The Art of Men (I Prefer Mine Al Dente) (13 page)

At 2:00 a.m. my father pulled out all of his tubes. His doctor called me and said, “The son of a bitch pulled all the damn tubing out so we are going to watch him and see how he does.”

The next day, they wheeled my dad out of the ICU. He looked at me and said, “So you’re going to be a star.”

Never underestimate the thinking capacity of an injured or unconscious person. The body might be unconscious, but the being is not. And I guess you should also never underestimate the strength and determination of an actress. We make sharks look like kittens.

We chose the casket and arranged the service for my mother. I had the horrible task, against my will, of telling my father that my mother was dead. But it was part of what children must do when parents die, and when our family needs us.

My brother, my sister, and I attended the funeral without my father. When I flew back to LA the next day to audition one last time, I felt a resolve that I’ve rarely felt. If I got the movie, swell. If I didn’t, I was moving back to Kansas to be with my dad for the rest of his life. I really didn’t care which way it went but I was hoping to have it all.

This audition was different than the rest, other than my turquoise sweater and tiny jeans. There was no chitchat, and a quiet reverence hung in the air. I began, and the last scene I read was Spock dying. When I teared up this time, it was real. Somehow my performance was flawless.

Nick said, “Thank you, please wait out in reception.”

I did. Less than five minutes later Nicholas called me back in the audition room. “You got it, kid. The part is yours.” I broke down and sobbed.

This was the best Hollywood story in Hollywood.

“Now get back to Kansas and take care of your dad,” Nick said.

To have been championed as Nick Meyer and all those Paramount bigwigs championed me was uncanny. To know the pressure a seasoned actress would be in under normal circumstances taking on the lead in a $40 million film is one thing. But to hire a first-time actress who just lost her mother in a tragic accident was nothing short of extraordinary.

It is impossible for me to express the gratitude I feel for Nicholas Meyer. He is brave. He is the true definition of a champion. I am forever indebted to my little turquoise pants and to Nicholas Meyer. Thank you. Against all odds you chose me. I will never forget you.

Don’t leave a piece of jewelry at his house so you can go back and get it later. He may be with his real girlfriend.

—AMY SEDARIS

The Art of
Shagging Next-Door Neighbors

T
HIS IS another one of those stories I’ve told before but COME ON! This book is about how men have influenced my life! I would be remiss to leave this humiliating gem out of my jewelry box.

Seven hundred and fifty dollars was the price tag of the little suede pants that were tugging at my heart strings. They were fawn-colored, slightly rough suede with long fringe all the way from waist to ankle on the outside seams. Low-cut, lined with buckskin-colored silk, size 2.

I had gotten my first movie,
Star Trek II
, and was paid a little money, so although $750 was still outside my price range, I knew I would not, at least, go without food as I’d done in the past when something had struck my fancy.

I had an enormous crush on an actor from the movie
Animal House
. We’ll just call him Tim Matheson because that is his name.

Tim and I had several odd dates. When I look back on it, I believe I was the “I don’t really have another date, so I’ll call her” girl. At times it seemed we were quite smitten with each other, but he was never as smitten with me as I was with him.

I’m more than willing to be self-deprecating when I relay my stories, but I don’t like to speak about other people unkindly. However, I consider Tim fair game.

Tim had asked me out for New Year’s Eve. Now, this was a huge step in our weird relationship. New Year’s Eve is a coveted date slot and we girls are no dummies—we know the significance of a New Year’s Eve date. It means you’re practically married.

Tim called: did I want to go out the night before New Year’s Eve, also? It was his birthday, the eve before New Year’s Eve. Okay, now I was the gangster of love! I was not the expert of trysts, but wow, the night before New Year’s Eve, his birthday, AND New Year’s Eve? He was clearly my next husband, right? He said, “Yeah, then let’s go somewhere New Year’s DAY!” It seemed that old Timmy boy had fallen as hard as I had, after all. It seemed inevitable that it was only a matter of time before I became Mrs. Animal House, Mrs. Tim.

Tim and I actually looked like brother and sister. We both had dark hair and light eyes and black lashes and brows. We were both tall, with good teeth and nice smiles. Mine wasn’t as flashy as his, but this is my story. Our
Animal House
children would, without a doubt, look like clones of us, as we looked like clones of each other.

