Chapter One.

Jill says:

When I first saw Maq I actually started to stand up and leave.  I’d wanted nothing but privacy.  I wanted to be away from any person who would say one more thing to me or tell me one more thing that had to be done.  I did not want anybody telling me how they are a big fan or how much I meant to them or anything.  I wanted silence.  I would not trade my fame and what I have for anything and I really do try to smile and be charming and friendly when someone imposes on my privacy.  I actually mean it.  I know that the only reason I am where I am is because of my fans.  I know that each of them deserve a part of me because they have made me what I am, but a person must have private moments.

Making a movie is a stupidly complicated undertaking.  The logistics can be hard enough, but, on top of that, too many of the people involved are above average narcissistic and egotistical.  Players all want a piece of the process and they all work to direct the flow of fortune or fame their way.  It makes me weary.

When you become a big star, you can take some control and make it work more in your favor, but that just makes you a part of the process and, in addition to the lack of privacy from the public inherent in this business, you have to start giving more of your time and being to the process.  It can create explosive frustration.  Especially when stupid things happen.

I am one of the fortunate ones, I can quit and never work again and I can pretty much set the conditions I want when I do work, but the bullshit does not stop.  As successful as I am, I have actually been propositioned by self-important assholes just like I was some struggling actor desperate for a part.  Their egos can be amazing.

Anyway, a few years ago we were in the preliminary stages of getting a movie made.  As a part of that process I was at a resort and, unexpectedly, because of senseless delays, I had several days to wind down.  The man in my life at the time was elsewhere.  My assistant had been sent somewhere to do some things.  I’d declined every invitation to dinner and to parties.  I was in a really relaxing location and in my superstar, egotistical manner; I made the production company agree to pay my bills for the week.

People at resorts like that one are generally pretty good about leaving you alone.  For the most part, they don’t gush.  They’ll eventually get around to asking for an autograph or to have a picture made, but they are sophisticated and genteel about it.  Nevertheless, even the least bit of attention irritated me.  I did not, however, want to sit in my room and watch television.  I found a secluded patio, a little corner, architecturally orphaned by some remodeling.

(Maq: Damn, you’re wordy.) (Jill: Shut up.  Remember, you’re the one that taught me to write dirty stories.  Besides, I’m shy.  I’m working into the good parts slowly.)

So, having finally found a place where waiters could serve me drinks discreetly while I enjoyed the sunset, this guy finds my corner and bumps in with a camera hung around his neck.  My first thought was “how did the fucking paparazzi find me.”  (Maq says:  I love it when you talk dirty.) (Jill says:  I know you do.)

Maq says:

I recognized her, of course, even if she was dressed down, wearing baggy khakis and a baggier top.  She had on the ubiquitous Hollywood ball cap that now draws attention rather than provide anonymity.  I am old and cynical and can hide it well if I am the least bit star struck.  Even before I met her, I sympathized with the humanity of celebrities and would not cast myself as a part of the overbearingly adoring public.  I was there to take pictures, but not of her. 

Her description of the little space of deck on which we found ourselves as being architecturally orphaned is superb.  (Jill: Thank you, dear.)  I’d been at the resort for three days in the hopes of selling something to someone.  He’d suggested we meet there.  I didn’t know it when we set up the meeting, but he was tangently related to the project Jill was working on and hoped to impress me by being blasé about his involvement.  Anyway, when her production had to take a break, he’d left me there.

I’d discovered the little forgotten space the night before and found it the perfect place to bring a drink and watch the sunset.  The night we met, there was a terrific lightening storm off in the distance. I knew the view had the potential for a dramatic photograph; thus, the camera.

I noticed the look she gave me when I arrived, the “fucking paparazzi” look and I quickly said, “Don’t worry, I’m not going to take your picture, I’m here for the sunset.”

I stood for a moment to see what she would say.  I knew that in the scheme of things she outranked me and I would leave and find another spot to take my photograph if she objected.

