When we arrived at the Ed Sullivan Theater it was a veritable whirlwind of activity. Bruce had barely opened the back door of the limo to let us out when an intern from Worldwide Pants greeted us on the sidewalk, confirmed our names, produced two different colored ID badges for us then escorted us inside.
The intern walked us through various rules and regulations we had to follow, made us both sign different forms in triplicate, then split us up when a second intern appeared seemingly from out of nowhere.
It all happened so fast, like this was some sort of well-oiled machine, and, a bit overwhelmed just being here at this historic building and part of this amazing show, we just rolled with it without saying anything.
I was able to detect the special flutter in Gail’s heart and the scent that revealed just how excited she was to be a part of this. It made me feel good to know it was properly distracting her from the unsettling news about her finance.
Gail was then led off to a special backstage screening area where she would be able to watch the show with other guests of guests and I was ushered down the hall, through a set of security doors and into a make-up room.
The intern directed me to a chair in front of a mirror with a bank of bright bulbous lights around it without saying anything, and at that point things slowed down for a few minutes so I was able to properly catch my breath.
The intern then left, off to take care of some other time-critical task that would keep things on track. Perhaps it was to meet and guide another guest inside.
“I’m Nora,” the short, perky make-up artist said, offering her hand. She had the most beautifully natural smile and a big head of curly billowing Farah Fawcett hair – of course, I guessed her age to be somewhere in her early twenties so she couldn’t have been a first-hand fan of the actress when that hair-style was originally made popular.
“I’m Michael,” I said, offering my hand.
She took my hand and her heart skipped a beat. The scent oozing from Nora was familiarity and a touch of desire.
“I know,” she said, squeezing my fingers tightly and slowly caressing the back of my hand with her thumb. “I’m a huge fan.”
Fortunately I rarely heard that often enough and still wasn’t used to it. Though there were times when people said they were a fan and I could tell they were bullshitting and likely hadn’t read a single thing I wrote, but were merely playing the “kiss up to celebrity” game that people often play.
Nora, of course, was genuine in her statement, and obviously a little off her game. She kept hold of my hand for a few seconds longer, continuing to rub my hand. Then, finally seeming to realize what she was doing, she quickly let go and took a step back, an air of embarrassment exuding from her.
“Very pleased to meet you, Nora.” I said, wanting to do my best to make her feel more at ease, more comfortable. “So, do you think you’re up to the challenging task of making me look pretty? Or if not pretty, then at least presentable?”
She laughed. “Oh, Mr. Andrews, you look amazing as you are. I’m just going to add some pancake and highlight certain features that will look more natural under the harsh lights and cameras.”
“Sounds like you know what you’re doing, Nora. And please, call me Michael.”
“Sure thing . . . Michael,” she said, moving around the chair to gather up some white tissues that she started stuffing in my collar. “I’ve read all your books and am a huge fan of Maxwell Bronte.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“Where did you come up with the idea for him? I mean, if you don’t mind me being so forward.”
“Not at all, Nora. I rather enjoy talking about myself and my writing. It makes a guy feel loved.”
“Oh, you’re loved all right,” Nora said, “You have no idea how much I love you.” At that, her heart skipped another beat. She immediately seemed angry with herself for revealing too much, yet also excited to be telling me how much I was adored.
I felt bad for her and wanted to make her more at ease, less embarrassed.
“Thanks, Nora. To hear such a beautiful young woman say something so nice, so flattering, really makes my day.”
Another heart skipping moment. “Did you just say I was beautiful?” Then, in a voice that was barely a whisper. “Michael Andrews just said I was beautiful.”
“Of course. I’m sure you hear that all the time.”
“No, I don’t,” she said. “I got into the make-up business so I could learn how to be beautiful, spend time with beautiful people. I’ve always thought of myself as plain, and ugly.”
“Well, I hate to be rude and disagree with you, Nora.”
She laughed. “W-what about me do you find attractive?”
“It’s the whole package. You’re very pleasing to the eye.” I paused, looked into her wide eyes and her beaming smile. “But I think the thing that struck me immediately when I walked in here was your eyes.”
“My eyes?” Again she said it in barely a whisper.
“They are the most incredible shade of blue I’ve ever seen. Sure I’m a writer, but I would struggle with trying to describe them.”