I went back to the little suede pants shop and resplurged on a sweater to accompany the little suede pants. It was a sort of raspberry-colored mohair with raspberry-colored fox fur inset into the shoulders of the sweater—I wasn’t a card-carrying member of PETA yet, so please forgive me. Remember, this was the early eighties, and shoulder pads ruled. But these raspberry fox–adorned shoulders didn’t need pads. They were so fluffy on their own that they achieved double-shoulder-pad status. My flat, hard, tan stomach peeked out from the two-inch gap between the raspberry sweater and little suede pants. Raspberry fox sweater—$545. Then there were those boots I’d seen at Fred Segal. Raspberry kid-leather four-inch heels, inside zipper from ankle to knees. Raspberry boots—$375. Underwear—raspberry lace bra and bikini pants, add an additional 200 bucks. My assistant Kelly makes fun of me every time I say “bikini pants,” but that’s what we called them back then. Perfume—the only kind I wore was Casaque, clean yet hauntingly sexy—$100 an ounce.

Tim did not have to pick me up for his birthday date, our pre–New Year’s Eve date, as Tim lived next door to me. That’s sort of how I met him, and that’s what we really had most in common: our addresses.

Chestnut perfectly waved and ringleted hair down my back, raspberry fur sex-kitten sweater, little suede pants, raspberry killer boots with four-inch heels, yummy lingerie, and sensual scented Casaque—that, all topped off with tons of black Bridget Bardot eyeliner and pale, very pale titty-pink lip gloss. No wonder Animal House was hot on my trail—damn booty—I was one of Hollywood’s finest up-and-coming ingenues, although I was 30 years old. But everyone thought I was 23. I liked to keep telling myself that.

I strolled next door to Tim’s. We had Champagne and laughed that giddy Champagne laughter. He took me out to dinner and then, of course, we came back to his place. Tim and I were pretty excellent lovers, really; we had no trouble getting on the same wavelength. Tim lit a fire in his bedroom. It was a funny house—his bedroom was upstairs but was the ONLY thing upstairs. No halls, no guest rooms, just one big bedroom with a master bath attached. It was a tricked-out expensive house. Tim had worked a lot and was not short on funds. It was unlike the small house that my two roommates and I rented next door. Tim’s house was the pièce de résistance of the block, and it also had a lot of land, I’d say about three acres.

As I stood in front of his fireplace in his upstairs-only bedroom, I stealthily peeled off my raspberry fox sweater, then unzipped my little suede pants and pulled them over my kid-leather raspberry four-inch-heeled fuck-me boots. There I stood, raspberry boots, bra, and bikini—PANTS. Raspberries took on a whole new meaning.

Tim and I made passionate love, then Tim served up a tray of fine pastries from Michel Richard. We decadently lay there dining on éclairs, napoleons, and petits fours. It was 30 minutes until midnight—30 minutes until Animal House became a year older.

But I got a weird feeling in my gut. Not like an “I’ve just been laid feeling”—no, something much different. A sort of nervousness, like when my mother had been killed in a car wreck. I excused myself to the restroom. I was pacing about for a while, trying to figure out why I was nervous, yet still noticing my fabulous, just-laid tousled hair trailing down almost to my waist. I thought,
Damn, I look good after sex, damn!

I noticed outside the window that I could see my roommate Callie talking on the phone in our house next door. It made me laugh—here I was naked and had just been banged, and there she was yapping away on the phone to god-knows-who, slurping down a Diet Coke with lime. I tapped on Tim’s window and tried to get her attention, stupidly thinking she would hear me and look up. She didn’t, and she didn’t. I’d calmed down a little bit, didn’t feel quite so anxious, so I went back into the bedroom to be with Animal House. Five minutes until showtime. Five minutes until Tim’s birthday.

I sat on the edge of his bed naked,
Barbarella
-haired and all. He lay on the bed naked with my hair cascading down his chest.

“Tim,” I said. “I think I should go home, I feel a little weird.”

“Oh come on, Kirstie,” he said, “it’s almost midnight, it’s almost my birthday. Stay all night with me, let’s make love again as my birthday present.” One minute ’til midnight.