Jill says:

I realized immediately that he’d noticed my look of worry.  (Maq edits: look of disgust)  I felt bad about that, and said, “No problem.  It is a good view.”

He smiled, set his drink on a table, put his camera on a tripod and proceeded to ignore me.  I smiled to myself when I realized that I felt the typical celebrity conflict—I hadn’t wanted him to bother me and it bothered me when he ignored me.  (Maq says:  Not to worry.  By this point I was already relishing the fact that I would, in the near future, be able to casually mention to acquaintances the fact that I’d had drinks with Jill overlooking that which we were overlooking.)

So, he sat down.  A member of the staff scurried in to run him off.  I noticed.  Maq noticed.  Feeling bad about the look I’d first gave Maq, I waived the waiter away.  Maq smiled this irritating (and cute) smile he does when he makes a wry and accurate observation and said, “Thanks.  I really won’t bother you.”

“No problem.”  (Maq says:  And she smiled.  It is true what they say about people like her.  There’s something special about them.  I felt that smile in my gut.  It made me question my cynicism.)

The waiter appeared.  I ordered another drink.  Almost as a second thought the guy asked Maq, “And you sir?”

He smiled that smile and said, “Jack.  On the rocks.  Thanks.”

He turned to me and said, “Really.  Am I intruding?”

“No, really.  It’s okay.”

And we each turned to watch the sunset over the rail.

To make a long story short--we sat in companionable silence.  Often, the much sought after aloneness comes at the price of isolation.  Upon reflection, I realize that being alone in the company of another person is better than being alone in isolation.  It has a different quality, a continuing touch of humanity that elevates the pleasure of just being myself.  (Jill:  Does that make sense?) (Maq:  Doesn’t have to.  Besides, you’re making more sense than you did the night you tried to explain after too much wine.) (Jill: Screw you.)

He had his camera set up and took a photo from time to time.  And then came the moment. (Maq: Sounds like you should capitalize that.)  (Jill: Okay.)  And then came The Moment.  He took The Photograph.  I have a copy of it in front of me as I write this and I will try to describe the sense of what he captured.  Anyone who comes into my house sees the real thing.

Imagine a desert vista with mountains rising in the distance.  The sun has dropped down below a layer of dark clouds and the light has entered what photographers and cinematographers describe as the “magic moment.”  When filming we often prepare and sit for hours to capture a brief moment, usually much less than an hour, at either the start or end of the day when the light is low, allowing shadows to define the world but while there’s still enough light to provide full illumination.  On the best days the light does have a magical quality.  Pay attention in films and when you see one where they cared more about style than reality, you may see a shot that is supposed to be in the afternoon, but the quality of the light and the long shadows reveal that it was actually done early in the morning or very late in the evening.

We were facing the sun, but the haze and clouds and mists of the world filtered it so that it was way below blinding.  The edges of the dark clouds overhead were lit by the twilight colors of the sun.  The narrow band of sky at the horizon must have contained every warm, living color God created.  The earth was golds and purples.  To the south was the thunderhead.  A group of twenty or thirty horses were being herded in front of us, the dust they raised glowing from the sun.  Maq was clicking away.  Suddenly, from the thunderhead, lightening streaked.  It forked across the top of clouds and to the ground.  It was breathtaking.

I looked over at Maq to share what we’d just seen.  He was staring at his camera.

“Did you get that?” I asked.

He turned slowly my way.  I could actually see goose bumps on his arms.  He looked at me with a look of awe, his eyes wide and said, “I think I did.  Wow.”

“You have got to sell me a copy of that.”

“Man, I hope I got that.”  He broke into a big smile.  “If I did, I’ll send you one.”

Maq says:

It was serendipity.  Existence is always rolling along in its magic.  Occasionally, a random moment is sparked, and, if you are lucky enough to catch it and if you have any passion in your soul at all, it is spiritual.  Rarely can someone catch it in a photograph without the help of Photoshop.  I am not that good a photographer.  The chances of me pressing the shutter at exactly the right moment must have been astronomical.  But, I did.  And I was using an RB-67 with a wonderfully large negative area.  I’d slowed the shutter speed to catch the movement of the horses and to further enhance the diffusive effects of the dust they raised.  There was even some reflection from the mountain behind us that added light to the scene.  I do not expect to ever have another such perfect photographic moment.  (Jill says:  I think it was God’s way of making sure you eventually got into my panties.)  (Maq says:  Thank you, God.)

