Backyard Carnivals
Emma
Dinner last night was all right, but we were both still very much in ourselves. What was better was brunch this morning. That’s when I really got Damian to stop being the cardboard cutout of himself and start actually being himself.
He seemed pretty uncomfortable doing it.
Right now, I’m standing in the locker room of the hotel spa. Damian and I are getting a couple’s massage.
I don’t know exactly how far down to strip in these places.
I’ve always heard that the general rule is that you don’t need anything but the towel, but having never actually been to a spa, it feels a little weird.
Just to be on the safe side, I leave my bra and panties on before I wrap the towel around my body and make my way to the next room.
Damian is already facedown on one of two massage tables.
He turns his head far enough to glance at me, and then puts his face back in the little hole. He doesn’t say anything, but his hands are moving down his body, and—yep, he’s mooning me.
Well, I guess that answers the question I had in the locker room.
“Will you put that away?” I ask, pretending like I’m not sneaking a peek when in reality, I’m a little turned on by getting such an up close and personal look at such a famous, and if I may, well-formed, ass.
“This is exactly the kind of thing I would be doing to you if we were in a new relationship,” he says. “We’re still doing new relationship, right? When do we move on to the petting and necking portion of the weekend?” he asks, and then makes some kind of noise that I can only equate to a cat growling.
“We’re moving from new to established relationship,” I tell him, “and there’s not going to be a petting portion of the weekend. We will be practicing our kissing, but only after you prove to me that you can handle it like an adult.”
“But Mom,” the still bare-assed, world-renowned actor whines through the hole in his massage table.
I approach the side of my table and just stand there for a moment.
Apparently, I don’t need the underwear, but I’m not so sure about dropping my panties when Damian can see through his hole.
I’m really not a prude, I swear. This is a unique situation.
I finally decide to go back to the locker room, but of course, that’s when the masseurs come in the room.
“Everything okay?” the short one with the bald head asks.
“Did you forget something?” the taller one with the hideous man bun asks.
“I just need to go back for something,” I stammer.
“We can have someone bring it in here to you,” Man Bun says.
“Please, lie down,” Bald Guy says in a soothing, almost cult-inspiring voice.
“Really, I should grab it myself,” I tell them. Now, even if I succeed in leaving the room unescorted, I’m going to have to pick something I brought with me to be that thing I couldn’t possibly get massaged without. This is some killer planning. “I’ll just be a second,” I tell them.
Bald Guy shrugs and Man Bun is rubbing his hands together over Damian’s back.
You know, from this angle, massage is the strangest thing…
I get into the locker room, drop my towel long enough to completely disrobe, unintentionally flash an older woman who’s coming out of the showers in what looks like a nightgown with legs, and feel through my pants for something, anything I can take back in there with me to explain why, oh why, I would delay the healing powers of massage, but all I have are my keys and my room key. Everything else, even my cell phone, is back in the room.
Room key it is.
I go back into the other room and set the room key under the hole in my table so I can look down at a constant reminder about how I wasn’t quick enough on my feet.
Finally bare—with the exception of the towel—I lie down on the massage table and scootch into position.
This is actually pretty nice.
“Everything come out all right?” Damian asks.
“What?” I respond.
“Never mind,” he laughs. “So,” he says, “tell me more about what it is to be intimate with someone.”
“Well,” I start. I start, but I don’t continue.
Last night, I was basically listing off qualities that were opposite to my experience with Ben. Now, I don’t know, I guess I really don’t know what intimacy is.
“It’s not something you are,” I tell him, “it’s something you find in the other person.”
“That tells me absolutely nothing,” he says. “Come on, you were so spirited about it last night. What’s next? What is it that we’re really looking for here?”
“Tell me a story,” I tell him, “something real, you know, something that’s happened in your life.”
“Like what?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” I tell him. “What is your best memory of your childhood?”
“That’s boring,” he says. “Ask me something harder, something closer.”
Something harder, something closer.
“What’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to you?” I ask.
