What do you do when a teenage movie star makes it seem as if you've kidnapped him? After working two summers at his father's health club as a towel boy, Peter Fisk saved enough money to visit California. He literally runs into Lance Hardwood in his...
A Mustang convertible, with navigation software. That's the car my mother had arranged for me to drive. Cherry red. A killer sound system, and a security alarm system that would do James Bond proud. I'd nearly fainted when I found the spot indicated on the key fob Miss Nina had given me. Fainted not because the car was any normal soon-to-be college student's dream, but because – to be honest, I was terrified.
I'm a New Yorker. We didn't have a car in Manhattan. Manhattan has taxis and Mass Transit, and though they are themselves not under a passenger's control (making them de facto agents of Chaos), they become familiar. You become used to someone else being your driver. You willingly surrender to their driving skills – or lack thereof.
I took driver's education because I knew it was a necessary skill to have if...when I came to study at CalArts. Because my father still had connections, my driving test was held at 5 a.m. There were still lots of cars out, but not the insanity the streets become when 8 a.m. comes around. Now here I was, in a town I'd never driven in, much less walked around. And crazy drivers, everywhere. Mom's note read:
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*I will never, ever tell you the origin of that endearment.
It's truly amazing how well a mother can know her offspring. Despite all her talking about letting go, I felt in control again. "James, what is the best scenic route to take to get to the Hyatt Regency in Thousand Oaks?"
"Good afternoon, Peter. I recommend Highway 1, which will follow the coastline up through Malibu. It has great views of the Pacific. And surfers."
"I'm also hungry. Is there a good restaurant on the way?"
Soon, James had expertly navigated the streets and I got my first look at the largest ocean in the world. And surfers, whose almost complete lack of modesty would have caused me to crash the car several times, if James hadn't been the one doing the driving. After a while, we pulled into the very crowded parking lot of Gladstone's restaurant.
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The Host warned me that I might have a very long wait, up to 2 hours. As I reluctantly gave him my name, his eyes gave me a piercing look.
"Is your mother's name Bonita Fisk?" he asked.
"I don't understand. How do you..."
"She's reserved a table for you every night for the next week. She's a friend of Mr. Morris, who's the original owner. Follow me, please." The smile he'd given me could have powered a small city.
The place was packed with people in all manner of attire, from business suits to blue jeans. There also seemed to be more than a few men and women with professional cameras and people with press badges in attendance. There were also a number of them walking around the dining area. I passed by a table of young teenage girls, all wearing Disney jackets that promoted its newest hit cable serial dramedy, Young Tesla.
My table had a view of the beach. It also had someone with a camera seated at it. A cozy table for two, no doubt co-opted by the burly photographer. The host explained, and the guy was about to leave when the words just flew out of my mouth.
"It's okay. The place is crowded, and he was seated already." Both were flabbergasted.
"Very well, Mr. Fisk. A waiter will be with you shortly." His eyebrows touched the ceiling as he regarded the photographer, and returned to his station. My companion extended his hand, and we shook.
'Tucker Chang," he said. "Your table happens to have the best view of the dining room and the outside dining patio. And if our elusive star on the run shows up, I'll be ready to capture the moment instantly."
I'd been looking at him closely and noticed something that challenged his story. I decided I had nothing to lose and said, "Really? With the lens cap still on?"
The waiter appeared and asked if I needed to see a menu. Before I could speak, Tucker said quickly, "He'll have the Lobster on a brioche roll, sweet potato fries and a Brownie Sundae for dessert. I'll just have two Fish and Chips to go." The waiter took off as if wearing roller skates.
"What the hell...?" I began.
"Look. My name really is Tucker Chang, and I really am a professional photographer, and a damn good friend who's been helping keep somebody's secret for much too long. What I am not is a crazy paparazzo. My friend called and said he needed to be extracted from a fan group stalking. I'm just waiting for his call."
And he smiled, his almond-shaped green eyes twinkling. "I'm sorry I thought the worst of you. In fact, I kinda of got a mini-lecture from someone named Nina C. Moen and..."
"Stop right there. You know Nina? She and I go way back," he laughed. "She must like you if you were given a mini. Usually they're hour-long affairs."
I told him about myself, and why I was in California. I devoured everything he'd ordered for me. Finally, I remembered to ask him the name of the star he was helping. He shook his head. "I can't tell you without his permission. You know too much. I'll tell him about you, though. In fact..."
Then his cell phone rang, and that was when my life exploded.