The photograph is amazing. She described the moment well.  Everything is there including the streak of lightening.  The shutter speed assured that I caught the colors.  The most amazing thing is that the lightening acted like a photoflash and etched the silhouettes of the horses, the blur of their movement obscured into darkness. (Jill says: R_______, a director, saw the photo in my house some time later.  He did a double take, examined it, and said, “Goddamn, that’s real.  Great shot.”  Trust me, from that man, that is as good a compliment as you can get.)  (Maq says:  You never told me that.)  (Jill says: Oh, good.  I still have a few secrets from you.)

Jill gave me a business card for JPL Production Company with her assistant’s name, phone number, and email, telling me, “Let me know if you got it.  I really would like to buy a print.”

I left the next day and did not see her again on that trip.

The picture was terrific.  The second best picture I’ve ever taken.  (Jill says:  What’s the first?)  (Maq says: Guess.) (Jill says:  Oh, my.  I’m blushing.)  (Maq says:  You guessed it.)

Just before I wrote this sentence, I deleted about ten pages of text that went into considerable detail about our eventual meeting.  I’ve saved it and I will relish it like I do the memories of all the moments leading up to all the first kisses I’ve ever enjoyed, but I know you guys are going to get restless if we don’t get to the good stuff.  So, out it goes and it is replaced with the edited and truncated version.  It might still be too long.

I sent her, in care of her assistant, a matted copy of the photo.  Along with a note telling her I’d be glad to send her a print of any size she might enjoy.  My address, phone number, and email were appropriately displayed on the back of the photograph.

And, heard nothing.

Jill says:

My assistant saw fit to protect me from fan correspondence.  That’s part of her job, but I failed to appreciate how well she did her job.  She thought the note and the photo were advertising trying to sneak its way to me and did not forward it or even respond to it.

She did, of course, keep that incredible photograph.

Weeks later (Maq: months later) my assistant’s cat got sick.  (Maq says: Just God’s way of making sure I got into your panties.)  (Jill says:  Thank you God.)  She got a call from her cat sitter while with me.  I think perhaps I pay her too much if she hires a cat sitter.  Of course, I urged her to rush home and I went with her.  There on her kitchen counter was Maq’s picture.

We figured out what had happened.  She apologized and pointed out his information on the back of the photo.  We checked our fan database to see if he’d ever sent any other correspondence, but he hadn’t.  (Sadly, one reason all my correspondence is tracked is to keep track of possible psychos.  It’s part of a security service for which I pay.)  I called him from my cell phone.

Maq says:

If you ever get a caller ID that says “JML Prod Co” answer it immediately.  You’ll be glad you did.  I was at dinner with friends and almost didn’t answer.  They never believed me when I told them who had just interrupted our dinner.

Jill said, “Mr. Maq, this is Jill Lane.  Remember when we had drinks at the resort and you took that photo?”

“Hold on, let me see if I can remember ever having drinks with you.  Oh, yeah, wait, you’re that actor that was in _____________. Right?  Yeah, I kind of remember.”  (Maq says: I had had some wine.  And, I was covering up shock with smartassedness.) (Jill says:  You almost blew it.  I didn’t appreciate your humor at that point.)

After a bad start, she realized I am a nice guy and she explained what happened and gushed a little and told me what size of photo she’d like and asked how much it would be and said she’d give me an address to where I could send it.

“I don’t have anything to write on.  Hold on.”

“Is maquido@hotmail.com still your email?”

“Yep, that’s me.”

“I’ll email you an address tonight.”

Damn, I had Jill’s phone number and was about to get her email.  How special was that.  Too bad I wasn’t a reporter for The Enquirer.