“Maybe something a little softer,” he says, “at least for now.”
“Fine,” I say. “Have you ever been in love?”
“Yeah,” he says. “I’ve been in love a bunch of times. It’s never really the same, though. Everyone talks like love is one set emotion that everyone experiences the same way, every time,” he says. “For me, love is when you don’t know what to expect, but that’s not a bad thing. I guess if there is one single thing I can tie to my experience with love, it’s being able to let go of all my shit and just be Damian Jones without all the actor shit even coming into it. Being able to do that and not have a nervous breakdown is a pretty good indication that I’m in love.”
“So being able to give up control of your image is what tells you that you’re in love?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says. “Why? What is it that lets you know that you don’t just like a person, you love them?”
“I don’t know,” I start. “It’s hard to describe. I think love is simple. It’s just that perpetual wish to be around a person. Love is what happens when you only care if one person takes you seriously. Everyone else just doesn’t matter quite so much.”
The room’s quiet a moment except the sounds of hands moving over oiled-up celebrity.
“That was very nice,” Man Bun says.
“Thank you,” I answer.
“The last time I knew I was in love—probably the only time I really knew was with my high school sweetheart, Jamie,” Damien says. “With her, it wasn’t just the swirl of emotions, but a full-blown tempest all the time.”
“What happened?” I ask.
“What do you mean?” he answers. It’s a stall, and a pathetic one at that. “She got pregnant,” he says. “We were going to have a little baby girl. We’d even started picking out names for her and everything. When Jamie went into labor, though,” he sighs, “there were complications. Neither she, nor the baby, survived.”
I’m trying to do the right thing and brush my first thought aside, so I give the quick response. “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah,” he says, “me, too.”
There’s something almost sadistic in having this talk while getting a massage. It’s not an unwritten rule as far as I know, but it just doesn’t feel right for anything pleasant to be happening right now.
“When did this happen?” I ask, that question being the first thing that popped in my mind.
“Are you asking me when it happened or are you asking me how it is that you never heard about it?” he asks.
“Both, I guess,” I respond, though I’m more interested in the second answer.
“It happened when I was about 20,” he says. “That would be, what? Nine years ago? Anyway, the reason you never heard about it is that you’re forgetting I was just a normal guy for quite a while there.”
“Yeah, but you were on that show when you were a kid,” I tell him. “Child stars who never worked again wouldn’t be able to keep something like that out of the public eye. I guess I’m just curious how you did.”
“We weren’t engaged or anything,” he says. “When Jamie died, I wasn’t the next of kin. The paperwork that was going to have my name on it was going to be the birth certificate. When there was no more need for that,” he says, “there just wasn’t anywhere else for my name to go. Her dad took possession of her remains, told me he didn’t want me anywhere near the funeral or his family, and that was the last I saw of any of them. The bastard even filed the baby’s death certificate without my name.”
“Why was her dad so pissed at you?” I ask. “It doesn’t sound like it was your fault.”
“It wasn’t,” he says, “but that didn’t change the fact that his daughter was dead, and if it weren’t for me, she’d be alive.”
“Okay, now that sounds like it is your fault,” I say.
“If she weren’t pregnant,” he says, “she wouldn’t have died in labor. I didn’t have anything to do with the blood clot that ended up killing her, but her body wouldn’t have been under that stress if it weren’t carrying a baby. She probably would have been fine if we’d never gotten pregnant.”
“It sounds like you blame yourself,” I tell him.
I can hear the sound of Damian moving, and I lift my head to look at him. He’s looking back at me with a completely helpless expression on his face.
That expression—it may not be what we’re looking for on film, but it’s certainly intimate. A person doesn’t have to be completely vulnerable to build, maintain, and experience intimacy, but it doesn’t hurt when vulnerability is there.
“I’m not kissing you this weekend,” I tell him, and put my head back down.
“What?” he asks. “What are you talking about? We’ve got our first kiss scene this next week. We go in there cold and I’d hate to see what we look like. Seriously, you need to screen test that shit. What feels good isn’t always what looks good.”
