A/N: On Patreon there are chapters ahead right now!https://www.patreon.com/cw/pageboy707
I had been so proud of my choice to bring Andrew to this obscure bar. Damien mentioned this bar in passing when he went to premiere his first short film at the New York Film Festival. He loved the vibe around it so I texted Mark to help me find the address to it.
Mark had texted me back with unusual friendliness: Private room in the cellar. There's no camera, the owner owes me money. Take Andrew and have some fun.
I wanted to tease Mark on his James Bond-like response but I was on such a high from the Good Morning America interview that I felt that I was unstoppable: the audience loved it, I met Genesis, and I was back in my favourite city with a good friend.
If I had known who would be in that bar, I would have been ten city blocks away from it or would have gone to Tessa's house.
It took us ages to find the place. The December cold was biting and we circled the maze of Greenwich Village streets. It's times like these that I miss future tech; in 2012, Apple Maps was a glitchy mess, so we asked around. This led to people asking for a photograph, which turned into a never-ending cycle.
Andrew teased me that people were asking for photos with me more, but I said to him, "It's cuz I am better looking."
"How humble," he rubbed his hands together, "Where the fucking hell this bar is at?"
We finally found it and we walked in, descending a flight of narrow concrete steps tucked down an alley off Minetta Lane. The street noise died behind us. Andrew, who looked down at his phone, "Are you trying to kill me? There must be better ways."
"How did you know? God, Twitter can wait. I thought I had a phone addiction."
"I am a Millenial," he said.
When I opened the door, we were hit with a wall of stale cigar smoke, heavy cologne, and quiet voices. Almost everyone there was 40 and above; they all wore dark wool overcoats and smoked cigars. It was like that scene in Goodfellas—the fluid, three minute take—when Henry Hill took Karen into the underbelly of the building.
I immediately felt that the vibe was strange. Scattered between the overcoats were women who couldn't have been older than me.
They looked like statues, had perfect posture, and reminded me of the painting The Interior by Edgar Degas: pale, exposed figures hidden in the margins of a dark room while the men leaned back and blocked the exits.
When we entered inside, Andrew said, "This is not a millennial place."
I whispered to him, "Mark must have sent me the wrong address."
But before I turned away to leave, in the corner of my eye a tall immaculately dressed maître d' appeared to me and said with a slight accent, "Mr Stone." His voice did not carry far, "Mr. Garfield. Hopefully you didn't have a hard time finding this place. Allow me."
He took our coats and gave them to a busboy nearby. Andrew whispered, "Ohh, VIP?"
He gestured to the hallway to our left, "Right this way, please. He has been waiting for you."
Andrew asked, "Who?"
At this, he showed a flicker of disbelief, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared, "Well of course Mr. Weinstein."
My heart raced and the bar seemed to close in on itself while Andrew exclaimed, "Really?"
When I turned to see Andrew's face, who was already looking down the hallway, I was struck with an overwhelming sense of fear.
I stood there frozen as the maitre'd and Andrew walked over to the bronze hallway, his accent was softer, "I know, this smoke is awful."
I whispered to him, "Lets get out of here."
Andrew looked incredulous, "Just one drink, come on." He clamped a firm hand on my shoulder, nudging me forward. The statue-like women pivoted their chins in unison while the maitre'd was confused at our stall. The busboy shifted into the doorway, cutting off the light from the stairs to greet the people behind us. But in my panic, it felt like an ambush, and Andrew's voice was the only thing keeping me grounded.
I walked forward to the cellar, Andrew must have heard my heartbeat. He was already ahead of me and smiled to look behind me, "God, you might win the statue."
I could not reply. My tongue felt like cardboard.
We made it inside a large, poorly lit cave of a room, filled with
dark mahogany panels.
A large man rose slowly from the leather chair. His skin had the grey color of an old hotel, and his small eyes looked almost comical. Yet, I knew that in this industry he was untouchable.
"There they are," Harvey rumbled and gave his meat-hook hand toward Andrew before his gaze fell onto me. "I have been trying to meet you for ages. Mark finally gave me a chance and we go way back."
I nodded and he pointed his stubby finger at the space beside him. I could not say anything. It was as if I was put onstage to a play where I did not know the lines.
Andrew said, "Did you see the film?"
Harvey turned his attention away from me, "Of course I did. It's a shame really what Sony did to you. If I was distributing it I would have gave you at least a thousand screens worldwide."
I knew how impossible that was for an indie film, specifically given the subject matter.
After some silence Harvey said, leaning close enough I could see his nose, "You got something Ryan. That scene at the end? Older Academy members would be pissing themselves."
