Bret Easton Ellis - Imperial Bedrooms Chapter 4 lyrics

Chapter 4 "You guys don't need to remind me that I'm not really a player ... but I can be useful, I guess." I'm sighing, staying loose. "Just always make sure you have some kind of producer credit. Stay friendly with the director. Get to know casting agents. It all helps the cause." I pause for effect before adding, "I'm very patient." "It's a plan," Kit says. "It's very, um, subtle." "It's a philosophy," someone else says. "It's just how I roll." Wayne looks up, taking note of my uninflected voice. "I guess it kind of makes sense. You've been involved in some high-profile hits," Wayne mutters, "for what it's worth." Kit leans forward. "It's just not a very good way to make friends." Banks closes his menu when the owner leans down and whispers something to him. Josh Hartnett, who was going to play one of the sons in The Listeners and then bailed, walks over and crouches by the bamboo chair and we have a brief exchange about another script of mine that he's been circling, but his apologetic lack of commitment only makes me seem more remote than I'm actually feeling. Though I know that what he's saying isn't true I smile and agree anyway. Austere plates of raw fish start arriving, along with ice-cold bottles of premium sake, and then the guys make fun of a very successful shark movie I wrote, and the series about witches I created that ran for two seasons on Showtime, then Wayne starts telling a story about an actress who stalked him until he cast her in a movie about a monster that looked like a talking beanbag. Just as the owner sends the table a complimentary dessert - an elaborate plate of sugared doughnuts drizzled with caramel - the night begins sliding into its last act. I'm scanning the room when I see the cascade of blond hair, the wide-open pale blue eyes, the dumb smile that offsets her beauty while at the same time making it more pronounced: she's on the phone at the hostess stand. And then I realize it's time to cross the line. I knew you were here," Rain says. "Why didn't you say something?" I ask, sobering up immediately in her presence. "You could have sent over a few co*ktails." "I a**umed you guys were already wasted when you came in." "Why didn't you say hello?" "I was seating a table," she says. "Plus the owner likes to impress Banks." "So, this is where you work?" "Yes," she purrs. "Glamorous, isn't it?" "You seem happy." "I am," she says. "I'm almost afraid of how happy I am." "Come on, don't be afraid." She mimics a little girl. "Well, I could always be happier." "Well," I say contemplatively. "I got your pics." When I get back to the Doheny Plaza, waiting for Rain to come over after she finishes her shift, I sit in my office checking Rain's IMDb page again, studying it for clues. There are no credits for the last two years, stopping abruptly after "Christine" in a Michael Bay movie and "Stacy's Friend" in an episode of CSI: Miami and then I'm filling in the missing pieces, the things she doesn't want anyone to know. The credits begin when Rain must have been eighteen. I'm doing the math by guessing - the date of birth has been shaved by at least a couple years and I'm putting her age at probably twenty-two or twenty-three. She was at the University of Michigan (cheerleader for the Wolverines, "studying medicine") but no dates are given (if she attended at all) so it's hard to confirm exactly how old she is. Though Rain would say it doesn't matter. Rain would argue that just the idea of her in a cheerleader's uniform is enough. But the fact that there are no photos of her as a cheerleader causes more whispers in that darkly lit hallway, and the addition of "studying medicine" makes the whispering even louder. The most recent information: Rain posted a month ago that she was listed as one of L.A. Confidential's most eligible singles in the December issue, and so is - I notice unsurprisingly enough when I pull up the magazine online - Amanda Flew, the actress I hit on at JFK and who texted me during Rain's audition. The photo of Rain in L.A. Confidential is the same headshot that obviously is Rain's preferred image of herself: staring blankly at the camera so that her perfect features can speak for themselves, but there's the beginning of a slight grin she almost manages to make suggestive of an intelligence that the cleavage and her career choice otherwise argue against. And it doesn't matter if any intelligence actually exists because it's really about the look, the idea of a girl like this, the promise of s**. It's all about the lure. The MySpace page reveals nothing to me at first except that her favorite band is the Fray. "How to Save a Life" plays when you open the page. I'm about to scan it when I get a text from a blocked number. I