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Authors: Robert Rotstein
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sorrowful sound, and he realizes that the HF Queen can cry.
Most people complain about the traffic in Los Angeles, but not me. Maybe it’s because I was so lonely as a child—perhaps other kid actors had friends, but I didn’t. When my mother shuttled me from one audition to another, our old Ford Fairlane inevitably getting stuck in traffic, I’d look at the other cars and imagine that the burly man behind the wheel of the Plymouth Barracuda was the father I’d never known or that the giggling girl in the back seat of the BMW was my sister. While my mother would mouth profanities at the traffic gods, I’d silently pray that the red light wouldn’t change to green, that the traffic would gridlock so we couldn’t move a foot, that we would sit forever amidst the cars and the strangers and the sweet vehicular chaos that kept me out of the casting agent’s office. I still find solace on the city streets, in the senseless sprawl, in the low-rise grit and glamour of Los Angeles. So it doesn’t bother me that I arrive at work a little after ten in the morning.
As an employee of JADS, I’m supposed to be mediating lawsuits, not propagating them, and so I foolishly hope that despite the extensive news coverage of the previous day’s court hearing, my JADS bosses won’t notice that I’m defending Poniard in Bishop’s lawsuit. Any possibility of that is dashed when I arrive at work to find Poniard’s cosplayers, in full costume, milling around on the sidewalk in front of the JADS main entrance. When they see me approaching, they start applauding and shouting my name. I don’t want to be anybody’s hero, even on this small scale. I learned as a child that fame is a molecular bonding of other people’s fantasies, absorbed into your own body like an intravenous drug that trades short-lived ecstasy for a life of constant peril.
I should ignore them, should push my way inside and have the receptionist call security, but when Banquo beckons me over, I stop. He raises his hand, and the others surround me in a ceremonial semicircle. The Felicity impersonator steps forward. She’s wearing the same outfit that Felicity wears in the video game—the tight black dress, even the black jacket, though a late-September heat wave has set in—and like Felicity’s, her red hair is still in dreadlocks. She curtsies and hands me a wilted gardenia that I’m sure she picked from the bush outside the JADS back entrance. Then she moves close, stands on her toes, and kisses me full on the mouth, thrusting her tongue between my lips. I jerk my head back in disgust, but not before I taste stale Cheetos and marijuana. I almost gag.
“Don’t!” I say, backing away, but she skitters forward, pushing her chest against mine. She stands on tiptoes to kiss me again, but I reach out to push her away.
Banquo’s Shakespearean voice resonates over the rush-hour traffic on Gateway Avenue. “Leave him alone, Courtney!”
She doesn’t move an inch. Her green eyes shimmer with sexual challenge. “My name’s Felicity ,” she says with a pout, and then runs back into the crowd, giggling.
“Apologies, Mr. Stern, Esquire,” Banquo says. “She gets . . . overly enthusiastic.”
“Why are you here?” I ask.
He bows. “Your servants, sir, in service of your person and the truth, are here to guard your flank as you do battle against the darkling demon, William the Conqueror.”
“Very kind, but I’ve got it covered.”
“Don’t patronize me, sir. We’ll remain here until the boss William the Conqueror has been vanquished.”
“What do you mean you’ll remain here?”
“Just what I said. We will remain here until you win.”
I study his expression for any sign that he’s joking. “Look, if you’re intending to camp out in the parking lot, there’s no way that—”
The main door swings open, and Brenda Sica walks out. “Mr. Stern, come inside. It’s urgent.”
I go inside and follow her down the corridor.
“You
Most people complain about the traffic in Los Angeles, but not me. Maybe it’s because I was so lonely as a child—perhaps other kid actors had friends, but I didn’t. When my mother shuttled me from one audition to another, our old Ford Fairlane inevitably getting stuck in traffic, I’d look at the other cars and imagine that the burly man behind the wheel of the Plymouth Barracuda was the father I’d never known or that the giggling girl in the back seat of the BMW was my sister. While my mother would mouth profanities at the traffic gods, I’d silently pray that the red light wouldn’t change to green, that the traffic would gridlock so we couldn’t move a foot, that we would sit forever amidst the cars and the strangers and the sweet vehicular chaos that kept me out of the casting agent’s office. I still find solace on the city streets, in the senseless sprawl, in the low-rise grit and glamour of Los Angeles. So it doesn’t bother me that I arrive at work a little after ten in the morning.
As an employee of JADS, I’m supposed to be mediating lawsuits, not propagating them, and so I foolishly hope that despite the extensive news coverage of the previous day’s court hearing, my JADS bosses won’t notice that I’m defending Poniard in Bishop’s lawsuit. Any possibility of that is dashed when I arrive at work to find Poniard’s cosplayers, in full costume, milling around on the sidewalk in front of the JADS main entrance. When they see me approaching, they start applauding and shouting my name. I don’t want to be anybody’s hero, even on this small scale. I learned as a child that fame is a molecular bonding of other people’s fantasies, absorbed into your own body like an intravenous drug that trades short-lived ecstasy for a life of constant peril.
I should ignore them, should push my way inside and have the receptionist call security, but when Banquo beckons me over, I stop. He raises his hand, and the others surround me in a ceremonial semicircle. The Felicity impersonator steps forward. She’s wearing the same outfit that Felicity wears in the video game—the tight black dress, even the black jacket, though a late-September heat wave has set in—and like Felicity’s, her red hair is still in dreadlocks. She curtsies and hands me a wilted gardenia that I’m sure she picked from the bush outside the JADS back entrance. Then she moves close, stands on her toes, and kisses me full on the mouth, thrusting her tongue between my lips. I jerk my head back in disgust, but not before I taste stale Cheetos and marijuana. I almost gag.
“Don’t!” I say, backing away, but she skitters forward, pushing her chest against mine. She stands on tiptoes to kiss me again, but I reach out to push her away.
Banquo’s Shakespearean voice resonates over the rush-hour traffic on Gateway Avenue. “Leave him alone, Courtney!”
She doesn’t move an inch. Her green eyes shimmer with sexual challenge. “My name’s Felicity ,” she says with a pout, and then runs back into the crowd, giggling.
“Apologies, Mr. Stern, Esquire,” Banquo says. “She gets . . . overly enthusiastic.”
“Why are you here?” I ask.
He bows. “Your servants, sir, in service of your person and the truth, are here to guard your flank as you do battle against the darkling demon, William the Conqueror.”
“Very kind, but I’ve got it covered.”
“Don’t patronize me, sir. We’ll remain here until the boss William the Conqueror has been vanquished.”
“What do you mean you’ll remain here?”
“Just what I said. We will remain here until you win.”
I study his expression for any sign that he’s joking. “Look, if you’re intending to camp out in the parking lot, there’s no way that—”
The main door swings open, and Brenda Sica walks out. “Mr. Stern, come inside. It’s urgent.”
I go inside and follow her down the corridor.
“You
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