I sat at the wheel of the borrowed black Cadillac Escalade driving to the Ivy Restaurant. What I do is pull the car up to the garage around the corner, and then someone drives me one block to the restaurant where I get out and run in past all the photographers. Of course, the photographers all know I park my car around the corner, so they have two opportunities to accost me. Once when I dash from my car to the black Chevy Suburban that takes me to the Ivy, and then a second time when I get out of the Suburban and run into the Ivy. They have two chances to take my photo.
My hands were shaking. I am trying to quit smoking. My last cigarette was about four hours ago and I am already getting the shakes. Well, not really the shakes. I am just dying for a cigarette. I do not know how I let it happen, but I got up to almost two packs a day. That wasn’t good. But it happened so fast, and the damn little things just became part of my life like breathing. My palms were sweating all over the steering wheel. So I turned the corner onto North Robertson and saw the crowd of people in front of The Ivy. It looked like a busy afternoon, as usual. Mostly photographers, of course, and I saw three big video cameras too. They all recognized my Escalade, and started getting all excited and moving into position, thinking that I might stop and get out. But I didn’t. I did slow down though.
Now why did I do that? Why do I even come to the Ivy when I hate the crowd of photographers and the phony questions they ask to pretend that they are being nice or friendly. They don’t give a shit about me, really. If I had a heart attack right there in front of them, or fainted, they would love it. They would all be taking photos of me on the pavement dying or dead, not one helping or trying to revive me. The photo of me, Lindsay Morgan Lohan, unconscious or dead would be more important to them than helping me. The first thing they would do is run off and call US Magazine or People or some other fucking magazine that would offer thousands of dollars to these assholes for a photo of me dead.
I made the turn to get to the garage and wondered again why I was even coming to the Ivy. I mean, I come here like four times a week. Why? I know the vultures are all there waiting for me. I know this. And I hate it. So why do I do it? I must love it? No. I can’t love it. I hate it. Damn, I needed a cigarette. The Ivy is like this addiction. Driving in big black cars and pulling up to the crowd is like an addiction. I hate it. Yet I can’t stop doing it. I feel compelled. Where’s Harry? I need Harry, my boyfriend. Well, I am not sure he is still my boyfriend, but he does give me pills, and I need some pills right now. I like dropping them right before the photographers start snapping their flashes. It makes me say “hello” rather than “fuck you.” It’s important that I say something nice even though I want them all to go to hell. The pills help me say nice things. Pills are easier than cocaine. Harry started me on the cocaine, but it is really is a hassle. The cocaine makes me nice. The pills make me nice. But I didn’t have any pills. I didn’t have any cocaine. And I needed a cigarette. I did not feel very nice.
OK. Here’s the garage. And there they are. Maybe twenty people, all with cameras. Here I go. I have to race to the black Suburban and then be taken to the Ivy. One block. God I hate this. I need a cigarette. Where’s Harry?