“We’ll kiss onscreen because that’s what’s in the script,” I tell him, “but there aren’t going to be any extracurricular activities. I just thought I should let you know that before too much time passed.”
“Raymond,” Damian says, “you’ve got the hands of a master.”
“Thank you, sir,” the man Damian called Raymond (even though we all know his real name is Man Bun) says. “Is that going to be all for you this afternoon?”
“Yeah,” Damian says. “That’ll be all for now.”
I look up at Bald Guy, but he seems less engaged in the world outside his massage performance. As I’m trying to get up, he just presses back against me as if it’s all part of the massage. It actually feels pretty cool, but that’s not the point.
“I’m sorry,” I say to Bald Guy, looking for a name tag but not finding one, “I have to follow him.”
“Your massage isn’t finished,” Bald Guy protests.
“I know,” I tell him. “I’m very sorry about that, but I’ve got to go after him.”
Bald guy scoffs loudly and throws his hands up in the air. It’s a pretty petulant scene, but it does allow me to get to my feet and hurry back into the locker room.
I’m quick to get dressed, but when I get out to the waiting room, Damian’s not there.
“Excuse me,” I say, walking up to the counter, “has my friend, Damian, come out yet?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the woman behind the counter says. “He walked through about a minute ago.”
Stupid tangled bra strap.
I finally track Damian down as he’s walking back toward his room.
“Where are you going?” I ask. “I thought we were doing the massage and then we were going to go down by the beach.”
“Yeah, I’m really not in the mood right now,” he says.
“I’m sorry I brought all that up,” I tell him. “I was just trying to get to know you better.”
“I know,” he says. “It’s fine. It’s just that, earlier, when you asked what the worst thing to ever happen to me was. It was that. Nobody knows because nothing between her and I was ever official, at least as far as public records were concerned. Add to that a grieving father who’d much rather forget my existence completely and a staff of doctors that are bound by confidentiality and you have the perfect storm it takes to have something like this slip by everyone’s radar. I think it goes without saying that I’d prefer you not talk about this with—”
“Yeah,” I interrupt, “of course. It’s nobody’s business and it’s sure as hell not my business to tell anyone.”
I may have gone a bit over the top there.
Damian eyes me and just says, “Yeah. Anyway, if you don’t mind, I think I’m going to cancel our trip down to the beach. After that massage, I just kind of want to lay down for a bit.”
“All right,” I tell him, “no worries.”
He walks off, and I’m actually grateful I put my foot down about having separate rooms.
The Damian Jones I knew from the glossy papers and TV gossip shows is one of those guys who’s always playing the field, rumored to have had dozens, if not hundreds, of sexual partners, though nobody seems to have any definite numbers. As much as Damian’s tried to dissuade me, though, I like him.
It’s because I like him that I insisted on the separate rooms. It’s because I like him that I insisted we not kiss until we’re onscreen. I’m not a prude, I just don’t want to be another snapshot in the cavalcade of Damian’s skanks.
I get back to my room and the next hour passes grudgingly.
Ben got his first check. Despite assurances that I would never have to talk to him again, he still sent me a text to let me know when the check cleared.
What an asshole.
I’m so pissed off at everything right now. Every time an opportunity comes up, I end up having to pay for it 10 times over. Nothing is ever fucking easy and I’m sick of it.
Five thousand dollars a month for the next 17 years: I did the math. That comes out to $1,020,000. I guess he just figured making it an even 17 years was easier than making it an even million dollars.
I hope the money brings him nothing but fucking misery.
Misery’s a hell of a thing, though. While Ben certainly deserves as much of it as he can get, he’s probably never going to feel the bite of it. Meanwhile, Damian’s down in his room wallowing in misery and he’s done nothing wrong.
I think it’s time to go nuclear.
* * *
It took a little time and a little planning, but after putting my mind to it, I’ve come up with the perfect plan.
Step one: get Damian out of his room.
This part is easy enough.
