The Year Of Living Famously

Rejected by the catalog. Again. But I won’t let it get me down. I’m too happy in other areas right now. I have to tell you, though, the movie set is anything but glamorous. Declan got me credentials to hang out for a few days, but it was like waiting at an airport. Declan shares a trailer with a bunch of other actors, and they sit in there all day playing Scrabble. Every once in a great, great while, someone knocks and tells them they’re on. They do one short scene about fifty million times, then go back to the trailer. It was as painful as listening to someone tell you about their dream. You just keep wondering when it might end. But Declan is happy, so that’s all that matters.

To: Kyra Felis

From: Margaux Hutters

Declan is happy, you’re happy. My God, would you listen to yourself? What happens when the movie is over?

To: Margaux Hutters

From: Kyra Felis

I know, I know. Other people’s glee can be so tedious, right? As for the movie, they’re done shooting this week, but Declan’s agent got him a bunch of auditions. In fact, he already landed one commercial, which shoots next week. So…drum-roll, please…he’s staying until September!

It was the everlasting summer. I’ve never felt that a summer was long, that it stretched on and on, that it was nearly all beautiful—sun and blue and street-side cafés—but that’s what it was like for those first few months with Dec, as I’d begun calling him, and me.

It was a perfect time to wear my most feminine clothes. I broke out all my fifties-style dresses with the flounced skirts, and I wore them with polka-dot sandals. I’ve never been the girl who could get away with wearing cargo pants and a ripped T-shirt. At my size, I look too much like a boy with boobs. And so I carried my pink alligator clutch bag, and I wore my yellow twin set, my hair in a high, bouncy ponytail. Oftentimes it’s hard to find occasions to dress so girlie, but falling in love gives you a built-in excuse.

Declan didn’t look like a typical movie star, if there is such a thing. Tall and broad, yes. Wavy, longish, coppery-brown hair that women wanted to rake their fingers through, yes. Honey-brown eyes, sharp and knowing, yes. But his complexion was somewhat ruddy, and his waist became a little soft when he drank too much beer.

His coloring was all off, at least for me. I’d always preferred men who were dark. Bobby was just my type, in fact, with his inky-black curls, his olive skin and almost black eyes. I’d had a mad crush on Bobby after we met, when we were both in graduate school. The crush dissipated, mostly, and we became tight buddies. Years later, we had sex one night, something we needed to get out of our system. It had been lingering there, after all. But it was odd. He was too familiar and yet the intimate parts of him so male, so foreign. Luckily we were both stoned, and the whole experience is rather hazy.

Anyway, even though Declan wasn’t necessarily my type, I adored the way he looked, even from the start. He was taller than me by at least ten inches, yet he was always ducking down when we hugged, trying to place his head on my collarbone, as if sensing a warmth there and burrowing for that heat. But since he wasn’t the Latin-lover type, the blond-surfer type or the tousled bad boy, I never really thought he’d be all that famous. That sounds terrible. It sounds as if I didn’t have faith in him. That wasn’t it. I just couldn’t imagine someone like him, with the lilting brogue and the goofy laugh, being an international superstar. I don’t think he could have imagined it, either.

That summer we talked about how much he simply wanted to make a living as an actor. I knew what he meant. I just wanted to make a living as a designer. I didn’t want to be a famous designer; I wasn’t bold enough to think it, I didn’t need that. But when people asked, “What do you do for a living?” I wanted to be able to say, “I’m a designer” and I wanted that to be all. I didn’t want to go into a lengthy explanation about how I was trained to be a fashion designer, how I was trying, but how I had a small trust fund and was doing freelance design jobs and temp work in the meantime.

I had started working at temp agencies in my early twenties, in order to fill out the periods when I couldn’t sell a line of clothing or couldn’t get a freelance design gig. At the time, many of the others who were sent on the same jobs were my age, at my stage in life—people I could run around with. We would go out for drinks at the end of the day and make fun of the stiffs in the office where we’d just worked, self-satisfied because we didn’t have to make our livings there. But by the time I met Dec, I was often the elder. I was the one who was pitied. I saw it in the faces of the twenty-one-year-olds who had just migrated to the city, smug in the fact that they would move on shortly, that the temp jobs were just stopping grounds for their eventual greatness. I knew them. I knew their misplaced arrogance, and I didn’t blame them for their pity. I didn’t even fight it, because I’d begun to look at myself the same way.

