The Vegas Diaries, page 9
“Not really,” Lindsay admitted. “Honestly, though, I’m done with him.” She took a swig of mimosa before adding: “For good.”
She went on to explain that he had reached out to her a few days earlier asking if she would come to L.A. He was stuck filming and couldn’t leave town, but was eager to see her again. He even offered to buy her a plane ticket, which she took as a good sign, but she insisted that she drive. (She already knew what would become my favorite dating rule: Have your own getaway car!)
“I don’t even know how it came up,” she said, exasperated. “But for some reason I told him that I’d never actually seen any of his movies.
“I could tell that annoyed him a little, but whatever, I haven’t! Plus, wasn’t I supposed to play it cool? I didn’t want to be a fan girl.” She took another swig from her flute. “So anyway, I’m on my way out the door and he tells me he has something for me. I’m not kidding you. I’m about to leave and he hands me a shoebox full of DVDs and says, ‘Here are all my movies so you can get familiar with my work.’”
“No!” Hannah and I shouted in unison.
“Oh, I know somebody who hooked up with him,” Nancy began, under her breath, stopping after Hannah gave her a dirty look saying, Shut the fuck up.
“Ugh . . . why was I even attracted to him?” Lindsay wondered aloud, oblivious to Nancy’s and Hannah’s exchange. “He’s not even hot. I would have never gone out with him ordinarily. It grosses me out.”
“That’s just it. It isn’t an ordinary circumstance,” I said, setting down my iced tea with conviction. I had witnessed this same tired story a dozen times over. “Even if he’s not your type, when you are fresh off the bus, you think it’s super flattering. Right? Like, he could probably have any girl he wants and he’s pursuing you. Talk about a massive ego boost!
“The same thing happened to me right when I moved to L.A.,” I continued. “I’ve met lots of celebrities over the years . . . but you always remember your first.”
My first celebrity “encounter” happened only a few months after I moved to L.A. I had never even seen so much as a local newscaster in person, so the idea of an actual celebrity seemed completely foreign to me. If you live outside Los Angeles, it’s easy to cast this shroud of otherworldliness on famous people. Simply put, they didn’t exist in the same world as us common folk, so it never seemed imaginable that I’d bump into one on the street. You doodle his name on your school notebook; you don’t spot him strolling into your neighborhood bar.
So when a member of a pop group at the height of his career entered the restaurant I was working at in Santa Monica, I found myself surprisingly easy prey.
“Hey, can I get a table for three, please?” asked the chiseled blond with blue eyes and hair pulled back into a rough ponytail. I didn’t even recognize him. I was just oblivious. Of course, I had heard his group’s name a hundred times and had heard their songs (you’d have to be living under a rock not to), but I never paid enough attention to any of those boy bands to know one member from the other. I had always listened to rock, not pop. My proverbial notebooks would have been covered in “Mrs. Kurt Cobain.”
“Sure,” I said, gesturing for them to follow me toward a table outside my already packed section. With a smile, I handed them each a menu and told them to enjoy their lunch.
Moments later, my coworker Kira scurried up to me and through a fit of nervous giggles said, “He wants you to wait on him!”
“Who?” I asked, already forgetting the table I had just sat.
“You’re kidding, right?” she asked, looking aghast. She must have decided that I was kidding and added, “I want the tip, though!”
“Okkkaayy,” I said, looking around and realizing the table I had just sat was the only occupied one in her section. I just figured she thought the guy was cute or something. He definitely was conventionally good-looking, but he certainly wasn’t my type. He had a young Fabio vibe, so I had a hard time taking him seriously.
As I skated over toward the table (yes, I was a roller-skating waitress), I noticed all the servers were pausing between tables, whispering and not so subtly sneaking glances at the young man who looked as though he had just jumped from the cover of a Harlequin novel.
Wait, I thought. Who is this guy? An Abercrombie model or something?
“What can I get you guys to drink? How about a beer?” I offered, even though it was still well before noon. As a Hooters waitress, upselling was the first thing we were taught. If we weren’t too busy, it was suggested that we sit down and chat with customers, particularly the women and children. After all, Hooters was supposed to be a “family restaurant,” despite its tongue-in-cheek name. I’d happily try to upsell this table, but I wasn’t sitting down and fawning all over this guy. He had asked for me specifically, so I had to be as professional as possible, so as not to give him the wrong idea. I’d be cheerful but distant.
As I put in the trio’s chicken wing order, I wondered about this fellow. Sure, he was good-looking, but this was L.A. Lots of people are good-looking. He was confident in a way that most people weren’t, like he knew he was somehow special, but without being a dick. It was a relaxed confidence—as if he knew it was only a matter of time until he got what he wanted.
Over the course of their meal, this guy slowly started to grow on me. I had to admit, there was something about him. Usually guys as good-looking as him weren’t as nice as he was. Or maybe I was just impressed by the crowd of oh-so-casual gawkers lurking to catch a glimpse of young Fabio.
When the time came to play his trump card, he did so with expert skill. He had years of experience under his belt and knew how to pull the “don’t you know who I am?” thing with actual aplomb.
“What’s your name?” he asked, sticking out his hand.
