One…

"Jesus H Christ on a popsicle stick!"

"You OK in there?"

He looked down at the Versace trousers pooled around his ankles.

`I'm a 43 year old, soon to be divorced man hiding in a toilet, puking my guts out, on what could be the biggest night of my life, while the elite of the business await and the whole world watches just because someone from my past could possibly, maybe, perhaps show up. Oh, I'm fucking great!'

"I'm fine," he called, pulling up his pants. As he tucked in his silk shirt, he was impressed by the lack of wrinkles in the fabric of the pants.

`Maybe $3,000 wasn't too much to pay for this tux after all.'

One more deep breath, a flick of the handle to start the flush, and he emerged into the impossibly large and overly decorated men's restroom at the Kodak Theatre. Heel clicks echoed off the Mediterranean tile on the floor as he walked to the sinks, hoping he was alone. He had no desire for small talk. *Imagine that, me not wanting to talk!*

He just needed to splash some water on his face, calm his nerves a bit, so when he did return, all the curious stares would see was a man giddily anxious over his chance at immortality. The water was cool, soothing his burning eyes and dampening the cuffs of his shirt. `Dry in an instant', he thought, watching the tiny whirlpool of water trip around the marble basin below, `Just like the unwrinkleable pants.'

"Man, you OK?"

His eyes met the intruder's in the mirror. Tiny droplets hung on the hairs of his slightly graying bread, some sliding down his neck, darkening the pristine white of his collar. He didn't immediately recognize the man behind him; couldn't put a face with a name. One of those rappers who parlayed one gold record into an acting career.

`Always cheapens the profession, doesn't it?' he thinks as he forces a smile to his lips. "I'm fine, thank you."

"I'd be puking my fucking guts out if I was in your shoes," the rapper said when he moves to the sink on the left. Hands plunge into the streaming water, splashing the inlaid countertop, "Nervous as hell."

He douses his face one more time with the cool water before examining it in the antique mirror above the sink. That's what they will all see. His face will show only the emotion appropriate for someone nominated for an Oscar and nothing more. He may be up to win in the director's category, but he was still a consummate actor.

He would put on a performance, never showing that his insides were doing Olympic size flips of glee, while running away scared shitless at the same time. His face would never betray what he truly felt over the prospect of walking back into the Theatre to see him.

"Loved the movie, just loved it!" the very tall, purple-suited rapper said as he shook his hands free of unwanted water.

Some drops landed on his tux, but he didn't worry. *This was a magical suit, wasn't it?*

"When he found that ring, man, I just bawled, broke down like a baby and cried."

"Yes, that was my favorite moment. Very poignant." With his nerves steeled, his face molded into place, he was anxious to begin the play.

"What is it with you and rings, man?" the pseudo-actor smiled a toothy grin as he rubbed his hands dry on a crisp linen towel. "First you want to lose one, then all you want to do is find one."

He laughed mildly at the weak joke. *Like I haven't heard that one before.* "Just fate, I guess." His hand was poised on the door. *If I don't get out of here soon, I'll be running back to the stall and start this thing all over again.* "I should get back. Don't want to miss my cue, you know."

The other man laughed. "Sure, sure, sorry for keeping you. Just want you to know, my money's on you and Isaac. Good luck."

*Good luck? That's what he says to me?* His mind raced as he walked back to the Theatre, sinking into incredibly rich carpet of the hallway. *Idiot doesn't even know that it's bad luck to say good luck before a performance!* And even though this was just the Oscars, and he was technically supposed to be himself, this would be the performance of his life. Exuberant winner or gracious loser, it didn't matter, he could play both with equal ease.

It was the other role, the one that had sent him scurrying to the restroom in the first place and brought his catered meal back up his throat, that he was uncertain and ill prepared for. He would be forced to play the confident, self-assured, content, supremely happy man when he looked into those eyes and that was everything he was not.

Now he used words like apathetic, bitter, regretful, hollow to describe who he had become. Oh, and don't forget lonely. That was his constant companion; it sat on the sink when he brushed his teeth in the morning, it drove to the office right beside him, ate meals with him, watched TV and read alongside him and it always snuggled him closely when the final light went out at night.

