COURTNEY, Chapter 48

AREA 47

SECTION 89:

COURTNEY, Chapter 48

“So Vlad won Best Music Video!” Courty shouted, as she piloted his bygone era luxury landau down the head-turning Hollywood streets toward the Sportsman Mansion. Reed navigated. Top down; spirits up.

“And Harlot won Best Female Vocalist,” Reed said, scooting closer to her on the crushed leather seat.

“My, my.”

“Everybody won, but me.”

“Oh, Reed, don’t give me that. I’ve seen you work. You’re as much responsible for Harlot’s getting that award as she is. And Vlad wouldn’t even be making pro videos if you hadn’t given him the chance. So his success is also due, in large part, to you. Smile! And tell me where to turn next.”

“Right turn, Clyde.” Reed added, “When are we going to get married?”

“Goodness, Reed, I’m trying to drive this thing. You want to run us off the road?”

“If it’ll get us married, yes.”

“Let’s talk about it later.”

“Courty, you have a positive genius for putting this subject off. And off. And off!”

“Reed, I can’t think while I’m driving this thing.”

“So pull over and let’s talk.”

“I’m having too much fun!”

“Courty,” Reed warned, “if you don’t talk to me about this, you’re not going to have any fun at all tonight.”

Courtney turned off into a wide sweep of Beverly Hills flats. They stopped in front of a minor mansion. Manicured lawn curving down forever. Looking at the neighborhood, Courtney realized that Reed could live in a home like this if he wanted to. And that line of thought got her thinking that she could afford to buy a place like one of these if she just said yes to a few people who had been throwing wild modeling & movie offers in her face. Courty gunned the engine; she couldn’t even hear it or feel it until she had it way revved up. She stared forward and then shut off the engine.

“All right,” Reed said, “who is he?”

She faintly smiled, and exhaled a peewee snort. She turned to look at him intently. His windblown hair, tangled down the back of his tuxedo, was shining in the moonlight. His long hair always seemed to tangle so pleasantly. “Reed, I’m not really here. I’m in the middle of an epic poem. I’m floating, drifting. It’s like all this is happening to someone else, and I’m watching a movie about it.”

“Fine. You’re a space cake. Talk about marriage. I mean, are we going to have a life together, or are we just a chapter in your book?”

She silently & dreamily looked away.

“Courty, what are you trying to be, some kind of single mother role-model? Get serious. OK, women burned bras in the Seventies, and in the Eighties you guys poured your lighter fluid on us men, and now in the Nineties you think you’ve got it down, you’re burning tampons and marriage certificates, but——”

Courty was laughing. “I need that! The tampon-burning Nineties. Reed, you just wrote a phrase in my poem.”

“Courty, marriage is for kids, it’s not for adults.”

“Oh! I want that too!”

“Damn it, Courty! You had a rough time at school, without a father, and moving around like you did. So what’s it going to be like, for an illegitimate kid? Think about that for a minute.” He was quiet for a moment. “Also, think about this: I emotionally need the commitment between us. I mean, the way you keep refusing to marry me, I don’t even feel that we’re engaged. I don’t know what we are. Maybe I’m a dinosaur, but I need the piece of paper, the legality of it, the social lock that holds us together, that keeps us faithful to each other. I want us to get married. I need it! Now, damn it, give me a yes or a no!”

Courtney had been sitting stiffly and apart in the luxuriant airy interior. But she cuddled close to Reed and drew her arms around him and rested her head against his chest as she spoke. “Reed, I’m in the middle of something, and I just can’t stop. I can’t change anything about my life right now. It’s more important to me than anything in the universe. I absolutely don’t dare stop, and I can’t afford distractions. I’m even afraid to stop modeling, even though it takes up an enormous amount of my time. The energy, the magic to write, it’s so fragile, that I’m afraid to disturb any of my rituals, any of my habits, anything! I know you’re going to think I’m crazy, but this long poem I’m writing is more important to me than what happens to me in my life! It’s more important than . . .” She raised her head up and looked him solemnly in the eyes; hers were suddenly misty. “It’s more important to me than you and me.” Her voice was hushed. “Oh, Reed, don’t you see? I don’t want some sneaky, private, legal ceremony. I want a . . . I want it all! I want the huge reception, and the big church, and everybody all dressed up, and all my friends there, and I want to spend weeks and weeks organizing everything to make everything just perfect; I want to look at every wedding dress ever made to find the one that’s right for me, and I want a honeymoon that lasts for weeks and weeks of romance and excitement, and . . . I want it all, Reed! But I just can’t do it now. I can’t break away, I have to keep going on what I’m writing.” She put her fingers over his lips as he started to speak. “I’m sure you’re right. I’m sure I’m messing up my life, and I’m sorry if I’m embarrassing you, and I’m sorry I’m making things hard on you, but my life is just not important, right now. It’s my poem that’s important, right now.”

