Medium Rare, page 14
It didn’t take long for Phil to develop a reputation for being “hard to work with.” He was a “nightmare,” a “diva” even, with its disastrously gendered implications, a half step from hysterical. Word got around town before they’d even pitched the networks, speculation fornicating with fact. Distracted by the family, I’d say. A new baby, you know? And what is Hollywood’s quintessential definition of madness but Hitchcock’s: of a man pretending to be a mother?
Crewe began to tire of him, false madness begetting a different kind of real one. There was only so much he could do if Phil wouldn’t play ball. Crewe didn’t drop him, exactly—Phil was still worth something to the agency—but he lost his perch atop Crewe’s client list. Phil couldn’t always reach him, and longer intervals elapsed between their meetings, calls. By the last week in September, Crewe began passing him off to Charlie, the way wax softens before it properly liquifies.
The pitch for Medium Rare floundered, failed to take off. It’s hard to say it fell flat, because it never really left the ground. The idea was there, not to mention the title, but art, even effective “content,” requires execution above all—and execution is something the old myths cannot provide, that they almost explicitly work against, whispering from dusty pages: Give up, mortal! You do not have wings. You cannot do what I did, what I still do.
* * *
—
Phil had other problems, too. For someone who’d spent an awful lot of time lobbying against taxes, there were fundamental gaps in Phil’s understanding of them, and his financial advisors had probably under-secured his reins. In four months Phil had managed to spend over half his post-tax winnings. And while many of Phil’s major purchases were in hard-asset investments, some depreciated frightfully—and basically all generated astonishing maintenance costs. He still had hundreds of millions of dollars, but with every monthly statement he couldn’t quite escape the feeling that he had, well? Less. Less than Arun Patil, sure, many times over, but worse still: less than former Phil. It was a problem, less, less of elevation than directionality. We humans are comparative creatures, and hopelessly future oriented: ever more concerned with slope than coordinates. It is hockey-stick trajectories we want, recoiling when a ball begins to drop, even if it swishes directly through the hoop.
And then there was Sunny, the high reason he’d wanted to spend so much time in LA in the first place. Since Raleigh’s apology in Greece, the weighty presence of his wife had clung to his side, throwing off his balance, exposing his underbelly in a way its increasing tautness couldn’t counter, the muscles having been developed there entirely for show not strength. Meeting Sunny anywhere else would appear deliberate and risk exposure, the suggestion itself desperate on his part besides. Essential to his ability to attract her was still his flighty air, his unavailability, his perpetual distance. The challenges of competition and secrecy were not barriers to Sunny but fundamental attributes of her desire, what gave their narrative the gravitational pull to keep it revolving. That Raleigh orbited Phil only increased the total mass circling Sunny—and made the latter more attractive by comparison, in that, though Sunny was really much farther away, she managed to take up at least the same amount of space as Raleigh in the sky of Phil’s mind, and very often more.
Phil himself recognized it well enough, the essentialness of Raleigh, even in the moments he longed to dispatch her. At times Sunny made her look cheesy, but at others frankly serene. Phil was not desensitized to the appealing wholesomeness his wife and child mobilized, the power Raleigh’s body held for Virginia, the power Virginia’s held in his arms. As his daughter grew plumper, sat up, stayed awake longer; as she began to look less like a naked mole rat and more like him, alert with his own blue eyes, he softened toward her predictably, humanly, delighting in her growing expressive range—though he was still hopelessly dependent on Raleigh and the nannies at the first sign of quotidian distress.
Phil knew, too, that the tidal pull Raleigh still exerted on him translated to the fans; that she was telegenic in her own way. A brand asset. She was, moreover, tied directly to his harder ones: They didn’t have a prenup, and Phil had seen the toll ultra-high-net-worth divorce took even with an ironclad one in Arun’s bad press. It would be an even trickier business for a “prophet.” There is something inherently untrustworthy about a divorced medium, an implicit admission of the sort of duplicitous hocus-POTUS Phil was most desperate to prove himself against. For if you don’t possess the foresight to choose your own life partner, how much of it can you possibly have?
Phil doubled down at the gym, his trainer at the labyrinth-library nearly every day. And he made an appointment with a high-profile cosmetic dermatologist, one skilled in the sort of subtle tweaks Phil had convinced himself Crewe’s waning attentions were indicative of his failure to accelerate. It’s a common enough self-deception: to project onto one’s body deficiencies of the mind; for one’s inability to face the truth to manifest in the face. But the chiseling of his abs and jawline went unnoticed at CAA (well, that’s the point of subtle tweaks! Phil’s dermatologist said when he complained). It was all so depressing he considered relenting re: the Housewives—but then Raleigh wouldn’t have fit in with them, and it would be almost worse if she somehow managed to; it would destroy the foiling serenity that constituted her remnant appeal. And how long could he avoid the dissolution or disclosure of his relationship with Sunny on such a show? He saw an even messier, more awful divorce in store than it would be otherwise. And he’d be the one kicked off if it happened! It was Housewives not husbands. Embarrassing for him to even consider it, on so many levels, not least of which being the risk of their rejection. Worse still: of Crewe refusing to even try to broker a deal, saving his professional capital for someone else.
