Into the Woods

3 Celebrities They’re Just Like Us!

3

CELEbrITIES: THEY’RE JUST LIKE US!

Gretchen

I have seen Teddy Knight naked. I have seen Teddy Knight naked. I have seen Teddy Knight naked.

The refrain looped through my mind as I stepped onto Teddy’s porch and knocked on his door. He didn’t seem like the kind of guy who was good at setting alarms, and I didn’t want him to miss sunrise circle.

Well, no, LOL, that was a lie. I wanted to yank him abruptly from a peaceful slumber because I was so sick of smug, entitled, self-impressed men that I wasn’t behaving rationally.

Or maybe I was rational for the first time in my life.

It did occur to me—after I knocked—that since I was at Wild Arts to take a break from men, the best way to do that was probably to… take a break from men. As in, not let the first one I saw get me riled up enough that I started plotting ways to annoy him.

What were the odds? To think that Teddy Knight had likely been nearby in the Hyatt when I’d taken the unheard-of step of rejecting his bandmate. Honestly, if I believed in fate or any of that woo-woo bullshit, I would say that landing at Wild Arts with a member of Concrete Temple meant something. But I didn’t, so the most my atheist self would allow was that the randomness of the universe could be pretty funny sometimes. And not ha-ha funny, but fuck-me funny.

I knocked again, louder, my fist thudding on the door bringing to mind the thud in my gut when I’d googled Teddy Knight early yesterday morning after reading Marion’s email to both of us with instructions on what to do at the airport. Tennyson “Teddy” Knight, bassist for Concrete Temple. Or maybe I should say ex-bassist, as Google had informed me that the band had broken up after the last stop on its tour the previous week.

I’d told myself to give Teddy the benefit of the doubt. He was going to be my colleague at Wild Arts, and it wasn’t fair to lump him in with Scott. For all I knew they’d broken up due to personality differences. And I had given him the benefit of the doubt—for all of ten seconds, until I clicked on a TMZ post reporting that the band had broken up because Teddy had thrown a tantrum and trashed a hotel room.

And the way he acted when I tried to introduce myself at the airport: sheesh. I’d just been going to say, Hey, I think we’re both late additions to the Wild Arts faculty . I’d been able to google him, but there are hundreds, maybe thousands, of Gretchen Millers in Minnesota. There’s also the part where I’m not famous. But OK, message received. At least, unlike with my Tinder dudes, I hadn’t wasted any time dating him or any vulnerability sleeping with him. No, that was the job of his Instagram-influencer girlfriend, Karlie Carroll, God bless her.

I sent myself back to last night. After getting settled into my cabin, I’d walked across the road to check out the lake. I’d been standing there, staring at the dark water, thinking about whether I would be the kind of crone who cursed men or if I’d take it up a notch and be the kind of crone who cursed men and also lured stupid young women to the forest and ruined their lives, when Teddy appeared. He was carrying his lit-up phone, he was stomping across the beach—he passed maybe ten feet in front of me—and he was stark, raving naked. He was holding the phone at waist level, and I could see all the goods. I mean, I could also see a hint of some abs and some tattoos—when it came to rock star torsos, Teddy Knight’s was very on the nose—but can you blame me for focusing on the goods? They weren’t anything extraordinary, just your basic penis and balls at rest in a thatch of dark hair, but it was weird to be seeing a dude’s junk in a nonsexual context.

But maybe also a little gross? He didn’t know I was there; he had the reasonable assumption of privacy. I forced my gaze up—even assholes deserved privacy—and took in more tattoos and inexplicably attractive shoulders.

I needed to cut it out with the stealth ogling. I was turning out to be as bad as the men of Tinder when it came to basic human decency. I transferred my attention to the public, above-the-neck region of Teddy Knight and had to stifle a sigh. He had thick, lustrous, mahogany hair pulled back into a hefty bun my ballet girls would have killed for, a sharp, angular jaw, and a few days’ worth of beard scruff. I tried to tell myself that anyone would look good in shadows like this. It was a lie. Even in the harsh overhead light of baggage claim back at the airport, Teddy Knight had been gorgeous. It didn’t seem fair that someone with such a pretty face should also look like a Greek god. Or maybe a Greek god’s tattooed, black-sheep, wayward brother—though come to think of it, they probably had Greek gods who fit that bill.

