Emmy And Me

Stephen and I talked a while about Emmy’s ideas for her foundation, and I explained to him a bit about the plight of the Night Children, which blew his mind. Of course he’d had no inkling they even existed, so once again I had to bring out my phone to show photos, which led to a discussion about how I’d started all my business ventures initially to provide housing and jobs for Night Children refugees, and it just snowballed from there.

“Are you serious? You built up a nearly billion dollar business empire because you wanted to help these people?”

“Yeah, that’s what got the ball rolling, all right,” I confirmed.

“Wow. I mean, fucking wow,” Stephen said, leaning back. “Emmy might be the famous one, but you're a freaking rock star, too.”

“Thanks,” I said.

As we were walking out to our cars, Stephen turned to ask one more question. “So, seriously, have you actually killed anybody?”

I sighed and let my shoulders slump. “You know, you kill four or five people and next thing you know, everybody thinks you’re some sort of psycho or something. Let me give you some advice,” I said. “If you’ve got to kill somebody, make sure nobody actually knows about it. Your rep follows you everywhere.”

Laughing, Stephen asked, “Which is it- four, or five?”

“Let’s see…” I said, silently counting off on my fingers as I gazed into space.

“That many?” Stephen said, laughing again.

“Hmm. I guess it comes to six,” I said, finally. “So far.”

Laughing, Stephen climbed into his AMG. “Hey, you know I’m gonna hold you to that rock star party invite, right?” He said before closing his door.

“O.K., but you’ve got to bring your girlfriend. I want to meet the woman that would put up with you,” I replied.

“You know Jimmy will probably have to bring his sister, right?” Stephen said from his open window.

“Aw, Jeez,” I said. “Thanks for that thought.”

When I got back to the apartment Emmy, Jackson and Lee were sitting around the table, deep in conversation about something musical. I kissed Emmy on the top of the head and said hello to the boys.

Emmy asked, “Do you mind if we order in tonight?”

“Of course not, babe,” I answered.

“Thank you. We are probably going to work late tonight.”

“Where’s Jen?” I asked Lee.

“Working,” he replied, distracted. “She’ll come over when she gets off.”

The three were soon back into their discussion of thematic chord changes, whatever that meant. I wandered off to my little home office area to check my email and maybe kill some time web surfing.

I got bored quickly, though, and was just watching old Youtube videos when Jen arrived. Glad that I’d have somebody to talk to, I dragged her out to the balcony/outside living room to talk.

“What are they working on?” Jen asked, tilting her head to indicate the three at the table.

“Who knows?” I asked, shrugging. “I don’t claim to understand any of it when they get to talking about Pentolian Scales, descending arpeggios, or whatever.”

“I’m glad I’m not the only one,” Jen said with a laugh. “Lee nerds out so hard sometimes when he’s listening to music or watching videos. ‘Hey, Jen!’,” she said, imitating Lee’s voice as best she could. “‘Check this out! This guy’s playing in an eight fifths time, then switching to five eighths!’ As if any of that meant anything at all to me. I can’t even understand what he’s talking about, let alone hear it in the music.”

“Seriously,” I agreed.

“Here’s to us music illiterates,” Jen said, raising her can of Coke in a mock toast, so I clunked my can against hers in agreement.

“So how’s the gallery going?” I asked, leaning back.

“Pretty good, actually,” Jen said, mirroring my posture. “I think I made a big sale today, so that was good.”

“What do you mean you think you made a sale? I mean, either you did, or you didn’t, right?” I asked.

“No, it’s not that straightforward. Most of the time, when a buyer is going to shell out a hundred, two hundred grand, maybe half a million or whatever, you make the pitch, and then they have to follow up by making sure the finances allow it. Not very many people walk in and just write checks, you know? So this piece today, we have it at three hundred and fifty thousand, right? Well, by the time the guy I talked to gets done with Mr. Guillard, the gallery owner, the actual deal might be three twenty five, or three hundred, or three fifty. I won’t know until the deal is finalized,” Jen explained.

“You don’t work on commission, do you?” I asked.

“Salary, but commission-based bonuses, so I might see seventeen and a half if the deal gets inked and the guy takes the painting home at full price.”

“That’s not bad,” I said, nodding my head. “How often does that happen?”

"This would be my second big sale since I started at the gallery, if it goes through. I’ve had a decent number of smaller sales, so I know Mr. Guillard is happy with me, but if I can do four pieces like this a year it’ll put me right near the top of any of the associates. Kelly sold two Chihulys this year, though, and that’s over two million, so that’s a hard act to follow.”

