"Ask me to tell you later why I hate sequels."
"Why do you hate sequels?"
"Huh?"
"You said earlier to ask you later why you hate sequels."
"I hate sequels, prequels, spin-offs, and all other revisitations and derivatives because if you have a story to tell then that story is one thing—one thing. And your book is complete, or your movie is complete, when it does that one thing. That's the end! If you had something more to say that necessitates a sequel, then you should have said that shit the first time."
"What about a series, like Harry Potter?"
"Look, don't ask me about Harry Potter because J. K. Rowling is such a cool motherfucker that I would never say anything bad about her writing."
"But you hate it."
"I've never read it. I heard a few paragraphs my mom played for me from an audiobook of the original Harry Potter and it was not something that interested me. But J. K. Rowling can do whatever she wants. Did you see her Harvard commencement speech? You should see that. That's prob'ly better than all her Harry Potter books combined. I mean, come on, the Horcruxes..!!?? Obviously one of them was stuck in Harry Potter's head—I knew that the minute I saw the scar! What the fuck?? Everyone's all gaga over this ending and they're like It's so surprising! and You'll never guess!! I had to go out and get more popcorn to keep myself interested."
"You saw it in the theater, though?" Kristi laughs.
"Actually, no. I lied. I saw it at home and I wasn't eating popcorn. Martin Scorsese was sitting next to me on the couch and when the big reveal about Harry Potter being one of the Horcruxes came on I was like: 'Marty, will you eat my pussy because this shit is fucking stupid.' "
"You are kidding me."
"No, I'm not."
"You and Martin Scorsese watched Harry Potter together."
"Well, I was watching, imagining he was eating my pussy out, which I just told you in case you forgot."
"Does imaginary Martin Scorsese eat good pussy?"
"Hell no!! He would eat good pussy if he would stop lecturing a girl on film for a second and lick a motherfucker's clit!! Fuck!!"
Kristi looks at me so skeptically but I continue.
"The whole time he was eating me out he was espousing the virtues of this—whatever, the eighth?—fucking Harry Potter movie! He was telling me all the things he liked about it and I was using both hands, pushing that motherfucker's face right onto my clit, right where I wanted it. And I was like: 'You know this is a shitty movie, right? You know this movie is shit?' "
Kristi's lips are on the verge of laughter, bursting.
"And Marty looks up from his job, with a string of saliva running from his dentures to my cunt, and he says: 'Lauren, there's something to be learned from every film.' "
I pause dramatically.
"Then he goes back to eating my cunt."
Kristi finally lets it out.
"Did he make you cum?"
"Look, don't worry about whether he made me cum. The point is that motherfucker likes every film. One of the greatest directors of all time and if you showed him Shrooms, he'd be like, 'Actually, this is pretty good photography.' "
"Have you really met Martin Scorsese?"
"Fuck no..what do you think."
"Then how do you know so much about him?"
"I just watch interviews, girl."
"So what's your problem with series..not like Harry Potter..but any other series."
"Come on, you know this: series are just a way to make more money. They're anti-art. Transformers? I mean I used to respect Michael Bay—now he's just bought into doing the big money shit for the sake of getting the big money. I'll still watch The Rock but that's it."
I shake my head.
Kristi and I look at each other.
We both sigh.
And it's one of those dangerous moments, where we could make that move with each other. I look away.
Kristi says mmm.
"But if they ever make a sequel to The Rock.."
I look back at her.
"..I'll never watch The Rock again."
That moment lingers, and this time I keep my gaze with her.
Eventually she cocks her head to the side and says:
"Well, Lauren, not everything has to be art."
But I quip: "Yes it does."
Then I have one of the worst headaches of my life.
Three days of delayed filming starts. I use Kristi as much as I can but as soon as we get to her place in Echo Park I'm throwing up in her toilet, wiping down its sides with paper towels, then graduating to the intimacy of using her towels and doing wash in her basement late into the night, with Kristi at my side—the occasional hand on the shoulder—and spending the evening in her bathtub with wine and a bottle of aspirin and Kristi watching Friends reruns in the living room.