No wonder he was such a jerk. If someone that beautiful was also a nice person, it would probably violate some rule of the universe. Tinder Lesson #1 was that the hot guys were the worst.

But the not-hot guys were also the worst, so I wasn’t sure how much stock to put in Lesson #1.

But it didn’t matter because I was on my way to being a post-Tinder crone.

Teddy’s stomping became more pronounced when he hit the dock. Bam, bam, bam, bam. After he passed me, I got a view of his butt.

He barely broke stride as he approached the end of the dock, just paused momentarily to set down his phone before walking off the edge. He slipped into the still water without a splash.

It had been interesting to appreciate him from afar. To admire his admittedly smoking self with my mind, with no attachment to the idea of him, no eye toward a possible future, no worries about if I’d groomed sufficiently or had enough funny anecdotes on deck to make for good conversation. Setting aside the fact that I don’t sleep with known jerks—no, I just sleep with guys who later turn out to be jerks—I wasn’t here for that.

Under no circumstances was I going to have sex with Teddy Knight. It was never going to happen. So I’d been able to watch him with an air of detachment. That, in turn, made me realize how much I normally didn’t, or couldn’t, do that. I evaluated every man I met through the pathetic lens of Could he love me? Could I love him?

Gah. Gross.

Here, with me actioning Pillar Two on the whole Midlife Crisis: Averted project, everything was different.

Teddy Knight was never going to love me, and I was never going to love Teddy Knight. I found that oddly freeing.

So I would like it stated for the record that my I have seen Teddy Knight naked earworm was not about the fact that he was famous. It was merely that Teddy Knight was a human male I had seen naked and was not going to sleep with. It was another one of those the-universe-has-a-sense-of-humor moments: Here I was, day one of my naked-human-male moratorium, and what was the first noteworthy thing I saw? A naked human male. A naked human male formerly of the same band as Scott fucking Collier. All you could do was laugh.

I was laughing, in fact, when Teddy yanked open his door and growled, “ What? ”

Right. Because I was standing on his porch, where I’d pounded on his door purely to provoke him. Which was something I was going to knock off. I had a feeling that neither Teddy nor I was our best self around the other.

He was still naked. Mostly. He was holding a strategically placed pillow over his junk. Which I had already seen.

I still felt guilty about that.

“What do you want?”

I want to annoy you because I can tell you don’t get enough of that in your regular life? “I came to get you for sunrise circle.” Realizing I was talking to the pillow, I transferred my attention to his face. He was all sleep-mussed, his hair half in last night’s bun, half around his shoulders.

He squinted against the bright light. “Seems like the sun’s already up.”

“Sunrise circle turns out not to be literal. Which you would know if you’d read the welcome package.”

Listen to me. What did I care if Teddy Knight read the welcome package? “You know what? I’ll just see you there.” I didn’t need Teddy making me late for day one anyway. I was a punctual person. I ran a tight ship, at the studio and in regular life.

I was about to step off Teddy’s porch when I heard a “Hey.”

I turned back. “What?”

“Do you have a keyboard in your cabin?”

“Yes.” I’d had some fun last night plunking out songs I remembered from my brief tour through piano lessons as a kid—I’d had to quit when we had to sell the piano—but the keyboard was wasted on me. This camp was, as Rory had reported, partially meant to be a retreat for the artists. The rest of them were staying for ten weeks. There were the two four-week camp sessions, but also a two-week interstitial period in which the artists were meant to do arty things without the distraction of campers. I was only staying for the first camp session. I had to get back to my real life.

That was fine, though, as I wasn’t an artist in the sense the others were. What would I even do over that interstitial period?

Too bad they didn’t want anyone to teach people how to write a business plan. I would kill at that.

“Do you want to switch cabins?” Teddy asked.

