Bleak (11 page)

My parents and sister descend the day after Christmas and leave New Years morning. It’s the most time the Carstone family has spent together since our weeklong trip to Puerto Rico during my sophomore year in high school, and even then we saw each only other at dinner. My parents hung out at the pool at the hotel, and Carrie and I walked the one block to the beach. A champion tanner, Carrie would soak up rays for hours, shifting her towel like a human sundial every time the sun moved a fraction of an inch, while I read trashy novels in the shade. On one particularly good day, I read
The Valley of the Dolls
and
The Betsy.

While we wait at baggage claim for my father’s black suitcase, which is indistinguishable from every other black suitcase in the universe despite the many pink ribbons Mom has given him to tie to the zipper, I wonder if the old system would work now. My apartment has a pool. Although considerably less glamorous than the Embassy Suites San Juan, it has four sleek lounge chairs, multicolored floating noodles and a vending machine that sometimes works. I could set them up there while Carrie and I cruise Robertson for high-end kitchen appliances.

I’d only have to hear about Dad’s subpar packing abilities during dinner.

In the car, Mom rattles off a list of things she can’t wait to do like Disneyland and Mann’s Chinese Theater, and I realize I’m stuck. There’s no you-go-your-way-and-I’ll-go-my-way-and-we’ll-meet-up-for-steaks-at-Ruth’s-Chris-at-eight. We’re in this together.

Oh, God.

Luckily, my parents insist on staying at the Super 8 on Western. I offer them my bedroom—Carrie and I could share the couch in the living room—but they say they’re on vacation and want to be pampered. What kind of luxuries they expect to encounter at a cut-rate budget motel, I have no idea, but I don’t say a word. Far be it for me to reason them out of a comfortable distance.

By the time Mom and Dad are settled in their standard king bedroom, daylight is gone and I suggest places for dinner. Their dining habits are safe and predictable. Dad likes red meat and red sauces. With Simon’s help, I’ve pulled together a comprehensive collection of pubs, diners and Italian restaurants. I also have a list of attractions and activities like the Getty Museum, Universal Studios and Santa Barbara. The point is to keep them so busy they don’t ask about my job hunt. They’d freak if they knew I was investing money in my writing career.

My efforts to distract my parents work for three days, but during lunch at the Santa Monica pier Mom pulls out that morning’s
L.A. Times
and hands it to me. Nine positions are circled in blue pen. “I didn’t know which ones you’ve already applied for, so I sent your résumé and cover letter to each. It never hurts to be too thorough.”

Appalled, I picture the Super 8’s inadequate business center, a closet of a room with a hanging bulb, a computer and a dot matrix printer. Apparently, that’s all you need.

Next to me, her mouth full of New England clam chowder, Carrie giggles.

Biting back a cutting remark about her touchy-feely, clingy boyfriend, I pretend to examine the paper with intense concentration. “Yes,” I say after a minute, “I’ve applied to all of these.” Since I’m already lying to my parents by omission, I might as well go all the way and add commission. There’s no point in being dishonest
and
uncomfortable.

“Are you sure?” Carrie asks with a big grin, spooning more soup. “I don’t remember seeing you at the computer this morning.”

She has no idea how vulnerable she is with her loser boyfriend. But I take the high road. “Positive. I did them when you went to the bakery to buy Mom and Dad croissants for breakfast.” I turn to my parents. “How were they? I sent her to a wonderful little bakery on Los Feliz. They make killer pastries.”

Mom’s eyebrows knit. “We didn’t get any croissants.”

“Oh,” I say. “I guess Carrie ate them all.”

In her rush to defend herself, my sister swallows wrong and chokes. She says, “I didn’t—” several times but can’t get out the full sentence.

Dad pats her on the back. “That’s all right, sweetie. We all know how you love to eat.”

Gasping for breath, Carrie stares daggers at me.

As far as family bonding moments go, it’s one of our best.

Carrie sulks for the next day and a half and it’s only when Mom is fitting her hands perfectly into the cement impression of Bette Davis’s (“Look at that, George. We could be twins.”) that she tells me Glenn is moving in with her.

The admission is so stunning, I need a moment to regain my breath. I knew it was coming from the proprietary way he talked about her cabinets and yet I’m totally shocked. I try to imagine what it will be like to be related to him. I picture introducing him to the people in my life. Hi, Simon, do you know my brother-in-law, Glenn?

