To the households that watch us, we are nothing more than glorious, enviable constellations. We’re symbols of perfection. Charismatic gods. I’m beginning to understand how necessary we are.

We’re drifting through the lobby of the El Capitan, when this guy in a tux steps right in front of us with a big, goofy smile on his face. He wears thick, black-rimmed glasses, and his hair is black and curly.

“Jim! What’s going on?”

I smile, guardedly.

“Hey, there,” I say. “Good to see you.”

“Great to see you. Look, are you going to Rich’s afterward?”

“I think we’re planning on it.”

“Great, because I want to talk with you about something. It’s a project that’s in development, and I’d love to tell you about it. I think it’d be perfect for you.”

“Sounds good.”

“And nice to see you,” he says to Kara. “I don’t think we’ve met.”

“Kara Suthers,” she says, extending her hand.

“Harvey Wallison. A real pleasure. Well, you guys enjoy the movie, and we’ll talk later, Jim.”

When Kara and I have taken our seats in the theatre, she leans over and whispers into my ear: “Who was that man?”

“You mean Harvey Wallison? You haven’t heard of him?”

“Should I have?”

“He’s a brilliant director. Did Down From the Sleeping Trees, and if you tell me you haven’t heard of that, I’ll take you home right now.” I smile to let her know I’m only kidding. She smiles back, and as the lights go down, we kiss.

The Action, I’m delighted to say, is one of the best movies I’ve seen in a long, long time. Rich’s performance as Wally Miller may very well earn him an Oscar nomination. I even mist up, and as a rule, movies never make me cry. The scene that got me happens toward the end of the movie. Wally has blown the last of his $110,000 dollars at the blackjack table, and he sort of has a meltdown in the casino. It’s very poignant, as they say. He crumples down on the floor and just starts wailing, and practically everyone in the casino is staring at him. Then this lady walks over to him, kneels down, and gives him a $1,000-dollar chip. Wally looks up at her and says, “I can’t do it anymore. I just can’t.” I’m telling you, everyone in the theatre lost it at the same moment. Then Wally starts crying again, and the pit boss has security drag him out of the casino.

Everybody’s mascara is running as they leave the theatre. And it’s quiet, too, like we’re coming out of church on Good Friday. I’ve got a feeling that when the reporters ask the Stars what they thought of the movie, and everyone raves about how wonderful it was, this is one of the rare times they’ll mean it.

Chapter 22

 

misgivings ~ Santa Monica Pier ~ the trouble with perfection ~ arrives at the mansion of Richard Haneline ~ greets the host ~ the view no one sees ~ goes to get drinks ~ the finger wave ~ a strange encounter

We have a couple hours before Rich Haneline’s party, since the studio is throwing a bash at the Roosevelt directly following the premiere. And I’m sure we’re on the guest list and all, but I’ve got to tell you, I’m feeling a tad nervous about the prospect of mingling with hundreds of Stars and industry types who I’m supposed to know, some very well, most at least superficially.

It feels wonderful and safe when Kara and I are back in the limousine and Rex is driving us south out of Hollywood toward a surprise destination.

“That was amazing,” she tells me. “I mean, Jan Bollinger shook my hand and told me she loved my dress. I know that’s probably no big deal for you, but you have to understand, I’ve watched her movies all my life. She’s going to Richard’s party. She told me, ‘I’ll see you there.’  This is so much fun, Jim.”

We reach our surprise destination, and Rex gets out and opens the door for us.

“What are we doing here?” Kara asks.

“I thought it’d be nice to kill an hour or two watching the sunset.”

“And here’s what you asked for,” Rex says, handing me a small cooler.

Rex is a wonderful driver. While we watched the movie, he went out and purchased champagne at my request.

It’s 8:30, and if I squint and measure with my thumb and index finger, the sun is roughly an inch above the horizon of calm blue ocean.

Kara and I walk onto the Santa Monica Pier.

We stroll all the way to the end and only pass three people—a starry-eyed couple, and an old man, fishing.

We have the end of the pier all to ourselves, and we sit down on a bench and watch the sun sink into the sea.

I open the cooler, remove the bottle of champagne and two plastic flutes.

“Look at you,” Kara says as I work out the cork.

It pops off, clears the railing, gone.

To tell you the truth, I’m kind of sad as I pour the champagne. It’s like what I realized that morning in New York. Sometimes, things are so perfect, you know it can’t get any better. The most tragic point of existence isn’t when you’ve bottomed out. It’s when you’ve peaked, when you’ve just crested perfection and can see it beginning to fall away in your rearview mirror.

“To you, Kara.”

“To you, Jim.”

Part of me wants to skip Rich’s party and go home.

“What’s wrong,” Kara asks me.

“I’m very happy right now.”

She giggles.

“That’s a bad thing?”

I take a sip of the champagne. Very spritzy. I look at Kara, her short blond hair pulled behind her ears except for a few wisps which hang down over her eyes. I brush them back for her.

“I don’t see how it could get any better,” I say.

“That’s so sweet.”

She leans forward and kisses me and puts her head on my shoulder.

But I wasn’t trying to be sweet. I understand that she thinks I was implying that being here with her is a surreal experience (and it is) but that’s not what I really meant. I genuinely don’t think this night can get any better, and as such, I’d rather not go to Rich’s party.

I finish my champagne and set the flute down and caress Kara’s shoulder.

“Sure you’re up for this party?” I say. “We could just go back to my place.”

“That’s sweet of you, but I think I can handle it now. Maybe I’ll even let you stray three or four feet away from me this time.” She laughs again and pinches my arm. I laugh, too, but it’s forced.

I am so uneasy.

The sun is halfway into the ocean. Then three quarters. Then only a sliver remains. Then it’s gone.

We sit for awhile in the dark.

Rich’s mansion is on top of this hill that overlooks the sea. We cruise by the house at 10:15, but through the gate, it looks as though only several limos are parked in the huge circular drive.

So Rex drives us up and down the Pacific Coast Highway, and at a quarter past eleven, we re-arrive at the Haneline’s. Now, there’s a line to get through the gate, and we feel confident the party is in full swing.

As Rex pulls into the line of cars dropping off guests at the front door, I count thirty-six limos. When it’s our turn, Rex opens our door, and I help Kara out of the backseat. I can smell the ocean, hear the assault of waves in the darkness below the hill.

Rich and Margot stand by the massive, intricately-carved door (I read somewhere that the front door alone cost half a million dollars) to their 17,000 square-foot home (a reported $29,000,000), beneath the porch light, greeting their guests. Rich looks almost stately in his tuxedo. His wife, Margot, can’t be more than thirty. She’s stunning. Perhaps the first trophy wife I’ve seen in real life.

“Jim!” he smiles when we reach the top of the steps. We embrace, do some good old fashioned back-slapping, and then pull back to look at each other, arms still entwined.