I didn't know the voice, and when I turned I didn't know the person: a woman with a nothing face and pulled-back blond hair. But Los Angeles is a friendly town and more often than not, if people know who you are, they speak as if you're old acquaintances. There wasn't much else I could do, standing there with my bacon and sour cream.
Radiating a new "I'm not antisocial" charm, I said, "Not really a whole one. Just helping out on a friend's."
She had four cans of whipped cream and four cans of deodorant. Something was up in her life. When she spoke, everything came out sounding like an accusation. "I heard you're working on a horror movie."
"Something like that, yes."
"Another one?"
"Another? I've never made a horror film."
Smirking as if she knew better, she accused me, "You mean you never made one all-out. Only little pieces here and there. Because horror movies don't win Oscars, do they? Come on, move, huh? I want to get out of here."
When I got home, we had a ball preparing for the party. Wyatt put on the Supremes tape full blast and we danced around while we cooked, set the table, cleaned the house, discussed. At midnight, Sasha decided we needed balloons, but not tomorrow – now. We got into the car and drove around until we found an all-night drugstore that sold balloons. Then we were hungry, but Wyatt said the only place to go for a real hamburger at night was a place in his old neighborhood.
No matter how old or jaded you are, there will always be something exciting and cool about cruising around at three in the morning with a bunch of good friends. All the old duds are asleep but you're still awake, the windows are down, the radio's glowing green and playing great music. Life's given you a few extra hours to horse around. If you don't grab them, they aren't usually offered again for a while.
"I want to be fifteen again and still a virgin!" Sasha had her head out the window, and the wind whipped her hair.
"At fifteen the only thing you thought about was losing your virginity!"
"You know where it happened? On a beach in Westport, Connecticut. There were three other couples around making out, and a full moon shining down so they could see everything. When it was over, I was so scared and ashamed I ran right into the water with all my clothes on."
"Scared of what?"
"That that was all there was to it. 'You mean this is it?' That's what was supposed to make the world go round? Shit! Your turn, Wyatt."
"I'm driving. Weber's next."
"Barbara Gilly. Affectionately known in our town as The Tunnel.'"
"You slept with a tunnel?"
"Everybody slept with her. We did it on the hill behind John Jay High School. I used a rubber I'd had in my wallet for six months. You can imagine how comfortable and exciting that was. And you?"
"My cousin Nancy."
Both Sasha and I cried out, "You slept with your cousin?"
We drove another hour, telling old secrets and funny stories. It was like a late-night bullshit session in college, when you felt so close and wise, sure you'd remember these people and these discussions for the rest of your life.
When we got home we gave each other big kisses and hugs because the evening had been such fun. I kept smiling and chuckling as I washed up and got into bed, thinking about some of the things that had been said.
Sometime later, just after the first morning birds started to sing, the door opened and I turned in time to see Sasha standing there. Gesturing to close the door, I held up the blanket for her to come in with me. She was there in an instant, sliding close, naked under a thin silk nightgown.
She took my hand and ran it across her stomach, up over her breasts, up the thin curve of her neck. Opening her mouth, she slipped my fingers into it and started licking them.
I took the hand away and caressed her face, her shoulders, her arms. Neither of us talked, although when we'd been lovers in Europe, years before, we'd always said things and made lots of noise.
But tonight needed to be different. We weren't here as lovers but as two longtime friends who loved each other and had had the luck to share a wonderful night together.
We fucked in silence, trying not to make even the slightest sound. The secrecy made it hotter, more exciting.
When we were finished and the early light lit the floor, she lay half across my stomach, her breath tickling my chest. Loving the feel of her there, I whispered, "I wish I'd been that guy in Westport."
She lifted her head and grinned. "Really? You wish you'd been my first?"
"Not so much that. I don't know if I would've done it any better. But I would have . . . gone swimming with you. I wouldn't have let you go so easily."
She touched her head to my chest and slowly got up. Standing, she tried to find where the armholes were in the knotted tangle of her nightgown. Her hair was fluffed and flying out in all directions and she looked as beautiful as I had ever seen her.
Giving up on the nightgown, she threw it over her shoulder and sat down again on the bed. I took her hand.
"Will you always be my friend, Sasha?"
"I promise."
"Even if we don't do this again?"
"We think differently about it. I could be happily married for twenty years and still have no hesitation about going to bed with you. I love you, Weber. I sleep with the people I love."
"What would you say to your husband?"
"I don't know. Maybe nothing."
Leaving the room with the gown held carelessly in front of her, she was a Bonnard painting: faint pink, cream, curves, a small backward wave goodbye.
I caught Dominic and his wife, Mickey, getting out of their car.
"What the hell are you doing, Weber, filming this? Wait a minute!" He stood up, ran his hands through his hair, and straightened his Hawaiian shirt. "Is this a shirt or what? Mickey got it for me. Okay, now you can roll 'em."
We started around to the back of the house where the others were.
"What's with the camera?"
"I'm trying to get used to using one again."
"You're going to film the party?"
"Part of it."
Some American must have invented barbecues. I know mankind has been grilling meat over a fire for tens of thousands of years, but Americans made it into a religion.
For all the words they wrote about my pictures, no film critic ever noticed how in every one of them I stuck in a barbecue somewhere. Even in Babyskin it is the American visitor who shows the old people how to do it "right," thus unwittingly bringing on their fall.
Meals cooked in the open, food eaten with the fingers, smoke, grease. Paper plates, loud voices; if you don't have a napkin use the back of your hand. Even if it's only family, things are louder and more raucous usually, freer. People get sexy or they drink too much; they cry.
After introductions were made and everyone had a drink, Wyatt suggested we play Time Bomb, the game he'd invented and made famous on his show. I got paper and pencils while Sasha took people's orders for how they wanted their steaks done.
Dominic and Max were so fast and clever with their answers that none of us had a chance after the first round. I was the second to "blow up," which was fine because all I really wanted to do was film the exchange between the two men: Max weakly curved into the pillows of his wheelchair, Dominic up on the edge of his seat like a football center about to snap the ball.
They were still at it by the time the medium rares were served and Sasha was forking the mediums off the fire. Wyatt said they should call it a draw and both men agreed.
"You're the first guy I ever played that game with who knew what he was doing, Max."