The Limitations of Decency
Damian
Tofu.
What that bag whoever left on my driveway was filled with—it was fucking tofu cut to look like severed animal limbs covered in fermented raspberry sauce for blood.
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I guess it’s something that no animals were harmed in the making of the little scene outside my door, but that doesn’t put my mind at much ease, either.
The pink cloud I was on, relishing the stalker because she was an indication that my career still had some vitality left, that’s gone now. Ever since yesterday, I’ve been having Trey walk me to and from my car on the set, and Danna called a company that specializes in home security to send out a couple of guys to keep an eye on the house.
So far, there hasn’t been anything else from the stalker, but I’m taking that with a grain of salt.
That’s not what I need to be focusing on right now, though. What I need to focus on is getting Emma to come out of the bathroom.
“It’s really not a big deal,” I call through the door. “Actors do it all the time. It’s called ‘the relationship weekend.’ It doesn’t mean anything real, it just helps two people connect with each other well enough that they don’t look like novices when it comes time to show some affection on camera.”
“It’s weird,” she says.
“It’s not like I’m telling you we’re going to fuck or anything,” I tell her. “All I’m saying is that this is going to work a lot better if, until midnight on Sunday night, you and I act in every way as if we’re in a relationship.”
“What if someone sees us?” she asks.
“Then the film gets some free publicity,” I tell her. “Now, are you going to come out of there, or am I going to be sending room service to the bathroom for the next three days?”
Every once in a while, I forget that not everyone’s familiar with every trick in the business.
It’s really not that big of a deal. If you get two actors together to practice kissing, you might see some progress, but it’s not going to change the way they look at each other.
If you’ve never shared that intimate moment with someone, you’re never going to look at them the way that Emma and I are going to need to look at each other for much of the rest of the filming.
The trick is simple: you and your costar, whoever it is that you’ve got the onscreen relationship with, you go away together for the weekend, somewhere that doesn’t like cameras where you can act as you will without the scrutiny of the press. While you’re there, for all intents and purposes, you are in that relationship with that other person.
Easy-peasy.
The problem is that Emma doesn’t really seem to like the idea of pretending to be my girlfriend.
At least that’s what I’m taking out of this.
“You’re seriously on the verge of hurting my feelings here,” I call through the door.
“I’m not trying to hurt your feelings,” she says. “I just don’t think I can do three days of kissing and holding hands and ordering each other’s food and all that.”
“Is there any way we can talk about this in the same room?” I ask.
The door to the bathroom opens and Emma walks out slowly, saying, “I’m sorry. I don’t really know why I did that.”
“It’s probably got something to do with that crush you’ve got on me,” I tell her. “Anyway, so are we doing this or what?”
“So there’s no, like, safe zone?” she asks.
“What do you mean?” I return.
“You know,” she says, “somewhere we can go or something we can say to go back to reality.”
“It’s acting,” I tell her. “As it’s your profession, I’m a little surprised to see you so wary of it.”
“It’s not that,” she says. “It’s just—”
“What?” I ask.
“I guess it’s been a while since I’ve been in a relationship,” she says, “even a fake one.”
“You’ll fall right back into it no problem,” I tell her. “So, are we putting on our actor’s hats or are we going to keep going back and forth on this until the weekend’s over and we’re out of time?”
“Actor’s hats?” she asks.
“I was trying to speak your language,” I answer.
I’m actually not entirely sure what that means.
“So, Damian,” she says with a bit of a blush.
“Yeah?” I answer.
“You wanted to just start, right?” she asks, already breaking character.
“Yeah,” I tell her.
“Okay,” she says, “sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I tell her.
“So, where would you like to go to dinner tonight, dear?” she asks.
“Just for the record, we’re not an old couple,” I tell her. “You can talk to me the way you normally would, just pretend that you like me a little more than you do and we’re good.”
She shoots me a quick glare, but shakes it off.
“Ah…” she says, shaking out her arms and hands, her eyes closed. Her fingers close into her palm and she opens her eyes, saying, “You hungry?”
“A little bit,” I answer. “I could probably eat. What are you in the mood for?”
“You always do that,” she says. “You always put the decision on me, but if it’s not exactly what you want, you just—”
“Emma?” I interrupt.
“Yeah?” she asks.
“We’re not a dysfunctional couple, either,” I tell her. “We’re just two people getting to know each other in this new way.”
“I still don’t get why we’ve got to spend so much time making out,” she says.
“Really, that makes me feel very good about myself,” I laugh. “I feel very attractive right now.”
“It’s not that,” she says. “I just have a hard time believing that we’re really going to make all of this progress over the next few days and that it’s actually going to stick.”
“Well, we’re obviously going to have a few make out sessions in my trailer when we get back in town,” I tell her.
She sighs.
“All right,” she says. “If this is what I have to do for my art, then I’ll do it.”
“That’s the spirit,” I tell her. “Now, undo your top button.”