Jill says:

I was comfortable.  He’d been very nice on that little veranda at the resort.  He’d done what he’d said and sent me a copy.  He’d never followed up or tried to bug me.  I was a little pissed off at my assistant and at a lifestyle that requires such shelter.  I took the photo with me and let my assistant know I’d return it when I got my copy.

Anyway, to speed along to the good stuff.

I got my photo.  I kept up an email correspondence with Maq.  We became good friends over the internet over the course of many months.  The longer he went without trying to impose on me, the more comfortable and closer we became.  (Maq says:  The longer we went without her being all Hollywood, the more she became a real person that allowed closeness.) 

Our correspondence evolved.  We’re going to put in some excerpts from many emails as if it is a conversation.  You have to understand that what follows are excerpts from over two years worth of email.  In all that time, we never met personally.  Giving you only smidgens of our email removes the organic, multi-dimensional aspect of how our relationship grew, but it gets us to the “good stuff” that we really want to write.  (Maq says: smidgens?) (Jill says: smidgens is a perfectly good word) (Maq says:  Yeah, but in the same sentence as the phrase “organic, multi-dimensional”)  (Jill says:  Shut up.)

Excerpts from email—

“I received the photograph and it is gorgeous.  Thank you so much.  I’m sorry for all the confusion.  How much do I owe you?”

“You don’t owe me anything.  My pleasure.  And, I understand about the confusion.  I can only imagine the craziness of your lifestyle.”

“It is crazy.  Maddeningly so.  You must let me pay you something.”

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

“Everybody deserves to be paid.”

“Goddammit, it’s a gift.  Shut up.”

(Jill says:  We’re leaving out some friendly stuff.  The argument over paying went on for a couple of months.)

“Okay. Okay.  Thank you very much.  It has been admired by many.”

“Good.”

“Do you want to make some money?  Several people have asked where they can buy a copy of the photograph.”

“Nah.  Frankly, I kind of like it just being in your hands.  After all, if you’d paid me for it, we’d never have carried on in email this long.  And, I’m kind of enjoying that.”

“Okay.  I’ll just tell everybody that it is a one of kind by an eccentric artist that does not make duplicates.  You know, I’m enjoying corresponding with you, too.  It is not often that I have the chance to make a ‘normal’ friend.”

There came a time when another famous male celebrity was reported to have pissed off his gorgeous girlfriend by going to a strip club. 

Jill said in an email: “MEN!  Geesh, why do they do that?  He’s sleeping with who he’s sleeping with and does what he did.”

“Well, what can I say about men?  Amongst my crowd, strip clubs remove a lot of the problems and complications and the sheer impossibilities of getting a pretty girl to take her clothes off.  I’m past the point where I enjoy the stripping without the follow through, and I’m not stupid enough to think that a stripper is going to fall for me.  But then, that’s probably a difference right there.  He can probably get the strippers to follow through.”

“But why?  I’m sure his girlfriend was following through.”

“Well, perhaps it’s like what’s his name said, ‘you don’t pay prostitutes for the sex, you pay them so they’ll go away when it’s over.’  Or something like that.”

“You’re probably right.  Then that’s another thing that sucks.  The men in this business can get away with that kind of stuff much easier than the women.”

“Ah, poor baby.  Life in the spotlight is tough, isn’t it?”

“Parts of it are.  And sad.  You can’t even trust your boyfriends in this business or you’ll read about it in the tabloids complete with pictures and a video for sale on the internet.”

“Yeah, I understand.  I’m glad I’m not famous.  I can practice kinky sex without fear of publicity.”

“Ha. Ha.  But you know what, it’s true.  I have photographers parked on the road outside my house.  I worry about my cell phone being intercepted.  I know someone who bought a computer and when she picked it up, the geek salesman had loaded something on it that was sending him copies of her email.  Now, aren’t you sad?  Even if I wanted to, I can’t talk dirty to you in our email.”

“Our email?  You want to talk dirty to me?  Cool.”