Not that he was alone; there was a constant stream of bodies that flowed through his days and nights, and they could make him laugh and become angry, they would comfort and cajole, they would listen to him and he would give advice in return. In the beginning, those bodies had tried, the more astute ones, anyway, to banish the dark spot from his soul, but it never worked, no matter how sincere the effort. The ache had come to define him and he guarded it fiercely; it was the only remaining reminder of him.

How long had it been? Three years, maybe more, since the last time they had been together in the same room. At the 10th anniversary of the release, that's when it was. There had been no time for anything personal, just in and out with cameras flashing in their faces all the time, picture after picture of the cast, or just the four of them; each one smiling broadly, each one showing, on the surface, at least, the camaraderie forged over long months of shooting, a friendship that could never be broken by time and distance.

That was true in dome cases, but the one that mattered most to him had been ill-recoverably torn asunder on a stretch of California beach 4 years prior.

Since then, their paths had not crossed, both keeping to different schedules, social circles and continents. The constant deluge of information about his whereabouts made it extremely easy to stay away; just check any movie magazine and wherever he was, be someplace else.

He had had to read about the two back-to-back Golden Globes wins on the internet, (Thankfully, his own had been the year before), the SAG award for lead actor, (his the year after), but the press release showing a gap toothed grin with the People's Choice, (he had never received one of those), had been sent via email by a concerned friend. It was immediately deleted.

When the movie monopolized his every waking moment, (a few sleeping ones, too), he had been able to shut it all out without anyone shaking their heads at him sadly and whispering words like denial and pity behind their hands. He did forget, briefly, when shooting scripts needed to be revised, and budgets were argued over.

The constant coddling of the suits and the dance with the press wore on his nerves until they were bleeding and raw. But, this had been good. This meant he was bleeding for some other reason than him. The actually filming had been a dream: the actors, lovely, hard working people all, melded together like family, and that is saying quite a bit when you consider one of the leads was a 150 ft wall of water.

The crew anticipated his every need, ideas and suggestions passing among them all with one goal in mind: a great film. The four month shoot had been arduous, dangerous, (the 150 wall of water, remember?), bone numbingly exhaustive. But, as the crews packed in the last battery pack, and he was saying his farewells to the city of Galveston, he secretly wished for four more months of grueling work. He knew what awaited him in LA - weeks of editing and an empty house.

Even though she was an equal partner in the production company, it was her choice not to travel to the location in Texas. She stayed and he went. Not that the separation would be difficult, they had been sharing only an address and a public image of happiness for years.

For the girls, for his career, for the sake of the business were the main excuses given when the charade of their marriage began. Now they had had so much practice at being married for the camera, it had become second nature to them both. Her absence from the filming would not put a burden on him; he had been without her for the last 7 years.

The ultimatum had come in the form of a hand scribbled note left hanging on the refrigerator under a magnet used to hold his youngest daughter's latest masterpiece. Only 5 words on the paper, yet it all began and ended for him right there: "Him or the girls. Decide."

He did. Broke the heart of his soul mate to devote his life to being the stable father he had never known. He had walked away, but the damage had already been done. What marriage could survive the past memories of perfection?

That name was never mentioned, all remnants and reminders of his existence were expunged from their lives. It was hard on the girls explaining to them the total loss of one of their favorite "uncles", but eventually, even they spoke of him less and less, until their lives were completely free.

There were no physical manifestations left, yet still he remained in the heart. She had seen him in her husband's eyes, in the way he sighed for no apparent reason. She had even felt him on the few times they had crowded naked on the bed desperately seeking a way to rekindle their lost passion.

The final break had come with a simple touch. Washing those dishes that did not fit in the dishwasher after dinner, he was drying and their hands brushed briefly over a Dutch oven. It was the touch of a stranger. Quietly folding the dish towel, she had told him how things were going to play out. Separate but equal, to use that infamous phrase.

He gave no protest, only nodded then left to remove his things to the spare bedroom. And it was in this state, one yet really two, that he had left for Texas to begin filming.

