So to make a long story short, the nut plot of “In Every Life” is this: Richard Hathaway was a cutthroat businessman all his life, until his beloved wife, Florence, died. In a fit of “you can’t take it with you,” Richard lost it and became what they call a Mad Philanthropist, which meant he started spreading his money around and funding whatever bizarre idea appealed to him. This made the town of Ferndale a magnet for gold diggers, entrepreneurs, and shady operations looking for a respectable cover. In the meantime, Richard Hathaway spread something else around– I think he’s now on Wife #7?– and has about a million kids.
That’s me. I’m one of the kids, Luke Hathaway. My character’s a thrillseeker. He likes wine, women, fast cars, and more women. I have at least two illegitimate children. One of ‘em moved away when his mom’s actress wanted to bump herself up to a movie career; the other one is on recurring status and occasionally appears like a fifteen-year-old set decoration to pout and scream at me.
Ryan Markey plays Andrew Starr, who I guess is unrelated to Brenda but is also a hotshot reporter. He’s out to uncover the dark side of my onscreen brother, Brian Hathaway, who is addicted to gambling and is apparently this season’s social-issue story. He found out through his former girlfriend, Ellen, who is now of course Brian Hathaway’s girlfriend. They had a sweet little love story, and once she had Brian in her clutches, Ellen immediately called her ex and said “Have I got a scoop for you!” Thus Andrew Starr’s entry into “In Every Life.” And I guess every life includes mine.
Let me tell you something. They say it’s a lot easier in these enlightened times to come to grips with the fluid nature of sexuality. Bull. Back in the day, if you felt a twinge in your pants when you looked at a guy, you chalked it up to admiration or envy and left it at that. Now you have to start worrying and wondering. Is it the media’s influence? Is it attraction? Is it admiration? Is it some sort of trauma left over from your father not hugging you enough? Maybe you were just spacing out and happened to be looking in his direction.
Well, I felt a twinge, and I’ve been worrying and wondering ever since and have come to no conclusions. All I know is that in next week’s script, Luke Hathaway is going to come to his brother’s defense and try to convince Andrew Starr into going the hell home. That means I’m working with Ryan. And if I work with Ryan feeling this confused, I’ll never get comfortable enough to do my job well enough that nobody can tell just what weird shit has been going through my mind.
So I call him. Say, “I wanted to run through some of the scenes next week. Make sure we have a good handle on the dynamic.”
He sounds surprised. “You’re pretty by-the-book, aren’t you, Sullivan?” And he laughs.
I have a long-standing theory that laughs are like breakfast cereals. Now stay with me here. What’s a laugh? It’s dry or it’s light, it’s sweet or brittle, it’s cold or warm. It can even be nutty. I’ve heard oatmeal laughs and cornflake laughs, even the occasional Super Cocoa Sugar Frosted Flakie laugh. But this is a laugh I’ve never heard before. It sounds like Cheerios. Strong and dry, round, and somehow classic. Like every other laugh out there is just a cheap derivation of this one original laugh.
I make a point not to mention that to him. But I do convince him to come over.
–
Sunday afternoon. He comes down the street. Walking, no less. What kind of guy in L.A. walks anywhere? He waves at me. He’s wearing jeans with cowboy boots and a loose-fitting gray shirt. God, the way his shirt moves around him. It’s like something out of a perfume ad.
I feel a twinge, and I worry and wonder. Again.
“This is your place?” he says as he wanders in, kicking off his boots near the mat. “It’s nice. I like the plants.”
The plants, don’t tell anyone, are my pride and joy. They’re a set of little bonsais and ferns in a hydroponic dish under lamps, and they look kind of like they’re suspended in space. I have them alongside the front hall. It’s a great effect.
Not that I tell him anything like that. “They’re just plants.”
“No, they’re nice. It has a sci-fi feel to it that I like. And I just like plants.”
“You have a garden?”
“Nah.” His eyelashes flutter. Well, he blinks. Still, you get the feeling that he’s blinking because his eyelashes flutter, not the other way around. “Where others have a green thumb, mine’s pitch black. But I just like the idea of them. They’re sturdy, all their parts are in order, and they breathe out what we breathe in. They just work really well.” Flutter, flutter. He bites his lip a little bit. “I’m sorry. I’m getting philosophical and I’m barely in the door.”
Damn it. When he’s shy like that…
“No, philosophical is good. It means you’ll give the scene a decent amount of thought.” We walk into the kitchen.
He laughs again. Cheerios! My brain is full of Cheerios. “I’m actually more of an instinct actor.”
“I can’t work like that. You impress me.”
“Well, how do you work, then?”
“Like I said, I give it serious thought.”
He comes around to lean gently on the island in the middle of my kitchen. His outfit, the blue and gray, matches the room’s colors. Like he belongs here. Oh, my God, I’m noting how he matches my interior decoration. I’m going to hell in a handbasket.
He looks around. “Gee, Sullivan. I had you pegged as a slob. This place is…”
“I like to be clean,” I say. “It’s just the way I am.”
“Oh.” He looks kind of uncomfortable.
It takes me a minute to realize what’s unnerved him. That phrase — “it’s just the way I am.” We’ve been repeating it, in one form or another, for the entire conversation.No, in most of our conversations. We haven’t talked about work, or sports, or even politics. We’ve been asking each other questions. We’ve been finding out about each other. Slowly, deliberately, we’ve been getting to know each other.
I know I haven’t been able to restrain my curiosity about him. And now that I think about it, he’s been doing the same thing. And if that weren’t bad enough, something else occurs to me: He’s realizing it too. And it’s making him worry and wonder, too.
