The Gift Bag Chronicles (38 page)

“Packed,” he says. “How are Patrice and Lucienne behaving?”

“Hang on,” I say, turning and looking up the carpet. Over the
crowd, I see them catch sight of Mischa. Like lasers locking on to their target. “Actually, if you want some fun, come out and see which of them gets more face time with Mischa.”

“Oh, that does sound amusing. But I’m busy running out of white wine.”

We click off, and I check my watch. Going on 10:00. I’ll give it a few more minutes here and then head in, check the pulse of the party. Always good to know the vibe of the room, although judging by this river, it’ll be fine. More than fine. I’m just starting to head in when a cry goes up behind me and Uma Thurman practically runs up the carpet. The photographers explode into a blaze of lights and screamed entreaties: “Uma, Uma!”

“Wow,” I say, checking the clipboard, “was she on our list?”

“One of Patrice’s last-minute invites,” Steven says in my ear. “Although it pains me to have to say that.”

“Well, good for her,” I say, handing my clipboard to one of Steven’s staffers and turning up the carpet. I make my way through the crowd to the front door and into the house. It’s already so packed I can hardly move. Forget about the display cases. No one can even see them, given all the bodies. And the blinding noise. The techno-pop pulsing through the sound system and the roar of voices fueled by hormones, endorphins, Absolut, and the proximity to other beautiful strivers, the promise of sex, of money, of possibilities. It’s like Red Bull straight to the brain. I push on, heading for the patio, squeeze past the bodies, practically grazing Joely Richardson — God, she’s tall. I’m just catching my breath, admiring the effect of Oscar’s lights reflecting off the pool and the crowd, when my headset crackles.

“Andrew wants a shot with Uma, but she’s saying no,” Marissa says, sounding vaguely panicked.

“Who’s asked her?” I say, cupping my hand over my mouthpiece. “And where are you guys?”

“Me, and out here by the pool house.”

“Steven, can you ask her?” I say, standing on my toes and peering over the crowd in the direction of the pool house at the far end of the yard. “You’ve met her and I haven’t. It might be better coming from you.”

“No problemo,” he says. “The carpet’s slowing now anyway. Even Patrice is heading in.”

I click off, pushing into the crowd again in the direction of the pool house. I’m just heading across the grass, feeling my heels sink into the spongy dampness, when the Lucite lamps on all the tables flicker and go dark. There’s a momentary silence — only the sound system keeps blaring, the theme song to
The Saint
— followed by nervous laughter. The crowd’s just starting to surge back to life again when the George Nelson bubble lights snap off and the entire backyard goes dark.
Oh, shit
.

“Oscar!”
I click on. “Oscar, what’s going on?”

“Well, as you can see, the lights went fucking out.”

“Tell me you can fix them, and soon,” I say.

Marissa clicks on. “What’s going
on?”

Steven’s not far behind her. “Trying for mood lighting so I can sweet-talk Uma?”

“Hardly,” I say, plunging into the crowd. “Oscar, where are you?”

“Behind the garage. Checking the fuses.”

I push through the crowd, which is starting to surge back to life. Still, with all the lights out, it’s ridiculously dangerous. I push toward the direction of the garage, past the DJ, who is holding a lit cigarette lighter and obliviously flipping through his albums. I turn down the side path, round the corner of the garage, and spot Oscar, jacket off, flanked by two of his crew holding flashlights, working on the fuse box.

“Can you fix it?” I say, pulling up.

He doesn’t even glance in my direction. “As soon as I know, you’ll know.”

I stand there for a minute, uselessly.

“Damn it,” he says, dropping the fuse box door.

“What?” I say. “Can’t you fix it?”

He turns to me. “Yes, but not here.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I have to crawl under all the tables and find out where it shorted out.”

“What? You mean they’re all connected? Like Christmas tree lights?”

“Yeah. Christmas lights that somebody trampled on.”

“Oh, God, that’s going to take forever,” I say, picturing Andrew and Amanda out in the dark. At least the house is still lit up. And the red carpet. “Okay, I’ll help you look,” I say. “I mean, we have to get this fixed before somebody takes a header into the pool.”

