AREA 47

SECTION 89:

COURTNEY, Chapter 27

Michael began booking Courty all over the city, escorting her to her appointments, collecting her promptly when she was finished.  While she was working, Michael was telephoning photographers who hadn’t booked her before, to set up appointments so they could meet her.  He was a credit card calling animal; and she liked the fact that she didn’t have to deal with transporting herself about the city, he dealt with that.  New York City was like an alien landscape to her LA mentality, actually a little frightening.

What was Courtney doing on her modeling off-hours, when away from Reed?  Moonlighting some vigilante literature, inventing herself?

No.  She was hunting the man down on vinyl.  Boys of Brash.  Krane-&-Reed.  His early work was strangely unstocked at most of the mainline record stores, so Courty got serious.  VinylMax Records in Greenwich Village had two earfulls of Reed’s original music.  Cross-referencing to find all his production credits proved semi-daunting: she would need a shopping cart!  She refused to go digital; instead, she sharpened the needle on her old college hi-fi with Reed’s music; humming along, memorizing the words, whistling the melody, dancing alone in her room.  All Popular Music Everywhere BORED Her——so crass, so predictable, so mercantile——how nice that Byron Reed’s music happened to be the exception that proved the rule.  Perhaps . . . she might . . . someday . . . do some song lyrics for his music . . . now wouldn’t that be fun!

But a daily dose of Byron Reed kept a fuzzy glow around the edges: Byron Jimmy Stewart Reed was lassoing the moon and pulling her up.

One night he took her to Studio 47, and brought along a virgin-new CD-single to play.  Reed got a half-hour as surprise guest DJ, just on the strength of his rep.  The younger disco trendies didn’t know him, he was just any other dethroned, dead wood dude; but the scratch-master of ceremonies knew him.  Reed brought Courty back into the pit with him and the boys.  Then he spun a few on the platters, scratched two B-boy CDs live, and finally zonked the crowd with Courty Baby.  Unabashedly old school romantic ballad, served up all sass and flash——the uncut, full-throttle version; the first CD out of SoundSync’s mastering lab.  Courtney had a moment of outright horror, when she realized that Reed had sung and recorded a love song to her.  His gravel-throated honcho singing voice rearranged the dance floor.  He even referred to her “space age hair,” and gave her poetry a plug.  Gawd.

The man had delayed departure to the West Coast, and tried to fix a date for the marriage (today, if not yesterday).  Courtney had, ever so gently, nixed that idea.  She felt too happy/crazy, in no condition to make any important decisions; though she did wear his ring.

Reed had leased a gigantic loft in Manhattan, where he and Blue had moved in.  His loft was rapidly filling up with music toys.  Reed had come to New York to be with her, right?  Right?  She thought she was going to get long, luscious leisure with the man, but all she got was leftovers.  When he wasn’t reconfiguring one of his studios over the phone, he was directing R&D work at the SoundSync mastering lab (something having to do with ‘time-aligning the harmonics that AD-converters mess up’), helping with studio construction, soliciting new business . . . at the end of an oversized day, he was just getting started, he would pack off to his loft (where he had installed a personal-use 48-track studio) and work alone on some movie soundtracks that he had to finish, or another night some back-up singers or a legendary guitar-solo axeman would show up to help him finish the upcoming Byron Reed album, then of course he had promised Blue that she could finally put out a single, so he was also laying down hot tracks with her at night . . . or another night a gang might show up to play that silly kid’s board game Risk (Blue was the only player who ever beat Reed at Risk).

Where was the ever-attentive Romeo?

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Michael said, “Carl Koch is very well-known as a fashion photographer.  I hope something comes of this appointment.”

Courtney and Michael were sitting in the waiting room of Koch’s Manhattan studio, waiting to be granted a few priceless moments of the great man’s time.  Courtney could see into his studio.  He was telling dirty jokes to his assistants.

On Courty’s lap was a yellow pad.  In her right hand, was a ball point.  She doodled, eyes wandering to her diamond.

The presence of Byron Reed in New York had killed all poetic output.  Erato, Courtney’s Muse, was taking a little vacation; Courtney hoped that perhaps Calliope would fill in for her!  Instead, she got Fubar.

