Fanfare Page 4
“Okay. Love you. If you get invited to the Oscars, lose the bastard and take me.”
“Haha. Dream on. Love you, too,” I said with a smile.
I went back into the office, sat down in my cubicle, and took a deep breath. I opened up a browser window and typed in www.google.com. I can’t believe I’m doing this crap. I always mocked Hana endlessly whenever she told me she wasted hours Googling random people on the net. She spent a great deal of time amassing large quantities of useless information, and the “Google Technique,” as she called it, was Phase One of any sleuthing enterprise. I never thought I would stoop to her level.
I typed in his name and hit Search. Approximately 10,400,000 results. Suddenly I felt like I was the size of the parasite that causes amoebic dysentery. I didn’t even want to know how many results would come up if I typed in “Cristina Aleida Pereira.” Maybe ten? At the top of the endless list of hyperlinks were several articles insinuating that Tom was unhappy in Hollywood. I glossed over those. I’d lost my faith in responsible journalism back in the election cycle of 2004.
I spent a few nanoseconds on a couple of fansites and quickly decided that estrogen-fueled shrines were not the best place for me to figure out whether or not someone had a normal personality. I did see a couple of pictures of him in a tux that made me smile. He cleaned up nicely. Finally, I clicked on a few links that sent me to www.youtube.com to watch some of Tom’s interviews with various media outlets. Jackpot.
I spent the next hour at work obsessively watching clip after clip of him promoting movies and oftentimes being asked the same series of predictable questions. Hana was right. He did seem awkward . . . not necessarily like he lacked confidence, but more like he wanted to be somewhere else. I desperately wanted to know where else he wanted to be. This was bad. Stop it, Cris. That’s enough. Damn Hana for suggesting answers and promoting chaos at the same time. I X-ed out of all the browser windows with frustration. If anything, my sleuthing had only exacerbated my curiosity. Shit.
I opened up my work email and mechanically responded to several of the more pressing issues. Fielding phone calls and organizing the projects on my desk took up the rest of the day.
When I got home, my mother wasn’t back from work yet. Feeling the need for some comfort food, I scrounged around the kitchen for the ingredients to make arroz con gandules and some chicken with tostones. After doing all of the preparatory work, I made my way upstairs and turned on my laptop to send an email to Gita.
There were several unread messages in my inbox. Gita had sent me a link for one of those “Send this to ten people to brighten their day, or else” forwarding chain emails. Why were your friends allowed to spam you? Those bullshit chain emails in particular always triggered an irrational mini-conniption in me. Kind of like an email-induced form of roadrage. I forgave her because I loved her, but that didn’t stop me from clicking on Delete and damning ten unnamed friends to a day of darkness.
When I looked below her message, I saw something that made me catch my breath: It was an unread message from the sender “Tom A.” with a subject line that read “question(s).” I tried to ignore the signs of my heart coming back to life with curious acceleration as I clicked on the message.
From: Tom A.
Reply-To: bobdylan85@yahoo.co.uk
To: Cris Pereira <7crisp@gmail.com>
Date: Mon, January 12, 2009 at 4:32 PM
Subject: question(s)
it occurred to me as i went about my day that i might be coming off a bit dodgy. i hope you believe me when i say that it’s never been my intention to make you uncomfortable. maybe this next move will just be the final nail in my coffin, but i did want to reassure you that i’m not some creep with a fixation. all evidence to the contrary. honestly, i liked the fact that you were completely unimpressed by me. i’m unimpressed by myself on a daily basis, and it’s nice to find someone else who shares the sentiment—it helps me feel like i do exist in the real world, even if only for a moment. sometimes it’s not enough that my sister calls me a git every chance she has, and that my mum constantly reminds me that i’m an idiot. you also answer my questions with your own thoughts instead of trying to figure out what you think i want to hear—it makes me smile that you don’t seem to give a rat’s ass. the long and the short of it is: i like talking to you. it makes me feel normal. i hope you don’t mind that. if you do, just tell me. i don’t want to be a bloody nuisance—like that guy who just won’t leave you the hell alone. anyway, i have two questions for you. if you don’t want to hear from me again, don’t bother responding. i’ll take the hint and bugger off.
what’s your favorite place in the world and why?
why is algerian raï music on the same ipod as k-pop?
tom
p.s.—your email address made me laugh. crisp?