look down at the phone on my desk. The screen says: I'm watching you. Instead of ignoring it and turning away, I text back: Where am I? Within the time it takes another text to arrive I've already walked to the kitchen and poured myself a gla** of vodka. When I reach for the phone back in my office I freeze. You're at home. I hold the phone away from my face and glance out the window. And then I text back: No I'm not. It takes a minute before the phone flashes a glow that tells me I have a response. I can see you, the text reads. U r standing in your office. I glance out the window again and am surprised when I find myself backing into a wall. The condo suddenly seems so empty but it isn't - there are voices in it, and they linger like they always do - and I turn off the lights and slowly move to the balcony, and beneath the wavering fronds of a palm tree, the blue Jeep is parked on the corner of Elevado, and then I turn the lights back on and move to the front door and open it and stare down the empty Art Deco hallway, and then I'm walking toward the elevators. I pa** the night doorman and push the lobby doors open and then I'm walking quickly past the security guard and then I stumble into a jog toward Elevado and just as I turn the corner the Jeep's headlights flash their high beams, immediately blinding me. The Jeep peels away from the curb and it causes a van coming up Doheny to swerve as the Jeep makes a right and lurches toward Sunset and when I look up I'm standing exactly where the Jeep was parked and can see the lights of my condo through the branches of the trees, and except for the occasional car cruising by, it's dark and soundless on Elevado. I keep my eyes on the windows of my empty office as I walk back to the Doheny Plaza fifteen stories up, a place I was standing in just moments ago, being watched by whoever was in the blue Jeep, and I realize I'm panting as I walk past the security guard, and I slow down, trying to catch my breath, and smile at him, but as I'm about to head inside a green BMW pulls up. I love the view," Rain says, holding a tumbler of tequila, standing on the balcony overlooking the city. I'm staring past her down at the empty space on Elevado where the Jeep was parked and it's three in the morning and I come up behind her and down below the wind gently drapes palm fronds over the rippling water of the Doheny Plaza's lit pool and the only light in the condo comes from the Christmas tree in the corner and Counting Crows' "A Long December" plays softly in the background. "Don't you have a boyfriend?" I ask. "Someone ... more age-appropriate than me?" "Guys my age are idiots," she says, turning around. "Guys my age are awful." "I have news for you," I say, leaning into her. "So are guys my age." "But you look good for your age," she says, stroking my face. "You look ten years younger," she says. "You've had work done, right?" Her fingers keep combing the hair that had been dyed the week before. Her other hand runs along the sleeve of the T-shirt with the skateboard logo on it. In the bedroom she lets me go down on her and after I make her come she lets me slide in. During the last week of December if we aren't in bed we're at the movies or watching screeners and Rain simply nods when I tell her everything that's wrong with the movie we've just seen and she doesn't argue back. "I liked it," she will say, putting a light touch on everything, her upper lip always provocatively lifted, her eyes always drained of intent, programmed not to be challenging or negative. This is someone trying to stay young because she knows that what matters most to you is the youthful surface. This is supposed to be part of the appeal: keep everything young and soft, keep everything on the surface, even with the knowledge that the surface fades and can't be held together forever - take advantage before the expiration date appears in the nearing distance. The surface Rain presents is really all she's about, and since so many girls look like Rain another part of the appeal is watching her try to figure out why I've become so interested in her and not someone else. "Am I the only one you're interested in?" she asks. "I mean right now, for the part?" My eyes scan the bedroom we're lying in until they land on hers. "Yes." "Why?" And then a teasing smile. "Why me?" This question and my subsequent nonanswer leave her wanting to impart information that, in the bedroom on the fifteenth floor of the Doheny Plaza, has no reason to even exist. You ignore why she left Lansing at seventeen and the casual hints of an abusive uncle (a made-for-sympathy move that threatens to erase the carnality) and why she dropped out of the University of Michigan (I don't ask whether she'd ever enrolled) and what led to the side trips to