were assaulted, yet no charges have been filed against him or anyone else. Reports of an investigation are underway, but so far, it’s just hearsay. The story is selling in the media in a major way especially since Blake died.
One of the women talking, a former co-star of us both, states it was the night of our very first wrap party and a sick foreboding washes over me. His name is there, in black and white, but it’s just a mention he attended the party. What’s unclear is why they would name Blake if he’s not being accused and not the other hundred or more other people that were present? The hardest part to take is that if they’re using Blake to garner attention, they’re tarnishing whatever reputation he has left in the process and he’s not here to defend himself. Wracking my brain, I stare at the brightening sky trying to remember the details of the Misfits wrap party.
Blake slides a line my way as he coats his teeth with the residue from the edge of his credit card. I’m not much of a fan of coke, but it’s been a grueling couple of weeks on set and tonight I’ve decided to partake. I need the pick-me-up to make it through the party. None of this seems real. Two years ago, we were slinging drinks at Queens and trying to believe in our collective dream, hoping for more. This was the more. And it was nothing to sneeze at. The product of our labor led to a global theater release. This flick had cult classic written all over it. Because Blake had some formal training, he’d spent some of his spare time trying to school me on techniques he’d picked up along the way, and I’d paid attention. By the time they snapped the first marker, I felt prepared. And from the feedback, it seemed like I delivered. Blake had brought his A game playing the lead vigilante to the group of delinquents, and he’d pulled it off in spades. I’d played one of his recruits. We’d auditioned for every gig, big and small, but our break came when we were spotted at the Skybar sipping overpriced drinks by a petite brunette, a casting director with a no-bullshit attitude, who was looking for two guys who fit the mold to piece together a new movie. We fit. After a few minutes of conversation, she produced her card and asked us to come in to read for her. The next day we’d made it our first phone call, and the rest was history. We gave everything we had to the movie in hopes it was the beginning of more. I was optimistic, but Blake had been burnt one too many times and had a healthy dose of hesitance in declaring anything. Though even he was having a hard time getting past the fact that it wasn’t a low budget film and the director had an extensive list of hits under his belt.
Leaning down on the porcelain counter, I sniff the line and wave my hand when Blake ushers more powder my way.
“I’m good,” I say, wiping the residue off the bathroom counter. We’re at one of the producer’s houses and I’m a bit creeped out with how at home some of these people are making themselves in a house so grand. “And this never happened.”
Blake eyes me curiously. “This your first time?”
“No, I did some with you last summer on the roof, remember? But it’s probably my last time. I’m good with coffee.”
He gives me his signature smirk. “Not really the same type of kick, bro.” Blake never has been one to miss an invite or a party, and I’m his opposing personality. Somehow, no matter how different we are, as friends we work. I’d never tell him this, but he’s like the big brother I never had. He’d been there to help me through the endless rejections and has taught me how to dust myself off. He plays off my drive while I soak in his experience. “You ever fucked on coke?”
Checking my reflection, I see a ring of white on my nostrils and the sight disgusts me. I decide this is definitely my last time. “No.”
He wipes the rest of the residue off the counter before checking his nose in the mirror. “Do yourself a favor and get it done.”