Declan understood all this. He’d folded jeans all day while working at the Gap; he’d suffered the humiliation of waiting on Al Pacino at a coffee shop and accidentally spilling steamed milk on him. He felt he might be on the verge of making a steady living, since he’d landed three roles over the last fourteen months, including the movie in Manhattan, but his family was still suggesting that maybe he should come home to Dublin and work with his dad as a courthouse clerk.

Luckily, I didn’t have family pressure. Emmie would no sooner pressure me than she would move to Nebraska. To Emmie, each person is her own master. The only people she bossed around were her authors, and even then she trusted their judgment about the course of their careers and life. How lovely it was to have someone like Emmie who thought that you, and only you, could decide your fate. Occasionally, though, I thought about how nice it would be to have someone question me, give me a little push.

One night, Declan came to my apartment with a clumsily wrapped present, roughly the size of a softball.

“Open it,” he said, handing it to me. “Fast.”

The wrapping paper was green foil, obnoxious and yet seemingly perfect from him. “It’s cold,” I said, feeling it.

“Hurry, gorgeous,” he said.

I tore off the paper. I could tell he’d wrapped it himself because of the long, tangled strips of tape that wound around the thing.

I saw what was inside and I giggled. “A pint of ice cream?”

“Not just any ice cream,” he said, sounding indignant. “This is Ben & Jerry’s! There’s more crap in here than you can imagine. It’s so American. Not a bit like our blocks of HB back home.” He withdrew two silver spoons from his pocket and handed one to me.

We stood at my kitchen counter eating runny spoonfuls of Chubby Hubby, and I smiled at him, thinking, Who gives ice cream for a present?

My boyfriend, I answered inside my head. My boyfriend, my boyfriend, my boyfriend.

As it turns out, it was Declan, my boyfriend, who gave me the little push. Not explicitly. Not with words, but with the possibility of a new life.

chapter 6

I knew that I was in love with him for certain when Emmie got hit by that car.

She was on Astor Place by her office, coming out of the little wine bar that used to be a speakeasy. She liked to tell people that she could remember drinking there during Prohibition, which was a complete fabrication. Emmie was barely out of the womb when Prohibition began, but she was one of those people who took pride in her age, rather than hiding it. She expected complete respect for living as long as she had.

Right before the SUV struck her, she was on the arm of Gerald Tillingham, another literary agent who was a few years older than she, but who had retired over a decade ago. She and Gerald had been an item back in the sixties after his first wife died, but now they were just buddies, old cronies who saw each other once a month to drink Pimm’s and gossip about their friends. Sadly, the fact was that many of their friends had passed away.

Gerald had too much to drink, Emmie would tell me later when she was conscious and able to speak in coherent sentences. He had offered his arm to her like a gentleman, but it was he who needed support. They were crossing the street when Gerald faltered, one of his knees giving way. As Emmie struggled to catch him, the SUV turned the corner too fast. Startled by the car, Emmie lost her grip on Gerald and he fell again, and it was she who got hit. The SUV stopped immediately, but her leg was already broken, her lung punctured.

By the time I arrived at the hospital, Emmie was out of surgery, her leg pinned, her lung repaired. They said the lung would always trouble her and that I should get her to quit smoking. I said I would try, though I knew she would never do it. Despite the irony, Emmie would sooner die than give up cigarettes.

I pushed open the door quietly because the nurses said she was sleeping, and also because I was afraid of what I might see. And there she was, propped high on the bed to allow her lungs to drain, her leg huge and lumpen with plaster, metal prods piercing it. She was indeed asleep, the makeup on her papery cheeks faded, her dyed reddish hair fuzzy and misshapen by the pillow. Emmie would have hated how she looked. She took pride in her expensive cosmetics and the clothes she selected with care. The sapphire ring wasn’t on her right hand, and that absence was the most shocking of all. I’d never seen her without it.

I sat on the edge of her bed, half hoping the movement would wake her. It didn’t, and I couldn’t bear to sit there very long without helping her somehow, without doing something. To watch her sleep like that was an invasion of privacy, like spying on someone on the toilet.