New York and Miami before she landed in L.A. and you don't ask what she must have done with the photographer who discovered her when she was waitressing at the cafe on Melrose or about the career modeling lingerie that probably seemed promising at nineteen and that led to the commercials that led to a couple of tiny roles in films and definitely not putting all her hopes into the third part of a horror franchise that panned into nothing and then it was the quick slide into the bit parts on TV shows you've never heard of, the pilot shot but never aired, and covering everything else is the distant humiliation of bartending gigs and the favors that got her the hostess job at Reveal. Decoding everything, you piece together the agent who ignores her. You begin to understand through her muted complaints that the management company no longer cares. Her need is so immense that you become surrounded by it; this need is so enormous that you realize you can actually control it, and I know this because I've done it before. We sit in my office naked, buzzed on champagne, while she shows me pics from a Calvin Klein show, audition tapes a friend shot, a modeling portfolio, paparazzi photos of her at B-list events - the opening of a shoe store on Canon, a charity benefit at someone's home in Brentwood, standing with a group of girls at the Playboy Mansion at the Midsummer Night's Dream Party - and then always it seems we're back in the bedroom. "What do you want for Christmas?" she asks. "This. You." I smile. "What do you want?" "I want a part in your movie," she says. "You know that." "Yeah?" I ask, my hand tracing her thigh. "My movie? Which part?" "I want the part of Martina." She kisses me, her hand moving down to my co*k, gripping it, releasing it, gripping it again. "And I'm going to try and get it for you." The pause is involuntary but she recovers in a second. "Try?" If we aren't in bed or watching movies we're at the Bristol Farms down the street buying champagne or at the Apple store in the Westfield Mall in Century City because she needs a new computer and also wants an iPhone ("It's Christmas," she purrs as if it matters) and I'll hand the BMW over to the valet at the mall and notice the looks from the guys taking the car, and the stares from so many other men roaming the mall, and she notices them too and walks quickly, pulling me along, while talking mindlessly to no one on her cell phone, a self-protective gesture, a way to combat the stares by not acknowledging them. These stares are always the grim reminders of a pretty girl's life in this town, and though I've been with other beautiful women, the neurosis about their looks had already hardened into a kind of bitter acceptance that Rain doesn't seem to share. One of the last afternoons together that December, we're heading to the Apple store drunk on champagne, Rain nestling into me, wearing Yves Saint Laurent sungla**es as we walk beneath the overcast sky looming above the towers of Century City, the chiming bells of Christmas carols everywhere, and she's happy because we'd just watched her reel, which includes the two scenes she was in from a Jim Carrey movie, a drama that tanked. (After squinting hard at the screen, I enthusiastically complimented her and then asked why she hadn't listed the movie on her resume, and she admitted the scenes were cut.) She's still asking me if I'm telling the truth about her scenes as we move toward the Apple store and I a**ure her that I am instead of admitting how dismaying the performance actually was. There was no way those scenes should have been kept in the movie - the decision to remove them was the correct one. (I have to stop myself from wondering how she got the part, because that would be entering a maze with no escape.) What keeps me interested - and it always does - is how can she be a bad actress on film but a good one in reality? This is where the suspense of it all usually lies. And later, for the first time since Meghan Reynolds, I think hopefully - lying in bed, lifting a gla** filled with champagne to my lips, her face hovering above mine - that maybe she isn't acting with me. We're shopping at the Bristol Farms on Doheny for another case of champagne in the last week of December when I lose her in one of the aisles and I become dazed when I realize that the market used to be Chasen's, the restaurant I came to with my parents on various Christmas Eves, when I was a teenager, and I try to reconfigure the restaurant's layout while standing in the produce section, "Do They Know It's Christmas?" playing throughout the store, and when nothing comes it's a sad relief. And then I notice Rain's gone and I'm moving through the aisles and I'm thinking about pictures of her naked on a yacht, my hand between her legs, my