“There are
twelve
tables in case you haven’t counted them,” he says, looking at me like I’m nuts. “No, the guys will help me find it.”

“If you let me help you, we only have to check three tables each. It will go much faster.”

“Okay, you want to get dirty, be my guest.”

He turns and heads up the path. I practically have to run to keep up with him. We round the corner. The backyard is a sea of undulating dark shadows. Oh, God, this is going to be harder than I thought. “Which tables should I take?” I call out, but Oscar has disappeared into the crowd.

Steven hisses in my ear. “Are you guys fixing this or do I have to light my hair on fire to see anything?”

“Yeah, as soon as we can,” I say, spying a table and diving for it. “Just stay on Uma and Andrew for the time being.”

“Excuse me,” I say, reaching past a guy in a porkpie hat — who let him in? — talking to some anorexic blonde. I squat down, lift the tablecloth, and, balancing on my toes, try to feel under the
table for the lamp cord. Shit. I find only wet grass. Great. I’m going to have to go farther underneath to find it. I hitch my dress over my knees and, trying not to totally collapse, sink onto my hands and knees and creep under the table. At least no one can see me in the dark, with the tablecloth draped over my backside like a saddle blanket.

“Oh, my God, is there someone under that table?”

“Yes,” I call out. “We’re trying to get the lights back on.”

I reach around in the dark, my nails sinking into the dirty grass. Where are the fucking cords? Oh, here they are. I feel a long cord—actually, two cords. I feel along it for a minute and then realize I have no idea what I’m feeling for. And what to expect when I find it. Perhaps a massive, life-ending electrical shock. I can see the
Variety
headline now: “In the Line of Fire — Flak Fried in Freak Power Outage.”

“Oscar,” I say, clicking on. “What am I looking for?”

“That would be a break in the line.”

“Yeah, I know, but what is it exactly? A plug pulled out of its socket? I mean, am I going to get electrocuted here?”

“Yes and no,” he says. “All the lamps have cords that plug into the main power cord.”

“And one of them knocked out of the socket takes out the whole
thing,”
I say, feeling for the lamp cord. “They don’t even make Christmas lights like that anymore.”

“Look, you want to go work for GE when we’re done, be my guest. Just let me know if you find it.”

I click off and feel down the end of the lamp cord until I find it plugged into the power cord. Intact. Okay, I’m out of here. I back out from under the table and push to my feet. At least Mr. Porkpie has moved off. I head for the next table — fortunately it’s empty — and drop to my knees. Shit. Forgot to hike my dress up first. Oh well, I’ll just have to hope the grass stains don’t show too badly. I crawl under and feel around for the cords. Okay, here they are, here they are. Okay, they’re good. I crawl back out and push to my
feet. Okay, third time’s the charm. Where’s the next table? I spy two of them in the dark. And that would be the next question: How do we know which tables have been checked? Oh well. I’ll just check both.

I head for the nearest one, hike my dress, lift the tablecloth, and hit the ground. Okay, where are the cords? Okay, here’s the lamp cord. I’m feeling down, down, and it ends in a plug. A plug, unplugged. Oh, my God, I got it. Okay, where’s the socket? I reach around on the grass and find the power cord. “Oscar, I got it,” I say, clicking on.

“You found the break?” he says.

“Yeah, prepare for liftoff,” I say, feeling along the cords — I swear I’m going to get shocked — and push them together. Nothing. Still pitch-dark. Pitch-
fucking
-dark.

“Oh, damn it.”

“Did you do it?” Oscar says. “Did you connect them?”

“Yes, but it’s not working. Why isn’t it working?”

“Okay, where are you? I’m coming to you.”

“Where am I? I’m under a table. It’s not like they have names.”

“All right, I’ll find you,” he says. “Stay there.”

I pull my headset off, sink back on my heels, pondering whether I should crawl out or just stay here in what I realize is a perfect cat position. If I was doing yoga.

“Hey, here’s an empty table,” a woman’s voice says.

