THE INCIDENT HAPPENED on day twenty-two of our month-long vacation; I turned to Brad and asked, "Brad, what's it like to be so beautiful?" He looked over the rims of his designer sunglasses, shrugged in that particular laconic way, and sighed.
That's Brad for you. I'm referring, of course, to Brad Pitt; acclaimed actor, philanthropist, and close personal friend. At the time, we were nearing the end of our annual pleasure-cruise in the amber waters of the Champagne Sea, an exclusive, man-made ocean designated for "celebrity use only" (I am not a celebrity, but Brad vouched for me). With his schedule being what it is, the cruises have become more difficult to organize, but somehow, we always manage.
For me, the cruises are a taste of the good life: endless four-story cheese and wine buffets, days spent playing holo-chess in hyperbaric chambers, and a troupe of scantily-clad swimsuit models painstakingly re-enacting my favorite battles from the Revolutionary War. But for the first time, I enjoyed these pleasures alone. For some reason, Brad had become more withdrawn during the course of the trip. While I played racquetball with Brad's steam-powered personal trainer, I saw Brad watching from the crow's nest with a jaded look of grim satisfaction. It seemed like he could no longer fully enjoy these toys of the mega-wealthy, but I think he enjoyed the fact that I enjoyed them.
For Brad, the cruise was not only an escape from his trappings of fame, but also, from himself. During our time at sea, Brad not only forbid the use of mirrors aboard his sail barge, but also prohibited the sizable crew from uttering the following words and phrases: "Brad Pitt", "Angelina", "Brangelina", "People Magazine", "Sexy", "Benjamin Button", and most of all, "Beautiful".
So, you can begin to understand the gravity of the situation surrounding my seemingly innocent question regarding Brad's beauty. Manila, Brad's resident mixologist, dropped a crystal decanter of absinthe and gasped as soon as the question left my lips. She'd seen Brad shoot men in the belly for less.
"Brad", I patiently repeated, adding an element of gravitas to my voice, "Tell me, what's it like to be so...beautiful?"
He sighed again. "I don't know," he said, smiling. "I should be asking you the same question."
"Cut the crap, Brad," I said. "You're being evasive. You know it, I know it...even Manila knows it."
Brad quickly shifted his gaze to Manila. She was using club soda and a damp rag to gently dab up the absinthe she'd spilled on the polar bear rug, but the moment her name was mentioned, she squeaked and ran into the walk-in fireplace.
"Listen, Brad...I know what you're doing," I began. "I may not understand it, but I can recognize it. It doesn't matter how many Champagne Seas you sail across or how many different kinds of prosthetics you disguise yourself with...you're still going to be the Sexiest Man Alive, goddamn it! Stop running from your birthright!"
Brad broke down and started to sob.
"You don't know what it's like! You don't know how it feels!" he howled. "You think I asked for this? You think I wanted to be this beautiful? No! No!!! I just wanted to make little movies and be an actor, a great actor! But I'll never be a great actor because whatever talent I have will be obscured by this!! This!!!"
His hands began tugging at the smooth skin of his face, contorting it into a horrible sneer, a parody of his handsome good looks. I suddenly realized Brad has some really fucked up image issues, and I was in way over my head. I regretted the four-hour coke party we'd just finished, but at the same time, I wished I had more coke. I decided I'd try to distract him.
"So...how about that sport team?" I ventured. But Brad was still trying to pull his face off like a mask while sucking absinthe out of the bearskin rug.
I walked over, dropping to my knees, cradling Brad Pitt's slouched form in my arms like some kind of fucked up Pieta. "Listen, Brad...I know you think being a modern Adonis is some sort of curse, and maybe it is. I'm sure it must be rough, to feel like beauty is your only contribution to the world, but you're wrong."
"I am?" Brad whimpered.
"You're goddamn right you are. Your beauty serves a crucial purpose: to make less attractive men feel inadequate. To make ugly people realize they're ugly! I mean, without such a flawless example of the masculine form, every Joe Regular would have self confidence! And we can't have that, can we?"
"No, we can't!" Brad exclaimed. I felt a warm feeling of accomplishment, but honestly, that could have been the coke.
"Thank you," Brad said. "Thanks for...giving me a bit of perspective."
"No problem, Brad. It's the least I could do. So, do you want to go feed frozen yogurt to baby birds to see how they handle lactose?"
"I thought you'd never ask," Brad said, smiling.
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