When I finished reading the email, I was surprised and taken aback by the fact my facial muscles felt sore. As I absorbed each sentence, the smile that began with a delighted smirk had grown centimeter by centimeter until it stretched the skin of my face with the good pain of something unexpectedly funny.
Hot on the heels of my warm amusement came cold frustration. Tom the Movie Star didn’t make it easy for me to “remember the past” and act accordingly. I wanted desperately to click the Delete button and forget about the email, forget about the momentary absence of pain, and forget about him.
So, he was listening to my iPod? Hmmm.
I looked over his charming message again. The same silly smile began to manifest itself on my face.
I sighed in surrender as I hit Reply.
Chapter Four
From: Cris Pereira <7crisp@gmail.com>
Reply-To: 7crisp@gmail.com
To: Tom A.
Date: Mon, January 12, 2009 at 7:57 PM
Subject: Re: question(s)
So . . . I have to admit I sat here staring at a blank email for awhile trying to figure out what the heck I was going to write about.
I guess that I should just begin by answering your two (more like three) questions. We’ll see where it goes from there.
1.) My favorite place in the world is probably Paris. I know, I know . . . how cheesy, right? A girl who loves Paris, blah blah blah. Honestly, it doesn’t even have anything to do with the whole “City of Love” thing. When I was in college, I did a year abroad in France, and it just kind of stuck with me. One of my favorite places to just “be” in Paris is the Musée d’Orsay. I have a weak spot for Impressionist paintings . . . something about the mundane mixed in with the slightly psychotic . . . haha, hope that doesn’t scare you too much. I’m not a big fan of perfection in art. I prefer flaws . . . I think it’s easier to imitate something perfectly, but it’s not so easy to copy an unintentional imperfection.
I also travel to eat, so Paris is a no-brainer. I’m serious when I say that. Whenever I travel, I plan my day around where I’ll be eating. One day this shit is going to catch up with me and I’ll be as big as a house. Maybe then I’ll rethink priorities when going abroad. Until then, c’est la vie.
2.) This question made me laugh. When I was living in France, I became friends with one of the most wonderful people I’ve ever met in my life. His name is Samir, and he was like a big brother to me. His entire family had moved to France from Algeria about ten years before, and I had a great time learning about their culture by hanging out with him. His family worshipped this Algerian Raï singer named Khaled, and it definitely grew on me.
About the K-pop . . . yeah. My best friend is half-Korean. It’s impossible to avoid having Korean pop music on my iPod. I’ll confess that occasionally I find myself dancing around to some of the more obnoxious, bubblegum shit when no one is around. You asked.
Well damn. That’s a pretty long email. Watch, now you’ll think twice about asking me multiple questions! You may be the guy who won’t leave me the hell alone, but I’m definitely the girl who won’t shut the hell up.
; Here’s a question for you . . . What do you want to be when you grow up? :-P
Cris
P.S.—What’s wrong with my email address? Looks like someone has a crush on Bob Dylan.
From: Tom A.
