They're Not Your Friends Read online

  Again, silence. A long silence. Another vacant stare. It was like speaking to a dead man. Lem turned away and stared at their silhouettes on the empty screen. Thom was nearly a head taller then Lem. Finally, Thom cleared his throat. Lem prayed for his friend to be there.

  “Who are you?”

  Lem grabbed Thom by the collar. “Thom, it’s me. Lem. Lem Brac. Come on, old buddy.”

  “They’re not going to lick me! I’m going to live through this, and when it’s over, I’ll never be hungry again.”

  Lem’s heart flopped in his chest. Thom wasn’t drunk. Usually the guy slurred his words after a few rounds, but nothing like this. “Thom? Thom, what is this?”

  Thom’s voice became louder and louder until it boomed.

  “Forget it, Jake. It’s Chinatown. . . Plastics. . . Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain. The great Oz has spoken. . . Go ahead, make my day. . . Dave, this conversation can serve no purpose anymore. Good-bye.”

  “You’re right,” Lem whispered. “Good-bye.” Then he slowly opened the door and headed out. He turned and looked at Thom. He wiped his eyes with a finger when he realized everything suddenly had gone blurry. He was crying.

  California

  LYFSGR8

  CHAPTER 6

  MIKE RENTED AN APARTMENT IN STUDIO CITY, WHICH WAS RIGHT at the rim of Hollywood but part of the San Fernando Valley. Studio City’s Ventura Boulevard was lined with ersatz antique stores, twenty-five-room motels with big neon signs, and restaurants that, for some reason Mike couldn’t figure out, were mostly Thai. Thai Spoon, Thai Kitchen, Sate Grill, Bangkok Noodles, Pad Thai House, House of Thai, Thai Delite. They all specialized in minimalist decor with framed embroidered elephants, faded black-and-white headshots of unknown actors raving about the cuisine, and institutional fluorescent lighting, which gave them an ice-rink ambiance. And there was always the requisite murky-watered aquarium with bloated goldfish gasping for aerated water but breathing out good feng shui for everyone.

  Mike’s street off Ventura was a place where stucco condo complexes were lined up like building blocks. They looked exactly the same, more like medical centers than home sweet home. It was Legoland with names like Hawaiian Breeze, Sunnyside Hills, Paradise Palms, The Riviera, and Monaco Gardens—all written in slanted script on pale pastel facades. The roofs were bedecked with corrugated terra-cotta tiles, but instead of the desired effect of Mediterranean elegance, they looked more like Howard Johnson kitsch. Where was the California his mother had told him about?

  Mike had discovered that Studio City was the dwelling of choice for bit players, strugglers, and hangers-on, all vying to be PLYRS, ACTRS, AKTRSIS, and, most important, YUNG. Mike decided that these were people who, from a wide angle, seemed okay and sometimes even beautiful, but zoom in and they were loaded with rips, tears, frays, wrinkles, and pockmarks. Collagen and Botox distorted their smiles and bloated the skin where their cheekbones once stood; pumped-up lips like bicycle tires flapped out words as if perpetually anesthetized. Plastic surgery permanently shocked their eyes and swallowed their expressions, so it was hard to discern whether they were happy, sad, or just praying for the Big Break.

  A real estate agent with a license plate that read ICSALES lived next to Mike. On the other side was a twenty-something blond woman with a dog named Root Canal. When Mike first heard her yelling her canine’s moniker, he assumed she was in some kind of dental distress. One day when Mike was lounging at the pool, enjoying the November sun, Root Canal and his owner plopped in a chaise next to him, even though there were twenty empty chairs around the pool’s perimeter. The owner introduced her poodle.

  “I know. I know. It’s a strange name. I was dating this hot dentist who couldn’t commit to me. I either wanted a dog or a husband so when Dentist Donald wouldn’t stand up to the challenge, I bought my little poodle here and named him Root Canal. We met over one. Donald said I had a great mouth. Very Julia Roberts with a hint of Cameron Diaz, he said.”

  “Aha.”

