Free The Diamond Lane by Karen Karbo Page B

rat-a-tat-a-tat-a-tat-a-tat-a-tat-a-tat. Every rat , every tat had to be there, and had to be in sync. Then, in the mix, the producer covered all of them with a song from the soundtrack album. It would have been a wonder if she wasn’t addicted to Lithium.
    Mimi admired Lisa anyway. She was one of those women who felt no compulsion to be nice. Mimi felt that was her main problem: she was too nice.
    â€œFilm People go from being young and idealistic to old and jaded with no appreciable change in their résumé or level of experience,” said Ralph. He liked this game.
    â€œWhy don’t you just get out of film then, Ralph,” shot Lisa. “Jesus Christ.”
    â€œI was just kidding,” said Ralph.
    â€œThe film industry is relieved,” said Darryl.
    â€œFuck you,” said Ralph.
    â€œYou guys!” said Mimi. Everyone was in a bad mood.
    No one had really read the book. It was too sweltering allweek. Luke, who was a runner at Paramount, said no one was even reading coverage, it was so hot. Also, there was the World Series, even though the Dodgers weren’t in it. And the new fall releases were out, so everyone was going to screenings. Mimi always read the book, heat wave or not. It was a point of pride with her. She sighed, rustled her blond bangs with her fingers.
    â€œYou know what’s different about us and van Gogh?” said Ralph. “At least he could practice his craft. At least he could paint. He had that kernel of satisfaction. We can’t even do that. I’m a producer but I’ve never produced, and I can’t practice producing unless someone gives me a million dollars.”
    Everyone agreed.
    â€œWe’re the new underclass,” said Luke. “Perpetual aspirants. Middle-class hopefuls who never make it, yet refuse to give up.”
    Mimi was suddenly worried. What if Mouse walked in the door and everyone was slouching around with long faces complaining about how they were nobodies? They were supposed to be having a literary discussion. She had made such a deal of telegraming Mouse. Can’t be at airport. Book group. Important meeting. Unable to cancel . She made it out to be one step below a summit meeting between the superpowers.
    â€œWe’re not middle class,” she said. “We’re artists .”
    â€œHeh-heh-heh.” Luke’s laugh was the vocal equivalent of a sneer.
    She would have done better picking up Mouse at the airport.

4.
    IT WAS FIVE HOURS FROM NAIROBI TO CAIRO; FOUR and a half from Cairo to Paris; eight from Paris to New York; five more after that to L.A.
    Nairobi to Cairo was a Boeing 737. A bus with wings. A flying, hollowed-out metal hot dog. Mouse and Tony were packed together, rubbing thighs. It was irritating, not erotic. Mouse loathed jet liners. She trusted only bush pilots in prop planes, grizzled, pidgin English-speaking men who could negotiate mountains half-drunk in the dark. Ten minutes after takeoff she was already homesick for every last one of them.
    She spent the flight with her nose plastered against the dingy oval window, keeping the plane in the air. If she looked away for too long a wing might snap off, an engine plunge into the Nile.
    This was what happened when you looked away. She had looked away. She had moved away. She never wrote or called.
    Mouse and Tony had flown together only twice before. He was also a nervous flier. Mouse couldn’t help wondering why he always resisted the short painless flights around East Africa in conjunction with their films – he would drive, he would take the train, he would argue that the interview, the shot, the location wasn’t really necessary – but was delighted at the prospect of flying five hours to Cairo, four and a half to Paris, eight to New York, and five to Los Angeles.
    During the first few stunned hours after Mimi’s phone call,sweating over mugs of warm beer in a crowded bar in Kisangani, Mouse begged Tony to stay