Smile for the Camera
Chapter Two Part One:
Frankly Scarlett
By Pendragon
So, you know about my beginnings. If you haven’t. Or you haven‘t given it a read in a while because I‘ve taken fucking forever to continue this, go back and read it. I’ll wait.
…
Wonder if the Cubs are on?
Gonna make me a sandwich.
Mmm, mayo.
Done?
Much better. I hate repeating myself. It's nice that that's out of the way. It's like we've now had our first date, and I am free to be my real self in front of you. You already know my general past, my background, how I came to be. Fantastic. Though, this isn't really like a date, since I know jack shit about any of you people. Well...actually, that would be a lot like my last few dates. Me talking about my self ad nauseum, the twiggy chick just sitting there, silently not eating a $150 salad. A few vodka red bulls, maybe a parking lot hummer, then the ol' downtown grind off at the local Hilton. Or with the local Hilton. God, LA. Whatta town.
See, I'm OK with that kinda love life. Purely in out, in out. No phone calls. No parent’s weekends. Life spans of two weeks, tops. Because any intimacy issues I have get worked out in the course of my job. Yeah, it ain't anything that your everyday rent-a-shrink would classify as an "emotionally fulfilling, bidirectional physio-psychic bond," but fuck, I'm happy-ish. Hell, I'm fucking loaded. That counts for something. I got a 36 inch plasma screen in front of my shitter. Nothing like dropping a deuce whilst watching reruns of Everybody Loves Raymond. In-Laws be crazy.
I know that you all are out there saying, "Wow, Steve, you sound like a guy in denial about his romantically and physically unfulfilling life."
To that, I'll counter, "Yeah, but you sound like a guy who's never wacked off inside Scarlett Johansson."
Stumped ya, didn’t I?
Wanna hear more?
Well. That's a long story.
So, here goes.
*Hack hack haaaaaack*
Seriously, gotta cut out the Lucky Strikes. They’re gonna kill me.
Summer of 2002. I had been doing the whole paparazzi thing for about a year. I was starting to get a serious reputation with the gossip mags. Jolie was still with Billy Bob. Most Americans were still too freaked out to travel internationally. Things had slowed a tad, professionally, though. People were pretending to be ultra serious after the thing with the towers and the airplanes, and they were a little less interested in celebrity pics. For a little while, at least. I was getting a bit burnt out. I was trying to take the whole picture taking thing way too seriously. Too many boring candid shots, not enough scandal. I was young and foolish. But I had a ton of cash and a need to reboot with some style.
So I flew to Japan. I had been on a serious eastern kick. Was watching a shit load of anime, keeping my hair in a top knot and wearing kimonos, basically acting like a complete douche. Like Tom Cruise in that samurai movie. But, unlike Mr. Cruise, I got a deep desire to swim in the sushi of young Japanese women. Tommy, well, let’s just say he prefers sausage to sushi. The four days I spent in the Cruise/Holmes estate saw lots of pool boys and a very bored, sexually unsatisfied former cast member of Dawson’s Creek take solace in a little plastic friend.
But I digress. Anywho, I packed up my device, my camera, and a few changes of clothes, and lastly my passport (not needed for my way of travel, but necessary for booking a hotel room). After my Mogadishu debacle, I vowed never to get stuck without my good old government ID. Try explaining to the American consulate of some third world backwater country how exactly you wound up in the middle of Africa with no ID and no flight records. Let’s just say, their solution to that quandary involved a full cavity search.
Shudder.
OK, anywho, this is the only way to travel if you have loose morals and access to a portable shrinking machine.
Cab it to the airport. Find a nice single young thing on her way to your destination. Find a quiet corner/bathroom stall to miniaturize oneself. Hitch a ride in said young thing’s purse/clothing. Take a Zoloft. Snooze. Before you know it, you’re there.
During one of my early flights using this method, I had decided to try and do a little extracurricular spelunking beneath my host’s jean skirt. However, my ministrations inadvertently inspired the girl to ask her seat partner to aid her in joining that exclusive aviation society, the infamous Mile High Club. After a cramped and uncomfortable fuck in the first class lavatory, in which I had a rather unwelcome and uncircumcised visitor repeatedly enter and exit my temporary abode for about nine and a half minutes, I decided, on further flights, to keep it in my pants (and out of hers) until we were both safely on the ground. Or, at the very least, make sure my unwitting transporter is seated next to some troll unlikely to garner membership to that most selective of societies.