But Phil needed some sort of backup plan. The range of products he was hawking on Instagram now were, even as he saw himself getting more conventionally attractive in his photos with them, a marked step down from those he’d been shilling only a couple months earlier. If he wasn’t careful they’d be diet tea soon. No, he thought, better to pivot decisively than glide slowly down, losing air incrementally. The dramatic pivot was a life design for which Phil had no shortage of models, not least Arun Patil and the tech set, for whom failure was never really failure but a learning opportunity—provided you were the right “whom.” More compelling still were those down the coast, pivoting from drama specifically. Above all his hero, Ronald Reagan, but also Arnold Schwarzenegger and, Phil thought more reluctantly, Donald Trump.
His reluctance with regard to Donald was actually part of Phil’s emerging plan’s appeal. The latest presidential scandal, not even a fortnight old, of the Ukrainian quid pro quo was looking to have greater sticking power than the previous ones. The Speaker had already launched a formal impeachment inquiry, and the Democrats held a House majority now, even if no one thought the Senate would convict. Shouldn’t the moderate Republican electorate be offered a viable alternative? Not just a smattering of overambitious lower-level politicians, but a rival celebrity? Another household name? Phil wasn’t so deluded as to think he’d win the nomination, however deranged the incumbent competition—but the very act of running against that level of crazy could have a legitimizing effect of sorts, a priming agent for other endeavors and subsequent campaigns. And wasn’t this alone enough to make it a compelling option? If Pete Buttigieg could do it, why not him? The point, after all, was less to reset his coordinates than his trajectory.
Phil could win, too, right? Not likely, no, but it was statistically possible. What had Phil’s past success proved to him if not the parable of the black swan? Statistics is never having to say you’re certain, he remembered that math professor saying. Ron Tinaldi’s voice also echoed in his mind: Assuming you were born in America, you have a one-in-ten-million chance of being elected president of the United States. At thirty-five years of age, Phil Fayeton will be eligible to run in the next election—and his odds would be far better than that: a white, heterosexual man; a six-foot-three celebrity; a multimillionaire (though not, technically, an “out-of-touch billionaire”; he could emphasize this point effectively). Phil had already accomplished a far rarer feat.
And Raleigh would help him. More so now, with her subtle little tweaks. She looked every bit the American First Lady, ready to be draped in red and presented to some latter-day Shikler. Phil didn’t even need to close his eyes to see her holding Virginia at the inauguration in coordinated Ralph Lauren, his hand encircling her waist as he raised the other high, flying it back and forth in a victorious, patriotic wave to the biggest crowd ever.
OCTOBER
—I think it’s the right sport for you, but the worst imaginable matchup, Miles couched, splayed on a green velvet camelback under an Arcadian mural.
We had arrived at Chiswick Farm under the auspices of the Oracle ERP Blue-White Scrimmages Presented by the Virginia Lottery and a first glimpse at Coach Tony Bennett’s new team. But politics was the sport most top of mind for Phil that evening, and to which Miles referred, the first real home game still a month away.
It was more encouragement than anyone else had given Phil, the right sport for you. Sally Yu, who had left Senator Sheila Campau’s employ for a higher-paying job at a top political campaign consultancy over the summer, called him mad. Another consultant—at a slightly less prestigious firm—laughed in his face. A third looked at him not with amusement but concern. It wasn’t just that Phil would lose, they all insisted. The president would set out to destroy him forever, by any means necessary—and quite possibly succeed. Didn’t Phil remember his own meeting in the Oval Office? Being interrupted, disregarded, lied about and to? That was the president being nice. On his best behavior. Actively trying to support Phil—insofar, at least, as he’d deemed it also beneficial to himself. And anyway, even if the president hadn’t been vindictive and conscienceless and able to shoot someone on Fifth Avenue without losing fans, Phil was many months too late: Half the Republican field who’d had the same idea had already dropped out. He’d look like a charlatan declaring now, even with the impeachment inquiry; petty embarrassment the best conceivable endgame. Surely he’d worked in government long enough to know it would be a catastrophic error.
Phil left these meetings in a mix of dejection and dismissal; rattled, but his ego preventing the warnings from achieving full psychic penetration. These were contacts he hadn’t spoken to since leaving the AASSS, he reminded himself. They must not realize the extent of my fame. Even in the bright light of his own insight, Phil couldn’t see the error was his. But then, who can see blindness itself? Remember it is not only the lack of light that blinds, but also too much of it.
—And look, said Miles, not unkindly, having gently reiterated all the points Phil had already heard. Even Reagan ran for governor first.
There was a perceptible shift in Phil’s demeanor.
—Newsom’s at the beginning of his term, though, he said. Northam, too.
—Senate, then.
—California would never elect a Repub—
Phil stopped, turned to me, our blue eyes meeting.
—You’re not working for Maria, are you?
I shook my head. Representative Muñoz had rebuffed my overtures; had again pledged to eschew corporate PAC donations for her senatorial campaign. And why wouldn’t she take the moral victory, in a state sure to elect a Democrat, in an election she was so far ahead in it might as well have been uncontested? I saw, now, what Phil was thinking, why he’d asked. He smiled at me conspiratorially.
