Don't Order Dog_ 1(50)
And as Christina had learned early on in their short, turbulent relationship, Derrick Birch had an ego and a temper to match.
“What are you talking about?” she replied flatly. “Up until five minutes ago I was upstairs trying not to stick out like a pathetic, lonely loser when your man-servant found me and dragged me down here.” She walked to the bar and roughly opened the wine chiller, grabbing the first bottle of Dom Perignon she could find. “Where the fuck have you been?”
“You know exactly where I’ve been, Chrissy,” Derrick replied, using the nickname he knew that she hated. “Stuck on this fucking boat for ten hours, trying to hack out an agreement that won’t completely fuck me.” He poured a tall glass of straight vodka over ice and took a long sip before staring at her solemnly. “Christ almighty, even after all these years it’s still David versus fucking Goliath in these things.” He paused for a moment, as if expecting her to speak, but she returned his stare with a vacant expression. “The deal’s almost done, and suddenly they’re trying to break my fucking balls over some tax records from four years back. I’m sitting there with three high-priced lawyers on my side of the table, and I still had to call Roger in fucking Houston and get him to explain every tax shelter we’ve used since god knows when. It’s fucking unbelievable.”
He walked over to the bed and sat down heavily on the corner.
“And of course, the whole time you sit in these meetings with these guys and their lawyers, they try to make you feel like they’re doing you some kind of fucking favor. As if what I do could’ve just come from anyone.” Derrick drained the rest of the strong drink in a single gulp and walked back to the bar. “Assholes. I should tell them to fuck off and re-open negotiations with Exxon. At least they aren’t a complete bunch of pricks.”
“Sure, do it,” Christina remarked absently, admiring her shoes as she leaned against the bar next to him. Derrick grumbled irritably as he poured another vodka and settled his pudgy frame onto the chaise lounge in the corner of the room. He sat quietly for a few minutes, staring into his glass as his thoughts drifted around him.
“You know,” he said finally, gazing at her with glassy, bloodshot eyes that seemed to be staring through her, focused on the memory he was seeing, “when I was a kid, I used to have the best fucking dreams. Better than anything fucking Hollywood could’ve made. And I’m not talking about that silly flying shit either. No, I had the best dreams imaginable. I could just see things the way they were supposed to be… the way they should be.”
His eyes focused back onto hers.
“Do you even know what that feels like?”
Christina stared at him silently. She’d seen Derrick drunk enough times now to know that his questions were simply rhetorical statements, like lines in a one-man play. He didn’t want her to answer, and wouldn’t hear her even if she did.
“That’s what I always wanted to be, you know… a director. A fucking Hollywood director. Christ, I even became a fucking thespian in high school out of sheer eagerness to make it happen. Of course, I spent more time designing sets and tinkering with the shitty video equipment than hanging out with all the damn wannabe drama queens, but I was convinced it was my destiny.” He threw back another slug of his vodka and laughed. “Fuck, I was a naïve kid back then.”
Christina raised her eyebrows in surprise as Derrick swirled his drink and smiled dejectedly. She’d never heard him talk about his childhood before, and she wasn’t sure how to take it. Could it be that there was actually an emotional, god-forbid vulnerable man behind the abrasive, egotistical genius? The idea made her shudder.
“Then again,” he said suddenly, looking at her with sharp, lucid intensity, “I suppose I am a director in a way. Not on film of course, but in a much bigger way. Anybody can make shit up and put it on film, but how many can say they have the power to truly make their dreams a reality?”
“Not many, D,” Christina replied in a tone that bordered on the patronizing. “You’re definitely one in a million.” She quietly commended herself for being supportive of Derrick, even under these circumstances. Her mind drifted for a moment as she contemplated the shopping trip it was going to take to get him out of the doghouse when he sobered up.
Derrick gave her a thin smile and nodded his head. He drained his second vodka and placed the empty glass on the floor as he stood up unsteadily from the chaise lounge. “Fuck, it. It’s all nothing more than smoke and mirrors in the end.”