“Do you not have a keyboard? Sure, I’ll switch with you.” Teddy Knight might be a smug, entitled ass—with a very nice actual ass, my mental tape from last night reminded me—but I could hardly deny the musician among us the cabin with the keyboard.

“No, I have one.”

“Then why do you want to switch?”

“If you take this cabin, you’ll have the lake view.”

“Oh.” That was… nice? It was, right? I tried to imagine what ulterior motive he might have but came up with nothing. So I switched to trying to think what ulterior motive the shitty men of Tinder might have in this situation, but then I realized they—and Teddy—were not worth the mental energy. “I’m good, thanks. I’m only staying the one session. Anyway, I’m all unpacked and organized.”

He rolled his eyes as if to communicate that being unpacked and organized was somehow a character flaw. The dude probably had a manager and an army of handlers and personal assistants who told him when it was time to take a shit. The rest of us had to run our own lives, our own small businesses. So yeah: tight ship, no apologies.

We stared at each other for a few seconds. His intense, unstinting attention made me squirmy on the inside, but my years of dance training had taught me to keep my body perfectly still when the situation called for it.

I reminded myself that I didn’t owe him anything. I wasn’t trying to make him like me. So I just said, flatly, “See you.” I had sunrise circle to get to. I stag-leaped off his porch. Time for some kumbaya nature shit.

There was no one outside at the flagpole where sunrise circle was supposed to be held, so I headed for the dining hall, where I could see a door propped open. The hum of chitchat grew louder as I approached, but the moment I emerged into the large room filled with long, Hogwarts-style tables with benches, everyone fell silent.

Four sets of eyes swung toward me. One set I recognized: Danny. I knew the other three, too, as I’d done extensive googling of the other artists in residence. Well, all of them except Teddy, as I hadn’t realized he was coming until I received Marion’s email yesterday morning. It all made sense, though, now that I knew that the musician Teddy was filling in for was married to Imani Tran, the dancer I was filling in for.

“Hi.” I waved to the group. “I’m Gretchen Miller.”

A tall Asian woman I knew from my research to be the painter Maiv Khang grinned. I’d cruised an online version of a recent exhibition of hers at the Walker Art Center. Her paintings were amazing. Just seeing them on the screen had me in awe of her talent. “Hi, Gretchen. I think we’re all being so weird because we were talking about Teddy Knight, and we thought you were him.” She rolled her eyes self-deprecatingly. “You know, caught gossiping about the celebrity.”

Apparently even acclaimed artists were awestruck by rock stars.

“But is he really a ‘celebrity’?” Danny asked. “Would you recognize him on the street? I feel like the other guy is the famous face of Concrete Temple. What’s his name?”

“Scott Collier,” I supplied, ordering myself to keep my sneer internal.

“And that’s probably at least partly because he’s married to that model, Cinda Lewis,” Danny said.

Scott Collier was married ?

Of course he was.

There was a sniff from a man I recognized as Jack Branksome, a novelist who was famous for two things. One, his debut novel, which the New York Times had called a tour de force. Two, his refusal to let Hollywood actress and power producer Blair Kellermoon use his tour de force in her book club. The latter had earned him a reputation as a snobbish elitist.

“Well, Teddy sure acts like a celebrity if you believe what you read,” said Maiv, who was wearing a Minnesota Twins T-shirt. I was a baseball fan myself, so this endeared her to me. “He’s kind of a grump, I gather.”

“Can confirm,” I said.

They started asking me questions about him since I was the only one there who had seen him. And I had seen him. Heh. Was Concrete Temple really broken up for good? Had Teddy said anything about the hotel room incident? What was he like?

I did my best to answer as I poured myself a coffee from the breakfast buffet. I didn’t know if Concrete Temple was broken up for good, but they must be broken up for at least the summer, right, if he was here? He had not said anything about the hotel room incident. “As for what he’s like, hmm. He is very…”

Rude. Humorless.

Gorgeous. In possession of hair that would make teenage ballerinas weep.

