Chapter 8 Ryan

CHAPTER 8 RYAN

December 2006

Los Angeles

I had loved my life in Kansas. I had a brother and sister I adored, and parents who showered us in love. Every year, I would star in the school play with my closest friends. My family would be there smiling and clapping and filling my arms with flowers. And I thought that if I made it in Hollywood, it would be like that except on a grander scale. Bliss, I assumed. More love, more joy, more friends, more warm parties.

When I hit it big, the isolation is what surprised me. Cut off from all the small joys that give a day meaning. The morning hellos at the local coffee shop. The chat with the bartender at your favorite restaurant. Even the perfunctory, but not unkind, midwestern nod while passing someone on the street.

Right after I got the part of Persephone, which was just two weeks before Beneath the Same Moon ’s release in theaters, is a time I think back on fondly. My bungalow in Los Feliz was slate gray with red shutters and this cute backyard with a sliver of a pool. I lived three blocks from a coffee shop called Gem. Any morning I wasn’t on set, I’d walk down there in my Vans and cutoffs, a Kansas Jayhawks sweatshirt, my hair in a messy bun.

Sarah, the young woman who worked mornings at the shop, had gone to KU for undergrad. We’d talk basketball. She knew more than I did. But I could hang, the broad strokes, Roy Williams, Paul Pierce, the NCAA tournament. My childhood home was literally around the corner from the house of James Naismith, the game’s inventor.

But back to Sarah. She had these hazel eyes and strong arms. When I was there, she’d ignore all the other drinks she had to make. Sometimes, another barista would come over and start making them, and she’d just calmly step to the side, still chatting with me.

Talking to Sarah was an interesting experience for me. All my life, I’d been told I was beautiful. Auburn hair, a dusting of freckles, blue eyes that apparently were set just far enough apart to make my face interesting instead of basic. I was also just above average height for a woman: five six. Casting directors loved that I would “fit” with pretty much any male actor. But standing near Sarah, I wondered what she saw. I hoped that whatever look seemed so appealing to men and casting directors was also appealing to her.

Ahead of Moon ’s release, we had a slew of meetings about the promotional tour. My team had set up as many of them as possible at my place. One morning, midweek, I headed down to Gem before the first of those meetings. I’m not embarrassed to admit I curated my outfit specifically for Sarah. A vintage 1988 NCAA championship tee, black mesh trucker hat worn backward. Today was the day.

Gem was on a little side street with ivy climbing the front. I popped inside and was relieved to see Sarah at the espresso machine, focused on steaming milk. I ordered, then went around to the side of the bar and waited for her attention.

Eventually she looked up, saw me, looked down, then quickly looked back up and smirked. She was wearing a tank top; I admired the smoothness of her tan skin. She finished the drink she was working on, placed it on the counter, turned her body toward me.

“Sarah,” I said. I nodded in a mock-official way. My attempt at a suave greeting.

“Why hello, Ryan Channing, how is your morning?” I liked how she said my full name. It reminded me of being a kid, which was all good memories for me. Almost everyone in Hollywood calls me “Ry.” And the poster of every movie I did used “Ry Channing” because—and here I’m directly quoting the publicity folks—“Ryan is a boy’s name, but Ry is just mysterious enough to be perfect.”

“Better, now,” I said, then let that hang there. Did I mean seeing her, did I mean the fresh coffee in my hand, or did I mean both? That was for her to decide.

“Same,” she said, and winked. She had game. She’d already walked me home once the week before. That day, when we got to my back gate, she had said goodbye, then walked backward for a few steps, holding eye contact. There was no denying her intention. The look said: Ball’s in your court .

Challenge accepted. I am a woman of action. At least I try to be.

I stepped toward her, took a sip of my coffee, tilted my head just so. Then I said, “What do you think about getting a drink with me next Saturday?”

I was proud of myself for not using any of my crutch words: maybe, I don’t know, so . Just straightforward, clear, concise, honest. A good beginning to whatever this might be. I did not possess shame about liking women, but I had negotiated (with myself) a clear boundary: never let it spill over and affect my work. Which made Sarah perfect for me.

“Yes,” she said without hesitation. “Anywhere, anytime.”

I floated the three blocks back to my house. My mood wasn’t even dampened when I saw two cars in the driveway, reminding me of the morning meeting about the impending publicity tour I didn’t want to go on. My manager, Janie, had my key, so she and agent-man Matt, along with Maxine, the studio’s head of PR, were already in my living room.

My green velvet couch faced two overstuffed chairs, a circular glass coffee table between. I called out a chipper “Hiya folks!” then went to the kitchen for a glass of water. I was thinking about Sarah and how she’d said anywhere, anytime with a hint of menace. Like I had challenged her to a fight. But said in such a way that it conveyed desire. I was getting wet replaying the exchange.