That means it’s not just something that’s happening to me. It’s something happening between us.
I don’t know if that should be a comfort. It’s not. I’m more scared to death now than I was five seconds ago. Because if it’s something between us, it’s not going to go away no matter how many scenes we film, how many heart-to-hearts we have. It’s just going to get deeper and more intense. And I haven’t got any way to stop it from happening.
I offer him a drink. We run through the script and exchange a couple of halfhearted ideas. He’s pretty bright. He thinks about things like camera angles, things I leave to the directors to futz with. I wonder if he’s really as instinctive an actor as he says. Then again, maybe if you can make sunlight hit your hair in a way that undoubtedly makes teenage girls swoon, you’re that much more aware of what you look like.
Of course, we don’t know how Carl’s going to block it yet, so it hardly matters what we decide here and now, but I think we’ve built up a good consensus about how the antagonism between our characters is going to play out. I’m feeling eminently comfortable after a few minutes’ practice. Hell, I’m an actor. What am I worried about? I’ll pull it off.
I notice him glancing at the clock, and I ask if he’s got somewhere to be.
“No,” he says, “it’s the game.”
Who knew he was a big fan of college basketball? Something else I didn’t know. There seems to be so much.
We switch on the game in the den. He leans forward, puts his chin on his hands, and watches intently. Every so often his shoulders shift and he mutters a “yeah” or a hiss, depending on what happens. It’s like he’s there, totally engrossed in the action, trying to direct it psychically. Hoping his flinches and small cries will make a difference.
It’s dim in here. I watch the screen reflect in his eyes. At one point I realize I’m holding my breath and try to let it out slowly, but it still rushes out in a puff.
He looks over.
“What?” I say.
“You tell me.”
“All right, I will.” I grin. “I’m thirsty. You want another drink?”
“I’m good for beer,” he says. “Do you have… any juice?”
The way he says it is so funny. Like a little boy asking his mommy for something extra at snacktime. I burst out laughing. “Sure, I got juice.”
I hurry into the kitchen and try my damndest not to let my hand shake as I tilt the orange juice carton over to pour him a glass. My damndest isn’t enough, I guess, because I spill it all over my nice shirt. My nice, dry-clean only shirt. I’ve got to stop buying them.
He hears me holler and comes into the kitchen, concerned. “Oh, God,” he says at the sight of the brand-new tie-dye I’m sporting. “I’m sorry.”
Like he’s the one who spilled it? “Don’t worry about it. I’m just a klutz,” I say.
“But you were getting it for me.”
I can’t stand that expression of consternation “Look, things could have been worse. I could have gotten it all over your shirt instead. That would be a shame.” I grab the end of his T-shirt and stretch the material between my fingers. It’s soft and pliable and feels great as it moves over my hand. “That must be really comfortable. What kind of material is that?”
“Not sure,” he says, looking down at it proudly. “It’s my favorite shirt, though.”
Then he looks up.
And I look up.
I’m holding the end of his shirt.
And nothing moves in my kitchen for a good thirty seconds.
“I’m going to go change,” I announce, turning as quickly as I can and striding into the hall toward the bedroom.
“Jordan, wait.”
What does he want me to wait for? I’ve got orange juice on my nice shirt. The stain will set. But it’s the first time he’s called me by my first name. I can’t not turn around.
“Don’t…” He stops. “Don’t worry about it, OK? N… nobody will know. Nobody knows better.”
So much for denial. “I know better. I know better and you know better. And you came over anyway.”
“You invited me.” What are we even arguing about? I don’t know, but I’m heading back toward the kitchen, back toward him, and I’m scowling as he goes on. “Why did you do that? It wasn’t because you wanted to work on your character dynamic, or whatever bullshit excuse you made up on the phone to get me here.”
His tone’s not quite accusatory, but I feel put on the spot nonetheless. I look down. That orange juice is definitely going to be a stain now. Damn it.
I suppose the one comfort in all of this is that he looks as distinctly uncomfortable as I feel.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t really know why I invited you over. I just wanted…”
“You wanted what?”
Then, simple as spring, out it tumbles. “I wanted to see you.”
He blinks another moment, then shakes his head. “But you see me every day.” The reason isn’t good enough for him, which is good, because it’s not good enough for me. “Why did you want to see me today?”
“I don’t know,” I say again, blankly. “I thought…”
“You do know,” he says. He’s close. I-can-see-his-pores close. “You just don’t want to say it.”
“So what’s wrong with that?” I feel like I’m getting shot at here. “You just told me not to worry about it!”
For a moment I think I’ve successfully confounded him. He stands there and frowns, his hand opening and closing. But then he looks up and says, “Do you want to know why I came?”
I don’t recognize my own voice. It sounds like a bullfrog’s croak. “Yeah.”
“I wanted to see where you live.”
There’s something soft in his eyes that hurts to look at.
“I wanted to see you here,” I say softly. Somewhere inside there’s the identity I’ve grown over these several years, the me I show to everyone. He’s in a box and he’s screaming and knocking on the sides, but no one can hear. He can’t stop this now. “I wanted to see how you looked in… in my space.”
“How do I look?” Barely a breath.
I can’t tear my eyes away from his. “Like you belong.”
I want to touch him. I want to touch him. I want to touch…
No. No. Stop.
“Go home, Ryan,” I say. “I’ll see you at work.” It’s a universe of hard work to turn away from him.
“Jordan…”
“Go home.”
He leaves somewhere between then and midnight. I don’t know. I spend the next few hours curled up on my bed, my head hurting and my hands aching. This thing won’t be stopped. It can’t be stopped. There’s nothing I can do about it now.