What could I say that was truthful but wouldn’t sound like I was running him down? Or objectifying him? Not that I cared, really, but it was probably a good idea to behave with decorum in front of my colleagues. “Teddy Knight is very…”

“Here!” Maiv whispered.

I turned, knowing what I’d find because I had that same squirmy feeling I’d gotten earlier when Teddy had been staring at me.

“Don’t let me interrupt,” Teddy drawled as he approached. He was wearing a ratty gray T-shirt, a pair of cutoffs, and the combat boots that had passed muster with Lena last night. His hair was in a fresh bun.

“Good morning! It looks like we’re all here!”

Saved by Marion.

She strode in and clapped her hands, drawing everyone’s attention. If I were prone to intimidation, I would say Marion was a bit intimidating. To begin with, she was ultrarich. She’d have to be, to be funding Wild Arts. She was also smart and stylish and had that air about her that people do when they feel confident about their place in the world. Of course, it’s probably easier to feel confident about your place in the world when you’re ultrarich. Some of us had to work to acquire that attitude, had to constantly nurture it.

“Has everyone had enough to eat?” She gestured at the buffet. “The kitchen isn’t up to full speed until tomorrow. The binders in your room list the hours of meal service. You’re welcome to eat here or to get your food to go—though I note that campers must eat here. For now, let’s grab what we want and decamp to the flagpole.”

Outside, there were rows of rough-hewn wooden benches around the flagpole. Marion explained there was a morning ceremony to kick off each day. “It’ll be led by the counselors. Your attendance is optional, but I’d love it if you could make it a few times each session. As you know, your role here is to mentor. Beyond your initial one-on-one meetings with campers, your office hours, and your help with and attendance at the closing performances, I leave it up to you as to what that mentorship will look like. The counselors will run activities—of both the arty and non-arty variety—and rehearsals as we get closer to the end of the session, but you are more than welcome to join in at any time.

“But I’m getting ahead of myself. Now that we’re all here, let’s do introductions. Tell us who you are and a bit about your artistic goals for your tenure here.”

Danny I’d already met. He talked about the distraction of regular life and his desire to get a bunch of pieces made this summer, including some with natural, experimental glazes he was working on. I didn’t know anything about pottery, but he seemed interesting.

Maiv said she wanted to “play with the tension between urban and natural.” “We treat it as a binary,” she said, “but as I learned when I did a recent show on the encroachment of nature in abandoned urban spaces, nature takes over pretty fast. I want to explore what that means. I’ve been doing this in the city, but I thought it would be interesting to come here and approach it from this angle. What is nature like when people suddenly occupy it?” That sounded cool and ratified my initial impression of Maiv as a person worth getting to know.

Next was Jack Branksome. As far as I could tell, as he talked about his novel in progress, which “plays with themes of celibacy as metaphor for the post-postmodern,” his reputation as an elitist snob might be at least a teeny bit justified. He said he worked best in silence and had trouble concentrating at his condo in Minneapolis, so he hoped the quiet here would enable him to get a draft done. Good luck to you, Jack Branksome. May Blair Kellermoon have mercy on your soul.

Then there was Caleb Lyons, a theater actor from Minneapolis who was working on a one-man show. “I’ve somehow got myself typecast as a serious tragic hero—I’ve done Hamlet and Romeo, and I’m aging into Lear and Vanya. Which is fine. No, it’s great . I adore my job, and I consider myself lucky to have it. But I got into theater originally because I loved musicals—I was that musical theater kid. So I started thinking about writing a one-man show that would combine my love of classical theater with music. Most of what you see in that space is parody—the complete works of Shakespeare in sixty minutes, that kind of thing. Which is also great—there’s room for all of that. But I’ve been working on a piece that is basically a memoir told through the roles I’ve played, but with music. It’s hard to explain. As for why I came here specifically, honestly, I got ahead of myself and applied for and got a spot at the Brooklyn Fringe Festival in October, so now I’m in panic mode.” He performed a grin that became an exaggerated, self-deprecating grimace.

Ha. I liked this guy. I liked what he said, and I liked his refreshing candor.

