Fame

We pulled up to the house. It looked like a country club. We were flash-bulbed getting out of the limo.

​“I thought this was a fucking party,” Lionel said, “not a premiere.”

​ ​“Whichever magazine’s covering it probably paid for almost all of it,” Anjelina said, “ignore it.”

​“Bottom-feeding motherfuckers.”

​ The living room was like a marble warehouse. A fountain, statues, and faces everywhere. I saw a free corner and stood by a bust of Spinoza. Billy and Amanda stood with us. Anjelina whispered in my ear that she was going to hunt for friends. Lionel motioned a server over, and we lifted glasses of wine off a silver tray. Two young blondes who had a reality show were being followed by a camera crew. They were famous for nothing. No talent, no souls. They came from rich families and nothing else. The taller one saw me, and she ran over with her friend. She looked at the camera, “That’s John Edmonds. He’s hot.” She looked at me, “You’re hot.”

The cameras and lights were on us. She went to hug me. I stopped her, “Beat it.”

​“Huh?”

​“Beat it,” I said, “you moron.”

The little one started to say something. I glanced at her, then back to the taller one, “And take your little brother with you.”

They walked off. The cameras stayed on me. I looked at Lionel, “Pieces of shit.”

I looked at the lead camera guy. They left. Billy broke up laughing with Amanda. Lionel looked at Christine, “So much for Anjie’s other woman theory,” he laughed and patted my back, “I love you.”

Christine took my elbow, “Same here.”

​Almost every face from celluloid, print, or the tube was floating around us. Mostly very short people. Cocaine was around.

Two actors buzzed by, then another one stopped and shook Lionel’s hand. He looked like he was about to fall over. He walked away. Lionel sipped his wine, “You know what they say, When in Relapse.”

“All the beautiful abuse. This is fucking great.”

“I know, a line right into the heart of the beast.”