“Holly,” I said, confidently reaching to shake his.
“Nice to meet you,” he said before introducing himself in return.
I took note and glided back to the hostess stand so I could ask everyone who the hell this guy was. I had a name, but as I said, I wouldn’t have even known one boy band from another, so what he told me didn’t ring any bells.
A group of girls were anxiously waiting for me to return to join in on their gossip session.
“Do you know who that guy is?” I asked, subtly motioning toward the table. Before I could even share his first name with the girls, they all exploded. Kira said that the man I was talking to was a member of one of the most famous groups on the planet.
“Duh,” another girl said to me, rolling her eyes. “And he likes you! Get his number!”
I didn’t have to. The next time I skated back to check on his table, he made the next move.
“Hey, would you like to go out on a date with me this weekend?” he asked point-blank. Immediately I was taken aback, but paused before regurgitating the standard “No, thank you,” I’d perfected for the more assertive customers. Most guys who approached me were prone to just offering to “hang out,” so there was something flattering about being asked out on a proper date.
Ordinarily, I would never have been interested in this guy. In fact, between school and work, I didn’t really have the time to date, period. But I had to admit, I was starting to buy into the hype around him. This wasn’t just a guy; this was an adventure. I was still young and naïve enough to think that if someone had what it took to become famous, there must be something special about him, right? I hadn’t been in town but a few months, so the idea of being around a celebrity was still a novelty to me. And aren’t new adventures one of the things I had been searching for, after all?
Just his wandering into the restaurant where I worked was worth a call home. Imagine all the fuss an actual date would create? Most of the folks who stopped into the Santa Monica eatery were tourists, not pop stars. I thought this was just the kind of story my family and friends back home were expecting to hear, so why not?
“Okay,” I agreed, with just a hint of reluctance. He handed me his phone and asked that I plug in my number. Without saying another word, I turned to skate away. It would have been even more awkward if I lingered. When he got up to leave, I saw a small swarm of fans approach him for photos, with which he politely complied and flashed his white, toothy pop star grin.
“Oh my god, he got your number! Are you guys gonna go out?” Kira squealed, grabbing the check folder to see how much she just landed. “Wow, he must really like you.”
“I don’t know,” I shrugged, trying my best to sound unenthusiastic. Five minutes ago I didn’t know who this guy was. I didn’t want to act all giddy now. On the inside I was totally drinking the Kool-Aid, but I didn’t want any of them to know that. “I guess I’m supposed to see him this weekend. We’ll see.”
Half a dozen servers huddled around me—even the manager seemed impressed! I had to admit, I was enjoying all this attention. This guy was a pop idol who was adored by millions, and he had eyes for me. As lame as the whole thing sounds, it did kind of make me feel special.
Not long after he called and invited me bowling, which I thought was cute. So far this whole courtship felt traditional and sweet. Isn’t a bowling date something straight out of a fifties sitcom? Maybe he’d give me his varsity sweater, too. I think he could sense I was a little hesitant and suggested that maybe I’d be more comfortable if we each brought a friend and we could make it a double date. I jumped at the chance; having a friend along for the ride would make things way less awkward. I invited an acquaintance, who couldn’t wait to get a glimpse of this household name in the flesh.
When she and I arrived at the Westside bowling alley, it looked completely closed. Not a single car was in the parking lot.
“Shit,” I said.
“Are we in the right place?” she asked me.
“This is where he told me to meet him,” I said. Just as I took out my phone to call him, a huge black SUV came barreling into the abandoned parking lot. The back door opened and he came spilling out of the car with his friend, who, I would later learn, just happened to be another member of his group.
“I think it’s closed,” I said, pointing toward the dimly lit doors.
“It is,” he said, a huge grin spreading across his face. “To everyone but us.”
He threw his arm around my shoulders, exuding his brand of charming confidence, and led me inside the empty bowling alley. A stocky older man introduced himself as the manager; he handed us each brand-new shoes, set up our lane, and even offered us drinks from the bar. Besides him and the security detail, it was just the four of us on what had to be the most expensive first date I’d ever been on. After an hour or so, we had successfully proven ourselves to all be terrible bowlers and the guys suggested we go to the Santa Monica pier for some rides and carnival games. Since my friend and I were working the late shift that night, and the pier was so near the restaurant, we agreed to go.
It wasn’t long before a handful of screaming girls were following us around. I laughed to myself. Here I was, an ordinary girl with a thick mop of strawberry blond hair and a puffy white Gap coat. These crazed fans were probably wondering who the hell I was while at the same time wishing they were in my place. We bounced from game to game as he proved he was one of those guys with luck on his side, slaying each carnival game as if it was nothing. He handed me the giant plush pink teddy bear he won and planted a kiss on my cheek. My friend and I took this as our cue. We thanked them for the fun night and promised to be in touch.
“We have a couple of shows scheduled, but I’ll be back soon,” he said, pulling me into a big hug. I practically skipped off the pier and down the Third Street Promenade. Despite my initial reluctance, I was actually starting to like this guy. At twenty-one years old, who could blame me? It was all so surreal!
As the days turned into a week, I didn’t hear from him.
