New Bliss

Bliss
A sunny Southern California beach isn't where you'd expect to meet a gorgeous, movie-star handsome, movie agent vampire, who will transform you shortly into an anguished immortal, but that's where it happened to me. I swear. The whole thing about vampires being obliterated by the sun? Bull.
It was the Summer I graduated from High School and Mercedes and I were hanging out in Santa Barbara. We'd driven an hour and a half to get away from the scorching heat of Diablo Valley. Graduation was a week away and I think in a way Mercy and I were also trying to get away from my upcoming big decision...
"This is so nice," Mercy'd sighed, glancing lazily at the big white houses teetering precariously on the lush green cliffs overlooking the bright blue, sea, just like on TV." "Look at that little boat. It doesn't even have a sail. It just wobbles around on the water..."Her brown, oval face had crinkled up into a satisfied smile behind her sunglasses.
"It's lazy, just like us," I'd joked.
"Lazy like me--" she'd protested. "You got into a good school."
She'd leaned back on the beach towel and some grains of sand had salted her raven-black hair.
"You got into college," I'd reached out and rubbed the sand from her hair, trying to lighten the mood.
"Sure. Community college. It's hard not to get in."
She'd looked away, past the wobbly little boat, towards the horizon, and I knew what she was thinking.
"Well, I hope they'll let even me in, then."
"Stop it...I can't let you do that. You got into Stanford. On a fucking scholarship," she laughed, "I love you, baby. I don't hate you. I'm not gonna make you throw your future away!"
She'd reached out and her soft fingers had touched my stubbly chin, when a shadow fell on her.
"Excuse me. I'm with an agency and I was wondering if you'd ever considered acting."
I heard her gasp. A tall, blond man, wearing dark sunglasses and a sharply tailored suit was leaning toward me, holding out a business card. His skin was pale, like porcelain, and his hair was almost white. He was even more out of place on the beach full of tan, Barbie and ken bodies than we were. He belonged in a mansion. On a jet. In a Scandinavian Travel Magazine. Not in the humid heat of the beach.
Mercy'd giggled nervously, "Are you sure you're not an actor? You look just like Alexander Saarksgard! Or like Michael Pitt, but taller!" then, turning towards me and poking me in the chest. "I told you so! I told you you should try acting!"
I’d felt the heat rising to my face.
The tall stranger had smiled and said, "Uh, well... I'm a talent scout, actually, and I think your friend--"
"Jaime," Mercy'd piped up, taking the card and shoving it into my hands. “Jaime Jimenez!”
"Jaime," he'd smiled and held out a cool hand, "might just be what we're looking for in a future project. I'm having a party next Friday and there are going to be a lot of industry types there, maybe you want to check it out? I'll write the address on the back of the card."
I worried about my sweaty palms as I analyzed his accent. Vaguely European…East Coast elite?
Mercy had squealed excitedly and I had smiled uncertainly and glanced at the card. Maybe this was a way to stay close to Mercy and not have to worry about college for a while. Dad would be pissed, but then again, he wasn't paying for college, so it wasn't really his choice. It wasn’t really his choice either way.
“Thank you," I'd said, glancing at the card, not aware that in accepting that invitation I was myself throwing not just my future, but my whole life away. “Thank you, Mr. Asking Haming.”
Sometimes I feel so happy I could die. Literally. I feel the lights switching; colors get brighter and I begin to feel unstable. A subtle tingling begins crawling up my spine, to massage my head, and I feel tears begin to spring in my eyes. I can feel my heart pumping, my pulse beating in tune with the divine, and I want to die. I want to tear away the illusions of this world and join It, and to just be part of everything. I think of sticking the large kitchen knife in my heart, like Eliot Smith did, and being done with it. But then I think of Mercy, of Mom, and I try to breathe, to feel myself at home in this heavy physical plane, try to weigh myself down so I don’t float away like a balloon and go insane. I wonder if that’s why he chose me. Could he see this longing in me, that day on the beach?
Ch I.
“Jaime! Do you have your cap and gown?! Do you have everything you need?”
My mom’s head pops in through the doorway.
”Si, amah. I’m ready.”
I’m listening to the Damned, trying to get awake, trying to get juiced up for the long day ahead.
She comes into the room and gives me a tight hug. ”We’re so proud of you, baby. The first one to go to college and look where you’re going…vas a Stanford!”
I squirm out of her embrace. “I got accepted, Mom" I paused "that doesn’t mean I’m going.”
Her nose wrinkles up, “You can’t go to UCR. That’s just tacky.”
“I may not even want to go to UCR," I'd sighed. "I just want to be close to Mercy.”
My Mom’s pretty but age worn face looks serious, until a quick forced a smile flashes on it. “You are so young. You are going to meet so many new people in college. Smart, pretty girls—“
“Mercy is smart and pretty.”
“Si pero-“
“No! No peros,” I kiss her abruptly on the cheek and sweep past her. “ I gotta get going Mah, or I’m gonna be late.”
