Reese Witherspoon Meets James Brown
Reese Witherspoon just telephoned. It seems she’s leaving Ryan Phillippe and is interested in getting together. “I’ll drop the kids at my parents,” she coos. “We can go to the Sunset and you can pretend to interview me.”
I have to lay it out for her. “Reese, Baby! You’re short and all—and you know how I like that—and I love that thing your jaw does, but I’m kinda holding out for Ashley Judd…Yeah, yeah, yeah, I am well aware how much smarter she is than me, but I got game, Reese, and letters after my name.”
She sweetens the pot. “I could get you into movie premieres. And I know some people at Miramax looking for a writer.” Her voice is that wonder of educated Southern. Fuck! She has the short thing, the jaw thing, and the brainy lilt thing going on. How am I going to talk myself out of this? I’m thinking, Man, I bet she would take me to the Palm. I’ve never been to the Palm. I pause. I am floundering. I regroup… “Reese, isn’t your brother kind of a fuck-up? I don’t know if I can risk him sullying my good… uh, well, my family name.” Pause… “I know, Sweetheart. I love my siblings too, but they don't sneak into folks' homes and fondle sleeping women. Without an invite, that just isn’t cool.”
I have pissed her off, I can tell. I sense her sulking. Silently. I go on, “And I don’t need to be looking over my shoulder, worrying that other Ryan is going to go all Cruel Intentions on my ass. I’ve got responsibilities, Reese.”
She gets pseudo-defensive and stands up for her children’s father. “Ryan wouldn’t do that. And besides, he’s out with Penelope Cruz tonight.”
“Cool,” I say. “I respect that. But I got things, Reese. Things. Em’s daycare issues. I got Jeep and central air issues…” My stomach growls and I remember that all I’ve had today is a pack of Tropical Fruit flavored Skittles from the vending machine. I think maybe the Sunset doesn’t sound so bad.
Eminem style, I snap back to reality and glimpse the fringe of my senses. “How did you even get my new number?”
“Sandra Bullock, Helena Bonham Carter, and I met for sushi the other night. And, of course, your name came up.” She is coy.
I lapse into smartass mode—I can rarely help myself. “Okay, let me picture this. Sandra was all sing-songy—‘I met a tattooooo-mechanic!!!’ and Helena, still bitter, was humming the Oompa Loompa song and says, ‘Hey, Ree, you should give other Ryan a call.'”
Long pause. “Were you spying?”
I laugh. She laughs. We are both thinking bygones.
I say, “You know, Reese, I’m kind of spoken for.” (All the while wondering just how close she and Ashley Judd really are).
“Yeah, I know,” she says. And then there is silence. I hit my Evan (with a splash), take three long draws of my CAO Gold Double Corona. We each wait for the other to speak. Being a gentleman of sorts, I go. “Reese,” I say. “I have more issues than National Geographic.” Studied pause. CAO draw. “Now just isn’t a good time for me.” Studied pause. CAO draw. “Give me a couple months. Let me coax Em into his fourth year, fix the Jeep, rebuild my A/C, hard-polish my temporal lobe, and get back with you. Maybe we can go to Las Palmas or something. Have some cheap Mexican. You know, rent Pretty in Pink or Breakfast Club. I’ll read you a Raymond Carver poem. And if you like that, then one of his short stories. If that works, we’ll hitchhike to Augusta. I’ll take you to the Lake and then the Fox’s Lair. I’ll get Roger to play Rocky Raccoon for us. It’ll be bittersweet, but I think you’ll approve. You can be perfectly short and set that beautiful jaw into a perfect pout. No one will recognize you in Augusta. I’ll even introduce you to James Brown. It’ll be nice.”
I’m feeling it now. Rolling with it. There is another long pause. I hear background noise. She starts to speak then stops. Then she whispers, a little panicky. “I have to go. I think Ryan is home.” She disconnects.
On the porch, the CAO is but a glowing thumbprint, the Evan is a dollop of water. A long, slow train whistle teases in the distance.
Fade to black…
I have to lay it out for her. “Reese, Baby! You’re short and all—and you know how I like that—and I love that thing your jaw does, but I’m kinda holding out for Ashley Judd…Yeah, yeah, yeah, I am well aware how much smarter she is than me, but I got game, Reese, and letters after my name.”