“What?” she screeches.
“So far,” I tell her, “you’re not even convincing me that we’re in a relationship and I’m pretending right along with you.”
“How does that translate into me showing more skin?” she asks.
“Glad you asked,” I tell her.
“Oh God, here it comes…” she groans.
“When a man and a woman are going from being single to being in a relationship, there are a few things about not only their mannerisms, their mood, and general demeanor, but there are changes to the way they look as well,” I tell her. “Women will often show a little more skin around their new beau, while men tend to walk with their shoulders back, more confidence.”
“Have you ever noticed how, in every possible situation where men and women have to do something, the men always have it easier?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I answer. “I have, actually. Doesn’t really seem fair. Anyway, so I want you to think back to the first couple of weeks with your last boyfriend. What changed?”
“I don’t know,” she says. “I guess I spent a little more time on my hair.”
“Great,” I tell her. “Get back in the bathroom and work on your hair a little longer.”
“Excuse me?” she retorts, in a tone that tells me that I’ve crossed some line.
“I’m telling you to do the things that you would normally do if we were actually in a new relationship,” I tell her. “There’s no reason to get all pissy about it.”
If I’d avoided use of the word pissy, I probably could have gotten through that all right. As it stands, though, it takes me a good 20 minutes to talk her into listening to me again.
“I’ll tell you what,” I tell her finally, “why don’t we take the next hour to go over things that we do ourselves at the beginning of a new relationship and see what we come up with. I, for one, start shaving twice a day rather than once, so I’m going to go in the bathroom and do that. If you need to get in there for your hair, I’m sure we can both fit.”
She’s still skeptical, but eventually she agrees to go along with what I’m telling her to do.
I haven’t told her about hump practice yet.
We take some time to get ready the way we would if we were actually dating each other, and the results, while often subtle, are rather striking.
I, for one, am very clean-shaven, wearing a semi-formal dinner outfit, cologne, and enough hair gel for either boy band membership or to choke a walrus, depending on whichever one of those options turns out to be funniest. Emma, along with her hair going from a ponytail to a stunning updo, is wearing a dress and extra jewelry. I actually didn’t realize her ears were pierced until just now.
“Real quick,” she says as we both take care of finishing touches, “I think this is going to work better if you pick me up.”
“What do you mean?” I ask. “Like carry you over the threshold or something?”
“No, I mean, if you come by the room to pick me up for our date tonight. Our characters don’t live together, and it’s not until the end of the movie that they’d be likely to share a hotel room together.”
“Yeah, there is such a thing as going too method,” I tell her. “For one thing, we’re going to have to learn how to sleep together in only two nights, so I don’t think we’re going to want to get separate hotel rooms just yet. For another, we’re going to have to be pretty solid on all the visible aspects of the relationship the movie’s going to cover, so it wouldn’t make much sense to spend any time apart while we’re here.”
“Just role-play,” she says. “Go out into the hallway, walk around for a couple of minutes, and knock on the door. It’ll help me get in the mindset.”
“All right,” I agree. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
We stand there and look at each other a minute.
“Yeah, so any time you’re ready to pop out there, that would be great,” she says.
“Oh,” I answer. “All right, I’ll be back to pick you up in a few minutes.”
“Okay,” she says, and walks me to the door. “Remember to give it a few minutes.”
“All right,” I tell her, and I walk out the door.
You know, this is a pretty good addition to the relationship weekend. In the future, I’m sure I’ll want to figure out something better than just walking around the halls a couple of minutes, but it’ll be good to cover the anticipation of getting picked up or picking someone up.
I walk around the halls for a few minutes and, after knocking on the wrong door and being held captive in conversation with the occupant of that room for what has to be a good 20 minutes, I make my way back to our hotel room door.
I knock.
There’s no answer.
I knock again.
There’s still no answer.
I knock and call out Emma’s name, but there’s still nothing.
Finally, I pull out my phone and punch in Emma’s number. Apparently, I’ve forgotten which room is ours, and I really don’t want to have to knock on every door in this hall to find the right one.
“Hello?”
“Hey,” I say, “I think I forgot which room we have.”
“Were you just knocking?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I tell her.
“It’s the right room,” she says, “but I’ve had a little change of heart. I think that you and I need to have a little discussion about what we’re doing here, and this time, I think that I need to be the one to lead it.”
“Oh, give me a break, will you?” I beg.
“First thing,” she says, “I’ll kiss you because we’re going to be kissing onscreen, but we’re not going to spend three hours a night and—how did you describe it? Dozens of little interludes between now and when Dutch calls action?”
“I get that this makes you uncomfortable,” I respond, “but I really think it’s best if we stick to the plan.”
“Do you know where intimacy comes from?” she asks.