She gave him the news via email. Just like her last message, this one, too, was short and to the point. "Just like you, I found another man." Only his secretary, who had worked for the company for the past 10 years and fairly up-to-date on all matters, understood why the usually sedate loner of a director chose that night to go on a drinking bender that halted filming for two days.

On his return to the set, bleary-eyes and chagrined, he was no less hard working and creative, but his slumped shoulders and apathetic demeanor told a different story. Several times he was heard to mutter, "7 years! He could have been with me. 7 years!"

But, since the hearer did not posses the knowledge of that secretary, those ramblings of the director were chalked up to the outpourings of the slightly cracked artistic mind.

Isaac was paramount. Well, actually it was being distributed through New Line, but it was the most important thing in his life. Nothing could get in the way of its success. As a result, the ending of the sham marriage had to be postponed until after the premiere. That hadn't stopped him from moving out and finding a small 3 bedroom bungalow tucked away in the hills of San Clemente, though. It only meant that the `happy' couple met in the limo on the way to appearances.

One slip up, a quick kiss between her and the `other man' in what they thought was a deserted parking garage, and the news of yet another Hollywood marriage dying hit the papers with a splash. The sense of relief was so overwhelming, he had cried. Now, the only pretending he would be forced to show was about him.

All the struggle and nervous breakdown inducing work obviously paid off; the movie had box office sellouts and became the critics darling. It had been his insistence that the movie open during the fall dead zone, between the end of September and the Thanksgiving holiday: no blockbusters to contend with.

It was either a stroke of genius or good luck, because Isaac rode to the top of the charts for 6 weeks and was only knocked off by the latest Harry Potter. The buzz had begun immediately, but he really didn't pay much attention; heard all the rumors before. Isaac appeared on all the year-end top ten lists, even made the cover of Newsweek.

He went to the DGA awards, came home a winner; the LA and NY Film Critics soon followed. The Golden Globes found him nominated, but outdone by Stephen Soderberg. The Oscars were announced, his name included, and the congratulatory messages began pouring in.

Most he sent to the recycle bin, enjoying the ding when they had been removed from his life forever. A few he kept; the ones from his brother and mother both making jokes about a `film family dynasty', and the couple from his daughters, theirs filled with hugs and kisses.

This morning he had checked, expecting the obligatory kisses to his ass and promises to enhance his performance in the bedroom; but when those had been tossed out, one still remained.

He had sat there in his sparsely furnished living room, coffee cooling on the coaster at his left hand, just staring at his mailbox contents. There was no name, no indication who had sent it. The title of the message was a simple, "For You" and, inexplicably, this sent his stomach into a routine of round offs and tumbling moves to make Mary Lou proud.

The minutes ticked by and he continued to stare. His screensaver kicked on. One flick of his finger against the mouse and the message appeared again. He knew it could not be from her, those had already been deleted. His family and friends all read and put in the appropriate folders. As he stared, he knew; didn't know how or why, he just knew this one message could either be his salvation or his total destruction. He opened it and saw that it was both.

*Sean,
See you at the Oscars.
Lij*

Scrambling away from the computer, he fell to the floor in his haste, legs tangling with the chair. He crawled away, gasping for breath, and managed to drag the chair into the kitchen before it gave up and let go. The door provided the needed support as he scratched his way back to his feet. It was flung open harshly, shattering 2 panes within its delicate design when it crashed into the wall. He stood on the back deck, unable to breathe, or think or do much of anything.

*Sean,
See you at the Oscars.
Lij*

The pain and depravation of living without the one who completed him, the despair and burden over a life lived with a lie at its core, gushed forth and spilled all over the deck, the hillside, the neighborhood, his life. He allowed himself to mouth the name, while silent wracking sobs shook his body.

He had forgiven her for what she had demanded of him all those years ago; she had only been protecting her family the best way she knew how. But, absolution for him had never been given. A gift had been bestowed on him in the form of a gawky, hyper, magically effervescent young man, and he had snubbed the divine by walking away.

It didn't matter in the least that he had turned away for all the right reasons; it was inconsequential when placed next to the fact he had abandoned true love for the sake of an uncomplicated life. Love was found once in a lifetime; he had held it briefly, and then opened his hand, letting it disappear. Actions of that magnitude just could not be forgiven.