tongue on her c*nt while she comes and then I find her outside, leaning against my BMW talking to a handsome guy I don't recognize, his arm in a sling, and he walks away as I wheel my cart toward them and when I ask her who he was she smiles rea**uringly and says "Graham" and then "No one" and then "He's a magician." I kiss her on the mouth. She looks nervously around. I watch her reflection in the window of the BMW. "What's wrong?" I ask. "Not here," she says, but as if "not here" is a promise of somewhere better. The deserted parking lot is suddenly freezing, the icy air so cold it shimmers. During that week we spend together things aren't completely tracking - there are lapses - but she acts like it doesn't matter, which helps cause the fear to fade away. Rain replaces it with something else that's easy to lose yourself in, despite, for example, the fact that a few of my friends still in town wanted to get together for dinner at Sona but the invitation caused a low-level anxiety in Rain that seemed alien to her nature and this became briefly revealing. ("I don't want to be with anyone else but you" is her excuse.) But the lapses and evasions aren't loud - Rain is still soothing enough for the texts from the blocked numbers to stop arriving and for the blue Jeep to disappear along with my desire to start work again on any number of projects I'm involved with and the long brooding silences are gone and the bottle of Viagra in the nightstand drawer is left untouched and the ghosts rearranging things in the condo have taken flight and Rain makes me believe this is something with a future. Rain convinces me that this is really happening. Meghan Reynolds fades into a blur because Rain demands that the focus be on her, and because everything about her works for me I don't even realize it when it slips into something beyond simply working and for the first time since Meghan Reynolds I make the mistake of starting to care. But there's one dark fact humming loudly over everything that I keep trying to ignore but can't because it's the only thing that keeps the balance in place. It's the thing that doesn't let me fall completely away. It's the thing that saves me from collapsing: she's too old for the part she thinks she's going to get. So when will you help me?" she asks while we're sitting in the cafe down the street from the Doheny Plaza, idling over a late breakfast, both of us floating away from hangovers with the dope we smoked and Xanax. "I think you should make the calls as soon as possible," she says, looking at herself in a mirror. "Right when everybody comes back, okay?" I'm smiling at her serenely and nodding. I ignore the creases of suspicion on her face even after I remove my sungla**es, and then I a**ure her with a "Yes" followed by a warm kiss. This a**umed peace lasts only about a week. There's always the possibility of something frightening happening, and then it usually does. Two days before Kelly Montrose's body is found, Rain wakes up and mentions she had a dream that night. I'm already up, taking pictures of her while she sleeps, and now that she's awake she flinches when I take another one and she says that in her dream she saw a young man in my kitchen, a boy, really, but old enough to be desirable, and he was staring at her and there was dried blood crusted above his upper lip and there was a blurred tattoo of a dragon etched on his forearm and the boy told her he had wanted to live here in 1508, but the boy told her not to worry, that he was lucky, and then his face turned black and he bared his teeth and then he was dust, and I tell Rain about the party boy who had owned this apartment and I tell her that the building is haunted, that at night vampires hide in the palm trees surrounding the building waiting for the lights to go out, and then roam the hallways, and finally the camera gets her attention and she's animated and I keep flashing the camera, my head propped on a pillow while she glances at the flat-screen TV - a shot of people running from a jungle, an episode of Lost, and I reach for a Corona on the nightstand. "The vampires don't roam the hallways," she finally murmurs, recovered. "The vampires own the units." And then we run lines for the part of Martina in The Listeners. Kelly Montrose was rumored to be with the Hispanic actress who had been found in the ma** grave right before Christmas. The last sighting of him was on a tennis court in Palm Springs one afternoon in mid-December. Kelly's naked body was smeared across a highway in Juarez and then propped against a tree. Two other men were found nearby entombed in blocks of cement. Kelly's face was peeled off, and his hands were missing. There was a note pinned to his body revealing nothing: cabron? cabron? cabron? Things I didn't know