Anywho, Japan. Land of sumo and every sexual kink that can be drawn in black and white. Mmm. Once in Tokyo, I regrew to my normal stature and wended my way to the Park Hyatt Tokyo, smack dab in the middle of the Tokyo’s not inconsequential entertainment district. I checked into my room, which I had reserved for a week, dropped off my small carry on, and took a nap. Travel, even at microbe size, can still leave you with a killer case of jet lag.
I woke up, put on a tight t shirt and some acid washed jean, and went down to reception. A slight man, maybe 35 or so with spiked hair and black rim glasses, was working customer relations. Realizing I knew jack shit about what to do in Tokyo, I decided to try and figure out where one might find some action.
“Hey, so, I just got into town. Crazy, huh? Though probably not crazy for you. I mean, you live here and all.”
I tend to ramble.
“Sorry, sir?”
“Never mind.” I can be a moron sometimes. “So, where does a guy like me go to get a little action around this town?”
“Action, sir?”
He looked me up and down, taking in my outfit. On further review, that might have been a clue.
“Yeah, you know. Action?”
I made a regrettable gesture, shoving the pointer finger of my right hand into the slightly open fist of my left. Again. Mistake.
“Ooooh. Action. Yes sir!”
He reached into his jacket, withdrew a pen, and wrote something down on one of the hotel’s business cards.
“There you go sir. Much…uh…how you say, action.”
I looked at the characters on the card.
“Uh…what’s this called?”
“Shinjuku ni-chome”
“Shin juke oo knee cho mi?”
“Just show card to taxi, they take you.”
So I did just that.
And wound up spending my afternoon in Tokyo’s gay club neighborhood.
No more tight t shirts for me.
Wasn’t all bad. Met some very nice guys who thought I could support them financially if they supported me orally. Was very nice for the ol’ self esteem. Too bad I love the puss, cuz I guess young, trim, wealthy Americans are pretty popular with gay Japanese guys. So. I’ve got that going for me. Which is nice.
So, I got hit on, got drunk off my ass, then hitched a ride in another taxi back to the hotel. The same guy was working at reception. He gave me a wink and a blown kiss. I caught it and put it in my pocket. No harm stringing him along. But he’s so not my type. For starters, he has a penis. But he did send a bottle of Moet up to my room.
Weird day. Fun. Absolutely not sexually gratifying at all, but fun. And a huge part of my story. Because if I hadn’t had that little mix up with the receptionist, I never would have been in the hotel bar that night. And I never would have found another American guy drinking a scotch, looking pretty bored. And I wouldn’t have been able to strike up a conversation with the guy, in which I related said tale of my day in the gay clubs, which ended with my exclaiming, a bit too loud, “So, basically, I was lost in translation.”
“Lost in translation, huh?”
I turned to see who had been eavesdropping. The voice was smoky, like a jazz club past closing. She was pale. Red headed. A perfectly oval face. Breasts that more than filled out her ironic tee (with the words “t shirt” written across her bosoms). And jean clad long legs that belied her rather short stature. She was drop dead gorgeous. And couldn’t be a day over 19. I hoped.
“Uh…yeah. Lost in translation.”
“That’s so funny, that’s the name of the movie we’re filming. Hi, I’m Scarlett.”
“Uh…Steve. I’m Steve.”
“Well, Steve, nice to meet you. Well, I gotta get to set, we’re filming tonight. Guess I’ll see you around.” She skipped out of the bar and off to the elevator.
“Dude…she’s hot,” said the blitzed other half of my conversation.
“Yeah. Yeah.”
And just like that, my reasons for coming to Japan changed. Goodbye vaguely condescending Asian fetish. Hello Scarlett. God I hope you’re 18.
I went back to my room. Did a quick google.
Oh thank god, she’s legal.
I took out my camera and slipped on my device. I had a mission.
God do I love missions.