I could feel her confidence level start to shoot up, and, though she was still exhilarated at a heart-skipping level, she wasn’t as nervous as earlier. That made me feel good. But there was also another thing. The level of lust and desire she was exuding towards me had increased dramatically.
I had to admit, moments like this were magic to a guy like me in terms of helping to build my ego. It was one thing to have a fan gushing over you, but quite another to be able to detect the not so subtle sex pheromones being given off. Not so subtle at least to someone with my abilities and heightened senses.
On a level far removed from reality, the way that one might consider picking up a live wire, I contemplated how easy it would be to manipulate this young woman into a sexual quickie.
I knew that this young infatuated woman would eagerly “jump my bones” as Gail so eloquently put it. All I needed to do was make a bit of sweet talk, compliment her eyes (easy enough to do because they were the most incredible shade of blue), make a few subtle sexual innuendoes, then ask her to close the door to the makeup room so I could show her some personal appreciation for being such a great fan. I knew that it would just be a matter of minutes for both of us to be naked and sweaty together. She’d be talented enough, of course, to quickly get me back to looking presentable for my appearance on the show, and I’d be able to move on, satisfied with my “male” conquest and knowing she’d have an incredible story to tell to her friends about how she’d actually had sex with someone she idolized.
It would seem, of course, a nice thing to do. A moment of sexual pleasure for two people in which there would a nice benefit for each.
But of course, I had far too much respect for others to manipulate people in such a way. Sure, I constantly used my heightened senses to make my arguments and desires more appealing, more palatable to others. It was easy enough to know the right thing to do or say to subtly direct a conversation or dialogue in the manner that was more suitable to me. But taking advantage of a person like Nora would not only be unforgivable, but reprehensible.
As I’ve mentioned before, I’ve done my best to adhere to the old Spider-Man creed that “great power” must also be accompanied by a sense of “great responsibility.”
It would be unfair, and cruel, to manipulate another person in such a way to take advantage of a potentially emotionally fragile moment.
So I joked with Nora, flirted with her (knowing she was filing every moment away to be able to share it with friends later), and did my best to make her feel at ease. I went on to explain that the thing I found most attractive to her was not her physical traits, which I did again describe as quite “pleasing to the eye” but her attitude. Feeling like I imagined a father might in attempting to bolster his daughter’s sense of self, I suggested that the reason I found her attractive had more to do with her pleasant manner and up-beat attitude than any physical trait.
I also subtly alluded to having a girlfriend. And though it was a lie (except perhaps for the fact that my heart still belonged to Gail, so that much of it was true), it was a decent one to make because it allowed me to let her down without her feeling personally rejected.
In a nutshell, the man she admired so much admitted to finding her attractive, but he was attached and an honourable person who would go no further than light flirting. It was the perfect “out” leading to the least amount of hurt feelings yet maintained a decent rapport.
Nora, of course, made me feel even more at ease as she continued to apply the make-up to me, continuing to prime me for information about Maxwell Bronte and what adventure might come next.
Of course, she never once mentioned my latest book of short fiction, and I knew, without having to ask, that, regardless of how much a fan of me she was, she had no interest in anything that wasn’t from my Maxwell Bronte universe.
Though Nora herself, and her heightened enthusiasm for my writing was a huge boost to my ego, the fact that her focus was on the universe and characters I sometimes felt trapped in and wanted to escape offered me a clear message. It wasn’t me or my writing people were interested in, it was the particular world I’d created that they loved.
And if I abandoned that world, and Maxwell Bronte, then perhaps I would be cutting off my nose to spite my face.
I loved to write and to create.
So perhaps there would be a way that I could do both.
So in many ways, though Nora’s well of desire for me bolstered my personal feelings of rejection that still lingered when I thought about Gail, her series of queries about my writing helped me realize something critical about myself and about the direction I was considering taking.
Here was one of my fans, the folks who helped me attain the position I was in now, the ones who flocked to bookstores to buy my books, who supported the movie that made me some fantastic money and also easily doubled the sales of my books, allowing me to realize I would be nothing without them, and not be in this position without having created and built up the Maxwell Bronte universe.
In a nutshell, Nora was helping me focus on Bronte as if he were a real person – and that perhaps I should treat him with the same respect that I liked to treat his fans.