On the way out I take the agent's business card out and look at it.. Aeski Haming, Talent Agent. Talent. I have no talent...but maybe I could learn. I'd still have to drive to LA, but maybe we could get lucky and rent a house there. Maybe in Echo Park? We could live together and prolong the decision. Or Mercy could apply to a school closer to Stanford while I dabbled in acting. And Haming, the movie-star handsome agent, I get a good feeling about him. I met him for maybe five minutes, but I could sense he wasn’t like the sleazy agents in the sitcoms. I just didn’t know exactly how different he was at the time.
******
Ch 2.
We’re eating lunch, seeking out the shade as the heat waves rise slowly off the concrete. Turner is sitting next to Dolores, running his hands through her black hair and whispering.
Dolores moans and turns to Mercy in mock exasperation. “Mers, tell this man that straightening my hair doesn’t mean I want to be white!”
Turner laughs and and his white white teeth glisten beautifully in the sunlight, contrasting with his smooth milk chocolate skin. “Look at my hair,” he protests, taking his vintage felt hat off, “This is proud ethnic hair.”
I laugh and say, “That’s nothing. Look at this hair,” and point at my heavily gelled bouffant, “I’m a greaser, just like the zoots and cholos of the 50s.”
“Psht,” Turner says dismissively, “What’s the difference between you and the kids on Jersey Shore? You just had too much gel at home and decided to dunk it all on your head.”
“Oh shut up!!! This is not a contest to see who has the ethniest hair! You drive me crazy, Turn!!!” Dolores flips her straight brown hair over her thin shoulder and that is that.
“Ugh. Here comes Yvette,” Mercy moans, sliding possessively closer to me. Mercy thinks Yvette’s got her eye on me, or “wants to sink her claws into me,” as she puts it. I think it’s funny. Well, flattering and funny, to be honest.
“Hey guys! You finished your speech yet, Jim?” Yvette is the salutatorian for this year’s graduation. I think she kind of hates me, because I’m valedictorian, but I don’t really care.
I shrug. “I wrote some dumb thing down about working hard to achieve your goals, yadda, yadda…”
She nods and sits down on the edge of the lunch bench, pushes her glasses up her nose and moans, “I’m totally not inspired.”
Mercy sighs in exasperation and tears an angry bite off her pepperoni pizza.
“Maybe you should start with a quote?” I suggest.
Yvette’s looking at Mercy’s pizza with disapproval. She’s been on this health kick for the last six months, “Yeah, I thought about a Faust quote, or maybe some Shakespeare, but I can’t zero in on the right one.”
Mercy chews her pizza quickly, covers her mouth, and says, “Well, why don’t you got to the computer lab and do some last minute research, then? Graduation’s today. Not much time left, is there?’ Her big black eyes are shooting daggers at Yvette.
Yvette looks startled and gets up, “Um, yeah. I guess. You got a point. Whatever. See you in English, Jim? Bye everyone!”
I smile and nod, “Sure, Yvette. Good luck.”
She hoists her backpack on her shoulder and walks off, while Mercy continues to stare at her.
“Ugh,” I can’t stand her! And you,” she shoves her palm into my shoulder, “you encourage her. Ugh!!!!”
”I do not. I’m just being nice. You were being a jerk.”
“Being nice…to that pretentious dork? Nice to her is an invitation to…I don’t know. She likes you. I can tell. The way she looks at you and” affecting a high pitched voice “…I’ll see you in English, Jimmy?”
I laugh. “Well, if she does, she’d outta luck. Because I’m not into pretentious dorks. I’m into you.”
Mercy smiles and kisses me on the nose. “You better be.”
*****
In English Yvette sits next to me and moans, “I think I have something, but it’s not going to be as good as yours.”
“Mine sucks. Trust me, you’re good.”
She smiles and looks pleased.
“Hey, Yvette…you’re going to UCLA so you can do acting, right?”
“Oh yes! They’ve got the BEST acting department, and it’s a perfect opportunity to make connections. But it’s also a pretty good school…not as good as Stanford, maybe, but very good nonetheless.”
“Nonetheless…um, have you heard of this guy?” I hand her the agent’s business card.
“Aeski Heming…you know. I haven’t. Talent agent,” she looks perplexed as she hands it back. “Why? Why are asking me about UCLA ? I thought you’d already sent back your acceptance letter to Stanford.”
“No…I did. It’s just that, well, I think I might defer college for a while and, I don’t know, try acting.”
She gasps and asks, with a twinge of envy, “That’s your agent? Wait. You’ve never even been in a school play. And you have an agent now? How is that possible?”
“Yvette! Would you mind keeping your voice down?” Mr. Henson is looking at her with disapproval. He’s grading our final essays while we watch an inspirational movie about a group of plucky inner city scribes.
“Sorry,” she mouths, still looking at me with a mixture of admiration and disbelief.
“No,” I whisper, leaning closer to her. “He’s not my agent he just gave me his card.”
“Oh,” she looks slightly placated. “But you are thinking of trying acting? I could help you, you know, we could go over some dialogues, if you’d like.”
Over Mercy’s dead body, I think. “You think I’d have a chance…at acting, I mean?”
She smiles, “With my help, why not? It’s a craft, like anything else.”
“Thanks,” I whisper.
***