I find a bellhop who’s not standing particularly close to any of his coworkers and tell him, “I’ll give you 200 bucks, 100 now, 100 afterward, if you’ll go to this room,” I hand the young man a sticky note with Damian’s room number written on it, “and tell the man inside he’ll have to vacate the room for a couple of hours. Say that you found spiders in the adjoining room—I remember reading an interview where he said that he hates spiders—”
“Ma’am,” the bellhop says, “I appreciate the offer, but I should probably remind you the kind of clientele that comes through here. Two hundred bucks may be a lot to someone working a franchise in Who Gives a Shit, South Dakota, but I’m not risking my job for a shitty payday like that.”
Okay, so 200 isn’t going to do it, but judging by the mouth on this little bastard, I’d say there’s some wiggle room.
“What would it take?” I ask.
“You’re Emma Roxy, right?” he asks.
Oh, this isn’t going to be good.
“Yeah,” I answer.
“I’ll do it for free,” he says.
I did not expect that.
“Why?” I ask.
I could swear there’s something about a gift horse and looking it in its mouth that could be useful here, but for the life of me, I can’t remember the saying.
“I saw you in Drathmore: Vengeance from Space a while back,” he says. “Just answer one question for me and I’ll go tell your dude whatever you want me to tell him.”
“It’s always nice to meet a fan,” I tell him. “What’s your question?”
“When you were playing Mistress Death Head, were you using some kind of tape or was it one of those push up bras or what was going on there?” he asks. “I’d seen you in something else, but I could swear your jugs were like double the size.”
“Don’t they usually give bellhop jobs to well-spoken, well-mannered individuals?” I ask.
“Lady, when you walked over here and tried to bribe me, I earned the privilege to pull my tongue out of your ass,” he says. “So come on, I’ve got money riding on this.”
“You bet on the method of breast presentation in some low-budget, sci-fi flick?” I ask.
“Funny you’re looking down your nose at it,” he says. “I guess now that you’re hot shit, you’re going to dismiss those earlier movies as just paying your dues or whatever.”
“I don’t think I’m hot shit,” I tell him. “What did you bet it was?”
“I said they did the whole thing CGI,” he says. “There are a few shots there where your titties react to one motion or another in a way that I think violate the laws of physics.”
I chuckle a little.
“Really?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says. “Don’t get me wrong, you’re attractive and all, but I just don’t see those things being real.”
“Is that what this is really about?” I ask. “Are you trying to get me to show you my breasts?”
“Well,” he says, “now that you mention it, I don’t suppose I’d mind taking a look.”
“Yeah?” I giggle.
“Yeah,” he says. “So what’s up, are you down or what?”
“Okay, first off, late 90s, junior high, stoner kid,” I start, “people don’t talk like that anymore. Yeah, you might get all of those phrases spread out over a few conversations, but never all together like that. When you talk like that, it makes you sound like a moron. Second off,” I continue, “why don’t I walk over to your manager and tell him about the little proposition you just made me?” I ask. “I’m sure they’d frown on the whole me trying to bribe you thing, but when you stack that up against sexual harassment of a guest in the hotel, do you really think I’m going to be the one to get the fucking whip?”
Grudgingly though it may be, I can now start thinking about step two.
While the dipshit bellhop’s getting Damian out of his room, I’ll be gathering the supplies I had room service bring up for me. Step two is accomplished when I’ve successfully made my way into Damian’s unoccupied room.
Step three comes after about 15 minutes of double-checking my various ingredients and matching them up with the proper instructions.
I’m sitting on Damian’s bed with various household items with which one can prank one’s friends.
I’ve got clear gelatin, plastic wrap, clear fishing line, shaving cream, 14 balloons of varying sizes, a pack of bottle rockets, thanks to my ability to hammer out something a little extra in my settlement with the bellhop, and a few other assorted items.
Step three is completed when I’ve managed to set up at least five different pranks around Damian’s hotel room.
I’m going somewhere with this. Trust me.