“You know Emmy is going to want art for our new place, right? That’ll be a ways off yet, but we might be in a position to buy before the end of the year,” I said.

Jen looked at me for a moment, then said, “Look, you guys are friends, and while I seriously appreciate you wanting to throw work my way, our gallery is probably not the right place to look for the right works for your new place. I’d love to help you guys find the right pieces, but realistically, you guys need to seek out the right art and not just walk into a gallery and buy what’s hanging on the wall. Maybe go to Art Basel in Miami, or just do some digging online. Don’t expect any local galleries to have any good Mid Century works just lying around.”

“I guess that makes sense. The whole Mid Century thing, you know, I just kinda jumped on that because of the vibe of the structure of the studio, you know? I sort of don’t really care, except that the place would look bizarre if I asked the designer and architect to dress it up to look any other way, really, but maybe contemporary loft industrial or something like that.”

“No, do the Mid Century,” Jen said with conviction. “The loft look is so played out, and you’re right- it would look cool if it’s done well with an eye towards keeping it authentic.”

“Well, that wasn’t exactly my instruction to the architect and designer. I told them to keep it in the spirit, but not be slavish to the look. I want it comfortable and useful, and not necessarily authentic at the expense of actually living there.”

Jen laughed, and said, “Fair enough. Still, you’ll want art that captures that vibe, right?”

“It’s all about the vibe,” I agreed.

That night, after everybody had left, I told Emmy about the talk about art that I’d had with Jen.

“Do you think she could help us find the right pieces for the new house?” Emmy asked as we relaxed in the tub.

“Yeah, I think she’d be happy to do it, but I think we need to get her together with the designer and see if the two of them can come to some sort of working arrangement.”

“Hmm…” said Emmy, thinking about it. “The designer- what is his name again?”

“Well, the design firm is called A.C. Design. I think that stands for ‘Angel City,’ but I might be wrong, since the designer’s name is Alex… But I guess both could be true.”

“Alex. He understands what you want as far as the design is concerned?”

“I think so. I told him that I wanted a Mid Century Modern feel, and the drawings he gave me seemed to have that in mind.”

“Designers charge a commission on the furniture and decorations, in addition to their fees, correct?” Emmy asked, but it was a rhetorical question, so I didn’t answer. “So he may expect that he will find us whatever art and he will earn his percentage from that.”

“Is that what Charlie in New York is going to do?” I asked.

“No, I told her to merely design the rooms and find the furniture. No decorations or art- we would find those ourselves.”

“So maybe we make that same stipulation with Alex here. I certainly don’t want a bunch of useless knickknacks cluttering up the place merely because they’re decorative and fit the motif.”

“Do you think we should hire Jen to help us find the art for the new house?” Emmy asked as she pulled my arms around her middle and snuggled up tighter against me.

“In all honesty, I'm not sure. On the one hand, she seemed as if she’d be happy to help with no expectation of any money for her time, but on the other hand, we’d be asking her to do work for us. Maybe we could find some other way to pay her back?” I suggested.

“I will give that some thought,” Emmy said. “Oh! I forgot to tell you. Do you remember Andy Temple?”

“Emmy, I've known him most of my life. Of course I remember him. Why?” I asked.

“He emailed me. Somehow he had heard that we are now in Los Angeles, and he is looking for a house here as well, since he will be playing for the Rams American football team.”

“The Saint Louis Rams?” I asked, puzzled.

“The team is moving to Los Angeles, and will play at the Coliseum until their new stadium is built,” Emmy explained. “He said it will be funny to play there as a professional, since his college home games were all played in that same stadium.”

“Huh,” I said. “We should get together and see how he’s doing. We were never all that close, but I always did think of him as a friend all through school. It’d be good to catch up and see how he’s doing.”

“I am glad you feel that way. I would like to see him again,” Emmy said. “There is no reason to let good friendships die from lack of contact.”

“We were never really close friends,” I objected. “I mean, sure, I went to his birthday parties and he came to mine when we were ten, eleven years old, but after fifth grade or so we didn’t really hang out that much.”

“But he never did anything to make you think that he was no longer your friend?” Emmy asked.

“No,” I agreed. “We never had any kind of fight or argument or anything,” I said. “It’s just, well, he had his things going on, and I had mine, and there really wasn’t much overlap. We always got along whenever we interacted, but that just didn’t happen much once we got into middle school and even less in high school.”