Reply-To: bobdylan85@yahoo.co.uk
To: Cris Pereira <7crisp@gmail.com>
Date: Tues, January 13, 2009 at 2:13 PM
Subject: Re: Re: question(s)
last night i was invited to a party at a hotel in nyc. i’ve been there before, but this was the first time i went where i received a fair amount of acknowledgment as i made my way around. i’m sure you won’t be surprised when i tell you i preferred it more the last time. my ego appreciates the attention for a while, but then i just really wish i could carry on alone without any sort of outside expectations. i’m not sharp enough to come up with witty rot for extended periods of time. i’m sure if people actually sat down to talk to me, i would bore the piss out of them in under five minutes. i probably shouldn’t be telling you this as i’m counting on you wanting to talk to me for longer than that. as to what i want to be when i grow up—i’m not daft enough to think that i can hang onto this fluke for very long. it’s near impossible to achieve anything in this industry, and to continue achieving is probably a complicated mix of elements beyond my control. it would be fucking unbelievable if i could be successful enough to call my own shots in life. i’ve always thought that i’d like to do something with music. i wonder if anyone would buy music i made? i dunno, maybe i could help with one of those programs that encourage kids in school to learn how to play an instrument. greater good, jolie/pitt stuff. that would truly be amazing. i realize i haven’t really answered your question . . . i guess the best response i can come up with is this: i have an idea of the type of person i want to be when i grow up. if i’m doing something with myself that helps me be that type of person, i’ll be happy. in conclusion, i have no idea what i want to be when i grow up.
what was the best day of your life so far and why?
tom
p.s.—a ‘crisp’ is what you yanks call a ‘chip’ in the uk. this is a really old email address. i used to be obsessed with bob dylan as a kid.
From: Cris Pereira <7crisp@gmail.com>
Reply-To: 7crisp@gmail.com
To: Tom A.
Date: Wed, January 14, 2009 at 9:03 PM
Subject: Re: Re: Re: question(s)
Zimmerman
You know, it’s really funny because my best friend Hana (the one responsible for the K-pop) told me that whenever she sees you in an interview or on TV (don’t ask, she’s the biggest stalker I know, and she doesn’t care), she wants to take you home, cook you dinner, and force you to tell her what’s bothering you. After I read your email, I totally get it. Stop picking on yourself so much! Trust me, you’ll never get a girl’s attention if you keep telling chicks how boring and stupid you are, even if it’s the truth—haha. I think you’re overcompensating because you think people assume you’re a narcissistic bastard—being a “movie star” and all. Just stop it! It’s okay if you think nice thoughts about yourself once in a while. I won’t tell . . . probably. J
You know, this was a pretty loaded question. If you had asked me this six months ago, I would have had a totally different response. I think the best day of my life was probably your choice of many the year I was eighteen. The reason why I can’t pick just one is because it’s all become a blur as time passes. It was my first year in college, and I had more fun than should be allowed. Trust me, I paid for all that fun the rest of the time I was in school. They should give you a disclaimer on your first day—it’s really easy to wreck your GPA, but it’s amazingly difficult to fix it. I stupidly wanted to be a doctor! Ha! They don’t want people in medical school who fail freshman calculus (twice). Anyway, it was just such a great time for me. I made some of the best friends I have, and we would all stay awake just wasting time and talking until the sun rose—trying to remind us that we had a purpose other than socializing in college. Not that it mattered. I laughed and carried on more that year than I can remember, and anytime I need to cheer myself up, all I have to do is think of some silly memory from that time. I know I’m being cryptic, but it’s difficult to explain. I just felt at peace with myself and with my life. Everything was new and anything seemed possible. I miss that feeling.
What’s one thing you feel like you must do before you die? (And don’t feed me some crap about climbing Mt. Everest. Reality would be a good place to start.)
Cris
P.S. I’m still obsessed with Bob Dylan.
From: Tom A.
Reply-To: bobdylan85@yahoo.co.uk
To: Cris Pereira <7crisp@gmail.com>
Date: Wed, January 14, 2009 at 11:58 PM
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: question(s)
chip,
shit, and i really did want to climb Everest . . . seeing as how you managed to turn a question about one day into an answer about one whole year, i think i’m allowed a certain amount of liberty in my responses as well. i used to say to people that i liked traveling, but it’s become more of a hassle than a pleasure as of late, so i stopped saying that. honestly, i think that if i could travel freely again, it would be something i’d like to do before i die. i’ve been to so many amazing places, but i’ve never really had the chance to do the things you’re supposed to do whilst there. my time is really not mine, not that i’m complaining or anything (god forbid i get another one of those lectures on being positive). for example, it’s a load of rubbish that i went to rome and never got to see the colosseum—if you know what i mean. i bet you’re wondering why i didn’t just say ‘i’d like to see the colosseum before i go’ to the people in charge of my schedule, but whining doesn’t sit well with me (all evidence to the contrary). so that’s my ‘answer’ to compliment your non-answer. i’d like to travel freely before i die. maybe i could make a list of places i’d like to go. what do you think?
