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Authors: Evan Marshall

BOOK: Crushing Crystal
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Chapter 28
W
hen Matt, Kyara and Rick returned to the cabin, they looked like a Gatorade commercial. They were jumping to give each other high-fives and recounting each other's wipe-outs and “extreme air time.”
“You missed an awesome day on the slopes, Prudence,” Rick said.
“Where do you want to eat before we take off?” Matt asked me.
“Take off?” I asked.
Thank God we're leaving! My sweetie is always thinking of me. He even cut his ski trip short because of my injury.
“Anything. I just need food right away. Are we going to have trouble getting a reservation on Saturday night?”
They all laughed. “Prudence, honey, it's Sunday night,” Kyara said.
“Yeah, babe. We didn't want to wake you up,” Matt said.
That night, I was embarrassingly ravenous at dinner. I asked the hostess for bread as she walked us to our table. I ordered my food based on prep time. As the nubile waitress nervously described the daily special, I interrupted with, “How long does that take to cook?”
“It's sautéed in a white wine sauce with capers and lemon.”
Not my question.
“Estimated time of arrival on that?” I asked impatiently.
“Not too long. I can ask the chef if you'd like,” she offered.
“Never mind. Just make mine rare and bring it quickly,” I said. “Can you bring some more bread please?” I said with a mouth full of pumpernickel.
“Rare?” asked Matt. “You ordered fish.”
“Yes, you'll notice I passed on the braised ham for that very reason. Are you eating your ice?”
He passed his glass to me, and I fished out four cubes with my fork.
“You want some sugar for that?” Rick asked. “You could make a popsicle for yourself.”
Clearly, he was being sarcastic, but it actually sounded like a good idea so I sprinkled some Equal onto the ice. Rick looked at Matt and raised his eyebrows as if to ask
, “Are you sure this is the woman you want to spend the rest of your life with?”
Rick turned to me and asked if he could offer me some “personal insight.”
“Could I stop you?” I shot.
“Prudence, you don't seem to do anything in moderation,” he said in the gentle tone of a social worker. “You're either up all night on cocaine or sleeping for two days straight. You haven't eaten in days and now you're bingeing on ice cubes. Have you ever thought about pacing yourself?”
“It's so sweet of you to care, Rick,” I began. Both Matt and Kyara sat up in their seats fearfully anticipating what I'd say next. “Now it's time for me to offer you my insights.”
“Sourdough, fresh from the oven,” said our waitress as she arrived at our table.
I lunged toward the bread. This arrogant closet queen would have to wait to hear my evaluation of him until I was done with said binge.
“So how's
Sour Milk
going, Matt?” Kyara asked. “Ricky said you guys ran into some tough shit last month.”
“Do I get to see it when we're back in L.A.?” I asked, careful not to ever call that city “home.”
“He can't show it to you until it's finished,” Rick told me as if I was an idiot for even asking.
“Why not? Haven't you seen it?” I asked.
“I'm a producer,” Rick reminded me.
“Really, well I'm a fiancée, soon to be a wife, so I think it's okay if I take a look at it.”
We all stared at Matt in anticipation of his response. Even Kyara looked as if she had a personal stake in the outcome.
“So, have the rest of you made up your minds, or do you still need a few more minutes?” asked the waitress.
“I think we're ready,” Matt said. After the three ordered their dinners, Rick immediately turned the conversation back to the question at hand. Was I or was I not allowed to see
Sour Milk
? If I saw a newspaper listing for a documentary of the life of the guy who invented the pasteurization process, you couldn't pay me enough to sit through it. Now, it seemed as if my entire future was riding on whether or not I would see the film. “I don't see the harm in letting Malone see what we've got so far. What's the big deal in letting her watch it?”
She shoots she scores! Even with an injured foot, Prudence Malone kicks your pathetic Tony Robbins wannabe ass. Make no mistake you little rat fuck, I rule!
“Fine,” Rick said. “It's just very risky, that's all.”
Yes, what a big chance he's taking letting me see it, Rick. I'll probably run off and try to sell the idea to all of my contacts in Hollywood.