She sweetens the pot. “I could get you into movie premieres. And I know some people at Miramax looking for a writer.” Her voice is that wonder of educated Southern. Fuck! She has the short thing, the jaw thing, and the brainy lilt thing going on. How am I going to talk myself out of this? I’m thinking, Man, I bet she would take me to the Palm. I’ve never been to the Palm. I pause. I am floundering. I regroup… “Reese, isn’t your brother kind of a fuck-up? I don’t know if I can risk him sullying my good… uh, well, my family name.” Pause… “I know, Sweetheart. I love my siblings too, but they don't sneak into folks' homes and fondle sleeping women. Without an invite, that just isn’t cool.”
I have pissed her off, I can tell. I sense her sulking. Silently. I go on, “And I don’t need to be looking over my shoulder, worrying that other Ryan is going to go all Cruel Intentions on my ass. I’ve got responsibilities, Reese.”
She gets pseudo-defensive and stands up for her children’s father. “Ryan wouldn’t do that. And besides, he’s out with Penelope Cruz tonight.”
“Cool,” I say. “I respect that. But I got things, Reese. Things. Em’s daycare issues. I got Jeep and central air issues…” My stomach growls and I remember that all I’ve had today is a pack of Tropical Fruit flavored Skittles from the vending machine. I think maybe the Sunset doesn’t sound so bad.
Eminem style, I snap back to reality and glimpse the fringe of my senses. “How did you even get my new number?”
“Sandra Bullock, Helena Bonham Carter, and I met for sushi the other night. And, of course, your name came up.” She is coy.
I lapse into smartass mode—I can rarely help myself. “Okay, let me picture this. Sandra was all sing-songy—‘I met a tattooooo-mechanic!!!’ and Helena, still bitter, was humming the Oompa Loompa song and says, ‘Hey, Ree, you should give other Ryan a call.'”
Long pause. “Were you spying?”
I laugh. She laughs. We are both thinking bygones.
I say, “You know, Reese, I’m kind of spoken for.” (All the while wondering just how close she and Ashley Judd really are).
“Yeah, I know,” she says. And then there is silence. I hit my Evan (with a splash), take three long draws of my CAO Gold Double Corona. We each wait for the other to speak. Being a gentleman of sorts, I go. “Reese,” I say. “I have more issues than National Geographic.” Studied pause. CAO draw. “Now just isn’t a good time for me.” Studied pause. CAO draw. “Give me a couple months. Let me coax Em into his fourth year, fix the Jeep, rebuild my A/C, hard-polish my temporal lobe, and get back with you. Maybe we can go to Las Palmas or something. Have some cheap Mexican. You know, rent Pretty in Pink or Breakfast Club. I’ll read you a Raymond Carver poem. And if you like that, then one of his short stories. If that works, we’ll hitchhike to Augusta. I’ll take you to the Lake and then the Fox’s Lair. I’ll get Roger to play Rocky Raccoon for us. It’ll be bittersweet, but I think you’ll approve. You can be perfectly short and set that beautiful jaw into a perfect pout. No one will recognize you in Augusta. I’ll even introduce you to James Brown. It’ll be nice.”
I’m feeling it now. Rolling with it. There is another long pause. I hear background noise. She starts to speak then stops. Then she whispers, a little panicky. “I have to go. I think Ryan is home.” She disconnects.
On the porch, the CAO is but a glowing thumbprint, the Evan is a dollop of water. A long, slow train whistle teases in the distance.
Fade to black…
posted by Ryan at 12:21 AM
6 Comments:
Could she get me Sarah Michelle Gellar's number?
I want so much to dislike Reese, but I cannot. I think it is the jaw. She kind of looks like a Mogwai that could go Gremlin at any second, and that is a good thing. I have sat through both Legally Blonde films for her.
I'm afraid I'm unfamilier with Ms. witherspoon. ANd yes, I am out of touch with the real world.
Not at all, E. I was screwing around in the comment section and booted you out of there by accident.
Your comment was my first laugh of the day. You should know by now, I have no lines ;-)
Also, I'll see what I can do about having her return your Cds.
Best,
R
Rex, A more apt description I've not heard. I think you've nailed it. I still can't believe she phoned out of the blue like that.
Funny, but when I read that the comment was removed by the blog administrator, my thought was "Damn, that must have been *great* to call for a removal."
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