Glamorama

"Bill? Hello?" I'm saying. "Bill? What are you doing? Getting fawned over on Melrose? Sitting there with a headset on, looking like you belong in an air traffic controllers' room at LAX?"

"Do I need to remind you that I am more powerful than you?" Bill asks tiredly. "Do I need to remind you that a headset is mandatory?"

"You're my broker of opportunity, baby."

"Hopefully I will benefit from you."

"So baby, what's going on with Flatliners II? The script is like almost brill. What's the story?"

"The story?" Bill asks quietly. "The story is: I was at a screening this morning and the product had some exceptional qualities. It was accessible, well-structured and not particularly sad, but it proved strangely unsatisfying. It might have something to do with the fact that the product would have been better acted by hand puppets."

"What movie was this?"

"It doesn't have a title yet," Bill murmurs. "It's kind of like Caligula meets The Breakfast Club."

"I think I've seen this movie. Twice, in fact. Now listen, Bill-"

"I spent a good deal of lunch at Barney Greengrass today staring at the Hollywood Hills, listening to someone trying to sell me a pitch about a giant pasta maker that goes on some kind of sick rampage."

I turn the TV off, search the apartment for my watch. "And... your thoughts?"

"`How near death am I?' " Bill pauses. "I don't think I should be thinking things like that at twenty-eight. I don't think I should be thinking things like that at Barney Greengrass."

"Well, Bill, you are twenty-eight."

"Touching a seltzer bottle that sat in a champagne bucket brought me back to what passes for reality, and drinking half an egg cream solidified that process. The pitcher finally tried to make jokes and I tried to laugh." A pause. "Having dinner at the Viper Room started to seem vaguely plausible, like, i.e., not a bad evening."

I open the glass-door refrigerator, grab a blood orange and roll my eyes, muttering "Spare me" to myself while peeling it.

"At that lunch," Bill continues, "someone from a rival agency came up behind me and superglued a large starfish to the back of my head for reasons I'm still not sure of." Pause. "Two junior agents are, at this moment, trying to remove it."

"Whoa, baby," I cough. "You're making too much noise right now."

"As we speak I am also having my photo taken for Buzz magazine by Fahoorzi Zaheedi..." Pause, not to me: "That's not how you pronounce it? Do you think just because it's your name that you know?"

"Billy? Bill-hey, what is this?" I'm asking. "Buzz, man? That's a magazine for flies, baby. Come on, Bill, what's going on with Flatliners II? I read the script and though I found structural problems and made some notes I still think it's brill and you know and I know that I'm perfect for the part of Ohman." I pop another slice of blood orange into my mouth and, while chewing, tell Bill, "And I think Alicia Silverstone would be perfect for the part of Julia Roberts' troubled sister, Froufrou."

I had a date with Alicia Silverstone last night," Bill says vacantly. "Tomorrow, Drew Barrymore." Pause. "She's between marriages."

"What did you and Alicia do?"

"We sat around and watched The Lion King on video while eating a cantaloupe I found in my backyard, which is not a bad evening, depending on how you define `bad evening.' I made her watch me smoke a cigar, and she gave me dieting tips, such as `Eschew hors d'oeuvres."' Pause. "I plan to do the same exact thing with Kurt Cobain's widow next week."

"That's really, uh, y'know, cutting edge, Bill."

"Right now while Buzz is taking my photograph I'm prepping the big new politically correct horror movie. We've just been discussing how many rapes should be in it. My partners say two. I say half a dozen." Pause. "We also need to glamorize the heroine's disability more."

"What's wrong with her?"

"She doesn't have a head."

"Cool, cool, that's cool."

"Add to this the fact that my dog just killed himself. He drank a bucket of paint."

"Hey, Bill, Flatliners II or not? Just tell me. Flatliners II or no Flatliners II. Huh, Bill?"

"Do you know what happens to a dog when he drinks a bucket of paint?" Bill asks, sounding vague.

"Is Shumacher involved or not? Is Kiefer on board?"