I opened a bottle of sparkling water. “Can I pour you a glass?” I asked the man.
“That’d be great,” he said. His gaze on my body felt like a physical touch. I blinked at him; he blinked back, his eyes so blue and clear they held the sparkling effervescence of freshly poured seltzer.
You’re beautiful, he said. You’re way too attractive for waiting tables.
For the antipasto, I served him baba ganoush with charred pita crackers.
You should be an actress, he continued. I smiled, just a little, as I let my mind wander through that landscape. Pursuing acting had entered my mind before. I could cry on cue and often did. The tabloids would probably label me a lunatic.
He ordered spaghetti with diced octopus and four large prawns, sautéed in lemon garlic butter and white wine. He cracked filthy jokes, which I took as a sign of affection.
You have the looks to star in soft-core porn, he told me. I want to shoot you for a little movie I’m making. His invitation was too enticing, and the Brooklyn apartment that my roommate’s trust fund underwrote was too far away.
Dessert featured pizzelle cookies with pistachio ice cream and couscous pralines. He was a bigwig producer. I looked at his gold Rolex with fresh admiration. Decamping for California, I never looked back.
He gave me a brand-new Hèrmes Birkin bag, along with a luxurious imported Italian car, and more money than I had ever made before. It was just enough that I could never stop counting it, over and over again until it lost meaning, like staring at your hand while on acid.
Wrapping his arms around me, he asked his studio exec friends, Don’t I have the most doll-faced girl in the world? I giggled and pushed him away because I wanted their respect. I became so beautiful that, for the first time as an adult, I felt like I didn’t have any homework. The trajectory made me wonder what might’ve happened if I had stayed my course—whether I’d become a millionaire, or if I’d still be a server with a destiny hinted at by my pretty face.
It was now well into August, and my days of summer were running out with nothing to prove.
I thought all that talk about wanting to be an actress was just part of your shtick, he said. I just want to find meaningful employment, I said. Good for you, he said. Everyone has said that at some point. You’re no different. If you think you’re going to be a success, you’re out of your fucking mind.
You’re jealous! I cried. You can’t stand the fact that I could be a success, because then where would that leave you?
He screwed up his face—his irises now the blue-tip flame from a blowtorch. You want me to be the bad guy? Tough luck. At least I told you it would happen, didn’t I? Or is that horse you’re on not high enough to see Hollywood? I told you it would happen, and what happened? It happened! It was like he had put all his energy into that speech, and now, defused, he could only whisper. Who can make your dreams come true?
I teared up. You.
Wipe your nose, he said. After all, we have an image to preserve.
And what’s that?
Baby doll. We’re stars.
I looked at him, words all stuck in my throat, in my head. All of me stuck, caught unrehearsed.
I never thought of myself as a star. And the feeling in my chest was entirely new to me. I was euphoric. That was the feeling in my chest. Euphoria. I had never experienced it before.
A star. I rolled it around on my tongue. It made me smile.
But wait. Maybe I should calm down and really think about this for a second. I found myself in an awkward predicament. Whichever side I took, I was going to suffer. As much as I preferred to nap by the pool of a stark white Hollywood Hills mansion for the rest of my days, I refused to have a Brazilian wax every two weeks.
“The water’s starting to go flat,” he alerted me. I was always careful to replace a bottle of sparkling water once opened. Not today, though. He caught my eye and quirked his brow, which prompted me to screw the cap down tight, sealing the bottle. I walked away.