The drive back to Los Angeles was mostly silent except for Rick's cursing at other drivers on the road. When he dropped us off at Matt's house, all Rick said was, “Later.”
Never.
“Prudence, it was great meeting you,” shouted Kyara from the window. On that note, Rick screeched away.
Matt picked me up like a bride and carried me over the threshold of his house.
“You guys didn't exactly hit it off the way I'd hoped,” Matt said as he eased me onto his couch. “I told you he takes a little getting used to.”
“Remind me again what it is you like about him,” I replied.
“Enough about Rick,” Matt said. “I'd rather remind you what I like about you.”
Finally, our chance to talk. I would start off by asking him what he loved about me, then move into weightier issues like where we're going to live when we got married, whether or not we were going to have kids, and why he left me fifteen years ago.
Matt leaned over and began kissing my neck and growling playfully. Sweeping me off to the bedroom, he asked if I wanted to play doctor.
“I do,” I laughed. “But a little later. Can we talk about a few things first?”
“You ask a lot of a man,” he joked. “Lure me into the bedroom, then give me the old ‘we need to talk' routine. What's on your mind?”
“What is it about me that you love, Matt?”
“You're kidding, right?”
“No.”
“Prudence, I don't love this insecurity, I can tell you that.”
Not the question.
“Okay, but what do you love?”
“Malone, you're impossible.” He sighed. “Okay, what do I love about you? You're exciting, impulsive, incredibly spontaneous and passionate. How's that?”
Somewhat ironic was the fact that on the opposite end of the country, Reilly was probably using those same words to explain why he hates me.
“Next question?” Matt asked. He gave me a smile that let me know my questions were merely an obstacle course he needed to get through to have sex. “Come on, come on. Let's go with the interrogation. This is cruel and unusual punishment teasing me like this.”
“I really want to live in New York once we're married,” I pleaded. “I don't like L.A. and you seemed to love the city.”
“How do you know you don't like L.A.? You've seen the inside of Rick's house and the freeway.”
“My whole life is in New York,” I said.
“Gee, thanks.”
“With you there, it will be complete. You'll love New York,” I assured him.
“It's so damned cold,” Matt said.
“Matt, I met you in Michigan. We just went skiing for two days. Since when do you have an aversion to cold weather?”
“Actually, you met me in Florida.”
“Matt. We were in Florida for one week. The rest of our time together was in Michigan.”
“Hey Malone, what do you think about getting married in Ann Arbor?” Matt asked. Suddenly, we were planning our wedding instead of our life together. At least we had ended our battle of the coasts and we agreed on the perfect site for our nuptials. We were dreamily discussing the wedding when the phone rang. It was Rick telling Matt that he had to meet with a potential investor in the film.
“We're supposed to go to the Getty tomorrow,” I whispered.
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Matt said to Rick. “He can only do it tomorrow? Shit, Malone and I were going to go to the museum tomorrow.” Matt paused, obviously interrupted by Rick. Then he hung up the phone solemnly. “Bad news.”
“No!” I shouted.
“Tomorrow's the only day this guy can meet and if we get him in as a producer, we've just about got the funding to finish the picture and the clout to really market it as a mainstream film.”
A mainstream documentary? A mainstream documentary about Louis Pasteur?!
“Come on, give me a break on this one. I feel bad enough about this, but we can go another day.”
“I'm leaving tomorrow night,” I reminded him.
“All the more reason to move to L.A.,” Matt said.
“Never mind. I'll go on my own,” I pouted.
After a few minutes, I realized that Matt was in a terrible dilemma and I was making it worse for him. He had a dream of finishing this film and this meeting was probably the answer to his money issues. Certainly, I could let him go to the meeting without giving him a guilt trip about it. “I can go to the Getty on my own tomorrow,” I told Matt who was sulking in bed.
“Really? You're not pissed?”
“I hope you're not angry at me for being so selfish,” I said. “I can find the museum on my own, and then we'll meet up here in the afternoon and have the rest of the day together. Where do I catch the bus?”
“You're the coolest, Malone,” Matt said.
And don't you forget it.
The next morning, I struggled to balance in the shower while hanging on to Matt's curtain rod. “You sure you don't need help in there?” Matt called in.