can i call you tomorrow at lunchtime?
zimmerman
p.s.—don’t think i missed your bit about a ‘different answer six months ago.’ i’m just being temporarily polite.
It was nearly two o’clock in the morning. The crazy rantings of my mind were making it impossible to sleep. Screw it. I decided to call Gita. I needed some unemotional, ruthlessly detached advice.
Throughout the last week, I had become worried when I realized that the emails I shared with Tom were quickly becoming a highlight of my day. I had no idea where he wanted this to go, but I knew that all I needed right now was a friend, nothing more. It seemed premature to say this to him . . . plus, I might be incredibly presumptuous in assuming he had anything more than a friendly interest in me. I mean, seriously. I knew I wasn’t even trying to be modest when I thought this way. I was fairly certain that famous people usually rubbed elbows (and other parts of the body) almost exclusively with other famous people. How else do you explain how all of these gossip blogs Hana obsessed over and magazines I glanced at in the checkout aisle at the grocery store managed to stay in business? Hot movie star with nameless nobody just doesn’t sell. It’s almost like a convoluted American version of the caste system . . . anyone not possessing several pairs of oversized Oliver Peoples’ sunglasses need not apply. I just couldn’t let this get out of my control.
If I told him that I just wanted to be friends, I was worried I might look like a fool.
I pressed four on my speed dial. It rang several times.
“Hello?” a groggy, highly irritated voice answered.
“G? It’s Cris.”
“Holy shit dude, what time is it?” She sounded like her throat hadn’t seen water in three days.
“I think it’s around two,” I said dismissively.
“Is something wrong?” she groaned.
“Not really.”
“Then why are you calling this late, babe?”
“I really need to talk to you,” I
said in as urgent a tone as I could muster.
“Well then, call Crazy . . . she’s probably still awake.” I could already hear her starting to hang up the phone. Gita needed sleep like no one I’d ever met in my life.
“I don’t need to talk to Hana. I need a voice of detached reason,” I blurted quickly.
“Is this about that actor guy?” she asked pointedly.
“Yeah. Please don’t hang up!”
“Ugh, make it quick. You know how much I love sacrificing sleep to talk about boneheaded men. Most guys are the biggest waste of time in the world. Do you know how much more productive women would be if we didn’t have to worry about freakin’ men?”
Gita was extremely analytical when it came to meeting and dating men. Her objectiveness often bordered on cynicism, and she had a strict one, two, three rule—if she found more than three things glaringly wrong with a guy, he was out. She had dated several times, and most of her relationships were long-term, but Gita was definitely more focused on her career than anything else. Her Indian parents were not happy about that, but Gita didn’t care one bit. She cruised through life to the beat of her own bhangra music.
“Yeah, yeah. What happened to making this quick?” I said.
“Talk.”
“So . . . we’ve been emailing back and forth . . . it’s been really nice. Tonight he asked me if he could call me at work tomorrow, well actually, today.”
“So?” she yawned.
“I don’t know, G. I’m not ready for a relationship, and emailing is one thing. It’s kind of impersonal and I can control how the conversation goes.”
“Cristina, are you serious?” she sighed.
“What?”
“Did he ask you to move to LA and have lots of babies with him?”
“No.” I already knew where this was going.
“Then why the hell are you wasting time pondering his reasons for wanting to call you?” Her voice was firm, no nonsense.