Love at 11 - By Mari Mancusi Page 0,28
If he could be cool and grown up, so could I. “I didn’t realize you had moved to San Diego yet.”
“She came down from LA for the weekend to surprise me,” Jamie explained. I studied his face. Was he even the least bit bothered by the introduction?
“To check up on him, more like,” Jennifer said with a saucy grin. She poked him in the ribs. “Make sure he isn’t succumbing to the charms of some San Diego beach babe.”
Ah-ha! There was the uncomfortable look!
“Well, it’s great to meet you.” I held out my hand. “I’m looking forward to working with your fiancé.”
“Nice to meet you.” Jennifer’s hand reminded me of a dead fish. Bony and cold. “Jamie, they’re going to give away our table if we don’t get over there. And I’m not going to wait another forty five minutes.”
“Maddy, would you like to join us for dinner?” Jamie asked, ignoring or not picking up on her tone.
Would I what? No way. No way was I going to torture myself by going to dinner with Jamie and Jennifer. I would be a third wheel. I’d have to hear about their wedding plans. I’d be nauseated when they called each other pet names.
Then again, I realized, this was exactly the kind of thing I should be doing if I wanted to get over my silly crush and develop a good working relationship with Jamie. After all, I’d agreed to be friends with him, and friends had dinner together. Simple as that.
“Sure,” I said with a big, overly cheerful smile. “I’d love to!” I rose from my seat to join them at their table.
It wasn’t really that bad actually, having dinner with Jamie and Jennifer. Not half as bad as eating alone would have been anyway. Jamie insisted he had planned to order the same chicken fiesta burrito Ted had (even as Jennifer questioned him about suddenly preferring chicken over steak) and proceeded to tell the waiter he’d eat my dearly departed date’s meal so it wouldn’t go to waste.
“So, what’s it like to be a TV producer?” Jennifer asked after we had gotten our meals. She stabbed her salad with a fork. A plain garden salad. That was all she ordered, making me feel like a heifer for having gotten the fried chicken quesadilla. But screw it. After the embarrassment I’d suffered, I needed major carbage.
“It’s okay, I guess.” I shrugged. What else could I say? That it was a hideous job with hideous people? That it proved on a daily basis that journalism was truly dead? No. People didn’t want to hear that. They only wanted to know what anchor X was like off the air and where reporter Y got her hair done.
“I’m actually trying out for this role of a TV reporter in a new Penny Marshall film,” Jennifer told me. “Maybe if I get it, I can interview you. Kind of get into character. I love method acting, don’t you?”
I had no idea what method acting was, though I was pretty sure it had something to do with Marlon Brando and James Dean.
“Uh, yeah. Method acting’s cool,” I agreed, a little hesitantly.
“Method acting’s for freaks,” Jamie interjected, taking a sip of his Corona. Damn. I so wanted to change my answer.
“Oh, I suppose you’re going to tell me that the great Lee Strasberg was a freak, too, huh?” Jennifer demanded, dropping her fork with a clatter. “And that we actors are simply empty vessels, on set to illustrate an illustrious director’s vision and not artists in our own rights.”
“You said it, not me.” Jamie said with an easy grin. “To me, method acting is nothing but mental masturbation. Feels good, but it doesn’t get you anywhere. Why don’t you use your imagination instead? You don’t have to experience something to act it.”
“Tell that to Mr. Robert DeNiro. Dennis Hopper. Some of the greatest actors of all time have been method actors.”
I forked a piece of quesadilla into my mouth, trying to follow the conversation without much luck. It was suddenly painfully obvious that I knew nothing about Jamie and Jennifer’s Hollywood world. They seemed so glamorous, sitting there, dressed to the nines, chatting about filmmaking, acting, and the rest. What did I have to contribute to this kind of intellectual discussion? I was a fool to have thought Jamie would ever like me or relate in any way to my pathetic common existence. I couldn’t have conversations about who directed this or what 1939 film dealt with