It was opulence.
Let me assure you, as a writer, that I would not normally use that word.
But what I saw before me can be described by no other.
Seafood, on ice—I mean piles and piles of crabs that no one was even eating. Everyone wearing black except me—heads turned when I came out of the kitchen—I was made as soon as I came into the room. And then all heads turned back to their previous conversations. If there's one thing I learned in the land of movies it's that big-time artists and the businesspeople who support them only have one subject that interests them: themselves. If you're not interested in their bullshit project, they don't have time for you! The only point of every conversation is for one guy to get what he wants from the other guy. But this isn't specific to Hollywood: it's true in every bar, boardroom, and bedroom in this gigantic country.
A man in a tux came up to me and offered champagne.
He gave me a special look.
I took the champagne, drank it.
I did this three times.
"That's a nice dress," he said.
"I'm not exactly supposed to be here," I said to this waiter.
"I know," he smiled.
"I guess everybody knows."
"Well," he said, "in this town that's not necessarily a problem. All that's important is that you're here for something and listen, sister, you better get it tonight because you won't get back into this party again."
I look at him and I can feel my face has gone white.
"So what are you here to do?" he says.
"I'm here to get it," I say, and I walk into the center of that goddamn party.
As I leave the waiter, I hear one of the kindest voices I've ever heard say, "You better, girl."
So I scope out Mr. X—aka Shelly Kind—who is the reason I bought this red dress. Kristi has provided me 100 or so pictures of him to study to make him easy to find as well as a dossier of Shelly Kind's exploits—in and out of film. This with the aim of making him possible—not easy—but possible—for me to talk to at this party.
So like I said I scope out this fat motherfucker and strike my most confident walk right up in his direction, surrounded by hangers on. Might as well go straight for the source, right?
And you know what happens?
This studio god sets down his drink and leaves his crowd and goes right across the room and down a little hallway and into the men's restroom.
So you know what I do?
I follow that fat fuck right into the men's room.
He doesn't see me. He goes into the shitter.
I pace around the otherwise-empty bathroom and wonder what in the hell I am doing in the men's restroom at my crashed party and a sinking feeling comes into my stomach and womb and I know that everything I have done up to now has been a waste.
I will fail.
I will never make my movie.
I should have stayed in Portland.
But then, you know, that thing in all of us that says I will not be lost rises up in me and I lock myself in the stall next to Mr. Kind.
He sees my shoes, my legs, the rip of red fabric.
"Sweetie, this is the boys' room if you haven't noticed."
"I had noticed and I'd appreciate you not calling me sweetie."
"No offense intended. Are you trans?"
"I'm 100% pure pussy-wielding woman if you must know but I expect you not to hold it against me."
"In what circumstance would I hold that against you?"
"The circumstance wherein someone gives you a pitch while you're sitting on the toilet."
"Baby, I've received pitches on toilets before."
"Well you wanna hear one now?"
"I'm kinda stuck, aren't I?"
"I'll make it quick."
"Good. I get a kinky feeling talking to a woman in the bathroom."
"Are you jerking off?"
"I'm not jerking off. I said I get a kinky feeling. Any actual description of what I'm doing would surely offend your feminine sensibilities."
"You might want to re-evaluate that statement after you hear my pitch."
"So pitch," he says.
And I pitch. I give him my best three-minute representation of my movie, my story, my vision. I give it all. By the time I'm done, both our heads are low toward the bottom opening in the divider between us.