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I was afraid I’d be late for my date with Deth; it was a quarter past six and there was hellish traffic on the freeway. I finally made it downtown and walked into the designated restaurant at 6:40, ten minutes late. We had reserved a table and I found that he was not there. The manager told me Deth had been there and left, saying he would return shortly. Our mutual friend Gabriel had informed me that Deth is highly impatient and that I should not be late for our interview. Deth, apparently, waits for no one. After perusing the menu for several minutes, the waiter came and told me I had a phone call. It was Deth, calling from his cell phone a few blocks away. I apologized for not being punctual, and he in turn apologized for not being there when I arrived. He said he would be there soon. When Deth walked through the door, he commanded attention. He was tall and strikingly handsome in a cashmere charcoal suit. We shook hands and his palms were cold and clammy. His long elegant fingers lingered a moment on mine and electrified the air between us. After we had exchanged nicities I asked about his career as an actor. I asked if he wasn’t in the wrong town for this business and with a shrug he replied that he had a distaste for Los Angeles, where he felt like just another lost soul in a town of zombies. He was confident that Hollywood would find him. Over a delicious black bean soup we discussed his recent work. Deth had been in numerous ads, mostly magazine work, advertising everything from alcohol and cigarettes to Calvin Klein and Old Navy. It pays the bills, he said, but his passion is acting. He also does local theater, and is currently in a production of Faust in the role of Mephistopheles. I was delighted to find in him an extensive knowledge of Shakespearean plays, and we discussed at length the ghost of Hamlet’s father, and how Hamlet never once questions the validity of what he is seeing, though he does question whether it is really his father or an apparition sent from hell to entice him into misdeeds. He brought up the mind-spinning possibility that perhaps Hamlet is only playing at playing the madman, much as I was pretending to pretend that I was wholly indifferent to Deth’s mesmerizing voice, and the combination of pallid skin and stunning dark eyes, making it, I thought, quite obvious that I was very attracted. The main course was seared filet of sole with mushrooms and asparagus tips bathed in a whiskey cream sauce, a little bit French and a little bit rock ‘n roll. As I ate I began to get tired. Lulled by the sound of his voice, I began to focus on his inflection and tone and disregarded the words. The room’s soft lights and conversational hum seemed like a warm blanket wrapped around me, numbing. It seemed as though he said something about the catch-22 that actors are presented with when directors are unwilling to take a risk on an unknown actor. I think the wine went straight to my eyes, because edges were beginning to blur and Deth’s face came near and far, and near again. But they couldn’t very well sleep with all the directors and expect to maintain integrity in an industry where gossip spreads like wide friars. This last bit I didn’t understand but it made me laugh and with the laughter it became increasingly difficult to breathe... I must’ve passed out at that point, because the next thing I remembered was opening my eyes to complete blackness. I had no idea where I was, and no recollection of how I’d gotten there. I felt cold, and claustrophobic. I still had a slight feeling of impending asphyxiation hanging about my head and chest. I tried to get up but my forehead stopped me when it banged against something stiff and hard, like a wooden board. I began sliding sideways, on my back, towards one side and immediately hit a wall. I scrunched in the direction of my feet but again my feet hit a wall. I was beginning to panic. I slid in the opposite direction and could tell when I had reached an opening. It was like emerging from beneath blankets, coming out of air warm and stale from breath. I stood up, carefully, and soon my eyes adjusted to the light. I realized that I had been in my very own bedroom, under my very own bed! The clock on the stereo read 11:17. I turned on the light and found a note on my bed from Deth. It said, “Took you home after you flirted shamelessly and then fell asleep on me. Sorry if I bored you. When I got you home you crawled under the bed to sleep, mumbled something about vampires and graveyards. Thought it was weird but you insisted. Will call you tomorrow to see if you’re OK.” Copyright 3/99 Jennifer Chung. All rights reserved. So I like to flirt with Deth. |