Warm in the Night

Chapter 1: Seize the Night-2

I pick up my vodka cranberry and clink it against his scotch. My tall, curvy glass looks childish next to his classic cocktail glass. I should’ve ordered something more sophisticated.

“What agency are you with?” he asks.

“Agency?”

“Talent agency,” he says. “You’re an actor, I assume? Or model?”

I blink in surprise. “Um, no. I’m…” I don’t know what to say. I don’t want to tell him that I’m unemployed. Instead, I focus on what he just suggested. “Do I seem like I am? A model or an actor, I mean.”

“Sure. You’re cute enough to be. You have that look.”

His tone is so nonchalant, so certain. No one has ever said anything like that to me. I only developed confidence in my appearance midway through college, feeling like I was finally growing into my looks. That confidence, however, like my confidence in everything else about myself, has gone into the trash lately.

“Mr. Night,” I say, looking him in the eyes, “that is the nicest thing anyone’s said to me this month.”

He laughs, looking slightly bemused, and we clink glasses again. He has a sexy, gentlemanly laugh, and it makes him look more handsome. My eyes linger on the scotch on his lips after he sets his glass down. I’m sure he notices.

“So what do you do?” he asks.

I still can’t bring myself to say it. “I…Well…I like to write,” I say, which is true.

“Oh?” he says, interested. “Screenplays?”

“No…” The truth is that I haven’t written anything of value outside of schoolwork in a long time. I stopped writing the short stories I used to write in high school because I had been so busy with my college classes. A lot of good that did me. “I write mostly for myself,” I say, fiddling with my cocktail straw. “Some short stories, nothing big…” He’s silent, watching me expectantly. “But enough about me. How about you? Are you a model or an actor?”

He smiles, accepting the compliment. “I’m a producer. I produce films.”

That fits. The bespoke suit, the expensive watch, the pull he has with the bartender. Yet, I’ve always imagined Hollywood movie producers as leering, unattractive old men.

“That must be really cool,” I say. “Anything I’d have seen?”

He rattles off a series of films, every one of which I’ve seen or at least heard of and intend to see. They’re huge movies, Oscar winners, box office smash hits, with the biggest stars in the world headlining them. Mr. Night is an important, successful man. He probably lives in a castle in Bel-Air.

And I’m a nobody with no home and no money.

I pick up my drink and bite down on the cocktail straw, sucking up the sweet and tangy mix of vodka as if it were an air supply. Mr. Night looks amused.

“Do you want another?”

I smack my lips, stirring the ice in the cocktail glass, finally feeling drunk. I turn to him, my inhibitions melting away like ice cream.

“I would love another, Mr. Night.”

He laughs, then puts his hand lightly on mine. “You’re cute.”

My hand tingles where he touches it. He calls Joey over and orders us another round. Around us, pop music thumps and rages, the people on the dance floor pulsating to it as one. I watch them, feeling suddenly at peace. That’s it. That’s the stuff. That’s what I came here for.

Joey returns with our drinks, having prepared them at impressive speed.

“Do you want to go upstairs?” Mr. Night asks, handing me my drink. “It’s a little loud down here.”

“Sure,” I say, an easy drunk smile on my face.

I follow him up the stairs to the second floor, where there’s another full bar and another crowded, but smaller, dance floor. We sit at a corner booth that overlooks the ground floor. Beyond the people whirling around under the rainbow disco lights, I can see the packed front patio and the busy street. A drag queen in a giant white-feather headdress struts down the sidewalk, turning heads.

“Cheers,” Mr. Night says again, raising his glass. I clink and sip, grateful for every new moment of this night which no longer sucks. “So tell me,” he sets his glass down and folds his arms, business-like on the table, “what is this stupid, depressing story of yours?”

My spirits dampen. I wish we didn’t have to talk about me. “Can we hear about you first? I’ll tell you, it’s just…Can we wait till I’m drunker?”

He smiles. “Yes, we can wait till you’re drunker,” he says, putting emphasis on the word.

“Where are you from, Mr. Night?” I ask brightly, and he looks amused by my abrupt change in tone.

“I was raised in Michigan,” he says. “Northern Michigan, right next to Lake Huron. Cold as hell. That’s why I came to LA.”

He goes on to say that he was accepted into the coveted and insanely competitive USC film school, and that, to his surprise, the financial and business aspects of the film industry ended up piquing his interest more than directing films of his own. It’s fascinating, hearing about his life. Someone who rose from humble roots in a Michigan suburb to a glamorous life as a Hollywood mogul. I hold on to every word, committing every detail to memory. I think that if I pay enough attention, I might learn his secret.

“A huge aspect of it is luck, you know,” he says, when I share this. “I’m not being modest, it’s true. It’s about who you know, who you’re lucky enough to meet, the films you’re lucky enough to come across. You’d be surprised at the number of people in this town who have completely lucked their way into success.”

“I’m sure luck plays a role,” I say, “but there really are gorgeous and talented people, right? It can’t all be luck.”