I left the room and went in the stairwell to call Declan. I had a cell phone by then, which he’d bought me. I had been one of the lone holdouts in all of Manhattan, one of the few people who weren’t connected by the head to their cellular. But Declan said it made him “absolutely mad” when he couldn’t find me. So I let him buy it. Later in L.A., I became a master at the thing. I grew attached to it like other people to their pets. But in New York, it was still a novelty, and I felt a rush of gratitude that I had it, that I had Declan to call.

He came to see us in the hospital that night. I told him it wasn’t necessary, but he wanted to come. Emmie was groggy but awake by then, and he chatted with her as if she hadn’t nearly died; he brought her magazines and told her his awful jokes. But it wasn’t only that which made me say “I love you” in front of the hospital later that night. It was what happened when I left for ten minutes to go for coffee. I came back and found him feeding Emmie ice chips with a white plastic spoon. He was bent at the waist, his hair falling over his eyes, his arm outstretched. Emmie’s lips were pink and cracked; they were pursed and straining for that white spoon. His sweetness, his ability to do that, along with Emmie’s almost childlike response, undid me.

September came too fast, but Declan was back in L.A. for only three days before I was on a plane to spend a week with him. Those few days apart had been agonizing. The things that used to make me content—getting a coffee on the corner, seeing a movie at Bryant Park—seemed empty and flat without him there.

I arrived in L.A. for our visit on a Tuesday afternoon. Outside, I was buffeted with warmth and sunshine. I’d never been to Los Angeles, and I couldn’t have been more thrilled.

Declan pulled up in a rusty white hatchback. He leaped out of the car and ran around to the sidewalk. He picked me up and twirled me around, and I imagined we looked like the ending of an old movie.

“Kyr.” He nuzzled his face in my collarbone. “I’ve missed you.”

The car smelled strongly of mildew, and there were wrappers from bags of potato chips (crisps, Declan would call them) on the back seat. But it didn’t bother me. I was in love and it was sunny, and nothing else mattered. Until we got to the apartment.

Why is it that men will spend money on expensive dinners, work out for hours a day, and even wax the hair on their backs in order to attract and keep women, but they won’t do a thing to their home?

Declan’s apartment was in Venice Beach. It had a balcony with a plastic table and two mismatched chairs, and if you looked to the left, you could see the silvery blue of the ocean. But inside was chaos. Not a quirky, lovable chaos, the likes of Emmie’s place. No, this was a teenage-boy type of chaos that would have made any self-respecting woman flinch.

I knew about Declan’s first love, a girl from Dublin named Finnuala, and I knew he’d dated an ad exec in L.A. a few years ago. But maybe this was why he’d been single for a while. In New York, I’d assumed the mess was due to two men living in a small space. Apparently it was just Declan.

The carpet, a worn, dingy gray, was littered with gym shorts and T-shirts and old copies of Variety. The walls were contractor white and marked with greasy fingerprints. In the kitchen, crusted-over dishes and forks commandeered the sink. The bedroom had cardboard boxes instead of a dresser, and, worst of all, a futon.

My first sexual experience, an exchange of oral pleasantries, was held on a futon my freshman year at Vassar with a boy whose name was Thadeus Howler. Thadeus was from the South, had a slow rolling drawl and went by the nickname of Dixie. Dixie Howler, you might not be surprised to hear, came out of the closet a few years after our night together and is now one of New Orleans’s most celebrated cross-dressers.

Both Dixie and I, I believe, were on that futon that night because we were both late bloomers in the sexual arena. We both needed to get some experience, and you didn’t want to practice lingual technique on someone you actually liked. So there we were, fumbling and slobbering in the dark on his lumpy, cheap-cologne-smelling futon. I have never since been able to look at a futon without cringing.

And I did cringe in Declan’s bedroom that day. He could barely get me to take a step inside the doorway.

Next on the house “tour” was the bathroom.

“Sorry, love,” he said, flicking on the lights. The counter appeared encrusted in old, calcified dollops of toothpaste and shaving cream. The tub boasted a gray ring and little patches of black clinging to the grout.