His voice got deeper, "And Barker? He's a fucking librarian. He buys little foreign pictures and gives himself a handjob when they play in four cinemas on the Upper West Side."
He smiled and continued, "I can make you the youngest Best Actor in history."
My mouth was dry as sand and he said, "Of course, Sony has the rights for the film, but for your next film, the audience deserves to see you on the biggest screen, kid."
Andrew poured himself some wine, "Actually, Mr. Weinstein. People's Sexiest Man over here finished a script and it's terrific."
Harvey's voice peaked, "Really? My god, you don't have to worry about anything. Budget? Director? You got one? David O. Russel just finished Silver Linings Playbook, and he loves a good script."
I remembered the story when Jennifer told me she had to lose a lot of weight for Russel's film.
The thought of Jennifer being around that environment again, with Harvey more, filled me with rage.
"I'm financing the movie myself and Sony has done a lot for my career."
Harvey leaned in closer, "Oh, don't do that. Too much stress, and you're playing the male lead, right? And a screenplay."
He put his hands up, "You're an artist. Let the old guys like me write the checks."
"I like having control over my stuff, Harvey," I said, trying to keep my voice from wavering.
Harvey's smile didn't drop, but his eyes narrowed to twin slits. "You know what real control is? Real control is walking into the Dolby with five hundred Academy voters already told how to mark their ballots. Barker is cheap, he probably sells more books than movies. He'll buy three print ads in the L.A. Times, send out screeners late, and leave you out in the cold while Day-Lewis sweeps."
"Well, you know how these indie schedules are, Mr. Weinstein," Andrew cut in with his easy grin that he only showed in interviews.
"We're barely surviving the junket tour as it is. In fact—" he made a theatrical show of glancing down at his watch. "God. I've got that red-eye out of JFK in an hour and a half. If I miss the flight to London, Sony will kill me."
"You both have promising futures," Harvey muttered. "I'll tell Mark to send over the script," he turned to me, "And you will fly in private jets next time."
I was filled with rage, but my body just wanted to leave. We stood up in unison. We didn't wait for the maître d'. We walked past the frozen waitstaff, climbed the narrow stairs two at a time, and pushed through the door into the freezing air. The winter air hit like a slap across the face.
A black town car was idling by the curb, hazard lights flashing against the slush. Andrew grabbed his duffel from the trunk, turning to me under the yellow pool of a streetlamp.
"You alright?" Andrew asked, his breath making thick white clouds. "You went completely stiff in there."
"I'm fine," I lied through chattering teeth. "Just, exhausted. Go, get to JFK. Don't miss your flight."
Andrew gave my arm a quick, grounding squeeze. "Get some sleep, yeah? You look half-dead. I'll text you when I land at Heathrow."
The sedan pulled away into the slushy Manhattan traffic, leaving me entirely alone in the quiet alley.
The cold stopped mattering.
I whipped my iPhone from my coat pocket, numb thumbs stabbing violently at the glass as I hit Mark's speed dial. I needed an outlet.
"Ryan? What's going on? I'm driving right now."
"Are you out of your fucking mind?!" I yelled into the mic.
There was a stunned pause on the other end. "Ryan? What the hell are you—"
"You gave Harvey Weinstein my location!" My voice cracked. "You let him ambush me in a basement bar! Do you have any goddamn clue what you just did?!"
"Whoa, whoa, slow down!" Mark's tone sharpened instantly, defensive and loud. "Harvey's people called my office four times today, Ryan! He wanted to talk about an Oscar campaign and a multi-picture development deal for your next three projects! Why the fuck are you yelling at me?"
"Because he's a predator, Mark!" The word ripped out of my throat before I could stop it, echoing down the empty brick alley.
"I told Rebecca this morning to keep him the hell away from me. Did you go behind her back? Did you not listen to a single word she said?"
"He was offering to back your next project," Mark barked, his patience completely gone. "He mentioned putting David O. Russell on it! Do you know what kind of leverage that gives us? I'm your agent, Ryan. It's my job to get you in the room with these people."
"You keep him away from me!" I snapped. "You listen to me very carefully, Mark. If Harvey Weinstein's name ever crosses your desk again, you lose the paper. If you ever put me in a room with that man, or take a call from his office without telling me, I swear to God I will drop you before you can even hang up this phone. Are we fucking clear?"
A long, heavy silence stretched between New York and Los Angeles. "I don't know why you're fighting this fight," Mark said softly. "He could kill your career."
"I don't give a shit." I hung up without waiting for his response and shoved the phone deep into my pocket.
I went back to my hotel room and took a hot bath for what must have been two hours. I thought about the next few days and put my head down to drain to distract myself. I didn't know if I was crying or if it was the water.