—Well, you’ve defied the odds before, said Miles.
—He doesn’t have to, I said.
—What do you mean?
Raleigh, too, looked confused, as Phil unbuttoned the cuffs of his crisp blue shirt, rolling the sleeves as if readying for some kind of manual work, smiling wider with every fold.
* * *
—
—I’m going to run as a Democrat, he said.
* * *
Yes, it was a lower office, and he’d fall in his father’s estimation with the switch of party, but the California senatorial plan otherwise had much to recommend it. Not just me and Miles but basically all of Phil and Raleigh’s newer Hollywood friends and acquaintances were Democrats. Phil’s former qualms with the party’s “elitism” had utterly ceased when he became a bona fide elite, and now almost enticed him. The appeal of “fiscal conservatism” had similarly diminished alongside his new personal tax rate. He might as well get credit for the hundreds of millions of dollars he’d unavoidably pay on his winnings come April from the party who’d appreciate it. Phil’s social positions had always leaned further left, more Democratic than MAGA—and he was not entirely ignorant of the fact, though he never would have admitted it, that the crowning success of Republican public relations had been reanchoring “the center” right of its true point. The campaign itself would be easier, obviously, with less scrutiny and more personal freedom—not just absolutely but in an advantageous ratio, the drop in prestige well worth these gains and more. As a senator? Phil could set up Raleigh and Virginia in DC with a perma-excuse for solo travel to Sunny LA. Raleigh would have her time to shine, too. As far as states went, California was the most glamorous, populous one; they’d still get a Ralph-Lauren wave when he won.
And this was the biggest advantage of all, Phil thought: When. His celebrity wasn’t at the level he appraised it, but Phil was famous, and while I wouldn’t say the odds were in his favor, exactly, neither was it a black-swan scenario. Maria had a first-mover advantage, but the late entry that would indeed have read charlatanic in the presidential election could well yield a late splash senatorially. Per California’s “jungle” primary law, Phil only need finish in the top two overall to appear on the general-election ballot, meaning he and Maria could both advance to the general over the leading Republican challenger, Cynthia Duvall. Phil held significant resource advantages over both of them, not that Cynthia stood any real chance. How his white working-class appeal would match up vs. Maria’s to California’s Latino population was harder to predict, and might be tough to parse from their policy differences. (Not all augury is created equal.) Other parts of the country had seen Latino voters shifting right, though in California the effect hadn’t been statistically significant.
Regardless, by splitting the ideological difference between the two leading candidates, Phil did have a realistic shot at winning—and this was what I told him, accepting a drink from the butler and curling into a floral wingback chair. I’d meant this as in practical enough to be worth a try, but realistic is, in Phil’s defense, an awfully artistic word, open to significant interpretation. By the next morning, I could see it inching toward inevitable in Phil’s mind; by afternoon, careening.
—Maria’s kind of a disaster when you think about it, he said for at least the third time en route to the scrimmages. She’s basically a socialist. Like, universal health care? That would never work.
—You do realize that basically every other developed country in the world—
—In America, Cassandra. America is different.
—You’ll need to embrace Obamacare though, said Miles, at least half backing me.
—I think you mean I’ll need to embrace the Affordable Care Act—which is now established precedent and failed repeal with bipartisan support. It’s a moderate position.
* * *
—
The arena itself was around half full, but the president’s box was at capacity, packed with donors and a few especially marketable professors to attract them. No one I knew—no art historians or literary types—but there was a top economist, a charismatic Dardenian, a political scientist widely known for his punditry and “Crystal Ball” election projections. Phil was eager to consult this last one and managed to corner him for the bulk of the women’s scrimmage, delighted to reinvigorate the conversations we’d been circling through with a new, more eminent audience. Only when Phil, to his feigned surprise, was publicly recognized as the men’s team took the court as a fellow reigning Champion, did he release him, striding to the front of the box with, I thought, a Ralph-Lauren wave-in-training.
There are few events in sports more imbued with hope than a public preseason scrimmage, and I could feel this all around me, how it mixed with the previous season’s still-lingering magic into intoxicating dynastic possibilities. Mamadi Diakite was still on the team, as were Kihei Clark and Braxton Key; a few other bench players. And there was some precedent for hope. Possible we were just past the bend of the hockey stick. Holding a whole storybook of fairytales, from which we’d only read the first. John Wooden won ten NCAA championships in twelve years at UCLA in the 1960s and ’70s, seven of them consecutive. Like Tony Bennett, Wooden had been led by a distinctive team-first philosophy, almost a religious creed.
To me? This sort of salivation tasted bittersweet. I didn’t see it happening. Wooden’s teams had reigned through absolute, almost monarchical domination, winning their championships by an average of over thirteen points, three of them by more than twenty. There were four undefeated seasons; eighty-eight consecutive wins at one point. He had the era’s best system, yes, but also untouchable talent. Lew Alcindor—that is, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar—was so much better than everyone else that the NCAA literally changed the rules to reduce his dominance, banning the dunk for nearly a decade. And he still dominated.