Their denouement had played out with the lights of his house glowering over their shoulders and the incoming tide drowning their feet. No words were said, only a piece of paper passed from one lover to another. A long stare out over the ocean, an inquiring look of expectation, a defeated shake of the head, followed by a heavy anguished sigh. The note was dropped as he walked away and the other lover watched it disappear with the tide.

Insistent and repeated phone calls from his brother, who was attending the ceremony with him tonight, finally irritated him enough to put his once again naked and oozing wound back in his pocket to answer the phone. The rest of the morning was packed with the most insipid of preparations, which would have seemed exciting had they not been leading up to tonight.

When the limo pulled up at his house, the mask went on; he was the witty nominee to the parasites on the red carpet, the hopeful director to those members of the production sitting around him, the nervous older sibling to his brother. All these he played perfectly, until an innocuous remark by one of the presenters, (something about helicopters), and the petrified and lonely man peeked out. That had sent him rushing out of the Theatre, praying to reach the restroom before his stomach did its appointed job in reverse.

He had always known this day would come, when he would be forced to look into those ellipses again, and have his soul laid bare. But, so far his avoidance tango had served him well. If he had been the cosmic event coordinator, he would have placed this reunion right after his own eleventy-first birthday when he would be too old to do much of anything except drool.

But, his people had not been consulted, so the fateful event would be played out when he was still in control of all his faculties, still able to plan for a future, and to remember his hurtful past.

Conversation. A topic. Something simple to talk about, something safe and unimportant, that's what he needed to devise. Have the script in his head so he wouldn't be a babbling idiot when confronted by the one thing he yearned to hold, yet didn't believe he deserved.

He had run the scenario over in his mind a million times since this morning, and it had played out one of two ways: at the first flash of those eyes, he would crumble to the red carpet a sniveling mass of raw emotion, begging for just one touch while Joan and Melissa Rivers commented on his lack of style; or, he would stand there, statue-like, as the paparazzi spun around them, unable to find the right words, the words that needed to be said, the words that would restore his heart to him and that smile would walk away again, leaving him devoid of everything. The limo slipped into the long line to wait its turn at the Theatre entrance, and his script was still going back for revisions.

The telecast was on one of those many commercials breaks, and he was able to sneak back to his seat without trouble or the intrusive camera in his face. The Isaac section, 15 seats strong, was on the fifth row back in the middle section. Not too shabby considering they had neither Jude Law in the cast, nor Spike Jonez as their director.

The little hurricane flick had shown itself proud tonight; nominated for 6, it had won best supporting actress, sound editing and original song. The losses to Richard and Weta in makeup and visual effects had been expected. Only one remained: best director. As he walked down the aisle to his seat, he had been scanning the crowd casually, attempting to catch of glimpse of him.

If he only knew where he as sitting, he would be able to calculate the distance between, thus coming up with a rough estimate of the time it would take him to travel from there to here, and how long he had before making the fight or flight decision. But, he had been among the glitterati gathered there. He wasn't sure if he was elated or disappointed.

As the red lights blinked on and the pageantry began again, he realized the whole ceremony would be over soon. Perhaps he got held up at the airport, hotel, drive-thru, and wouldn't make it. That would mean an easy escape out the back and a long drive down the coast putting the distance between them again. The avoidance dance could continue.

The writing awards given, another commercial followed and he was becoming almost buoyant at the obvious absence. The small talk muttered around him: promises of phone calls, the beginnings of deals, the snubbing of careers did not hold his interest. Looking at his watch 5 times in 10 minutes only added to his aggravation. He even toyed with the idea of just leaving now and forcing the presenters into making one of those lame `on his behalf' speeches. The assured wrath of his mother if he did was enough to hold him to his seat.

Best actor and actress went by with a blur. Couldn't even tell you who won. His legs would not stay still; they were bouncing up and down, much to the consternation of Glenn Close who sat in front of him.