  “After we broke up, I thought about changing Rootie’s name, but it didn’t work. Typical. The jerk—not Rootie, D.D.—stayed with me long enough so that I couldn’t change Rootie’s name without confusing him.”

  The dog sniffed Mike’s hand.

  “My name’s Amber. Amber Pepridge.”

  “Hello, Amber. I’m Mike Posner. ”

  “You staying here for a while?”

  “I guess.”

  “Really? Because no one stays in Los Angeles for long, and if you’re living in Studio City, it’s an even shorter stay. Actually if you’re in an apartment in Studio City, you’ve probably left already; it’s just your energy that’s still here. I’m probably having a conversation right now with your psychic residue.”

  “Maybe I am. Maybe you’ve already left.”

  “No way. I’m not leaving till my energy’s up on the big screen. As you probably guessed, I’m an actress. We all are, aren’t we? You have to be, right? You sort of have that Leo DiCap thing going with that slender build and maybe a little Matt Damon meets Matthew Perry bone structure. I’m not sure who else you are though.” She squinted as she studied him. “Who do I look like?”

  Amber Pepridge spoke as though she was a beauty pageant contestant explaining to the world how she’d save the children in Ethiopia if only she was crowned Miss USA. Her gesticulations were grand and sweeping, and she enunciated each syllable and punctuated each sentence with a long, radiant smile. She eyeballed Mike the entire time.

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  “Well, as I said, I’ve been told I have a Julia Roberts mouth with a hint of Cameron Diaz. Meg Ryan’s eyes. And I sort of have Marisa Tomei’s cheekbones. I had a casting director say that Sarah Jessica Parker is in my hair. So, who reps you?”

  “Nobody.”

  “Nobody? You need representation.”

  “I’m not an actor.”

  “You’re kidding? I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone in this building who wasn’t trying to be an actor.”

  “That women on the other side of me—she’s a real estate agent.”

  “Yeah, sure she is. I don’t think she’s sold a house yet, but if you turn on your TV in the afternoon, you’ll see her on her cable access show. Reel Estate, I think it’s called. She talks about celebrity houses for sale.”

  Rootie jumped onto Amber’s white plastic chaise. “Hello, baby. Hello. How’s my little baby?” Amber said as she petted him. “Rootie just had his balls clipped, but you couldn’t tell, I bet.”

  “Well, no.”

  “I didn’t want to do it, but Rootie was humping everything in sight. Wall-to-wall jism, forgive my bluntness. My audition clothes were ruined. I lost a really good role on a sitcom cause I had a Monica Lewinsky–esque stain on my dress. It was humiliating. The casting directors were laughing hysterically during my audition. I thought I got the part.”

  Amber shook her head. “So we compromised. I fixed him, but I had the doctor insert Neutricals.”

  “Neutricals?”

  “Plastic balls.”

  “Your dog has plastic balls?” Mike ducked his head to check Rootie’s plumbing.

  “My animal psychologist said dogs suffer self-esteem problems after their balls are, well, ripped off. Imagine how you’d feel? So my doctor inserted these plastic balls.”

  Amber studied Mike. He knew what she was probably thinking. He looks like a tourist. After a lifetime in the frozen tundra that is upstate New York, he’d never had an actual summer wardrobe and didn’t know precisely how to dress for the desert. Today, he was wearing a long-sleeved shirt even though it was probably almost eighty degrees. But it was cold this morning. After nearly a year he still couldn’t figure it out.

  “I should make you dinner sometime. You’re the first person in the building who actually unpacked his suitcase. Everyone here’s waiting for the Callback. They’re packed up and ready to go on location anywhere. Most of us have been living here temporarily for
years and years.”

  “Sure,” Mike said, knowing it would never happen. Los Angelenos lacked follow-up skills.

  “So what do you do?”

  “Well, I write for. . . Personality.” He said it slowly, knowing Amber would be extremely impressed.

  “You’re absolutely fucking kidding me. That’s my favorite magazine EVER.”

  “Yeah, well. . .”

  “You must have a lot of friends in the industry.”

  “Well. . .”