“But it’s all good,” he went on. “It’s almost done—I’m just fiddling with it at this point. And I have some connections to an off-Broadway theater that may pick it up if they like what they see at the festival. So I just have to, you know… finish fiddling.”

It was my turn. “My name is Gretchen Miller. I’m a pinch hitter. You probably know that Imani Tran was supposed to be here. You might not know the name unless you know modern dance, but she’s a big deal. I am not a big deal. I’m a dance teacher. I think I might be the living embodiment of the saying about ‘Those who can, do; those who can’t, teach.’”

There was a polite murmur of disagreement. “It’s OK. I’m not saying that to run myself down. I’m a great teacher, if I do say so myself. And businesswoman, too.” I really was. I was proud of the way I, someone from a modest background and with no entrepreneurial experience to speak of, had built my studio from nothing into a place that celebrated dance in a way that—I hoped—turned its back on some of the garbage that often came along with dance culture. “I have my own studio, and I’m getting ready to expand it.

“Because I wasn’t planning on coming, and because, to be honest, my focus on dance has always been nested inside my identity as an entrepreneur, I can’t say I have a coherent artistic goal for my time here. And I’m only here for the first session. I’ll probably turn my attention to some choreographing for the upcoming season at my studio, but to be totally frank, I’m here more to achieve some personal goals.”

Wait. I should not have said that last part, given that I was not prepared to follow it up with a monologue about dating apps and my impending and voluntary crone-ification. So I went in with some humor for the save. “Yes, very important personal goals, which I should not have mentioned, because now I’m probably supposed to tell you what they are, but I am not going to do that.” I grinned, and so did some of my audience. “Let’s just leave it that I am in need of a reset, so I’m appreciating the change of scenery.”

“Thanks, Gretchen,” Marion said. “We’re so glad to have you here. We support artistic goals and personal goals alike. A reset, whatever form it takes, sounds like a worthy aim. And last but not least, Teddy?”

Teddy was still looking at me, as if he hadn’t registered that I’d stopped speaking. Marion had to call on him again, and he finally shook himself loose. “I’m wanting to write enough songs for an album.”

That was all he said, which cracked me up. These people were dying for more from Mr. Rock and Roll. I knew Teddy better than they did—I’d seen him naked, after all; did I mention that?—so I knew they were going to be disappointed.

“I hope that some of you will become real friends,” Marion said when it became clear that Teddy’s three-second speech was all she was going to get out of him. “Or at least camp friends.”

Maiv asked what camp friends were, and Marion explained that teenagers tended to form fast, intense friendships at camp. “I suppose they’re aided by the fact that there’s no technology here. Probably also by their hormones. There’s something about the setting, too, away from the distractions and pressures of their everyday lives. They latch on to each other, and they latch hard. And if they come back the next summer, they pick up right where they left off.”

The rest of the morning was spent going over stuff we’d need to know. The counselors were the ones responsible for the campers on a day-to-day basis, but Marion briefed us on the rules anyway, which covered everything from life jackets to shower schedules.

“What about showers for us?” asked Teddy, who had so far remained silent to the point of sullenness except for when he’d been made to speak about his goals.

“There’s a single-stall shower room behind the artists’ cabins,” Marion said, and Teddy perked up. “Sorry, I should have told you about it last night. It’s not on the map, just to minimize the opportunity for pranks—camp pranks are also a thing.”

“I’m intimidated by the idea of high school kids, to be honest,” Maiv said. “I did not enjoy my high school years.”

“Artsy kids are different,” I said. “They’re not going to fit your image of the typical high school kid. I’m not sure any kid is, actually.” I grinned. “Well, they are kind of obsessed with each other—and themselves—so in that sense they are. I can totally see how this concept of ‘camp friends’ is a thing.”

“Even if they’re not the terrifying teen-movie kids we’re imagining, how do we relate to them?” Danny asked.