“He’s busy,” I told my roommate when she asked about him. She rolled her eyes and dropped it. He finally called the following week. Just like I expected, he blamed his chaotic schedule for being out of touch since our date, but said he was really looking forward to seeing me the next weekend if I was free. He was less engaging than I’d hoped he would be, but I chalked it up to jet lag. Hey, I thought. Maybe he’s just not a phone person. I’m certainly not!
And so our relationship went (if you can even call it a relationship). He would string me along just enough to keep me interested, then disappear. Each conversation was less exciting than the one before, but I was eager to try and recapture the magic of our first date. By that point, I was sort of invested. Not emotionally—it was more of a pride thing. Word had traveled fast, and it seemed like everyone I knew was aware of my celebrity suitor, and it would be a bruise to my ego if I had to tell everyone he blew me off.
When he told me he was coming back to L.A. and suggested we go out, I agreed.
“Why?” my roommate asked after overhearing the phone call. “He’s just going to let you down again.”
“He is not,” I argued, defending my decision. “He’s a nice guy!”
“Ughhhh,” she said, stamping her foot. “Holly! He is not nice. He flakes on your phone calls, he doesn’t fly you out to see him, and he makes promises he doesn’t keep!”
She was right. I knew that deep down, but I told myself that things might be different in person. He was skilled in the art of smoothing things over, flattering me with his compliments. But this was all a part of his game—his carnival game, where winning me over again and again was the prize. Was this all a game to him? The novelty was starting to fade and I was beginning to feel foolish every time someone at work asked me about my celebrity “boyfriend.” I felt like I had to see him one more time. Maybe we would capture lightning in a bottle or maybe I would decide he wasn’t worth my time, but I needed one last date to know how I really felt, and perhaps to save just a little bit of face.
“Just come over,” he pleaded. He was back in Los Angeles for a concert and invited me to meet up at the hotel where he was staying in the South Bay, which is about twenty minutes south of Santa Monica and even farther from downtown (where he was performing the following evening).
“Why are you staying all the way down there?” I asked, dodging the invite.
“Will you please drive down and meet me?” he pressed. “I’m trying to fly under the radar. Fans would find my hotel if I stayed right next to the venue.”
Per usual, he said all the right things, and I begrudgingly accepted. Driving down the 405 in my dinged-up old car, I knew this was going to be it: either we were going to have an amazing night together or it was going to fizzle out and be over. I knocked on the door to his hotel room and he answered the door in a velour tracksuit.
“Would you like a glass of wine?” he offered as I stepped into the hotel suite. I had only ever stayed in tiny hotel rooms before, so the suite really impressed me. I was in awe that it came complete with a living room, a bar, and an entryway in addition to a bedroom! I nodded politely and thanked him when he handed me the glass.
“You want to see my new video?” he asked. I noticed just a glint of boyish excitement in his eyes. “I just got a copy.”
I wasn’t really into his music, so I would have rather just hung out, talked, and enjoyed each other’s company. But what could I say? I nodded my head again.
He wandered into the bedroom and popped his DVD into the player. I followed and perched myself on the corner of the bed. He immediately began rattling on: commenting and narrating each segment as if he were a real-life version of Pop Up Video. When it was finally over, he called his assistant and asked him to order “the usual.”
Even though this was clearly going south quickly, I was still eager to give it one last try. Never mind the fact that he didn’t even bother to ask me if I wanted anything when he ordered “the usual.” I just thought that maybe if we were forced to have a conversation, then maybe there would still be something there.
For about twenty minutes, we talked music. He never asked me what bands I was interested in, instead just rotated through his own collection while I chimed in if it was someone I actually knew about. When I made a comment about one particular artist I liked, a sour look appeared on his face.
“I like him, too, but he did a song with the other band,” he said, screwing up his face in exaggerated disgust and making a point to avoid uttering the name of the rival boy band, as if they were Lord Voldemort. “It hasn’t been released yet.”
“Who’s the other band?” I asked.
Begrudgingly he let the syllables fall from his mouth, with a slight annoyance that I hadn’t already known that there was beef between these two supergroups. I got the impression he assumed I was a fan of his, even though I had never tried to fake knowing anything about him, his band, or their music. Maybe he assumes every young woman is a fan? I wondered. Or maybe he thinks the only women who would want to go out with him are fans? Either way, I registered the whole situation as kind of sad.
Just about as sad as you only being interested in this guy because he is a celebrity, a little voice in my head piped up. Immediately I felt gross and wished I could get as far away from there as I could. Despite being starstruck, I knew that this was not a person I wanted to spend any more time with. But how could I get out of this without being totally awkward? I was starting to feel anxious when I tried to think about what my next move would be.
Suddenly I heard a knock at the door.
“I’ll get it,” I exclaimed, nearly falling off the bed. I thought it was the thoughtful thing to do, answering the door for him. Not to mention, I was antsy and looking for a distraction, no matter how fleeting, from our awkward conversation.
One of his assistants stood alone at the door. He held a plastic drugstore bag out toward me, reached inside, and set it on the entry table, a knowing look in his eye. I was surprised not to see any dinner, so I thanked him absent-mindedly.