  “You know anyone who’d be interested in auditioning a talented actress looking for her big break? Here’s my card. If you think of someone you know who wants someone who can do comedy and drama, tell them to call me. When I become huge, I’ll mention you in all the articles. I’d never forget those who helped me on the way up; I guarantee it.”

  Mike studied the card. Amber Pepridge: Actress, Singer, Entertainer.

  Amber was beautiful and hot. And she wanted Mike. Well, she wanted what she thought Mike stood for. If he said, “I’ll see what I can do. Let’s go to your place and look at your portfolio,” he’d be getting laid in about ten minutes. But Mike would never do anything about it. No, he couldn’t risk being the laughingstock of the building.

  HOW TO PUT IT? Mike had a lot in common with Root Canal. He was, well, not well endowed. Actually, small. Laughably small. Nubby. God, it was so embarrassing. When he lost his virginity, his girlfriend didn’t even know it. “Are you in yet? Where are you? Come on, Mike. Is something wrong? Is it me? You’re not attracted to me. Are you? What is it?” He ran out of the room. He never dated. Liz had been his only real girlfriend. She fell in love with him because he wasn’t like the other guys who just wanted to get in her pants, she said. Little did she know how desperately he wanted to be like the guys who just wanted to get in her pants. When he finally told her, she was too smitten to care. And he figured he’d marry her and never have to deal with the embarrassment again. Instead, she dumped him. Probably because of it. Of course because of it.

  Lady killer. His friends back east thought he didn’t have a girlfriend because he was screwing hordes of chicks.

  Ace reporter. His editors thought he was the best-connected writer at the magazine.

  Mike Poseur. He didn’t know who he was anymore. A pin-dicked guy who couldn’t get laid if his life depended on it. A mediocre reporter who discovered that being the best required a whole lot of lying.

  WHEN MIKE STARTED at the magazine, he was told to write a story about Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston. He assumed he’d sit down and interview them.

  “Are you kidding? They hate you,” Brad’s publicist said.

  “Me? They don’t even know me.”

  “Your magazine. It’s too intrusive. They won’t talk to you. Ever. Your magazine said it was doing a story on Brad’s movie career and instead you just wrote about all the women you assumed he nailed. Of course it was all wrong. And then you had to dig up his high school classmates. And some reporter staked out his parents’ home.”

  Mike panicked. He’d moved his whole life to Los Angeles and already he was failing. Then over lunch, Lem Brac explained.

  “We never talk to the celebrity. We talk to friends of friends. We talk to hairstylists and assistant directors. Look at the credits for the movies they’re in. Find the people at the bottom rung. The assistants to assistants. They’ll always talk. They’ll tell you everything you need to know. Even if they don’t know a thing themselves.”

  But most of them didn’t return calls. He remembered the first person who actually spoke to him. It was a hairstylist’s assistant who had wrapped Brad Pitt’s hair in foil. The conversation went something like this:

  “I don’t know anything.”

  “You must know something.”

  “I spent about ten minutes helping my boss put underlights in his hair. Brad read the newspaper the whole time. We didn’t talk.”

  “Underlights?”

  “Well, it’s this procedure where instead of. . .”

  “Never mind. Think. You must know something about him.”

  “Well, his hair looks great with underlights. He has the most amazing smile. He’s just gorgeous. Radiant.”

  “That’s really great stuff, but what about his marriage? We need stories about Brad and Jennifer. What are they like together?”

  “I saw them together on Access Hollywood. They seem happy.”

  “That’s a start. What else?”

  “Well, I heard from one of my friends that they are so in love. But he probably read about it in your magazine.”

  “Great, great. What else did he say?”

  “I think that’s it.”

  “Come on, come on. . .”

  “Well, I think he overheard Brad talking on the set one day. He was gonna make dinner for her. But I’m not sure.”

  “Really? See, that’s something. You remember what kind of food?”

  “Well, I think he likes Italian food. My friend saw him eating spaghetti on the set, I think. But then again, I read in your magazine that they’re both really into The Zone.”

  Mike was ready to dismiss the whole anecdote. But then Vince banged on the door. “Get anything yet? We’re having a meeting in ten.”