“Hey,” Courtney suddenly said.  “Haven’t we been here a long time?”  It was the God-awful jokes as much as it was the time.  The tamest jest thus far, concerned the girl puppet perched on Pinocchio’s proboscis: he was lying low.

“Thirty-two minutes,” Michael said.  He got up and went over to politely give the secretary hell.  She, in turn, went into the studio, waited out a joke and informed the master, and came back out into the reception room and pretended to work.  The only perceived effect of her little effort was an increase in volume.

“So there’s these two guys and a gal,” Koch said, “stranded on a desert island.  After about three weeks, the woman is so embarrassed at the things she’s doing that she climbs to the top of a palm tree, throws herself off, and kills herself.  After about another week, the two guys are so embarrassed at what they’re doing, that they decide they’d better bury her.”  Laughter resounded from inside the shooting studio.  “A week after that, the two guys get so embarrassed at the things they’re doing, that they dig her back up!”

The laughter was so strong that Michael didn’t hear what Courtney said, so she had to say it again.  “You ever get the feeling that you’re not wanted?”

Michael took a long deep breath, and an even longer exhale.  He smiled sadly and stood up.  “I’m afraid that we’ll have to go,” Michael told the secretary.  “We have another appointment.”

She jumped up, ran around her desk, said Please Wait, and hurried into the studio once more.

In a completely unexpected gesture, Carl Koch came out.  Potbelly, terrible posture, designer clothes intentionally trashed.

Courtney stood up.

“Hello, Mr. Koch,” Michael said.  “I’m Michael Grote, and this is Courty.”

The phone rang during the short silence, and the secretary answered it.  The instant she answered the phone, it rang again on another line.

Koch put his hand on his hip, shoved his leg out, and gave Michael a nasty look.  “And just who the hell are you?”

“I’m Courty’s Manager.”

The great Koch sneered silently.

Michael added, “I organize her daily schedule and——”

“Enough,” Koch snapped.  He then completely ignored Michael and looked intensely at Courtney.  “Once I photograph you, you will have absolutely no need of a manager.  Manager, indeed.”

“That’s the funniest thing you’ve said all day.  Come on, Michael, let’s go.”

“Wait!”  It was a majestic command, a royal imperative.  The secretary was signaling wildly, trying to get his attention.  Koch reached for the phone receiver, turning his back on Courty and Michael, apparently assuming that they would do as he had ordered.

They didn’t.

“Wait!”

Michael touched Courtney’s shoulder, and asked her with his eyes to wait.  She stopped.

Koch handled the calls in quick succession.  One of them was from Dangerous Woman magazine, that judging from the things Koch said, was interested in a girl called Courty.

180-degrees flip: Mr. Koch hung up and turned on the charm.  Now he was friendly, considerate, and socially immaculate, in every word and gesture.  He wanted very much to work with Courty, and hopefully suggested the following day be reserved for some test shots.

Courtney was quite prepared to insinuate that Koch take a flying-photograph at his recreational darkroom!  Goodness, how she hated test shots.  They took longer than paid bookings, and there was no money in it.  Since nobody got paid, everyone on the set went blotto, pushing extra hard to get pictures that could benefit their specialties.   Photographers experimented with lighting, often ruining the set of pictures with weird shadows or genuine technical mistakes.  That was just for starters.  The stylist would try to bury her in clothes.  The make-up artist would have her looking like a clown so people would notice the make-up.  The hair stylist would probably tease her hair into electric shredded wheat!  And of course, in the end, the photos would be no good.

Test Shots?!

But Michael was pleading with his eyes.  She smiled, all phony sugar-charm and mock agreeable demeanor.

That evening, in Byron Reed’s loft, a phone call caught up with her.  It was the voice of Koch’s secretary, who told Courty that in order to work with Koch, she would have to drop Michael as her agent.  It was such a bizarre brand of mind-rape that Courtney just hung up without saying goodbye.

The incident seemed out of place, partly because the pace of her life was accelerating so quickly.  Michael came across as a wimp, but he got the work done, he delivered.  She was working everyday, and making a lot of money.  And this afternoon, there were two requests for interviews!  That was flat out silly.  She wasn’t a celebrity.  She was just a minor poet who happened to pay the bills by modeling.

