Under the lights, surrounded by stars, Aaron had his eyes on an angel. Once she wore wings, and later overalls, then a softball uniform, army fatigues, a sculpted pantsuit, and for one legendary scene—nothing at all. Once she was the voice of an animated princess, and on late night talk shows she professed her love of Joan Didion and the Ramones. This year she'd played a peasant woman, her muddy makeup-less face purposely played down, to play up her chances for tonight. She had "stepped out of her comfort zone" to "show her range." Aaron liked her better when she was showing her breasts. He remembered her on the old sitcom Family Place when she played the neighbor girl in pigtails. He was a toddler when that show got canceled, but he'd watched it in reruns. He'd seen it all.

The auditorium laughed at the hacky host. That phony canned laughter, the live audience of stars used to playing roles. Everything glistened with gold, from the architecture along the ceiling and balconies, to the TV lights and those bald man statues. You could feel the butterflies, anxiety and anticipation, in among the more solid foundations of money and status, sex and fame. To see a famous person up close was like scratching a winning lottery ticket, a small prize not a big jackpot, not in this town when you'd see stars in low-brimmed hats waiting for their lattes. Tonight they were all here for "the biggest night of the year," as the announcer said in bumps to commercials.

From a few rows forward, a hand went up, and one of the other ushers went rushing over. The star—Chuck Graydon, former stock villain now well into his seventies with so many plastic surgeries that he looked like a wax dummy—was heading up for the restroom. He didn't make eye contact with Aaron or any of the other ushers along the wall, though to be fair they wouldn't have noticed. They were all watching for hands, ready to jump to the next spot. Their job was to keep the seat filled until the star came back.

Legend had it that some stars would disappear for the whole show. Years ago Vance Richardson left for a strip club down the block, pushing back the Best Actor category to the final award as producers scrambled to find him. In the main lobby was a full bar, used for more than just booze. That’s where connections were made, and new deals were done. You could see it happen—a young actor notices the famous director heading off and holds up his hand to follow. Or during the musical numbers, when some waifish singer came out to croon a heartbreak ballad. TV viewers didn’t see all the hands that went up then, all the ushers rushing to fill the vacancies.

Still, he was just watching her. Her auburn hair teased up, beige sequined dress split high up one leg with thin straps over her tanned shoulders. Her makeup and poised expression had aged her face, which was disorienting at first like seeing an old friend again after some years, but then felt quite right, and natural, and perfect once you got used to it. She was thirty-three, past her young lover rom com roles. And it wasn't even about her looks. It was about her spirit, like her performance in Raising Stakes as the cheeky dealer who goes quip for quip with the blackjack kingpin, or in Out of Office when she'd turned an underwritten role as a put-upon secretary into an inspiring portrait of brash resolve. One might think that being her biggest fan Aaron had seen these films hundreds of times. But he hadn't, he didn't have to. And besides he was eager to know the real her, to just sit and listen to her dreams and fears and motivations, perhaps help with scene practice. He saw himself in her trailer on the set, barking at the staff about the shoddy state of the lunch spread. That, and so much more.


Onstage they were up to Best Animated Feature, setting off an exodus to the bar. A sea of hands went up as the row of ushers dwindled down. Aaron held firm in place. This was how he'd set it up, he would not move until he had his chance. The other ushers called him crazy, but it was not uncommon. Obsession was part of the air in Hollywood, an essential element of fame. The others had their angles too, script proposals and headshots and coke deals, though he did not count himself among their sorry ranks. He would not move until he saw the hand of Billy Dangler.

Dangler was right beside her, her partner of three-and-a-half years, despite being a decade her senior and looking older than that, with his puffy alcoholic face giving his once handsome looks a ruined detective's turn. Those were the roles he played now, guys who yelled about the city and the mayor and all the ways the real star was breaking the rules. Meanwhile he was a fixture on social media, carping about his political causes. She was political too, but less performative, more humble. Aaron wished to hear all about why she cared so much about environmental causes, and childhood leukemia, and so on. He believed in those causes too, humbly, not like Billy Dangler.

His greatest fear was her leaving early, which stars were known to do once their awards were announced. By the end of a long show the remaining crowd was full of ushers and waiters and other workers. He had to get over there before Best Actress. She was up for The Rules of Passion, the medieval drama in which she played a peasant, which Aaron honestly didn't care for at all. Passion—there was very little of that, very little of anything but long scenes of British accent dialoguing. He would be honest with her about that stuff, that it was best not to hold back in a relationship, since it would be an equal partnership. He would temper all the yes-people around her with his critical opinions, and she'd love him all the more for that. Plus they liked the same music and had the same sense of humor. He was even willing to learn how to ride a horse, since she'd grown up in an equestrian club. At night they'd go for early dinners at trendy restaurants, enduring interruptions from fans for autographs, in which he wouldn't intervene unless some clown got too pushy.