Step four is cleaning everything up, double-checking to make sure none of the pranks are too readily visible to someone who doesn’t know they’re there, and packing my leftover items back into the plastic garbage sack I got from the bellhop. It’s what he was keeping the bottle rockets in.
Step five is to dump everything back in my room and head back downstairs, where the bellhop should be waiting for my signal to allow Damian back into his room.
Step six is the giving of the signal itself, and step seven is to head back to my room and wait for Damian to give me a call.
From there, well, the rest is going to depend on Damian.
I’m back in my room after a surprisingly smooth run of things. Damian should already be back in his, and I can’t imagine it’ll be much longer before my phone starts to—and there it goes.
“Hello,” I answer.
“You’re really going to have to do better than that,” he says.
“What are you talking about?” I ask.
“I found your little pranks,” he says. “If you’re going to try to come at me with that shit, you’re going to have to do a much better job of covering your work. By the way, thanks for making me dig the gelatin out of the toilet bowl. That never gets old.”
“How many did you find?” I ask.
“All of them,” he says.
“How do you know?” I ask.
“Because you suck at hiding them,” he says. “If someone figures it out beforehand, it’s not a very good prank. I hate to be so critical, but as your mentor and spiritual guide, I feel it’s my duty to…”
He must be doing better; he’s gotten back to referring to himself as my mentor and spiritual guide and all sorts of other positively irritating nonsense that tells me there’s still a chance he comes through the rest of the day with a smile on his face.
“…last time I had someone mess with my shower head,” he says, “they used this clear gel stuff that slowly made every drop of water on me harden into what looked like snot lines all over my body and in my hair—that was a hell of a prank. I didn’t see that one coming.”
“Whatever,” I tell him, “so how many have you found?”
“Five,” he says.
Shit, he is good.
What he doesn’t know is that I had a couple of extra minutes and so I managed to slip in a little something extra.
I’m just waiting to find out what step eight is going to be.
“What made you do that?” he asks.
“I thought it might help pull you out of your funk,” I tell him.
I’ve dealt with tragedy before, though nothing quite as bleak as what Damian’s been through. What I’ve found is that sometimes it can seem impossible to pull one’s self out of that thought spiral, but snapping out of it can be as simple as having something introduced into the equation that you weren’t expecting.
When I was a kid, my favorite grandmother died. After my parents told me, they gave me space when I needed space and comfort when I needed comfort. The problem was that as time went on, I wasn’t letting myself work through it.
One day, though, after school I came home to find the house deserted, though I could hear a lot of strange noises coming from the backyard.
When I got out there, my parents had set up a miniature carnival in the backyard complete with games, prizes, my parents dressed up as clowns, and all my friends sitting around a big table.
What I came to realize as I grew up was that what my parents did hadn’t worked because having fun and a bit of a distraction made me forget my grandma or miss her any less. It simply gave my mind permission to switch into a different gear.
I still had a lot of rough days and nights for a while, but after that carnival in the backyard, things started turning a corner.
Again, though, Damian’s tragedy is a bit of a different situation and I don’t have any illusions that I’ve cured him of his grief. At best, I’m just hoping that I can get him through the weekend without having him retreat back into his room for the rest of our stay.
We’ve got shit to do.
The rest of the weekend is pretty quiet, though it’s filled with plenty of conversation. The best part comes at around 4 o’clock Sunday morning when I get a call from Damian telling me that he found my last trap the hard way.
I’m just surprised it took him that long to go for the Icy Hot-filled lotion bottle in his bathroom. One thing you can set your watch by is a man’s need to relieve backed up pressure, and in lieu of a sexual partner, you’ll find that particular kind of relief generally comes in a fairly predictable way.
Did we accomplish everything we set out to accomplish after Dutch told us both to get away and practice our ability to be attractive together? Probably not.
What we did accomplish, though, was to start building the foundation of actual intimacy that isn’t just going to go away when the cameras stop rolling.
It’s not much, but it’s a start.
I’m just happy enough to say that this is the weekend that Damian and I have become friends.