Thus, the alarm system. The cameras. “And,” Holloway says, “a few other tools.” Other tools? “Yeah,” he says, leaning back in his chair, cocking the cigarette like a gun. “You know . . . other tools?”
OKAY, HERE’S THE DEAL: WE’RE DRUNK. THESE FLOWERY RUM DRINKS HAVE WHIPPED US. And now the waitress is circling for an autograph and handing us certificates for free appetizers. And the two ladies from Texas are asking for photos (“Ah just luuuvvvv yer work!”). And the clouds are gnarling up to rain. Holloway just keeps the dimples on high beam. It’s time to retreat. To the boat!
Back at home, Kumala is downloading Brokeback Island, a spoof movie trailer that splices together hilariously homoerotic footage—shirts off, smiles, hands on pistols, lingering glances—of Jack and Sawyer. “You’ve made it, honey,” Kumala says as we pile through the back door. “You’ve been brokeback’d.”
While Holloway hits the head, Kumala shoots off an e-mail to Abrams, giving him the link. “My parents liked it better when Josh was gonna be a Realtor,” she says. “They figure it’s safer—you know, the whole Hollywood-marriage thing? But they see that fame hasn’t changed who he really is. They’re proud to have him as a son-in-law.”
Speaking of which, Mr. TV Guide saunters back into the room. Judging by the over-the-top crease in his brow and the cockeyed smile, he’s got something to say. “You know, Jessie,” he announces, hands fixed to his hip, “people are asking about the boat. They wanna know what I’m gonna do.”
Kamula rolls her eyes: “Fuck off, man.” She’s heard this bit before. “Just buy it. Now. You’ve been working your ass off your whole life.”
Holloway jolts, frozen in mock shock.
“Now, that’s what I like to hear, baby! C’mon, now!” That battle cry again. That roguish twinkle. That whaler is as good as bought.