As she left the hall to find a coffee, Elaine arrived with a gaggle of look-alikes in tow. She was glad to see “Drew”—she insisted on calling her brood by their celebrity names — and quickly introduced her to Cameron, Louie (Anderson), Cher, and Whoopi. Shoving Cameron at her, she bemoaned that Lucy (Liu) had car trouble and wasn’t going to make it. Today, the Auto Show would have to get by with just two Angels.
A few aloof staffers appeared and faintly sniggered while Elaine gathered the ducklings round for an impromptu seminar. Subaru had a Hooray for Hollywood! theme going, and the idea was for the look-alikes to encourage spectators to sit in the cars, kick the tires, and whatnot. Before Elaine even finished, Whoopi dived right in, spritzing a Japanese couple with Hollywood Squares—type zingers. The Louie was heartened and impulsively uprooted a prepubescent girl, forcibly settling her into one of the car’s open trunks so that she stood in it upright. The dad took pictures of his bemused, giggly daughter.
The Cameron was awkward at first but in between entertaining consumers spoke excitedly to Becca of Elaine Jordache’s Angels Master Plan. She was tall and had no ass. Becca thought the most Cameron-like thing about her was definitely her smile, which shone grotesquely without requiring cue. She wore clear braces (she said she was “currently under construction”), with a view toward making wideness and whiteness closer to Cameron’s; the lips were chapped with grape-colored gloss ill-applied. Becca couldn’t understand why the girl couldn’t at least have given the mouth — her prime asset — a little more prep time.
Some kids came over and hassled them. “Are you supposed to be Drew Barrymore?”
“That’s right,” said Becca, extending an arm to one of the cars. She thought she may as well use them for practice. “Now be an angel and take a seat in the new Impreza — it never fails to impress!”
“Take a seat on my face,” muttered his friend. They cracked themselves up until a mean-looking staffer sent them scurrying. Out of harm’s way, one of the boys shouted: “Hey, everybody! Drew Barrymore! Over there! It’s Drew Barrymore and Cameron Diaz of Charlie’s Angels!” His buddy added, “Free blow jobs, free blow jobs! They’re giving out free blow jobs!”
They disappeared into the crowd.
Becca introduced herself as Drew (per Elaine’s instructions), showing browsers to their cars. All in all, people were kind, and flattering about her resemblance. She had read that a lot of Hollywood power-types came to the Auto Show — you never knew who you’d make an impression on. Her Southern charm and sunny spirit lightened everybody’s load. She even won the staffers over.
After an hour or so, she took a break. She saw Elaine over by a customized SUV, having an argument with the handsome man who had impersonated Russell Crowe in Playa del Rey. Becca hid herself behind a display and eavesdropped.
“I told you to bring the armor!” she hissed.
“I said that I couldn’t find it. I didn’t want to be late.”
He was docile — a far cry from his brutish behavior of the other night.
“Well, next time I say bring it, bring it. Or there won’t be a next time. They specifically asked for the armor, and now I don’t even know if they’re going to pay for you, understand? If you ask for Mickey Mouse, you damn well expect the ears.” She tapped her foot with irritation. “Start paying attention or there won’t be a London and there won’t be a European tour. Understood?”
“You’re a little over the top, don’t you think?”
“There won’t be a European tour, Rusty! Am I making myself understood?”
He stared at the ground in the diffident way that had charmed Becca when they first met. “Understood.”
Elaine stormed off.
Rusty — she wondered what his real name was but liked Rusty just fine — approached the Subaru space, defeated. She was reminded of the scene where Joaquin Phoenix stabs Maximus, mortally wounding him before their Colosseum showdown. Becca discreetly circled around so that they both approached the exhibit at the same time. When he saw her, he seemed to reach out and retreat all at once. She said hello, and he nodded in a way that broke her heart. Becca saw him deflate as he stood there in his shabby Beautiful Mind suit, watching the Louie cavort with people’s kids. He listened to the other look-alikes introduce themselves by their celebrity names, and seemed to steel himself; then, in a remarkable rally, he approached a young black couple and vigorously said, “G’day, mates — I’m Russell Crowe. Come have a seat in the Subaru Baja! I assure you its south of the border qualities won’t disappoint. As a real Insider, let me tell you this little vehicle’s no croc—or ‘Crocodile’ Dundee! So c’mon over, put a shrimp on the Barbie doll and let me give you something strictly L.A. Confidentiaclass="underline" I got half A Beautiful Mind to give this Gladiator”—arm sweeping toward polished passenger door—“an Academy Award — for Best Car of the Year!”
The Fireman’s Fund
THE COLD, MOLDY, red-shingled string of cottages was called The Albany. A voice inside her — the snotty L.A. voice, the wry deadpan voice of her boss, Reggie Marck — said, Hey: it doesn’t get much more imaginative than that.
Robbie wouldn’t take her home, and she knew that meant he was involved. Though maybe not. Lisanne wouldn’t ask. Maybe he had a roommate he was embarrassed to parade her in front of, the kind who would tease him about porking a porker. She understood. She’d never made love at this weigh-in. He seemed excited enough, and besides, she didn’t care. She only wanted communion. She had almost forgotten what that was like.
He was an athlete in high school. It was torrid between them, but when Lisanne got accepted to Berkeley they broke up. Robbie stayed behind and drove an ambulance, with the idea of eventually enrolling in med school. When the company went bankrupt, he took the EMT course for paramedics in training and began working for the city. His story was that he injured his back lifting a gurney and wound up addicted to painkillers. He moved back in with his mom, inheriting a small amount of money when she died. Lisanne didn’t want to know too many details.
The sex was still good. She got vocal and cried out to God. That surprised her. He went down on her, and that was rough; she instinctively covered the fatness of a thigh with one hand while drawing up folds of belly with the other. While he worked down there, she thought about enrolling in an obesity program at UCLA. You ate seven hundred calories a day for months and lost three or four pounds a week, the only drawback being that your breath stank as your body began to devour its stores of fat. There was a moment of embarrassment when he spoke up and said it looked like she had some discharge. She switched on a lamp, but it was only a small wad of toilet paper. He went back to his labors — nothing seemed to turn him off.
Robbie lit an après-sex joint and proceeded to get all happy. She smoked and choked. He asked if she wanted to come see his house (the one he had bought and was slowly fixing up) and glowed like a cheap guru when she assented. Her cohabitation theories might have been wrong after all.
The ride was freezing and quiet. The truck smelled of desuetude and cigarettes, old mud, junk mail, torn vinyl promises. She hadn’t been this loaded in a long time. She became focused on the long, trembling metal stick that ruled the roost, the crystal of its eight ball cupped in Robbie’s hand like an animal’s heart. She watched the arcane, manly, unfathomable patterns of his upshifts and downshifts with the attention of an adept. The engine provided heat; there wasn’t even a radio. Her ex seemed to lose impetus as they drove, but Lisanne thought maybe that was because there wasn’t any more weed. Robbie clearly had a tolerance.