“You're late already. Just get ready and go, honey.”
“There are some bagels in the freezer,” Matt pulled back the curtain to tell me. “Damn, woman, you look good.”
“When will you be back?”
He shook his head. “Forget this funding bullshit, I'm staying here,” he said. He imitated himself at the meeting. “Oh, okay, no money. Too bad, see ya. Gotta run.”
I raised my eyebrows to ask him again.
“Noon,” he smiled. “I'll be home around noon, then I'm all yours, baby. You're all mine,” he growled. Ah, domestic bliss.
Chapter 29
W
hen I arrived at the Getty, there was a sign at the guard booth that read, “Closed Mondays.”
Of course it's closed Mondays, half-wit. Every museum is, Miss Art Lover.
I actually hitchhiked back to Matt's house in Santa Monica with a soccer mom driving a minivan. “Normally, I don't pick up hitchhikers,” Norma told me. “But I felt sorry for you standing out there with your crutches and all.”
At noon, Matt hadn't returned from his meeting yet. At quarter of two, he still wasn't back so I turned on the television and was immediately absorbed into
A Passion for Life.
A perfectly coiffed older woman in a red silk business suit was telling her young lover, Lance, that she would no longer tolerate playing second fiddle to his work. Lance was supposed to be a cancer researcher, but I'm sure he was cast because he looked absolutely stunning in the lab coat. The white coat against his tan skin and blond highlighted hair was enough to make me break out my checkbook and make a big fat donation to the American Cancer Society.
LANCE: I would love to spend my days drinking champagne with you and dancing beneath the stars like we did in Barcelona. But we are so close to finding a cure for the rare type-four bone cancer that poor little Austin Houston was struck with last year. I must find a cure for the boy. I must, you see, because he is my brother.
Dramatic revelation music.
FIONA: Your brother? But how is that possible, Lance?
I had trouble following the lineage, but Fiona seemed to accept that it was possible so I did too. They began discussing the possibility of transplanting a grown woman's entire skeleton into little Dallas–Fort Worth, when I found myself oddly sucked into this improbable drama.
“Hi honey, I'm home,” Matt said as he came through the door.
“Shhh, one sec, babe,” I said. “They're cooking up a plan to kill Natalie for her bones, which is good news for the Texas kid, but is going to be a disaster for the Regents family diamond mines, not to mention poor Natalie who's done nothing but love that fuckhead, Lance. She put that bastard through med school and this is the thanks she gets?”
“Are you watching
A Passion for Life
?” Matt asked. “My buddy is a writer for that show.”
The show ended a few minutes later and I sat down with Matt in the kitchen.
“I didn't know you were such a soap fan,” Matt said.
“Neither did I,” I sheepishly admitted. “I'm sorry about that. How did your meeting go? Does the guy like the project? Is he in?”
Matt nodded his head with excitement. “He loves it. We told him about our approach and he thinks it's completely cutting edge.”
“I have got to see this film, Matt,” I said matching his enthusiasm. “My plane takes off in eight hours. You absolutely need to show me the film right now.”
Matt turned on the television and started attaching wires from his digital camera to it. “It's not done yet,” he apologized. “It's going to look a lot more professional when it's done.”
“Let's pop some popcorn,” I suggested. “And drink milk!”
At the end of the film, all I could think was what a horrible person Louis Pasteur was. And all anyone really knows about this abusive, slave-beating, whoremonger is that he came up with the pasteurization process. It just goes to show you how we simplify the lives of these historical characters. He hadn't finished editing the end of the film yet, but I already knew that there was no way for Louis Pasteur to ever redeem himself after all the havoc he wreaked on people's lives.
“Shocking,” I said to Matt. “The part when he poisoned the banker's horses and burned the village mercantile was horrible. And why was he so cruel to those prostitutes?! God, I always thought he was some sort of hero who saved people from bad milk. To think he was such a brutal man is just a real eye-opener. Those poor slaves,” I said, nodding my head.
Matt laughed. “So you bought it?”
“Bought what?”
“All that stuff about Louis Pasteur being a prick. You believed it, right?”
“You mean it's not true?” I asked.
