upper-middlebrows should go for that big-time.” He’s audibly relieved. “ ‘One sweltering summer afternoon, as the cicadas chirped and heat lightning flashed over Lake Michigan, Chuck Levy and I stopped at Smithfield’s grocery to buy some lemon drops for a nickel, and the moment I spotted that poster for Dr. King’s speech on the village green, my life was changed forever.’”
I force a laugh. “Not exactly.”
He’s pissing me off, which feels good, because it makes me want to stop beating around the bush and tell him the truth about the truths I intend to tell. Or maybe he’s baiting me, trying to provoke me into doing exactly that. I was a litigator. However, Alex’s own knack for negotiation has helped him make several fortunes—not just producing movies but, earlier, in technology (video-editing software) and retail (two clothing store chains he cofounded and sold, One-Dimensional Man and, for women, S&O, which secretly stood for “stylish and overpriced”). Steady, girl.
This isn’t the first time in a stressful, delicate human encounter when I’ve found myself thinking of the two flying lessons Chuck Levy gave me over Lake County when we were eighteen. As you start your descent, think of the glide path and maintain a consistent approach to the runway.
“It’s about growing up, yes, being kids. Wilmette but also college, freshman year, all the craziness. All the craziness.”
Too much speed is what messes up landings—you’re going too fast, bring up the nose.
“And my life afterward.” Control your rate of descent. “You know, the roads taken and not taken, there but for the grace of God, etcetera.” Keep lowering the flaps, but increase your power. “Mistakes were made. And I’m writing about those. We don’t need to keep the old secrets anymore.” You’ve touched down.
The pause lasts so long that I start to think the call dropped or he’s hung up.
“I am not trying to lay off the blame on you or Chuck or Buzzy. We each did what we did. What happened, happened. It was 1968, for God’s sake. We were eighteen, nineteen. I mean, it’s not as if, you know …”
“Hollander? I’m afraid I’m losing the plot here.”
“I’m not recording this call, Alex.” Although I ought to be.
“I’ve no idea at all what you’re talking about,” he says. “None. Zero.”
“You know precisely what I’m talking about.”
“Easy-peasy, darling, don’t get all … shirty. I haven’t a clue, honestly. I do sometimes have some short -term memory issues from the Topamax, which I take for the bipolar, but nothing long-term.” I learned only recently, from Vanity Fair, that he was diagnosed ten years ago with bipolar disorder, which led to his investments in biotech. “ ‘Dreams and fantasies,’ you said, Hollander. I think maybe you’re mixing up the real and the fantastical, sweetheart.”
“Alex, stop it. Don’t do this.”
“Are you feeling all right? I think you could be a tad low. Maybe you need a fizzy drink or something? Test your blood?”
“Don’t.”
“What? Of all people, I know how strange you can get. I’ve seen it. I’m just worried about you, Hollander.”
“You’re really going to play it this way, huh? Deny, stonewall, deny? Christ , Alex, I figured you might be freaked out by what I’m doing, but I never thought you’d do this. ”
“You really are sounding a little barmy. If I didn’t know your assistant was there with you, I’d be arranging to get you to hospital right now, calling Cedars-Sinai to send over the EMTs. You’ll realize later I’m right. I love you. Go get some sweets. See a doctor.”
“ Fuck you, Alex.”
I hang up the phone, open my top desk drawer, stick a test strip in the meter, prick a finger, squeeze out blood, watch the five-second countdown—98, absolutely normal—and slam the drawer shut.
8
During the year before the first Bond movie appeared, the world had come to seem even more like an Ian
I force a laugh. “Not exactly.”
He’s pissing me off, which feels good, because it makes me want to stop beating around the bush and tell him the truth about the truths I intend to tell. Or maybe he’s baiting me, trying to provoke me into doing exactly that. I was a litigator. However, Alex’s own knack for negotiation has helped him make several fortunes—not just producing movies but, earlier, in technology (video-editing software) and retail (two clothing store chains he cofounded and sold, One-Dimensional Man and, for women, S&O, which secretly stood for “stylish and overpriced”). Steady, girl.
This isn’t the first time in a stressful, delicate human encounter when I’ve found myself thinking of the two flying lessons Chuck Levy gave me over Lake County when we were eighteen. As you start your descent, think of the glide path and maintain a consistent approach to the runway.
“It’s about growing up, yes, being kids. Wilmette but also college, freshman year, all the craziness. All the craziness.”
Too much speed is what messes up landings—you’re going too fast, bring up the nose.
“And my life afterward.” Control your rate of descent. “You know, the roads taken and not taken, there but for the grace of God, etcetera.” Keep lowering the flaps, but increase your power. “Mistakes were made. And I’m writing about those. We don’t need to keep the old secrets anymore.” You’ve touched down.
The pause lasts so long that I start to think the call dropped or he’s hung up.
“I am not trying to lay off the blame on you or Chuck or Buzzy. We each did what we did. What happened, happened. It was 1968, for God’s sake. We were eighteen, nineteen. I mean, it’s not as if, you know …”
“Hollander? I’m afraid I’m losing the plot here.”
“I’m not recording this call, Alex.” Although I ought to be.
“I’ve no idea at all what you’re talking about,” he says. “None. Zero.”
“You know precisely what I’m talking about.”
“Easy-peasy, darling, don’t get all … shirty. I haven’t a clue, honestly. I do sometimes have some short -term memory issues from the Topamax, which I take for the bipolar, but nothing long-term.” I learned only recently, from Vanity Fair, that he was diagnosed ten years ago with bipolar disorder, which led to his investments in biotech. “ ‘Dreams and fantasies,’ you said, Hollander. I think maybe you’re mixing up the real and the fantastical, sweetheart.”
“Alex, stop it. Don’t do this.”
“Are you feeling all right? I think you could be a tad low. Maybe you need a fizzy drink or something? Test your blood?”
“Don’t.”
“What? Of all people, I know how strange you can get. I’ve seen it. I’m just worried about you, Hollander.”
“You’re really going to play it this way, huh? Deny, stonewall, deny? Christ , Alex, I figured you might be freaked out by what I’m doing, but I never thought you’d do this. ”
“You really are sounding a little barmy. If I didn’t know your assistant was there with you, I’d be arranging to get you to hospital right now, calling Cedars-Sinai to send over the EMTs. You’ll realize later I’m right. I love you. Go get some sweets. See a doctor.”
“ Fuck you, Alex.”
I hang up the phone, open my top desk drawer, stick a test strip in the meter, prick a finger, squeeze out blood, watch the five-second countdown—98, absolutely normal—and slam the drawer shut.
8
During the year before the first Bond movie appeared, the world had come to seem even more like an Ian
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