“And none at all in college,” said Emmy. “But now we are all out of school entirely, and since he will be living in the same city as us, I think it would be nice to reconnect. Perhaps we will find little in common, and agree to let our old friendships fade away, but we may discover that we enjoy each others’ company again and therefore find common ground.”

“Sure. It never hurts to have more friends, right?” I said, nuzzling Emmy’s ear.

“Good friends are good,” agreed Emmy, leaning back into my kiss.

“You’d better not be this good a friend with Andy,” I said, kissing Emmy’s long, slender neck.

“No?” asked Emmy, tilting her head to give me better access.

“No,” I confirmed.

The next morning was a Sunday, and for once, neither of us had anything scheduled.

“I would like to go to the new house this morning,” Emmy announced once she’d had her morning coffee.

“Sure, no problem,” I said. “Any particular reason why?”

“I would like to see it again, and see if some ideas that I have had could even work.”

“That sounds like a good idea. We should probably bring a note pad, and for sure bring the architect’s sketches. You want me to see if I can get the architect to meet us there?” I asked.

“No, I do not wish to disturb him on a Sunday. I would simply like to see if my ideas are even feasible at all. If they seem to be, then perhaps we can speak with him this week. For now, I think, just you and I should go look.”

On our way over to the Hollywood Hills I told Emmy about the driving group finding out that I was married to a rock star.

“Oh, but I am not a rock star. David Bowie is a rock star. Axl Rose is a rock star. I am merely a musician,” Emmy said.

“Don’t sell yourself short, Em. You’re much more than ‘merely’ anything.”

“I am glad that you think so,” Emmy said, resting her hand on my leg and giving me a squeeze.

“I’m not the only one, Em. You have millions of fans around the world.”

“It still seems so… surreal,” Emmy mused. “To know that so many people enjoy my music, and enjoy hearing me sing.”

We’d gotten to the house by this point, so I keyed in the access code and the front driveway gate slid aside to let us in. To my surprise, there was a job site office trailer parked to one side of the large parking area (the realtor had called it a ‘motor court’ but really, it was an asphalt parking lot). There was also a couple of shipping containers, presumably for storing construction tools and materials. I was happy to see that Ned had jumped into action and was already getting started on the project, even without the final blueprints in hand. Sure, I saw no signs of any actual work having been done on the building, but at least he was staging his equipment to get going.

It’s funny, in a way- the old studio looked so, well, ugly in the light of day, but I could easily envision how amazing it was going to look when the work was done. I think Emmy was so absorbed into the idea of what the place could become that the sheer physical unattractiveness of the place as it sat didn’t even register.

We entered through the man door into the sound stage as Emmy started explaining what she wanted. I’ll admit that I wasn’t paying much attention, really, just losing myself in the sound of her voice, excited and enthusiastic, and, honestly, perhaps a bit like a kid on Christmas Eve telling Santa what she wanted.

“And here, I would like a sound isolation room,” Emmy said as we walked into yet another of the many sound recording rooms of the old studio.

Looking around, I said, “It might already be soundproof. I mean, they did the voice-overs and things like that in here, right?”

“It may be soundproof, but I want even more than that. I want sound deadener baffles, sound absorptive ceiling panels, all of those things,” Emmy replied.

“I don’t see any problem with that,” I agreed. “Just write it on the notes.”

We continued like that for a while, Emmy telling me what each room would be used for and me nodding and saying, “Uh huh,” when appropriate. As far as I was concerned, this was the whole point of buying this old place, right?

After Emmy ran out of steam, we went for lunch at a place in West Hollywood on Santa Monica Boulevard.

I was pleased to have found a parking spot close to the cafe, but the moment we got out of the BMW a photographer spotted us and started snapping pictures as we walked from the car.

I have to admit I’d started to sympathize with actors who punch out the paparazzi, but Emmy was just the opposite. Whenever she spotted one of those guys (and they are almost all guys, for some reason) she’d go up and talk to them and even pose for pictures.

Her attitude was that their job was tough enough, and a positive relationship with a celeb was something that would make their lives easier. Also, she pointed out, that if they liked us as people then they’d be more polite and only try to sell the more flattering photos.

In fact, that day was the first of a number of occasions when Emmy invited a paparazzo to stop and have lunch with us when we were out.