Oh Tim, oh Animal House, oh you black-haired, blue-eyed god of college girls everywhere—of course I’ll stay and birthday-fuck your brains out. I’m falling in love with you, Animal House, truly I am and you’ve become awfully interested in me lately. Of course I’ll stay, hell I’ll stay forever and forever. I can watch my ex-roommate Callie talking on the phone each night out our bathroom window in my old rented house next door!

We began to kiss a deep, hot, desperate kiss of young, deep, hot desperate lovers. Bong, bong, bong, bong, bong, bong, bong, bong, bong, bong, bong, bong. The clock downstairs in Tim’s living room struck midnight. I came up for air. “Happy birthday, baby—happy birthday.” Yes, Tim was riveted by me, mesmerized by my wonderfulness. I had him in my tight little grasp. He was quivering, smitten with my majestic beauty and expertise lovemaking.

Just then I heard something way out of context.
Knock, knock, knocking on heaven’s door.

“Tim?” this voice said.

“Lissette?!” Tim nervously blurted out.

I sat up and turned my body to the left. There stood this beautiful blonde girl.

“Tim?!” she said, more desperately.

“Lissette?!!” he said more horrifyingly. It was a very bad rendition of George and Marsha. I decided, as I was between Lissette and Animal House, to become invisible. So I did. I just made myself invisible. I disappeared into another dimension.
God, Tim, say something besides “Lissette” for Christ’s sake. Say, hey, get outta here—say, who the hell are you? Or what are you doing in my house? Say something, say something, I can’t stay invisible much longer.

Lissette ran down the stairs in a burst of hysteria and screaming, “Oh my god, oh my god, how could you do this?!!” Tim was up in a flash, frantically putting on his jeans.

He said to me, “Stay here, don’t leave.” Hmm,
stay here, don’t leave
? Remember Tim’s bedroom is the only room upstairs? Was I going to leisurely saunter down the stairs to greet a hysterical Lissette who would possibly pull out a knife and stab me?

Yes, Timmy boy, I’ll most certainly stay right here, but hey, who in the hell is Lissette anyway?

I put on my raspberry lingerie, my raspberry mohair fox-trimmed sweater, my soft kidskin raspberry four-inch-heeled boots, and finally my beloved little suede pants with the delicate long strips of suede fringe dripping down from my thighs to my ankles.

I could make out some of what pretty Lissette was saying:
Engaged
. “Engaged” was the word that specifically stuck in my mind. And “How the fuck could you cheat on me like this?” was another show-stopper.

Tim was screaming, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, calm down, I’m sorry.” Lissette was screaming at the top of her beautiful blonde lungs. Then she ran outside and her wails trailed off.

A perfect time for my exit
, I thought.
I’ll just run down the stairs, out of the house and quickly fly inside my rented house.
I began my descent, but whoa, Lissette was back. The wailing was coming closer and closer,
damn
! They were back in the house. I hauled ass back up the stairs into Tim’s infidelity love nest.

This scenario occurred over and over—in and out, in and out of the house Lissette went like some misguided cuckoo clock. I became desperate, choking for oxygen. It was surely only a matter of time before Lissette went totally psychotic and decided to take her pain out on the bitch upstairs who was screwing her fiancé! It turned out that beautiful blonde Lissette was actually engaged to Animal House and that she had traveled all the way from New York City to stand in her soon-to-be betrothed’s front yard and wait until the clock struck midnight, then bound in and wish Tiny Tim a happy birthday! How the hell any bitch could or would trust ole Timmy boy is beyond me, but apparently Ms. Soon-To-Be Tim did, and in fact, she truly believed he would just be waiting like a good little boy on a Saturday night, all snuggled in his footie jammies, drinking hot chocolate and eating animal crackers.

And what about him? Did it not occur to him that at least his fiancée would be giving him a call on his birthday?! And what the hell was he going to say he was doing the next night? New Year’s Eve? Out with the boys? Home in bed again? What?!

Oh god, I had to get out of there, and pronto! I ran to the bathroom and looked out the window. Callie was still on the phone. A solution hit me like a ton of bricks. I’ll have Callie bring a ladder over, and I’ll go out the bathroom window while Lissette is wailing in the living room. Yes, yes, good plan. Good plan, Kirstie, good thinking even under extreme duress.

Dial 854-3317—beep, beep, beep, beep.
Damn busy, of course busy, I can see her mouth moving, for Christ’s sake. Okay, emergency interrupt, that’s it.