Read Online How Happy to Be by Katrina Onstad - Free Book Online
Authors: Katrina Onstad
Tags: Contemporary
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I’m a call girl who’s just encountered a charming trick, and I giggle: I’m fine, I’m fine, I have no needs, I’m
Canadian
.
Ethan Hawke’s new movie is an arty little number about Swiss banks harbouring Nazi money, which means a lot of courtroom scenes and snow-capped candy mountains. He’s okay in it too, especially when he takes a bullet and gets to do some testifying with a nasty head injury. Lolling his vowels and twitching and Nazis – I smell an Oscar!
Interview begins.
With this guy, the first, winningest question has to be the Serious Artist question. He has, after all, written a novel.
Me: You really pulled off a [decent crip impression]. Is there a responsibility in [appropriating the pain of others in the vainglorious attempt at grabbing an Oscar]? Tell me about your [self-serving research process].
Him: Thank you. My producers gave me a [list of crips because I have long since forgotten how to investigate the world on my own], I went over to the East Village on the subway [because that’s the type of detail journalists love], and we hung out in the company of these people [with many nurses and orderlies close at hand in case of unexpected wigging on the crips’ part].
Me: Is the final version what you hoped it would be? [Why does your movie suck so bad?]
Him: I’m really, really happy with this movie [because the handicap thing could pay off big-time from Oscar].
Me: Surprisingly, the film barely mentions reparations. [What up with the Swiss and the Nazis – seriously?]
Him: [First uncomfortable pause.] I’m not overtly political. It’s more about art …
As Ethan Hawke is yammering, there’s suddenly a cellphone ring in the room with us. Not a small, understated cellphone ring, mind you, but a robust one with a Wagnerian thrust. I look at Ethan Hawke. He stops talking.
“Is that you?” I ask.
A new, cooler Ethan Hawke emerges: “I don’t believe in cellphones.”
I’m diving into my bag, full body like a
Gong Show
contestant into a glass of water – Sunera’s idea of a joke to program my ring like this – I locate the phone and it glows at me: MCARDLE. It’s Wednesday. Four days after entering each other. I’m a touch irritated, really, wondering if I should pick up.
There’s Ethan Hawke, one eyebrow raised, sipping his Diet Coke through a straw, and I think, Here’s a man who probably hasn’t had to wait for anyone in years, a man for whom the regular laws of daily life – the lineups, the wait-here-I’ll-be-back-in-a-second, the moments of forced reflection in an idling car – have been bent so drastically and for so long, replaced with “Can I get you something?” And “May I take that, sir?” How odd it must be for him to be here with me, a lowly journalist, demanding of him something like understanding.
So fuck Ethan Hawke, I lust this guy.
“I’ll just be one second,” I offer in a shrill voice that I hope contains a note of normalizing reassurance, as if this happens all the time, and he has no reason to object, a voice that pretends we are equals. Then I swivel my hips, knocking the coffee table and the tape recorder, and hiss-whisper into the phone, “Hello?”
“Max? Hi, it’s Theo McArdle.”
“Mmm?”
“Is this a bad time?”
“Mmmm-hmmm.”
“I’ll be quick, then. You didn’t enter your number right. I kept calling Moviephone.”
Oh no. I do that sometimes, with less desirables. I can’t really explain with Ethan Hawke eyeballing me above his straw. “Really? How weird.”
“Unless that’s a rather obvious way to tell me not to call you,” says Theo. Then, with a little nervousness: “Was that the point?”
To give Ethan Hawke an impression that I am having an incredibly professional conversation with a superior, I thunder,
“Absolutely not.”
Theo says, “Uh, okay.”
“And the reason for your call?” I say.
“Oh. Well, do you want to do something tomorrow night?”
Something, something, what could that be?
Canadian
.
Ethan Hawke’s new movie is an arty little number about Swiss banks harbouring Nazi money, which means a lot of courtroom scenes and snow-capped candy mountains. He’s okay in it too, especially when he takes a bullet and gets to do some testifying with a nasty head injury. Lolling his vowels and twitching and Nazis – I smell an Oscar!
Interview begins.
With this guy, the first, winningest question has to be the Serious Artist question. He has, after all, written a novel.
Me: You really pulled off a [decent crip impression]. Is there a responsibility in [appropriating the pain of others in the vainglorious attempt at grabbing an Oscar]? Tell me about your [self-serving research process].
Him: Thank you. My producers gave me a [list of crips because I have long since forgotten how to investigate the world on my own], I went over to the East Village on the subway [because that’s the type of detail journalists love], and we hung out in the company of these people [with many nurses and orderlies close at hand in case of unexpected wigging on the crips’ part].
Me: Is the final version what you hoped it would be? [Why does your movie suck so bad?]
Him: I’m really, really happy with this movie [because the handicap thing could pay off big-time from Oscar].
Me: Surprisingly, the film barely mentions reparations. [What up with the Swiss and the Nazis – seriously?]
Him: [First uncomfortable pause.] I’m not overtly political. It’s more about art …
As Ethan Hawke is yammering, there’s suddenly a cellphone ring in the room with us. Not a small, understated cellphone ring, mind you, but a robust one with a Wagnerian thrust. I look at Ethan Hawke. He stops talking.
“Is that you?” I ask.
A new, cooler Ethan Hawke emerges: “I don’t believe in cellphones.”
I’m diving into my bag, full body like a
Gong Show
contestant into a glass of water – Sunera’s idea of a joke to program my ring like this – I locate the phone and it glows at me: MCARDLE. It’s Wednesday. Four days after entering each other. I’m a touch irritated, really, wondering if I should pick up.
There’s Ethan Hawke, one eyebrow raised, sipping his Diet Coke through a straw, and I think, Here’s a man who probably hasn’t had to wait for anyone in years, a man for whom the regular laws of daily life – the lineups, the wait-here-I’ll-be-back-in-a-second, the moments of forced reflection in an idling car – have been bent so drastically and for so long, replaced with “Can I get you something?” And “May I take that, sir?” How odd it must be for him to be here with me, a lowly journalist, demanding of him something like understanding.
So fuck Ethan Hawke, I lust this guy.
“I’ll just be one second,” I offer in a shrill voice that I hope contains a note of normalizing reassurance, as if this happens all the time, and he has no reason to object, a voice that pretends we are equals. Then I swivel my hips, knocking the coffee table and the tape recorder, and hiss-whisper into the phone, “Hello?”
“Max? Hi, it’s Theo McArdle.”
“Mmm?”
“Is this a bad time?”
“Mmmm-hmmm.”
“I’ll be quick, then. You didn’t enter your number right. I kept calling Moviephone.”
Oh no. I do that sometimes, with less desirables. I can’t really explain with Ethan Hawke eyeballing me above his straw. “Really? How weird.”
“Unless that’s a rather obvious way to tell me not to call you,” says Theo. Then, with a little nervousness: “Was that the point?”
To give Ethan Hawke an impression that I am having an incredibly professional conversation with a superior, I thunder,
“Absolutely not.”
Theo says, “Uh, okay.”
“And the reason for your call?” I say.
“Oh. Well, do you want to do something tomorrow night?”
Something, something, what could that be?
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