From her position on the living-area couch, Courty looked around Reed’s loft, dreamily contemplating.  It was mostly just one big undivided room, gigantic, three apartments worth.  Raw space.  The side walls were rough and unfinished, the bedroom, bathroom and kitchen were the only enclosed break in the space.  Reed was over in one corner, amongst his evolving million dollar stereo system.  Seated at a Fairlight synthesizer, wearing headphones, his hand reaching over, pushing a Macintosh mouse around, his eyes completely locked onto the Advent projection monitor of a movie scene he was working on.  Even from the rear view, long hair all down his back, lost in the middle of music gear, he was undeniably masculine.  Every motion, every movement, every pause: American Male.

Byron Reed couldn’t be bothered with interior decorating.  It was a factory more than it was an apartment.  This had to be the only apartment in New York without a television.  The video monitor would only receive signals from the pair of videotape decks.  But renting a video was also out of the question, because the videodecks were for 1” reel-to-reel only, and stores don’t rent those.

Blue and her private tutor were on the opposite corner, going over her New Math lesson.  Her schedule was as crazy as her dad’s: she went to work (play) at SoundSync during the day and went to ‘school’ at night.

Courtney stretched out on the super-long couch that was so comfortable it swallowed her up.  Courty had an early day tomorrow; she was trying to decide whether to just sleep here tonight or whether to interrupt Reed to find out his intentions for the evening.  More and more of her stuff was winding up over here; she had almost decided that she had already moved in with him.  One considerate thing Reed had done was flip his schedule around so that it matched hers: so that they both got up at 6:00 am.  He seemed able to survive on far less sleep, though. There was no fixed routine to their lovemaking, but when they went to bed together at Courtney’s bedtime, Reed invariably got up later to work two or four more hours.

Courtney almost fell asleep, exhausted from the day’s modeling activities.  Another ringing of the telephone woke her before she could quite go over the edge.  She sat up, and watched Blue stop her lesson to answer the phone.  Reed got a surprising number of phone calls at night from musicians and singers.  Major musical dudes in town, checking in, inviting Reed to sit-in live with them down at a club, or do a party; female vocalists on the loose, searching for a producer or a project; an occasional record company executive trying to wheel a low block rate on some mastering or studio work.  Blue loved to screen his calls, sometimes demanding that some famous someone sing her an autograph.

Blue answered the phone, and then a flustered expression took over her face.  This was unusual.  Courty had heard Blue counterpunching world-class entertainers as if they were jet set jetsam.  But this time Blue held the receiver out at arm’s length and stared at it as if there was a monster on the other end.  Then she recovered her cool, and carried the telephone over to Courtney.

“I think it’s for you,” she said, and went back to her lessons.

“Hello?”

“I’m onto you now, slut.  You can’t hide from me.  I’ve got you figured out now.  All that bullshit, pretense crap.  I see into your game now.  You’re just a cum-freak!  A cocksucker!  A——”

Courtney hung up, amazed, and a little frightened.  “Wow.”  When Blue looked at her she said, “Wrong number.”

Blue said, “Courtney Foulke Ryan?  Foulke your middle name?  That’s what he said first.”

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Her book of poetry was still pending, but MassArt had A FULL PAGE OF HER POEMS IN IT.  We’re talking mainstream bookstores nationwide, we’re talking Malls, we’re talking saturation.  Beauregard was as good as his word; however, he had screwed up on her pen name.  She had completely forgotten to stress that her name be listed as C. Foulke Ryan.  MassArt had a photo-inset dupe of her Tomboy cover, and her poetry was listed under the single, nominative Courty.  Gawd.  It was thrilling, but that was her modeling name, not her poetry name.

The song Courty Baby was an underground dance-club sensation, though it had not yet achieved any meaningful airplay.  Reed wasn’t promoting the song yet, he hadn’t even really released it, he had only given a few CD-singles out to friends and industry insiders.  He was waiting to finish the album before launching his promotional efforts.  Two other times Courtney and Reed had gone dancing, her song had been played.  Reed thought it was great, but he claimed to have nothing to do with it; he was amused that bootleg DAT copies of it were popping up all over.  Courtney wondered if she was becoming recognizable: She sure was getting some downright vehement stares from people lately.  People seemed to be talking about her behind her back.  Good grief, was she getting paranoid?  Of course, it didn’t matter: with Reed around, no one bothered her.  He was so demonstrably possessive of her that Courtney could actually observe other guys getting frightened away.