The hand went up. So lost in his reverie he almost didn't recognize it. Billy Dangler's hand. For a moment he couldn't move, frozen with tingling shock, then like turning the keys in a sports car's ignition he sped forward. In his haste to get to the seat he nearly collided with the actor. "Yo!" said Dangler, stepping aside like a picador for a charging bull, before stopping to send back a hostile look. Because he'd played so many hard-nosed cops and crooked detectives, he seemed to think he was a real life tough guy. And maybe he was. Aaron didn't notice. He plopped down in the seat, for a deep breath and a look at her up close.

She was magnetic, so gorgeous that she might be another species, but then very human in a way these other Hollywood squares just weren't. She smiled at him, a sort of smirk with her brow raised, before looking back to Dangler, who was still shaking his head. Then he went off, toward the bar or wherever, and she turned back to the stage. Her energy beside him set alight every cell, like they were fighting inside him to get a good look.

The seat felt good. Cushy and warm, if still redolent of Dangler's cologne and cigarette odor. Aaron had put his best cologne on too, with his hair styled from a hundred-dollar trip to the salon. He was wearing the black and burgundy usher gear, but didn't mind, since that might be a good icebreaker to make some self-deprecating joke. He'd thought of one—"Wish me luck, I'm up for Best Usher." But now his mind was blank. The sort of blankness that compounds upon itself, like the harder you try to think of something, the more your mind resists. How much time had gone by? Five, ten seconds. He might only have two minutes, tops.

She looked at him, to acknowledge him staring.

"So," they both said at once, and she laughed as he blushed.

"Go ahead," he said eagerly.

"No, it's okay. You."

Her voice, that sweet melody with a hint of a smoker's rasp she'd had since the Family Place days. He smiled and his eyes went down to her chest, and of course he'd seen her bare breasts in Run for the Rivers, the road movie in which she'd had a nude scene in a motel room, which he had indeed watched many hundreds if not thousands of times. He caught himself and set his attention back to her face.

"So, I was going to say good luck."

"Thank you."

"And also—"

All at once the lights went down. "And now," intoned the host, "a moment of silence for those we have lost this year."

The auditorium settled down to a pin drop silence as up on the screens was projected the death montage. The level of applause depended on the notoriety of the deceased, like a dark final joke on the rat race of fame. But Aaron was panicking. He turned around, to be sure Dangler wasn't on his way back. Then looked around the auditorium, his heart pounding, dizzy with dread that his chance was already gone. Still he pretended to clap. "Joan Chancellor," said some prerecorded voice, as the face of an old TV actress was splashed up on the screen. Meanwhile beside him, she was watching intently, clapping equally, her eyes wet with emotion.

"What I meant was," he whispered. "Good luck with everything. Not just tonight, but everything. You're like, really great."

She gave him a little nod, with a hint of disapproval under her flat smile. Oh no. Did she just roll her eyes? This stupid death march was ruining everything. "Harry Lichten, cinematography," said the voice to light applause.

"Sorry," he said.

"It's okay," she whispered back. "Shh."

"Hey, can I ask you something?"

"Okay," she chuckled and looked at him, and another smile broke through, a familiar one, because she too had been conditioned by her roles, ever the desired girl who must rebuke her geeky admirer until he manages to melt her heart. She'd played that exact role in Have We Met? and Have We Met, Again? Now he saw it up close, and it was real, yes because truth be told she wasn't that good of an actress. Something about this situation was speaking to her sense of the dramatically absurd, the ultimate meet cute.

Then they announced "Davin McDaniels," the star of westerns and later director of drippy dramas, and also possessor of questionable politics, decrying as he did any and all progressive issues in his hardened near-septuagenarian ways, but his was the Big Death this year and it was time to forgive and honor his work, and so there arose a full standing ovation.

The two of them stood up, and Aaron felt good to be right there beside her. He felt the rush of their collective energy. Not just the two of them, but this whole exclusive club. He realized that it wasn't about talent so much as determination and a bit of luck. To recognize opportunity and seize it, that's what separated them. All at once his own life felt more interesting. He would tell her all about it—his summer as a lifeguard when he had to give an old woman mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, his overbearing father who wanted him to become a lawyer. He remembered his joke.

"Get ready, I'm up for Best Usher."

But she was looking over his shoulder. She wasn't smiling. Dangler was standing there waiting, with just the smallest bit of patience. His half-smile spoke of some routine element to this scenario. He had a presence that cast a shadow, and it didn't feel so good. Without even looking at him, he tapped Aaron's shoulder.

Aaron stood up and bowed, rather absurdly. He floated to his spot with the other ushers at the back of the room. His heart was pounding. An orchestra was playing for the commercial break. Waves were flowing, splashes of color reshaping his spirit. He kept his eyes trained on her. All she had to do was turn and smile, to acknowledge their connection, to confirm his new identity. He just had to keep watching.


Title image "Best Usher" Copyright © The Summerset Review 2023.