I sign the scissors and the condom, but the tube of toothpaste is giving me some problems.
I’m a person who prides herself on the aesthetic quality of my signature, but with all the ripples and overall unevenness of the tube, it’s difficult to do anything that’s even recognizable as my autograph.
I muddle my way through, though, and finally get to the question that I’ve wanted to ask Damian since he invited me to dinner.
“So, what am I doing here?” I ask.
“I just thought it would be nice to get to know you a bit,” he says. “We’re going to be working closely for a while and I thought it would be nice if we could be friends.”
“That’s a decent sentiment,” I tell him.
My problem with Damian, on the most basic level, is that he’s got all of this fame and all of this freedom as one of the most highly sought actors in Hollywood, and that he doesn’t seem to appreciate any of it.
It was one thing before I met Damian when I could pretend that he must be that down-to-earth, personable kind of actor who only uses his fame and fortune for good that people always project onto their favorite actors or musicians. Back then, I could at least imagine that he had enough poise and decency that I wouldn’t feel this need to see him fall in the mud.
Ah, the fairy tales we make up for ourselves.
Now, though, he’s said a couple of things here and there that would almost point to a more mature and enlightened perspective, I know better than to expect that as something intrinsic to his character. It’s more like a glitch in the Matrix: chances are, they’re an indication that something bad is about to happen.
We talk a while, but it becomes pretty evident pretty quickly that there’s not much common experience between us other than working on the set of this movie. At one point, he tried to tell me how he had some profound experience on his way out of a remote interview, but he gave up on the story before reaching any kind of point.
We have our dinner and it’s easy enough to see why we’re having such a hard time speaking with one another.
I don’t think it’s that we’re really such drastically different creatures that we’re never going to understand each other. I think it’s more the fact that both of us are staying away from any topic of conversation that could be considered even remotely personal or real.
I can’t prove it, but I kind of get the feeling that he doesn’t really like me all that well. I guess that’s fair, though, as I’m not sure that I like him that well right now, either.
“So, why are we here?” I ask after we’re through the fourth, though surprisingly not final, course.
I don’t really get a satisfying answer.
* * *
I get home and I’m almost certain that Damian just invited me to dinner so he could get me to sign that random bullshit that may or may not go to one of his relatives. It’s hard to say why he wouldn’t just do that on the set, but maybe he was worried it might weaken him in some strange way to be seen receiving an autograph from me in front of the cast and crew.
As for me, I’m hoping for a quiet night where I can decompress and try to reconcile my dreams of being an actress in a major film with the soul-crushing reality of it. Like everything else, though, the night doesn’t go as planned.
My phone rings, and without bothering to check the caller ID, I answer it.
“Is this Emma Roxy?” a man on the other end asks.
Maybe Damian was right about the need for walls.
“Yeah,” I answer. I was hoping I’d never have to hear this voice again. “What do you want, Ben?”
“Hey, look at that,” he says. “You do remember me.”
Yeah, I remember Ben.
Ben is a guy I dated shortly after I graduated high school and dated off and on for nearly a year. He’s also someone who, during the entirety of our relationship, never once took me seriously.
To him, I was always the hot wannabe actor that he was banging. He never believed that I would make anything of myself, not just as an actress, but in general. He didn’t mind letting me know his rather low opinion of me, either.
“It’s been almost a year since we’ve talked, and if you’re wondering, I can tell you that it absolutely has not been long enough,” I tell him.
“I’ve missed our little chats,” he says.
“What do you want, Ben?” I ask.