Two items of minor culture shock.

One.  Reed & Harlot’s song Missionary had climbed the charts to Billboard’s Number One position faster than any song in history.  Turn on a radio anywhere, anytime, spin the dial, and there Harlot was.  You couldn’t get away from her.

Power of the media.  Reed’s reaction was blasé.  He said how fast doesn’t mean anything, it’s how long it hangs there that counts; he talked as if he knew all along that it would go straight to the top.  But Courtney felt very privileged, knowing that she had been one of the very first to hear the song.  And of course, whenever she heard it, she thought of the scene Reed had caused, how he had made Harlot cry to get her to sing it right.  That was one memory that was going to last forever.

Pictures of Courty were beginning to appear in magazines.  When she looked at pictures of herself, knowing that these same pictures were also nationwide in Shopping Malls and drugstores, she felt numb.  There was no glorious tingle, no sense of accomplishment.  This was power of the media too, but somehow she couldn’t emotionally relate to it.  She was distantly critical, distantly analytical, with a technical eye on details of craft.  She had the cover of Lookie Lady and Fashion Flash.  One assignment led to another, and a strange thing happened: Courty was booked for the Courty-look that had originated way back in the first Tomboy——Good grief, that was only three months ago . . . seemed like ages.

Her Tomboy look had been intensely individual, unforgivably individual, and that was the new look that the whole fashion crowd wanted.  Victoria Symonds’ stylecut had come at just the right angle at just the right time on just the right model.  The bravest girls in every city were going in and asking for a Courty-cut.  Courtney had seen a few modified versions in New York: a half-Courty and a reverse-Courty.  Courty had a look that jumped out at people and bit their nose off, zoomed right off the two-dimensional page——Courty out of control——snarling for attention, sliding into psyches.  She had that tear-the-page-out-and-save-it look.

Sure, she had a fast-track type-A competitive personality somewhere inside, but the Courty-look was State-Of-The-Art ET shrinking-violet B-type, whispering Truth or Dare into your ear.

She was booked solid, and then solider.  Michael upped her rates.  But her work wasn’t just being photographed.  More and more people wanted to interview her and write about her.  Courtney wanted to blow them off, but Michael was persistently insistent.  So she granted a few teeny talks, between bookings, but it was just too silly.

The second minor culture shock was Estelle’s arrival at SoundSync East to pick up Blue and take her back to LA.  Estelle had insisted on coming out personally to retrieve Blue.  Fine, Reed had said, pick her up at the studio, name the time and I’ll have her there.  It was stupendous, and it was an overwhelming surprise.

First, just witnessing the way a roomful of people would instantly polarize when she entered.  Estelle Moreau!  The movie star!  Here!  At SoundSync!  Everyone on earth knew who she was.  All work stopped at the mastering lab.  All construction ceased in the studios.  And Estelle looked like a young goddess, flower-fresh, arriving with two bodyguards for flunkies; Courtney felt like a wilted weed, after her long day under the blazing hot lights.

The second half of the shock at Estelle’s arrival was a scene that was genuinely bewildering to Courtney.  A reporter/photographer from Citizen magazine had been wandering around with Reed, doing a small story on Byron Reed, when Courty arrived there, late-late afternoon.  Reed informed Courty that Estelle had somehow sicked the guy on him, but that he went along with it because he knew that she wanted the publicity.  The Citizen journalist had been distracted when Reed had introduced Courtney to him, using her full name.  The guy had remarked that Courty-imitators were popping up all over, and immediately asked Reed an unrelated question.  Courtney and Reed looked at each other in shared amusement, but neither had bothered to correct his incorrect assumption.  When Estelle arrived, the man from Citizen instantly lost interest in Byron Reed, and trained his camera and microphone in Estelle’s direction.  It was laughable; he was so transparent: suddenly Byron Reed didn’t even exist as far as he was concerned.  But when Blue petitioned her mother, with all the emotional artillery of an Attack 5th Grader, playing off parent against parent to get her way (a haircut like Courty’s), the photo/journalist caught the drift that he was in the presence of THE COURTY SENSATION, and that he was wasting his time with dead news.  He charged over to Courty wearing blinders.  Estelle who?

Culture shock for Courtney: I’m a celebrity.

COURTNEY, Chapter 28
 

Copyright 2005 Area 47