She loops her arm through mine. “Come on, you need a drink.”
Yes a drink, and then another. Everything’s suddenly in super high-definition focus, and I need it to get blurry again.
She pulls me down the street to a place ironically called The Frolic Room, a retro-cool small bar that looks like it’s been around since the fifties. When we go inside, there are only a few customers and a bartender that looks like he’s seen everything and then some. She deposits me in a booth where the upholstery crack has been sealed with duct tape. I don’t remember telling her I wanted whiskey, but somehow that ends up in front of me. I guess this is the opening scene of the B movie of my life. If only I didn’t have to star in it.
We sit silently while she stirs her olive on a miniature sword around her martini, over and over and over. Finally she lifts it out and pulls the olive off with her teeth. I silently watch her in despair, taking long sips from my drink.
“Love is a rough game,” Morgan finally says definitively.
I half expect her to snap her gum, and pull a cigarette out of the top of her stocking like they did in those forties movies.
I finish my drink with two gulps, then grab onto my hair and pull hard.
“I love Brooke,” I confess.
“No shit, Sherlock,” she replies.
“You knew?”
She rolls her eyes. “Of course. It’s glaringly obvious.”
“If love really is a game, Morgan, Arnold isn’t playing fair.”
She smirks at my new name for Arnauld.
I look at the little sword now abandoned on her cocktail napkin and realize that if Arnold were an action figure, this would be the perfect size weapon to behead him with.
“Yeah, that’s where the rough part comes in. He knows it’s war now. He’s either going to try to make himself look really good, make you look really bad, or some combination of the two.”
Her words ring true, and I squirm at the idea of it. There are endless ways to make me look bad.
“You weren’t a threat at first because he completely underestimated you. He won’t make that mistake again.”
Billie’s words from several weeks ago ring in my ear, how I’m going to get tossed to the curb like a cheap hooker. I don’t care about my job as much as I care about losing Brooke.
“But he’s all wrong for Brooke,” I insist.
“I know, but he’s made her believe that her career is in his hands. And sadly, I think she believes it.”
“I hate how he tries to control her. I would never do that. I’m good for Brooke,” I counter.
“I know that, Romeo, but you guys became friends what…a month ago? She’s been with Arnauld for over three years.”
“He’s never gonna give her up, is he?” My fists curl over my knees.
She raises her eyebrows and gives me a stern look. “Did you really think he would? He sees his prize drifting away, and he wants to secure it. I don’t even think he intends to marry her; he just wants to make sure she doesn’t end up with you or anyone else.”
“Really?”
“That’s how it looks to me.”
“And what about Brooke? What do you think she wants?” I ask nervously.
“I’m not sure. Before she met you, I thought her career was all she really cared about. I’ve never seen someone work so hard. She was obsessed. Now I’m not so sure.”
“Really?” I ask, hopeful. But then I picture Arnold and Brooke on the stage tonight and I plummet back into despair. “But what if she marries Arnold?” I ask, as I motion to the bartender for another drink. He nods and pulls the bottle off the mirrored shelf.
“Well, you just can’t let that happen.”
I don’t remember how much longer Morgan and I stayed at The Frolic Room. I have a vague recollection of lying with my cheek pressed down on the Formica tabletop, moaning as the warbly old jukebox played Frank Sinatra and Peggy Lee ballads. It seemed the properly pathetic conclusion to the worst evening of my life.
“Come-on, Cowboy,” she says finally pulling me out of the booth. “I’m sure the coast is clear now. I’m driving you home.”
“My car,” I mumble.
“Give me forty bucks,” she commands. “We’ll pay off the parking attendant so you don’t get towed. You can get it tomorrow.”
I hand her my wallet and watch her pull out the cash. She drags me to the lot and deposits me in her car before fast talking the head attendant. Even in my drunk stupor, I realize that Morgan’s a force to be reckoned with.
Gratefully I don’t toss my cookies on the drive to Burbank, even though the air freshening thing dangling from her rear-view mirror is making me gag. I hang my head out the window and let the air slap my face as Morgan weaves along the Cahuenga Pass that carves through the Hollywood Hills towards the valley.
I manage to remember my address and once we arrive she takes my arm and walks me to my door like some kind of backwards date. I drop my keys fumbling at the front door, so she picks them up and helps me get the door open.
“Morgan…” I start and she holds her hand up to stop me.
“No, Nathan. No need to thank me. Just do me a favor and don’t let that fucker win. Okay?”
I stand up straighter. It’s like she’s slapped me in the face. I’m alert again. “No, he can’t win,” I agree, tightening my hands into fists.
“Now you’re talking!” She grabs my fancy shirt by the collar and shakes me. “Look it may get worse before it gets better, but you can’t give up. You have to convince Brooke that she deserves real love.”
“I’ll do my best,” I assure her as I watch her pivot and march down the walkway.
“Thank you, Morgan,” I call after her.
In her final grand gesture, she doesn’t look back but lifts her hand and waves once. It’s like a salute from my very own general in this fight for Brooke. Tonight may have required a retreat, and Arnold may have won the battle, but somehow, some way…I’ve got to win the war.
I have one final thought before I tumble inside and deposit my hip-fail of an outfit into the bottom of the clothes hamper:
Damn, I’m lucky to have Morgan on my side.
• • •
“Dad?” I say softly, trying to find my voice. Each moment since I woke has felt like being dragged across a bed of gravel. My head’s throbbing and my skin feels raw.
“Son, are you okay?”
“Yeah, but I need to ask a big favor. I need a ride into Hollywood to get my car, and I can’t get a hold of Curtis. I could call a cab but I’d rather have back up if there’s a problem.”
This isn’t the kind of call my Dad’s ever gotten from me, so he knows to take it seriously. “I’ll be there shortly,” he responds without a pause. “I calculate between twenty and thirty minutes barring any unforeseen traffic issues.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
Twenty-three minutes later when I get in his car he studies me carefully. He appears relieved to see no obvious signs of bodily harm, but he must sense my heart’s wounded.
“Hollywood?” he asks.
I give him directions the way he likes them, precise and without extraneous information. He has verbal and visual total recall, so I know I won’t need to repeat myself.
“Exactly what are the circumstances for this unfortunate state you find yourself in? It is clear that copious amounts of alcohol were involved.”
“Yes, I had a friend drive me home last night since I was too intoxicated to drive.”
“Well, if you’re going to have a bender, at least you used wise judgment.”
“Well, my friend did, but I’m sure that I would’ve come to that conclusion on my own.”
“I’m don’t want to pry, Nathan, but is this about Brooke? I deduce you are crestfallen, and I fear that there’s been a setback.”
“You could say that,” I admit quietly. “Last night Arnold announced he plans to marry her.”
“I see,” he says. “That’s a most definite set-back…a chink in the armor, a fly in the ointment, a monkey wrench thrown into the mix.”
“Yeah, I’d like to stick that damn monkey face first in the ointment,” I growl.