“With this age, and in this setting, I think the key is not to try to relate to them as kids,” I said. “Sure, they’re not fully mature people. Their brains are still wiring themselves, which is good to remember. But for our purposes, especially since we’re not doing any of the direct supervisory stuff, try thinking of them as peers who are not quite as far down the road as you are.” I shrugged. It wasn’t really that hard. “Listen to them. Try to help them.”

After lunch, we met the counselors, most of whom were college students. They were earnest and smiley and very, very hyped. The world had not yet worn them down. The meet and greet was followed by a session in CPR and first aid. I was already certified in both, given my job, but it was good to have a refresher.

We were dismissed around three and told we were on our own until dinner. “Anyone want to go swimming?” I asked. I loved swimming. There was something about floating in water that buoyed me. Literally, but also mentally. Also, it was still hella hot.

Maiv and Caleb were up for it—yay. They were the two I had in my sights as camp friend material. Danny said he was going to the kiln to check on some pieces. Teddy initially said nothing, but when Jack said, “It’s cocktail hour,” he grunted in a way that sounded vaguely enthusiastic, and soon the musician and the writer had a plan to drink together. Fine; they deserved each other.

We walked back to the cabins together, as Maiv, Caleb, and I needed to change into our swimsuits.

“What’s the deal with Marion?” Teddy asked once we were underway.

“Her family manufactures cheese spread,” I said. I was a huge fan of the Kuhn family product line. “She runs the family foundation.”

“They sell enough cheese spread to support a foundation?” he asked.

“Oh yeah, it’s like a cheese spread empire,” I said.

“What the hell is cheese spread, anyway?”

No one answered, so I said, “You know, cheese that you spread?”

“Like cream cheese?”

“No. It comes in a tub and it’s usually cheddar and sometimes it has stuff in it like chives or bacon bits.”

“Is it orange?”

I tried not to chuckle. I wasn’t sure why, but the question, and/or its deadpan delivery, hit my funny bone. “It is orange.”

“So what you’re saying is this place is run by a processed cheese heiress.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing, but have you ever had cheese spread?”

“I had something called pub cheese when I was at school at Oxford, but I can’t say that I enjoyed it.” That had come from Jack, and I was a bit startled by it. It had felt for a moment as if it’d been just Teddy and me talking, as we’d bantered back and forth, but of course that hadn’t been the case.

Teddy and Jack went into Jack’s cabin—he apparently had some kind of rarefied sake in there, and they were planning to take it to Teddy’s lakeside porch to drink it. I dashed into my cabin and changed into my bathing suit. I didn’t want to keep my new friends waiting, so I went quickly, and when I emerged, I crossed paths with the sake boys making their way over to Teddy’s.

“You sure you guys don’t want to come with us?” I regretted it the moment it was out. I didn’t want them to come with us—I was going to work on locking down my camp friends—and I generally tried to avoid partaking in the standard Minnesota Nice politeness-for-its-own-sake bullshit. Or at least the new me did.

Teddy looked at me blankly. He had a way of doing that. Like it took his brain a few seconds to shake loose whatever else it was thinking about and participate in the conversation at hand.

Belatedly realizing I was standing there in my bathing suit, I wrapped my towel around my shoulders. Not that there was anything wrong with my suit. It was a two-piece, but a modest one with lots of coverage on both top and bottom. But their attention, particularly Teddy’s ultraintense brand of scrutiny, made me… what? What was this strange feeling? Was it shyness ?

No. Crones did not do shy. So I dropped the towel. I was wearing a swimsuit at a summer camp. That was a perfectly reasonable thing to do. If they wanted to secretly judge me, or secretly ogle me, that was their business. Teddy was still looking spacey, so I didn’t give him a chance to respond to the invitation I regretted issuing. “See you.”

Teddy started to speak and got as far as “Actually we could bring our—” when he realized Jack was talking, too, and stopped.

Jack said, “No thanks. I think I’m going to stick close to home. Gonna try to get some writing done after a drink.”

“Yeah,” Teddy said. “Me, too.”

“Suit yourself.”

The others had not emerged from their cabins yet, so I did a cabriole-sauté series to propel myself over to Maiv’s cabin to wait for her.