Emmy walked right up to the guy and asked him his name, which at first he didn’t want to give her. “I am going to need to know what to call you if you are going to sit down and have lunch with us, right?” she asked, confusing the guy.

“Um, what?” Was his clever response.

“Would you like to have lunch with us? My treat?” Emmy asked. “This place has a wonderful lunch menu.” Reaching out, she took his hand and started pulling him towards the cafe.

He looked at me, not really understanding what was going on, so I shrugged and said “We were about to have lunch. Won’t you join us?”

At first, the guy was very guarded, sure this was some kind of trick, but as lunch went on Emmy charmed him (as she always manages to do) and he loosened up. She got him talking about his work, and which celebs were better to deal with than others, whose pictures sold the best to the magazines and websites, so on. By the end of our long lunch she had him wrapped around her finger.

“It was really nice meeting you, Ted,” she said as she gave him a little cheek kiss goodbye. “Maybe we will see you around?”

Ted, who was clearly not used to being treated nicer than a cockroach, mumbled something about how he was around all the time and he’d see us for sure, then walked us to our car to see us off.

“Em, you still amaze me.” I told her as we drove away.

“What do you mean?” She asked.

“That guy, that paparazzi” (I hadn’t learned by this point that paparazzi is plural). “You absolutely made his day- maybe his week.”

“It was just a little thing,” Emmy replied.

“To you, maybe, but to him… well, that was a really big deal.”

“I have read the saying in English: ‘One catches more flies with honey than with vinegar.’ It is better to befriend people than to make enemies of them,” Emmy said.

I really had no good counter-argument, so I just mumbled some sort of vague agreement.

“Do I have you for the rest of the day?” Asked Emmy.

“Yeah, of course you do, Em. You have me forever,” I replied.

Smiling at my response, Emmy said, “Then I would like to do something special. Something uniquely Los Angeles.”

“Sure,” I agreed. “What do you have in mind?”

“I want to go to Disneyland!” Emmy announced.

“Em, you know it’s a big place, with long lines for everything, right? And most of that time, while you’re waiting, you’ll be in the sun?” I asked.

This popped Emmy’s balloon and I hated the way her shoulders slumped, so I said, “Let me tell you what. I’ll see what arrangements I can make. Maybe they have some sort of special evening or night tickets. Also, if we go during a weekday the lines’ll be shorter, anyway. So is there something else you'd like to do today? Something we can manage in an afternoon?”

“Do you remember the record store we went to with Courtney and Allie? I would like to go there again,” Emmy said.

“We can do that. I don’t remember exactly where it was, but I do remember it was in Hollywood, right? Can you look it up on your phone?” I asked, turning right to circle around the block to go back eastbound on Santa Monica. After a minute or so, Emmy held up her phone so I could follow Siri’s directions. Which, of course, were in French.

I’m pleased to say that I understood the instructions to turn right or left- but then, four years of college French should be good enough to manage simple driving cues.

We parked in the same pay lot we had almost five years earlier, which caused me to muse on how I’d been scandalized at the idea of five bucks an hour for parking back then, but now it didn’t bother me in the slightest. My perspective certainly had changed.

Of course everybody in the record store immediately recognized Emmy. A fair number of the customers wanted selfies with her, or for her to autograph copies of Downfall CDs or the like. The store manager waited patiently while Emmy interacted with her fans, and then, when the crowd had faded away, asked her for some of her time. I was a bit bored, so I hunted around for gifts and things like that while Emmy and the manager did whatever it was. When I stopped by for a moment, Emmy was arranging an end-cap display with CDs from various artists. The manager had come up with a sign that said ‘Emmy De Lascaux’s Picks’, and mounted it on top of the display.

While they were doing that sort of promotional stuff, I found some things for Mom and Tiffany, and bought a half dozen rock-themed coffee table books. In fact, I grabbed two copies of the book of photos from the early Los Angeles punk scene. One for our new house and one for Mom. She was a bit too young to have been a part of those times, but certainly would know who all those people were.

The girl at the register rang me up for over seven hundred dollars, which I paid in cash. Way back when I’d been so stunned that Emmy had spent a couple of grand on music, and now an expenditure like that was literally pocket money.

Eventually Emmy finished signing all the copies of the various Downfall CDs they had in the store and picked out some music for us to take home. It was only a dozen or so CDs, so again, I just paid in cash, bringing the day’s total to nearly a grand.

The cashier gave me a funny look when I chuckled to myself at how I’d changed, but I didn’t bother to explain.