about Kelly: the crystal meth thing, the stepmother who died during plastic surgery, the supposed connections with the drug cartel. This discovery feels only tangential since I never really knew Kelly Montrose - he produced movies, I'd met him several times about various projects - and he was never close enough to anyone I knew to define any of my relationships. Rain spends the day before Kelly Montrose is found at a distance: pacing the balcony, texting, taking calls, returning calls, increasingly agitated, leaning against the railing, gazing past the plunge of the balcony at a couple of guys jogging shirtless on the street below. When I ask her what's wrong she keeps blaming her family. I keep dragging her back to the bedroom and she's always resisting, promising "In a minute, in a minute ... " After downing two shots of tequila she lazes on the balcony in just a thong, ignoring the helicopter swooping above her, and that night in the dark bedroom in the Doheny Plaza, drunk on margaritas, candles glowing around her while I complain about another movie playing on the giant flat screen, Rain can't help it and for the first time something causes her to tune out and when I finally notice, my voice starts to waver and as I fade into silence she simply asks, without looking over at me, in a neutral voice, her eyes gazing at the TV, "What's the worst thing you've ever done?" I have to go to San Diego," she says. I'm just waking up, squinting at the light pouring into the bedroom. The shades have been pulled up and she's walking around in the brightness of the room collecting things. "What time is it?" I ask. "Almost noon." "What are you doing?" "I have to go to San Diego," she says. "Something's come up." I reach out for her, trying to pull her back onto the bed. "Clay, stop. I have to go." "Why? Who are you seeing down there?" "My mother," she mutters. "My crazy f**ing mother." "What's wrong?" I ask. "What happened?" "Nothing. The usual. Whatever. I'll call you when I get there." "When am I going to see you again?" "When I get back." "When are you getting back?" "I don't know. Soon. A couple of days." "Are you okay?" I ask. "You seemed kind of freaked out yesterday." "No, I'm better," she says. "I'm okay." To placate me she kisses me on the mouth. "I had a nice time," she says, stroking my face, and the sound of the air-conditioning competes with the big smile and then the smile and the cool air become in the drift of things suddenly amplified, almost frantic, and I pull her toward me onto the bed and I press my face against her thighs and inhale and then I try to flip her over but she gently pushes me away. I lower the sheet, revealing my hard-on, and she aims for levity and rolls her eyes. I can suddenly see my reflection in a mirror in the corner of the bedroom: an old-looking teenager. She gets up and scans the room to see if she's forgotten anything. I reach for the camera on the nightstand and start taking pictures of her. She's staring into a Versace bag that had once been filled with packets of c**aine, the other thing that had fueled so much of the s**, the thing that helped make the fantasy seem much more discrete and innocent than it really was, the thing that made it seem as if the desire was reciprocated. "Could you call the valet and have him bring my car up?" she asks, frowning as she checks a text. "I don't want you to go." "I said I'll be back," she murmurs absently. "Don't make me beg," I say. "I'm warning you." "Even if you did it wouldn't work." She doesn't look up when she says this. "Can I come with you?" "Stop it." "I'm imagining things." "Don't." "I'm imagining there are many versions of this event." "Event? I'm going to f**ing San Diego to see my f**ing mother." "Neither one of us wants to admit that something's wrong," I murmur, snapping another pic. "You just did." She briefly poses. Another flash. "Rain, I'm serious - " "Stop turning this into a drama, Crazy." Again: the sly smile. "Drama?" I ask innocently. "Who? Me?" The last thing she says before she leaves: "Will you make sure I get that callback?" The digital billboards glowing in the gray haze all seem to say no and the poinsettias lining the median at Sunset Plaza are dying and fog keeps enveloping the towers in Century City and the world becomes a science-fiction movie - because none of it really has anything to do with me. It's a world where getting stoned is the only option. Everything becomes more vague and abstract since every desire and every whim that had been catered to constantly in that last week of December is now gone and I don't want to replace it with anyone else because there's no substitute - the teen p**n sites seem different, repainted somehow, nothing kicks in, it doesn't work anymore - and so I re-create almost