Oh, no. “Excuse me,” I call out, “we’re actually working here trying to —” Then I feel a foot land on my ankle.
“Ow.”

“What the
fuck?”
the woman says, and I can hear her stumble.

“Are you okay?” a male voice says. I hear a rustle and feel the tablecloth being lifted off my back. “What the hell are you doing under there?” he says angrily. “You nearly tripped my friend.”

“We’re trying to fix the lights,” I say, turning and looking over my shoulder. I feel like a cow with its ass in the air, but the table’s so small, there’s no room for me to turn around to face him.

“Well, do it in a way that doesn’t jeopardize others,” he snaps. “She nearly fell.”

“Hey, she’s only doing her job, guy,” another male voice says. “So why don’t you find another table and let us deal with this one?”

I turn. In the dark, I make out Oscar, his headset around his neck, holding up the tablecloth, a grin on his face.

“Thank God,” I say. “Will you get under here so I can get out.”

“Actually, I kind of like you like this.”

“You would,” I say, starting to back up but nearly colliding with him as he crawls under.

“Okay, where’s this connection?” he says, taking my hands and feeling along for the cords.

“Right here,” I say, pushing them into his hands.

He works at them for a second. “Okay, hang on.” A light suddenly flares, and I blink in the blaze.

“You have
matches?”

“Yeah, the guys have the flashlights. This is all I’ve got.” We look at each other a moment, and the light burns out.

“Oh shit,” I say, starting to laugh.

“Wait, I have more,” he says, laughing. “Actually, here,” he says, pushing the matches into my hand. “You light them, and I’ll fix the cord.”

I take the matches. I strike one and hold it up while Oscar examines the cords. “There’s got to be some cut in the line.”

The match burns out. I strike one and then another. “What are you planning on fixing the break with when you find it?” I say.

“A Swiss Army knife and electrical tape.”

“You have a Swiss Army knife and electrical tape but you don’t have a flashlight?”

“Well, you don’t have any of them and you’re under here.”

“I don’t know about you, but I’m only here because I’m being paid to be here.”

I light another match and am startled to see Oscar staring at me with a look I can’t quite make out. Like he’s remembering something. Or maybe he’s just tired. “What?” I say.

“Nothing,” he says, shaking his head and turning back to the cords. “Nothing.”

I light another match and hear a flurry of Spanish above us. Oscar calls out something in Spanish, and I feel the tablecloth being lifted. I turn; a flashlight nearly blinds me. His crew. Finally. “Okay, I’m going,” I say, backing out. One of the guys slides under in my place. I push to my feet. My back is killing me and my knees are soaked. Oh, God. I stand there for a minute while the two of them work under the table. Suddenly the lights blaze on. A cheer goes up and a smattering of applause. I look down. My hands are covered in dirt, and I have grass stains on my dress and my shins. I reach down and try to wipe the worst of it off, then pull my headset back on.

Steven crackles in my ear. “Took you guys long enough.”

“Yeah, well, what’s going on with Uma?” I say as I watch Oscar and the crew guy emerge from under the table.

“Well, now that I can
see
her, I’ll be able to let you know.”

“Please do,” I say, pushing my hair off my face with the back of my hand.

I’m just trying to decide if I can make a break for the ladies’ room to clean up when Oscar turns to me and brushes my hair back with his hand. His fingers graze my cheek, for what seems like a second too long. “Sorry about all the dirt,” he says, nodding at my hands.

Steven crackles in my ear. “And feel free to join us. Now that you’re done playing electrician.”

“I’m on my way over,” I say, gazing at Oscar.

“It’s the first pool house on the left. You can’t miss it.”

“Uh, uh, got it,” I say as Oscar slides his thumb in his mouth and then, leaning forward, takes my face in his hands and gently rubs his thumb on my cheek. “There,” he says. “Good as new.”

We stand there, neither of us saying anything as the party roars around us. “Look” I start to say—when my headset goes.

Allie. “Oh, my God, Charles just left,” she says. “Did you know he was leaving?”

“Yeah,” I say. “I knew.”