Glamorama

"Your family's from Europe?" she asks.

"Er, well, I'm not sure, but I'm, I mean, I've heard I had a few roots there"-I pause-"Europe." I pause again. "Baby, I'm just really searching for some honesty."

She says nothing.

"Um, y'know, it's hard right now, it's so damn hard," I sigh. "I'm just beginning to adjust to not fending off autograph hunters and I'm not used to it yet. I need to detox from that whole celeb thing. But I'm just not used to it yet. Can't you tell how jittery I am? I think I just twitched." I pause, sip the light beer thoughtfully. "Do you know who I am now?" I open the W up again and show her the picture of Chloe and me at the premiere at Radio City, my thumb subtly blocking out Chloe's face.

"I'm not really sure I know who you are," she says. "But you look more familiar now."

"I was on the cover of YouthQuake magazine last month," I say. "Does that help?"

"So you're an actor too?" she asks.

"Yes. I know how to laugh, applaud, cry out in amazement, all on cue. Aren't you impressed?"

"I sense a supporting-actor Oscar in your future," she says, smiling.

"Thank you," I say, then faux-blanch. "Supporting?"

I notice the couple conferring with the director, who's looking schleppier by the minute, and then I notice Marina watching them too and the man turns his head away from us, freezing up when he notices us looking at him, and he nods at the director, who I don't think is noticing anything, and the three of them are huddled together as if forming a plan.

"So who is this person you're trying to find?" Marina asks.

"A girl I went to school with," I murmur.

"Where did you go to school?"

"Undergraduate? Camden College."

"And where did you get your master's?"

I pause. "Actually... I haven't gotten it yet."

"Well, she must be very important to you."

"Well, she's, um... yeah." I squint up into the sky, which looks weird, nonexistent. "I think it's like in her best interest if I, um, show up.

"Camden," Marina murmurs. "I think I know a couple of people who went to Camden." She concentrates for a moment. "Katrina Svenson?"

"Sure, yeah, right," I say, nodding. "Very good, um, Hacky Sack player."

"Paul Denton?"

"Oh yeah, Paulie, Paulie, Paulie."

"Sean Bateman?"

"Good buddy of mine."

"He's actually a fairly lousy individual."

"Baby, I am so glad you said that because, baby, I am so with you on that one."

I notice that the director has moved somewhere else and that the couple in fashionable beachwear has started heading toward our general vicinity. When I look over at Marina she's gathering up her magazines and Walkman and placing them in the Chanel tote, her skin flawless, the scent of flowers rising off her, playing let's-get-happy with my nostrils.

"Hey, what's the story?" I ask. "Where are you going?"

"I hate to dash off like this," she says apologetically, standing up. "But I'm feeling a little exposed." She grabs her towel.

"Um, well, how about-" I start.

"It was nice to meet you, Victor," she interrupts, concentrating on getting her things together. "I hope you have a pleasant voyage."

"Um, wait a minute," I say, standing up also. "What are you doing for dinner?"

"Call me. I'm in room 402. Deck 3." She starts walking away, offering a slight wave without turning around, and then she's gone.

I'm suddenly so cold I pull the Gap tank top back on and, leaving the towel on the chaise, decide to follow Marina, ask her to dinner again, reestablish our groovy rapport, inquire as to whether I freaked her out, if I wasn't behaving gentlemanly enough, if I came on too hard, if she knows Chloe maybe, which causes me to panic about my reputation, but the couple hurry over before I can rush away and they're older than they looked from far away and I busy myself with the towel and start folding it uselessly, my back to them, hoping they're not going to ask me to camcord a tiresome message for friends back home with the two of them framed against the dully sparkling miniwhitecaps stretching out to the horizon.

"Are you Victor Johnson?" the man behind me asks with an English accent. "Or is it Victor Ward?"

I drop the towel on the chaise and turn to face him, whipping off my sunglasses, smiling wide, and-tingling-admit, "Yeah."