Still on my dopamine high, I carried my water to one of the overstuffed chairs. Janie was next to me. Matt and Maxine were across from us on the couch. I remember this meeting vividly; it’s when Hollywood took its first chunk out of me. Maxine had a harsh black bob and was wearing a power skirt and white blouse, which seemed an appropriate outfit for someone so disillusioned with humanity. I already expected the worst of Maxine.

“What’s the agenda, team?” I asked, optimistic for an efficient meeting. In other words: show me the itinerary, prep me for media, then get the fuck out of here and let me get back to fantasizing about Sarah.

“Really only one item,” said Maxine, and that’s when I first noticed a little unease. But only from Janie. Maxine, she’d crushed a thousand souls by that point. Matt thought of me as an asset, not a human. Janie, though, she knew how I felt about her. She was ten years older than me (so thirty-five), and we both came from college towns in the Midwest. I thought of her like a big sister and valued her opinion. She was squirmy in her chair.

I leaned forward, offered a drawn out okaaay .

“Listen, Ry,” said Maxine. Of course it would be Maxine, who knew me the least, who would deliver this news. “We had a big all-hands meeting at the studio yesterday, looking over the projected revenue for Moon , and we all feel we need to play one more card, just tip things in our favor that last little bit.”

“Big all-hands meeting?” I repeated. Not actually a question. More like a right-click and highlight. So much about this sentence annoyed me. The phrase “all-hands” for starters. The idea that during a week I’d kept clear for meetings, they had the “big” one without me. And finally, just the general fuckery in the movie business about flexing power based on who gets invited to which meetings and who gets iced out and told their fate later.

One thing Hollywood teaches you is how to micromanage everything. Another is how to collect power through small gestures. Such as who makes the call and who receives it. Entire movies have lived and died on such frivolousness. People say power is intoxicating; you say you’ll be the first to stay sober. But let me tell you, everyone gets drunk. So, when you wonder about our sanity, way out here in these Hollywood Hills, remember that we’ve all pretty much lost it.

I glanced at Janie. She held up her hands as if to say she was innocent in the matter. Over to Matt, who gave a head tilt back to Maxine, his gesture urging me to listen to what she was saying. The glass of water was on the arm of the chair. I took a big gulp.

“All right, just hit me with it.” I was acting poised and confident, but I was scared to hear what she would say. People pleasing was an affliction I hadn’t conquered. (Still haven’t.) Whatever she was going to ask, a request handed down by the studio honchos, I could already feel the habitual “Okay, I’ll do it” crawling its way up my throat.

“This is a onetime thing, but we think you and Johnny should be seen out together ahead of next Friday’s premiere…”

Maxine kept talking, explaining the “strategy,” which was that I spend a glamorous (read: scandalous) night with my Moon costar, Johnny Muir. The goal was to give people the impression that we were more than costars. Not a long-term relationship, she was saying, nothing like that. Just enough to get us the kind of free press that a darker, nuanced movie like Moon really needed in this difficult market.

I laughed. I couldn’t help it. I was picturing the studio “all-hands” meeting, with all the bigwigs around a conference table, really plumbing creative depths, filling up the whiteboard, no dumb idea here folks, finally, finally landing on the revolutionary idea that I should… pretend to fuck my costar.

Maxine looked taken aback at my laughter. Which made sense, as it was also surprising to me. Matt set his jaw and gave me a death stare. Janie reached over and put her hand on my forearm. I flinched.

She knew. Janie knew I didn’t want to pretend-date my costars. But also, more intimately, she knew I didn’t want to date men at all. Was her tender touch an apology? I slowly removed my arm. She looked hurt. Not my fault, or my problem, I tried telling myself. But a second later, I reached over and squeezed her hand to reassure her.

“One night?” I heard myself saying.

Maxine leaned back on the sofa, crossed her arms, and said, “Absolutely. That’s it. Just a little game to get us on the front pages. It’s such a beautiful, stunning movie, and I hate that we must do things like this, but sometimes we do.”

Make it make sense! I wanted to scream. But Johnny was fine. He was funny and cute in his shaggy, hangdog way. And whatever, it was one night, some stupid headlines.

“We have you booked at U-Turn, Marcelo Gutierrez’s new place, and someone from the team is going to call in the tip ahead of time, to give us maximum bang for the buck.”

“I’ve heard good things about U-Turn” is what, Lord help me, I said next.

I looked at Janie and she seemed relieved. She patted my hand and mouthed, It’s going to be fine , and I figured it probably would.

I’d signed with Janie Johnson after reading an article on her. In it, she talked about bringing her midwestern values to Hollywood. Our first coffee meeting, she ordered a mocha and a croissant, and I wanted to hug her. It was at that same meeting that I told her I dated women, but that nobody else could know. Being the poster child for anything, that couldn’t be me.

Standing in my doorway later that morning, Janie said, “You got this, RyRy. When we get the power, we make the rules, okay?”