His ears began to ring, and two trickles of sweat, one on his chest, the other between his shoulder blades, raced to see who could reach his waist first. His eyes were constantly darting back and forth, tongue wetting his dry lips. Everyone about him looked at his nervous state with sympathy; Best Director was next, of course he would be near panicking!

And that was the beauty of it all, this was true acting. The possibility of winning was remote at best; all his apprehension and terror over seeing him again was channeled into his performance of the anxious nominee. No one knew the true reason for his agitation. His performance was brilliant! *Where was the Best Actor Oscar? It should be mine!*

After the interminable waiting, and the ubiquitous honorary award, his time had come. PJ lumbered on to the stage, with shoes and a tie, and began to read the nominees. After this he could leave, he would be able to escape. With the names in alphabetical order, his was the first one read. A brief clip of the film was shown, (the water wall again), and appreciative and encouraging applause erupted.

It was all background noise to him, the actions on stage far away. All his attention was focused on the one small hand that had been placed on his shoulder as his name was read. The warmth of that touch suffused through his body; a peace bleeding into his cracked soul.

Lij.

He didn't need to turn to confirm who it was; he knew the feel of that hand intimately, the memories of his caresses had cradled him through countless tear filled and desolate nights. In the most instinctive of moves, he placed his hand atop and squeezed. The simple expression was returned. The reunion he had feared, agonized over, thought to avoid, danced around, ponder endlessly, begged incessantly for had all come down to this quiet moment.

There was no time for more. He found himself hauled up by his brother while those around him were standing and cheering with tears in their eyes. Numb, he allowed his body to be pushed out into the aisle, his shoulder cold now that his hand was gone.

Stumbling ahead, his vision locked onto PJ's grinning face. In his hands the golden statue, the one prize coveted above all others in the Business, and it would be going home with him. All those Goonies jokes, the hobbits barbs, the closed doors and unreturned phone calls, the dismissals and disappointments could now be laid to rest at the feet of Oscar.

This was the culmination of all his hard work and dreams. Yet, his mind was not on reaching the stage and taking his place in film history. No, he was craving that touch again. For 7 long years he had been deprived and, now that his senses had been reminded of heaven, he could not exist one more second without.

A slight weight landed on his back and a giggle rang in his ear. Heedless of the whole world watching, he spun around, bringing the weight crushing to his chest. He was no longer the geeky kid with the spikey hair. No, the frame he engulfed was that of a well muscled man.

In those eyes the innocence and exuberance of youth had been supplanted with a knowing sadness that life brings to all who live it. And as he searched that bottomless blue, and the applause faded away to curious stares, he discovered what he had only secretly prayed for in the darkness of his heart, but never truly believed he ever had to right to claim as his own again. Love.

One soft shake of a head, and he indeed did make film history by kissing his former male co-star right there in front of Jack Nicholson and everybody. It wasn't a long kiss, or an exceptionally passionate one. It was one of acknowledgement, however, one of announcement and proclamation. That brief joining of lips spoke of the tale begun in New Zealand and the love that continued still.

The Theatre was absolutely, morgue-at-midnight, complete vacuum silent, as he bounded up the stairs to take the award from PJ's hands. A knowing look was in that hobbitequse face as they embrace fondly. Taking a deep breath and with the words of his publicist running through his head, (shut up, Shut Up, SHUT UP!), he faced the sea of shocked faces.

"Thank you, Academy, for noticing the little film that could. My gratitude extends not only to those who gave heart and soul, blood and tears to this film, but also to those who purchased the tickets with their hard earned money and joined in the experience of that fateful day in Galveston, TX. Congratulations to all of Isaac's winners this evening. I am indeed humbled to be in your company. It is a thrill to receive this award from PJ, a man I greatly admire. And I can say with the utmost affection, that I am truly grateful "The Hobbit" was last year. I would like to send hugs and kisses to my two daughters, Alexandra and Elizabeth, who never go a day without some word to keep their old man humble. And finally,"

Hazel eyes locked onto blue, "to my heart's desire. Words are far too frail a thing to hold all that I feel for you in my soul. But, since that is all that I have at my disposal, these must suffice: I'm sorry, the wait is over, it begins here, and I love you, Elijah Jordan Wood."

Read Part 2 of 3