“That’s funny.  You know what I mean.  Over the last year I’ve found myself being more honest with you about stuff than anybody, because I trust you.  I really can’t trust anybody in my world.  Too many people watching.  I might not want to talk dirty to you.  But I’ve written other stuff to you and deleted it because I’m afraid someone can intercept my email.  You don’t keep copies of these do you?”

“I keep encrypted copies that are safe even from the government.  If you really have a need, there are ways to have safe communication.  Let me know if you’re really interested.”

“I am really interested.”

And so followed some technical correspondence about scrambled cell phones (she has one), public key encryption, anonymous remailers and the like.  To which she responded:

“Too much trouble.  Besides I don’t have anything to say to anybody.”

“Now, that doesn’t sound good.  I fear perhaps you’ve shut yourself off too long.  You run the risk of stifling intimacy with that attitude.”

“I thought a lot about what you said.  I’ve been in this business so long that I’ve never enjoyed the freedom to be me.”

“Okay, then, that’s my job.  I’ll be your intimate sounding board.  I’ve actually kind of relished having you as a secret friend and now I am resolved to keep it that way.  Jill Lane, I promise I will never reveal a secret about you, or repeat anything you say.  I’ve never told anybody we correspond and now, I promise I never will.”

Jill says:

I don’t think Maq realized how special our friendship was to me.  At the time we were discussing the absolute lack of privacy in a celebrity’s life, I was going though some angst.  I read his promise to me late one night after some wine and I actually cried.

You know, it is not really a lack of privacy.  I can buy privacy.  But, I really can’t risk doing stupid things, even in private, especially when anybody, however trustworthy, is around.  At the time Maq made his promise, I only had one other person to whom I could say anything, and in front of whom I could act anyway I wanted.  That’s my cousin Lacey, the only cousin who never asked me for money or for a part in a movie.  I don’t get around her near enough.  When we were young we did crazy things together.

It is not even safe to talk to a therapist.  They, too, can’t keep secrets.  I know.

Anyway, his statement struck a very sensitive chord with me.  By this time, I’d known him by email for a couple of years.  Like I said, we’d talked about a lot of stuff not shared here.  People, treasure the intimacies of your friendships.  And, I said to him:

“I’d take you up on that if I could.  Why don’t you move out here.  Be my friend.  Then we could really talk.”

Maq says:

There was a note of despair in her emails that struck a chord with me, and I said to her:

“Okay.  You want to be able to say anything you want to me?  I can make it safe if you’re serious.”

“I’m serious.”

And I explained what I could do.  She sent me a money order.  I bought a laptop and installed a piece of customized software that I once wrote for another person concerned with discretion in email.  I sent the laptop back to her.  I even sealed it with a wax seal, partly as a joke, but also to seriously assure her that there had been no tampering by Federal Express.  By separate cover, I sent her thirty data CD’s and instructions.  The CD’s comprise an enormous set of what amount to encryption tables, comparable to one time use encoding tablets.  (Maq:  Please no emails to educate me on encryption technology.  I don’t wanna know.)  The software uses the CD’s to encode a text message.  The message is encrypted on the laptop, put on a floppy, transferred to the internet connected machine, and sent as a file the other person.  They are decoded using identical tables.  The laptops we use to code and decode are never attached to the internet.  They overwrite their erased disks to the highest possible standards.  As long as we keep the CD’s secure, the code is unbreakable.

Overkill?  I sensed a need in her emails.
     (Jill says:  You did good.  It was just what we needed.)

Emails continue with the first I received from her after she got the laptop:

“Well, that was easy.  I’m impressed.  Send me something back, so I can see how it works.”

“Here you go.”

“Cool.”

“Let me know if you want another set of CDs for anybody.”

“No.  This is between you and me, my secret friend.”

“So, say something dirty.”

“Ha. Ha.  FUCK the paparazzi.  FUCK the reporters.  FUCK all the fuckers that want to fuck with me.”

“Fucking A.  Feel better?”

“Fuck yes.”