“No, we researched his life extensively and he was a pretty nice guy. He didn't even own slaves. And he certainly didn't burn down the village store,” Matt laughed.
“I don't get it,” I said. “Why the hatchet job on Pasteur if he was such a nice guy?”
“Why anyone, Prudence?” he asked. “The whole point of the film is to show how anyone can be vilified or anointed by the media. The film has nothing to do with Louis Pasteur, really. It's about how we create heroes and villains in our modern culture. See how you jumped on him and thought he was a terrible person just after two hours of this bullshit?”
“Oh, so in the end you're going to explain that Louis Pasteur didn't really do any of these things, right?”
He shook his head. “No way. Does the media do that when they get a news story wrong?”
“I think they do. You remember the whole Gore won Florida, Bush won Florida, no one won Florida fiasco a few years ago?”
“Very rare,” Matt said. “Usually, they sweep their mistakes under the carpet and leave people's lives in shambles.”
“I don't get it, Matt, the way you're making a statement about how wrong this is by doing it to Louis Pasteur.”
“Yeah. I mean what does he care? Hey, what did you think of the score? Mad Cow playing the music is pretty fucking brilliant, don't you think?”
“Um, well I'm not really a heavy metal fan, but I guess if you're going to defame Louis Pasteur, Mad Cow would be the band to do it with.”
I did not get this project at all. I love radical art that makes a bold—even strident—statement, but everyone who sees this film will walk away thinking that Louis Pasteur was an unbelievable bastard. There was no indication that this was a commentary on the media. And, as a filmmaker, wasn't Matt part of the media he was indicting?
On the way to the airport, I kept thinking about poor Louis Pasteur. Dead, with no way to defend the false charges that Matt and his friends were about to file against him on screen.
As we waited for the boarding call for my plane, Matt was silent. He had a few false starts, then finally said what was on his mind. “Look, I know this trip didn't turn out exactly the way we planned. You and Rick hated each other; the whole deal with your ankle. I know you had a bad time.”
Is he breaking up with me?!
“No Matt,” I protested, “I had a good time. I think it's important for us to see what it's like to deal with not-so-great times together, you know? It can't be sex on the Empire State Building every night of our lives. It's good for us to see how we are when the going gets rough,” I said, hoping that my desperation wasn't too obvious. I took a breath and proceeded more calmly. “Look, if this is the worst it gets between us, I'd say we're pretty damn lucky.”
“Settle down, Malone,” Matt laughed. “I was just saying that next time we'll do more stuff that you want to.”
Thank God! What did he mean by ‘settle down'?
On the plane, a young man sat next to me tapping away at his laptop computer and muttering curses. Finally, I was too curious to ignore his profane tirade any longer. “Do you mind if I ask what the problem is?”
“Huh?” he snapped into the world of the living. “Oh, sorry, lady. I'm just pissed 'cause I got this stock that's been diving since I bought it. My friend told me ‘buy ten thousand worth of this company and in ten years you'll be a millionaire. '”
“How long have you had it?” I asked.
“Six months.”
“Well, your friend did say ten years. Long-term investments dip every now and then,” I assured him. “A million does sound a little high, but give it some time. What's it worth now?”
“About twenty-five hundred,” he said with pain in his voice.
“Ouch,” I commiserated. “You want my advice?”
“It depends,” he said. “No offense, but do you invest?”
I nodded. “Quite a bit, my friend.”
“High-risk stuff?”
I laughed. “About a third of my portfolio is high risk, but I definitely like to hang on to my steady performers too. Listen, do you want my advice or not?” I raised my brows as if to say
“Listen kid, do I look poor to you?”
“Yeah. What do I do?”
“You've invested a lot already. Hang on to the stock and stop checking the market. Every month or so, see how it's doing, but don't stress out about every little blip in the market. Think long-term. This isn't your only investment, is it?”
He nodded.
“Now that's a mistake,” I said. “When you get a little cash, put some money in your blue chip stocks. The next time around, you can go back to the riskier stuff, but buy yourself some peace of mind with a proven earner, okay?”
“That's just what my dad said,” he told me.
Upon that comment, I flagged down the airline attendant. “Scotch and soda please.”

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