I wonder if, instead of going into professional make-up, Nora should have considered being a therapist. Because when I dropped into her chair I was feeling overwhelmed, exhausted and confused; but when I got out of it, I was feeling re-energised, confident and relaxed.
And looking forward to meeting David Letterman.
The rest of my pre-air time was a bit of a blur. Nora had given me a lot to think about, and so, instead of enjoying the rest of the experience – which involved being brought to the guest green room, where I could have my choice of four different gourmet coffees, soft drinks, snacks from a platter of fresh fruit as well as one of some delicious looking pastries, and then relaxing in one of several comfortable arm chairs where I could watch David Letterman’s opening monologue on a large plasma screen – I walked through the motions in a self-reflective manner.
There were two different interns in the green-room ready to prepare me a plate of goodies or the beverage of my choice. They also even had a bowl of Smarties for me, proud of the fact that they’d been able to acquire this Canadian candy-covered chocolate treat in a very short time. I was pleased with the effort this show had demonstrated towards making a guest feel at home, and realized that I hadn’t seen a box of Smarties (similar in many ways to M&M’s) since leaving Canada a decade ago.
Towards the end of my wait in the green-room with the pleasant and accommodating staff, I started to come out of my introspective whirlwind. Part of it was the realization that I was about to walk onto a set that was recording for a national broadcaster later this evening, and it wouldn’t do my image or career any good to be a quiet and introverted stick in the mud.
When I heard Letterman mention that, after the break, he would be welcoming Michael Andrews, author of the books behind the Maxwell Bronte movie franchise, the assistant stage manager that had led me from Nora’s make-up room and to the green-room showed up to escort me to the area back-stage where I was to make my entrance.
“You’ve got one and a half minutes,” she said, clutching her clip-board to her chest and giving me a stiff firm smile. She paused, listening to a voice coming through on her head-set, which I could clearly make-out.
The voice was the intern who had originally met Gail and I at the door. “Knell’s limousine has finally arrived. Mr. Knell and his entourage are now exiting the limo and will be entering the building in approximately two minutes.”
There was a large degree of calm and relief washing over the intern upon hearing this news. She nodded enthusiastically and spoke into the microphone hovering on a thin wire just beside her pouty lips. “Roger. I’ll be down to greet them at that time.” Then, more quietly, she said. “Mr. Andrews is leaving the green-room and approaching the entrance area.”
She led me with a light grip on my elbow, down a hallway and up a short flight of stairs. The door at the top was marked with a barrage of caution signs that this was the immediate back-stage area and silence was mandatory. A red light at the top of the door was on, indicating a show taping was in progress.
From behind the door I could hear Letterman chatting while Paul Shaffer led his band through a bright and cheery commercial break tune. The scent of the several hundred people in the audience was coming through clearly.
The assistant stage manager led me through the door and we turned past three sets of staggered red curtains before we stopped on a clearly marked line on the floor where I was to wait for my cue. The whole time, the stage manager and a couple of interns were updating people on the progress that Knell and his folks were making.
A sense of continued relief flowed from her. She shook her head. “Happens way too often. There’s always got to be one celebrity who pushes their arrival time to the absolute limit.”
I smiled at her, realizing just how tight and critical the time-lines were. No, this wasn’t live television, but it was recorded as if live and there wasn’t a lot of wiggle-room if a guest didn’t show up or wasn’t ready to go live.
At that point, I caught a fresh whiff from the audience and was able to detect Anne Lee, Mack’s assistant, sitting there. She was such a sweetheart. It gave me a new sense of calm to know there were two supportive folks here to cheer me on. Gail, in a nearby green room, and Anne, in the audience.
As Shaffer’s band wound down and I could overhear various backstage voices counting down to being back on air, the assistant stage manager prepped me. It was interesting that I was able to hear the prompts she was being given before she gave them to me, but I waited to do what I was told when she told me, figuring that the timing was so precise that the directions being offered to her took that extra delay into account.
When the call to send me onstage finally happened, I stepped forward, coming into view of the audience and felt a huge thrill as they roared with applause.
I was half-way to the stage, though, when a fresh scent from the audience rolled in and I caught the whiff of something that really disturbed me and almost stopped me in my tracks.
The other – the werewolf from last night – was here in the building, potentially in the audience.