My stomach ties itself into greasy knots.

I plaster a smile on my face and tell myself it’s not about me. “Congratulations. When’s moving day?”

“We’re thinking February. He hasn’t told his landlord yet. But it shouldn’t be a problem. The person he got the apartment from broke her lease, too.”

I nod and try to think of something positive to say. “You’ll save a ton on rent.”

“I know. We’re thinking of getting an iPad with the extra money.”

If they’re buying things together, all hope is lost. Co-ownership is the same as marriage. Wren, let me introduce you to my brother-in-law, Glenn.

The topic is so depressing, I immediately change it. “How’s Ruby? Her last e-mail was garbled and confused. They’re adopting a puppy?”

Carrie smiles as Mom slides off her sandal and puts her left foot into the casting made by Jean Harlow. “They’re having a baby.”

“A baby and a puppy?” I ask, surprised. I can imagine Lionel easily juggling the two but his wife is a little more scattered. No doubt she’d put the puppy in the cradle and the baby on a leash. “That’s a double whammy.”

“No, just a baby,” she says. “Puppy is Ruby’s term for it but she forgets that everyone doesn’t know the code.”

“In that case, I better give her a call. My response was to suggest obedience training and Wee-Wee Pads.”

“Please. I bought her a bag of pig’s ears from Costco.”

We laugh and Glenn is forgotten. Hopefully he will always be so easy to dismiss.

On their last night, we go to the Pirellis for a New Year’s Eve party. There are a dozen other things I’d rather do, like poke myself with needles while “Living on a Prayer” plays over and over again with deadening repetition, but I can’t think of a way to extricate myself gracefully without seeming like an ingrate.

Janine envelopes me in a hug as soon as we arrive and gushes about how sweet I am to my parents. “I just know she’s going to be a huge success, and then we can say we knew her when.”

Mom looks surprised at this, as if she’s trying to figure out how a successful career as a paralegal can make you famous. She’s blocked out the screenwriting idea completely. It’s like I moved to L.A. for the weather.

Bob offers us drinks and leads us to the bar, where a young guy in a tuxedo is making piña coladas. “The specialty of the evening,” he announces without any irony. “Our theme is the tropics. Janine bought wonderful coconut shrimp with a poi dipping sauce. Be sure to try some. It’s delicious. Last year we did old Paris and made crepes. We had a small kitchen fire, which is why we ordered in. As Ricki knows, Janine usually takes great pride in her cooking.”

Everyone looks at me. Carrie raises an eyebrow. “She’s an excellent cook.”

Bob smiles approvingly and for a moment I fear he’s going to invite me to move back into the house—he and Janine suffer from a virulent case of empty-nest syndrome—but he just turns to the bar and orders four piña coladas. They come complete with a little umbrella and a plastic monkey hanging off the side of the glass.

“How delightful,” Mom says, taking a sip. Unless she’s at a wedding and feeling particularly festive, she usually sticks with Diet Coke. Dad’s a straight beer guy, Carrie likes mojitos and I lean toward Manhattans with smooth bourbon, but we all gush over the drink like it’s the best thing in the world.

Satisfied, Bob wanders off to mingle with his other guests. Slowly and with no preorganized plan of action, we each take another few sips, then discreetly leave our cup in some dark corner of the living room. We meet up again in the center by the coconut shrimp.

It’s another great bonding moment.

Far from being the endless nag-fest I expected, this trip has been remarkably easy and stress-free. I’ve even had fun on occasion. It’s like everyone sent the best version of themselves to represent them at a West Coast summit. Mom mentioned dad’s luggage only once, while waiting for Space Mountain, and that was admittedly a very long line. She had to say something.

Janine introduces us to everyone in the room so we won’t start the New Year off with a bunch of strangers. It’s a great idea in theory but it makes for a long, boring evening of small talk. My parents love it. I take Carrie to the backyard to drink our sea breezes in silence. We sit on the plastic lounge chairs, which are as chilly as the air. I wrap my arms around my knees.

“What are you doing?” Carrie asks.

I look up. “Huddling for warmth.”