hourly in my mind the s** that happened in the bedroom over those eight days she was here and when I try to outline a script that I've been lazy about it comes out half sincere and half ironic because Rain's failure to return calls or text back becomes a distraction and then, only three days after she leaves, it officially becomes an obstacle. The bruises on my chest and arms, the imprints from Rain's fingers and the scratches on my shoulders and thighs, begin to fade and I stop returning various e-mails from people back in town because I have no desire to gossip about Kelly Montrose or dis the awards buzz or hear about people's plans for Sundance and I have no reason to go back to the casting sessions in Culver City (because what I want has already happened) and without Rain here it all dissipates entirely and the calm becomes impossible, something I can't control. And so I find myself in Dr. Woolf's office on Sawtelle and the pattern that keeps repeating itself is again pointed out and its reasons are located and we practice techniques to lessen the pain. And just when I think I'm going to be able to deal with everything a blue Jeep with tinted windows pa**es me on Santa Monica while I'm crossing the intersection at Wilshire. An hour later I get a text from a blocked number, the first in almost eleven days: Where did she go? Rumors of a video of Kelly Montrose's "execution" - that it had been circulating on the Web and seen by "reliable sources" - spreads within the community early one morning in the first week of January. There was supposedly a link somewhere that led to another link but the first link had been pulled and there's nothing to find except people on various blogs debating the video's "authenticity." Supposedly there was a headless body in a black windbreaker hung from a bridge, a bleak desert lined with scrub brush beneath it, police tape whipping in the dry wind, and someone else wrote that the murder was set in a "laboratory" outside of Juarez and someone else countered with certainty that the murder was committed in a soccer field by men wearing hoods and someone else wrote No, Kelly Montrose was k**ed in an abandoned cemetery. But there's nothing to substantiate any of it. Someone posted a picture of a severed head grinning broadly from the pa**enger seat of a bullet-ridden SUV but it isn't Kelly. In fact there are no shots of him being pulled along a highway bound with rope, no close-ups of skin being peeled off a face, no shots of a pair of hands being amputated while mariachi music is scored over the images, and after the excitement peaks and the justification for the gossip surrenders to reality the rumors about the Kelly Montrose clips fade into a twilight stage. But I don't care. After searching for the links I simply fall back into the habit of looking at all the pics Rain sent me and remember the promises I made that didn't involve The Listeners but were about agents and about movies with titles like Boogeyman 2 and Bait and I remind her of them in texts I send - Hey I talked to Don and Braxton and Nate wants to rep you and Come back and we'll go over your part and I'm talking you up to EVERYONE - that are only answered in the middle of the night: Hey Crazy that all sounds super! and I'll be back soon!! dotted with emoticons. Unlike everyone else it's not Kelly Montrose that causes my fear to return. It's officially back and because of Rain's absence no longer a faint distraction. And then it's the blue Jeep that pa**ed me on Santa Monica materializing nightly on the corner of Elevado and one night while I watch it dully from my office window it finally pulls away from the curb. And that's when I notice for the first time another car, a black Mercedes, slowly pulling away from a spot farther down the street and following the Jeep onto Doheny and then up to Sunset. From the apartment below Union Square, Laurie has stopped contacting me completely. What did you do over the holidays?" Rip Millar asks me when a number I don't recognize shows up on my phone and I answer it impulsively, thinking it might be Rain. After I mention a few family appearances and that basically I just hung around and worked, Rip offers, "My wife wanted to go to Cabo. She's still there." A long silence plays itself out. I'm forced to fill the silence with, "What have you been doing?" Rip describes a couple of parties he seemed to have fun at and then the minor ha**les of opening a club in Hollywood and a futile meeting with a city councilman. Rip tells me he's lying in bed watching CNN on his laptop, images of a mosque in flames, ravens flying against the scarlet sky. "I want to see you," he says. "Have a drink, grab some lunch." "Can't we just talk over the phone?" "No," he says. "We need to see each other in person."