Mr. Night shrugs his shoulders and says again, “You’d be surprised.”

Joey the bartender materializes out of the swaying crowd and approaches our table. “Another round?” he asks, eyeing our empty glasses.

“Yes, please,” says Mr. Night immediately, sliding both of our glasses smoothly toward the edge of the table. We watch Joey hasten back to the bar, then Mr. Night turns to me.

“Your turn,” he says. “Now that you’re drunker, tell me your stupid, depressing story.”

I sigh and tell him the story, starting with graduation day and moving into my summer-long job search. I describe how my post-grad optimism quickly faded with each rejected job application, while my stress level has continued to rise as I watch my student loan debt gather interest.

“It’s my fault,” I say. “Majoring in English at the height of a recession. I pursued my passions.” I roll my eyes. “I did what my parents always told me to do. Now it feels like it was all for nothing.”

I confess how up until a few weeks ago, I’d been too proud to apply for jobs that don’t require a degree, like coffee shops and restaurants.

“But it turns out even they won’t hire me,” I say. “They say I’m overqualified and lack experience. Joke’s on me, huh?”

Joey drops off our drinks and Mr. Night places a tip in his hand but doesn’t take his eyes off me. I become steadily drunker, the alcohol now fully working its way through my system. I veer into my childhood, telling him how my parents had always been so intense about my performance in school because that would lead to a better life than they had.

“They put me in the gifted and talented program,” I say bitterly, between sips of my vodka cranberry. “In sixth grade, do you know what one of my teachers wrote in my yearbook?”

Mr. Night tilts his head in inquiry, not taking his eyes off my face.

“She wrote, ‘Dylan, you are destined for great things!’ Now imagine a lifetime of that. They had good intentions but that just really messes with a kid’s head. My sense of self was built around academics, on being smart—” I make air quotes with my fingers. “It turns out it was all a lie. Being smart doesn’t matter in the real world. Or maybe it does and I’m just stupid.”

“Oh, come on!” Mr. Night scoffs, looking at me in disbelief.

“No, really,” I say. “If I’m so smart, how’d I end up in such stupid circumstances?”

“You said it right there. It’s circumstantial. The economy has f****d a lot of people the past few years.”

“Right. The economy. That’s another thing I’ve learned. It’s all about money. You can be smart, work hard, and have a degree, but if people can’t afford to hire you, it all becomes worthless. You’re drowning in debt and no one cares.”

Mr. Night watches me intently, and I no longer feel self-conscious under his intense stare. After a pause I say, “The Beatles were wrong when they said all you need is love.”

A smile quirks at the corners of Mr. Night’s lips. “How do you figure?”

“I mean, it’s a nice sentiment, but the reality is that you also need money. Money buys food and shelter, things you literally need in order to live. If you have enough money, you don’t have to worry about those basic needs. You don’t have to beg people to let you flip burgers and pour coffee just to survive. You’re free. Money buys freedom.”

Mr. Night looks thoughtful, considering my words.

“I guess I just want to be free. I just want to—” I stop myself. “Never mind.”

“Tell me,” he says.

I take a sip of vodka to fortify myself and then sigh. “Going to that school,” I say, “getting away from home, that made me feel like…like I mattered. Like I had value. I miss that. I guess I just want to feel like I matter again. Like I’m worth something.”

To my horror, my throat tightens and my eyes sting. Before I can stop it, I’m sobbing. Everything I’ve been feeling and stifling for months is suddenly pouring out of me, completely out of my control.

“Ugh, I’m sorry,” I say, reaching hastily for a napkin. “God, I’m pathetic.”

Mr. Night puts both of his hands on mine and looks into my eyes. “No,” he says. “You are anything but pathetic, Dylan Rhodes.”

“How do you know?” I choke. “You just met me.”

“I just met you,” he says, “and what I see is a beautiful, intelligent, charming young man. Do you know how hard it is to find a guy your age around here who can string together a coherent sentence? You have a brain, sweet boy. The world may not be paying you for it yet, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t there.”

I’m momentarily speechless. I wipe my eyes, trying to compose myself, then pick up my glass and inhale the last of the vodka cranberry.

“I read people pretty well,” says Mr. Night. “I know a good guy when I see one.”

“I don’t feel like a good guy,” I say, looking down at the table. “I feel like a loser. Like a…nothing.” My shoulders shake, my vision blurry. I put a hand to my mouth to stanch the sobs and the salty tears roll over my fingers.

“Hey,” says Mr. Night. He puts his thick, warm hand under my chin. His voice is so deep that even when he speaks quietly, I can hear him clearly over the thumping music. “You are not nothing. You are not pathetic. I don’t ever want to hear you say that again. Do you understand?”

I stare at him, locked in his gaze. It’s an order. There’s gentleness in his voice but also firm authority. I know immediately that I don’t want to displease him. I want to do as he says. I want to give him that power over me.

“I understand,” I say. “I won’t say it.”

“Do you want to get out of here?”

I know what that question means, the implications of it.

“Yes,” I say. “I do.”