She sighs loudly. It’s too dark to see the expression on her face, but I can imagine it. Her mouth is turned down and her eyes are dark with disgust. “No, what are you doing out here? What’s the point of this?”

Several answers occur to me, but I know they won’t make sense to a Carstone. Taking a gamble on yourself and trying something new aren’t valid reasons. “I’m keeping an eye on my investment,” I say finally. “I’ve already gotten better information about the movie from being here than I did in New York.”

Carrie nods—not to convey approval but to indicate she heard me. “Tell me more about this Vholes character. Who is he? What do we know about him?”

“He’s a successful screenwriter,” I say, trying not to be offended by her suspicion. Although Carrie is only three years older than me, she sometimes sees herself as my third parent. I blame my mom for deputizing her as my baby-sitter at the tender age of eleven. Clearly she was too young for the responsibility.

“If he’s so successful, why does he have to give classes?”

“He has a skill to pass on,” I explain with what I think is considerable patience. “I’m very lucky to be working with him.”

Carrie is unimpressed. “What’s he done?”

“None of his screenplays have been produced,” I admit reluctantly.

I know exactly how she’s going to react, and she doesn’t disappointment. “And you’re lucky to be working with him? I’d say it’s the other way around. If a bunch of unproduced screenplays is an indicator of success in this business, what’s failure?”

Sighing loudly myself, I launch into a brief explanation of the complicated, convoluted and often Byzantine movie industry. I tell her about the super hot writers hired for
J&J,
who cost half a million dollars and haven’t had a produced film in almost a dozen years. I explain how you can make a very good living in this town without getting anything made.

It sounds bizarre, even to me. Like Carrie, I’m used to gauging material success by a positive outcome. A good writer writes a good screenplay that gets made into a great movie. Anything less seems to imply failure, even a good writer writing a good screenplay that gets made into a bad movie.

But Hollywood is its own counterintuitive little universe. Bad writers churn out awful screenplays that get made into terrible movies that do spectacularly well. The system shouldn’t work and yet it does. Somehow from this trash heap Oscar Winners and Sundance selections emerge as the new classics.

Just like in a relationship, you need the bad to balance the good.

What this means for
J&J,
I don’t know. I hope it’ll be one of the good ones that surprise critics and moviegoers alike but I fear, given the choice of Moxie—a choice essentially of star power over substance—that it will be just one more forgettable flick you watch on a plane while waiting for the flight attendant to collect the remains of your rubbery chicken and oversalted mashed potatoes.

But these thoughts have nothing to do with Carrie’s question and I force myself to return to my original point, which is I’m lucky to have someone like John showing me the ropes.

Still unconvinced, she shakes her head, like I’m the unknowing dupe of some intricate scam like a pyramid scheme. I resent her condescension and it’s all I can do not to say the same thing about Glenn: What are you doing? What’s the point of this? Does he really make you happy? Are you sure you can’t do better? When did you stop being my sister and become his security blanket?

It’s hard when you find out someone isn’t the person you thought they were because you have to go on loving them anyway.

The bartender leaves at the stroke of midnight and twenty minutes later the guests follow. Carrie and I watch the mass exodus with confusion and relief. Mom offers to help Janine clean up but she’s summarily dismissed. “I have someone coming in tomorrow to do it,” Janine says with a yawn. Twelve-thirty is the latest the Pirellis have been up in three hundred and sixty-four days.

As soon as we get into the car, Dad announces he’s starving, and I pull into the nearest In and Out Burger. I’m not hungry but I order french fries and a chocolate shake to start the year off right. We bring the food back to their Super 8 and cluster around the small table to eat. The overcrowding and greasy fast food reminds Mom of our childhood and she starts to tear up. My move to California is harder on her than I thought.

Feeling generous because they’re leaving tomorrow, I suggest we play cards like we used to when we were kids. I expect to get universally pooh-poohed but Mom’s eyes light up and Dad runs down to reception to buy cards. The gift shop is closed at one a.m. on New Year’s Eve but somehow he convinces the night clerk to sell him a deck. He returns to the room triumphant and ready to win. Dad has always had a competitive streak.

We play Oh, Hell until three in the morning, only stopping when Mom nods off in the middle of a hand. Carrie and I go home and open a bottle of Chardonnay. We toast to the new year, her new kitchen, my new career.