“It—”
“Intimacy comes from feeling safe with a person, feeling a sense of security and trust. Knowing that this person, the person that you’re with, isn’t going to judge you if you’ve made a mistake, they’re going to help you pick yourself up. Intimacy comes from two people who feel such affection for one another that there is no part of themselves that they are unwilling to share with each other. Call me crazy, but I don’t think we’re going to be covering intimacy in a weekend, but we’re going to try,” she says.
“What do you have in mind, then?” I ask.
“First off,” she says, “we’re not staying in the same room. Call me back after you’ve booked another room for yourself.”
“Emma, you’ve got to see how unreasonable all this is,” I tell her. “There are lot of things we’re going to have to cover, and we really don’t have time to go over the things we’re not even going to need to—”
“You know what the problem is with your movies, at least the romantic ones?” she asks.
“What’s that?” I return.
This should be fun.
“Whenever you’re with your onscreen significant other, you just come off as fuck buddies,” she says. “There’s nothing beyond the physical, though I will give you credit for making that pretty damn on the money. Why don’t we try things a little differently this time?” she asks. “Why don’t we branch out a little and see if we can bring something new to the screen?”
“You keep saying ‘we,’ but I’m getting the feeling you really mean me,” I answer.
“Good, you’re catching on,” she says. “Now here’s how the night is going to go…”
She goes on to describe just about the opposite of everything I had planned for this weekend with the exception of having dinner together nightly. So that much, it seems, we agree on.
“I don’t know,” I tell her. “My method has worked for me on almost a dozen films.”
“Yeah,” she says, “it’s worked well enough to get you passed over time and time again for more serious roles. Ever wonder why people don’t take you seriously enough to offer you those period characters or the troubled geniuses that win all the awards? Maybe it’s because anytime anything serious comes along, you make a joke out of it and just go with your instincts.”
That’s a little close to home.
“Look, I get that you’re trying to do the whole overhaul the Hollywood bad boy thing,” I tell her, “but just because you’ve got some fairy tale wet dream going on in your head doesn’t mean that it’s got anything to do with reality, much less with acting.”
That may have been a bit harsh.
“I’ll see you at dinner,” she says, and she hangs up.
Well, that could have gone better.
I don’t know what the hell we’re doing here anymore. I don’t even know why I thought it was going to be a good idea in the first place. Dutch suggested it, sure, but I’m the one that filled in the details.
This kind of thing can make an onscreen performance sizzle, but whatever’s going on here, it’s personal, and because it’s personal, we’re both fighting it in our own special way.
Why’s it personal, though?
I’ve been here, to this very hotel, for this very purpose, at least five times and I’ve never had so much fucking hassle right from the start.
Come to think of it, the whole blackmail thing’s probably got her pretty freaked out.
I pull the phone out of my pocket and dial the number.
“I don’t really want to talk right now,” Emma answers. “I’ll see you at dinner.”
“It’s been 72 hours, hasn’t it?” I ask.
“Yeah,” she says. She’s crying.
“What did you do?” I ask.
“I wrote him a check,” she says. “What do you think I did? He sent me texts with the pictures. He’s definitely got them.”
“Wanna talk about it?” I ask.
She sniffs and takes a deep breath. “If there’s any way we could get through this weekend without mentioning it again, I would be very happy,” she says.
“Okay,” I respond. “Do you want to come out and maybe just talk?”
I’m halfway down the hall, but in the distance, I can hear a door unlatch and Emma opens up, her hair still pristine, though her mascara’s running.
“Yeah,” she says into the phone, and hangs up.
Tofu.
My stalker carved tofu, covered it in raspberry sauce, and left it in a black garbage can on my gated driveway.
Right now, everything’s complicated and everything’s absurd.
Out there somewhere is a woman who thought the way into my heart was a way-too-familiar letter and that 30-pound bag.
Right in front of me is a soon-to-be-A-list, not to mention gorgeous actress with perfect hair and the saddest eyes. In that doorway is a woman who’s in one of the more ridiculous situations the world can throw at a person, just trying to find a way to focus on the job that’s going to make or break her career.
Maybe it’s time I throw her a rope.
I walk toward the room, but Emma shakes her head.
“We’re just going to dinner a little early,” she says. “That’s all. I’ll be out in a few minutes.”
Maybe I should tell her about Jamie.
That really couldn’t serve a purpose here, though. The way that Emma described intimacy, I mean, it wouldn’t be out of line, I don’t think, but then again, how could it possibly be relevant?
I guess if the only point is to be vulnerable, that’s the story to tell, but I don’t think that intimacy, especially fake intimacy, demands complete vulnerability.
At the end of the day, two people are still two people, right?
The door opens and Emma walks out, saying, “I realized that without you knowing when I was going to be ready to go, it didn’t make much sense for you to come to the door. Either you’d be early, in which case making you wait at all becomes a useless exercise, or you’re late, and I’m stuck waiting there when you’re right on the other side of the door. All of that being the case,” she says, “I am ready to go to dinner.”
With all the uncertainty, the awkwardness, and the general reign of miscommunication, yeah: this is starting to feel like a relationship.