a way that makes him ache and relax. Green eyes take possession of his own, staring into his brown counterparts, both pairs firing and consuming each other. The green is eclipsed by soft flesh as she pushes her warm lips against his.

His eyes gloss over with emotion as his lids close too. Passion and compassion entwine through him in a double helix, one that could rival the recipe for life itself. The wax inside of him feels lighter, more molten but as free as air. The skin over his entire body feels as though it’s never been touched before. Every ounce of him screams as everything that he’s wanted has flown to him, landed on his lips, and filled him.

His left hand goes to her face, and his right lands at her waist. Her left hand is still on his cheek, and she places her right at his neck. As she pulls herself closer to him, he can feel her breathing, and it feels like the rhythm of life, awakening every part of him, a gift meant to birth truth and all that is good.

He doesn’t remember when his mouth opened—it all has been so fluid, so beyond anything that he physically thought himself capable.

The kiss eventually subsides into stares and smiles. Chester’s face twitches from a smile to a countenance braced for an assault.

“What’s wrong, buster, don’tchya like me anymore?”

“No, no!” her face warms at his enthusiasm, “These things just never happen to me. Usually more careful and boring.”

“Never?”

“Never in my life.”

“Well, Chester, today is a new day.”

“Indeed it is.”

“You know, careful is good in the right place. In the wrong, it can lead to a lonely life.”

“And lots of regret.”

She smiles fiendishly, her eyes adding a sparkle, “So, you’re regretting kissing me, Chester?”

“No, but every moment I’ve spent when I wasn’t kissing you.”