Courty released her fingers from his lips, and kissed his lips quickly.

“So you’re telling me no.”

“For now, it has to be no. I’m sorry, Reed. I can’t marry you now. My poem is too important.”

Reed stared at her; hurt. He quoted: “I’ve heard of a work ethic, but that’s ridiculous.”

It was as if the whole of audible Hollywood had driven straight from the Grammy Awards to the Sportsman Mansion. Giles Griffin, editor & publisher of the most prestigious of men’s masturbation magazines, was something of a frustrated guitarist, and overcompensated by his abundant support of rock-’n’-roll events & jazz festivals. Tonight, the Sportsman Mansion was host to the Post-Grammy blowout.

The Sportsman megalomansion, styled Neopanache, late If-You-Got-It-Flaunt-The-Sucker, was an eyeball junkfood feast, all lit up. Female valets in silk Sidekick uniforms waited to take control of the caravan of Cadillacs, Excaliburs, Ferraris, Lamborghinis, Mercedeses, Porsches, Rolls-Royces, and other dashboard IDs & tail-pipe stage-props in the game of life.

At the outside of the swing-V driveway were snap-happy paparazzi, hungry for the epitome of International Celebrity. When they saw Courty, back from Europe & arriving top-down in an opulent Old World Bentley, all nine of them cloyed and coagulated around Courty. They were delighted that she was driving, and demonstrated their affection with a burst of high intensity luminance, and higher intensity inquiry.

“Sorry about this,” Courty whispered to Reed, just before she got out of the car. “I’m a poet trapped in a supermodel’s body.” There was considerable competition to hold the door open for her. Her mug in their magazines guaranteed circulation, and if they got a juicy quote or two . . . zowie! Courty was the most famous brunette in the world. This month.

“No problem,” Reed told her.

“What are you doing in Hollywood, Courty?!”

“Getting out of a Bentley.” (Reed, keep moving, get me out of this.)

A shout from the side: “Courty, when’s the wedding day?!”

“Goodness, I don’t know, we’re still trying to decide when.” (Reed, faster, faster.)

“Courty, is it true that you’re getting into a movie career?!”

“False!”

“What about X-Rated movies?!” Two of the camerapersons laughed.

“Is that a question or a joke?” (Reed! Hurry up, you!)

“Come on, Courty! Admit it! You’re ‘Buffy Buns,’ aren’t you?! Admit it! That’s really you in the RAM-BAM video, isn’t it?”

Flash, flash, flash, flash. Flash.

Courty stopped for a moment, and surveyed them coolly. She patted Reed’s arm to keep him from punching the guy out.

Flash, flash.

The Courty phenomenon spoke. “The National Confidential has run a number of news stories on me. I wish to set the record straight. Let’s see, they printed that I have AIDS, that I have ambitions of running for President, that the Pope made a special secret trip to New York just to visit me, they printed that I practice Voodoo, that I wear underwear that glows in the dark . . . oh yes, that I am an alien from outer space . . . uh, that I rarely smile because I have no teeth, they said that he is gay,” pointing at Byron Reed, “that I was sold into white slavery as a child and am owned or something by some weird sheik in Arabia . . . uh, what was that . . . oh yes, that for relaxation I like to go on UFO trips, uh, they’ve printed that I’ve had my breasts enlarged, they’ve printed that I’ve had my breasts reduced, they’ve printed that I used to be a man and underwent sexual surgery, they’ve printed my age as being 91 years old because I’m really some kind of rejuvenation prototype, they’ve printed that I diet by eating only radishes and then throwing them up, that I used to be a nude stripper, that I used to be a prostitute, that I still am a prostitute, that I have made dirty movies, that I have . . .” She swiveled her eyes wide right to wide left, not moving her neck, and said slowly and loudly with a perfectly straight face, “. . . two vaginas.”

By this time, she had won the picture takers back over to her side; they had laughed somewhat as her talk went on, but as it ended they all roared with laughter at her final line. It Was All Actually What The NATIONAL CONFIDENTIAL Had Printed! Mom had been sending her clips!

“I admit it all,” Courty said, morosely. “For the record. It’s all true.” She hung her head in mock despondency, as the flash-bulbs fired away, and warm, friendly laughter rocketed the night.

COURTNEY, Chapter 49