  Mike couldn’t be mediocre anymore. He couldn’t relive the Daily News experience. He had to be the best. Suddenly, he heard himself in the meeting.

  “I have this great source. A good friend of Brad’s. I promised I wouldn’t use his name. He says they’re homebodies. They love spending evenings in, cooking for each other. They take turns. Sometimes they’ll cook together and make elaborate meals for friends. Just last night Brad made Jennifer this enormous Italian dinner. Seafood pasta, a salad. Every now and then they go off The Zone.”

  Vince clapped. “Great stuff!”

  In an instant, he was no longer Mike the hick from Rochester.

  Soon he began developing other “sources.” No one questioned him. The key was to write things celebrities wouldn’t get upset about. Fluff and puff. Tom Cruise hugging and playing with his daughter on the set of a movie. Demi Moore’s friends talking about what a doting mom she is. Julia Roberts telling a “good friend” how in love she is with her husband. Innocuous, positive stuff. Stuff that no one would suspect was a lie. Stuff that even the celebrity might believe happened or, at least, wished happened.

  It was too easy.

  ONE DAY MIKE and Lottie were assigned to collaborate on a story.

  “Show her the ropes. She’s green, but there’s something there,” Vince had confided. “Teach her the art of sourcing.”

  “Sure thing, Vince.”

  There had been rumors that the great romance between Sebastian Brooks and Stephanie Winters had fizzled. They hadn’t filed divorce papers yet, but allegedly the action/adventure film stars were living apart. Mike made some calls.

  “They’re just so busy with their careers.” “Sebastian just can’t commit to one woman.” “Stephanie’s still got some wild oats to sow.” “He needs someone more down to earth.” “She needs someone more sophisticated.”

  “She’s completely obsessed with Dustin Hoffman.”

  “What? So, are they having an affair?”

  “Affair? With who?”

  “Dustin Hoffman.”

  “With Dustin Hoffman? Gross! That’s her baby!”

  “Her baby?”

  “They named their baby Dustin Hoffman. Anyway, she’s a great mother. And Sebs is jealous. He doesn’t like sharing the spotlight per se.”

  “Sebastian is a natural dad—Stephanie hates competing with Dustin Hoffman.” “They’re from the opposite sides of the track.” “They’re still in love.” “They’ll be back together in a week.” “They hate each other.” “They’ll never speak to each other again.” “It’s all a publicity stunt.”

  It was then that Mike realized that Personality’s reporting techniques were very similar to the children’s game of Telephone. In the game, something is whispered from o
ne ear to the next until the last kid in the chain blurts out a hysterically distorted rendition. “They still love each other” becomes “thistle of easy over.”

  At Personality, reporters interviewed what was tantamount to the last person in Telephone. Key grips, boom operators, casting directors, and set designers were all quoted as sources, even if their contact with the celebrity was as minimal as a few dabs of pancake makeup on a movie set a few years back. That’s why it was so easy to lie. “We haven’t seen each other in years” becomes “a source close to the subject.”

  Actually, the reporting at Personality was exactly like the game of Telephone—except the last kid in the chain was deaf.

  VINCE CALLED LOTTIE and Mike into his office to discuss their progress.

  “This is huge. Huge. We want to be the first to report accurately on their breakup, before the divorce papers become a matter of public record,” Vince said, narrowing his eyes and clenching his jaw. “This is the kind of breaking news story that we do best. Bernie is wetting her pants. So, do you have anything?”

  Mike stared at Vince, but he could barely concentrate; the smell of cocoa butter emanating from Lottie’s pores was intoxicating. He shifted his eyes toward her as she beamed a smile at Vince.

  “My sources say they’re trying to work it out,” Mike said, sucking in his cheeks.

  Lottie glared at him. “My sources say it’s officially over.”

  Mike gave Lottie a quick smirk and then smiled at Vince. “I heard they wanna make it work, for Dustin Hoffman’s sake.”

  Lottie sneered at Mike. “My sources say Stephanie doesn’t want anything to do with Dustin.”

  “My sources say Stephanie’s a great mother.”

  “Mine say she sucks.”

  Mike was so turned on he could have played verbal volleyball all day.