Another Oscar for O'Ryan

The great David O'Ryan has just proclaimed himself the king of Oscar speeches. At the Academy Awards ceremony, O'Ryan took the stage dazzled. He played his strong card and had as rivals the great masters of cinema who all went for the grand prize. But the award went to him, who gave a speech that went down in history. Delving into the details, we discover one of the most honest, emotional, and inspirational messages in the history of the Oscars.

We had all seen him with a similar statue a few years ago as best actor. And we have seen him earning another as the best director five years ago. This man, who stirs passions with his perfect physique, gifted us an emotional speech, very much in O'Ryan's style, without the need to have a speech written in front of him. He gave us all a lesson on what love and family mean to a man who has everything. Grateful for his team. Grateful for his wife. Grateful for his daughter. Grateful for his mother. He marveled the audience for two minutes. I had to search for many minutes for someone capable of criticizing that performance that the great David O'Ryan granted us. Are we witnessing the best actor of the last three decades?

A wise person once said that triumph lies in climbing to the top with your feet on the ground. The New Yorker is one of those men you know are at the pinnacle, but you know they are capable of walking those streets you know by heart.

"Do they pay you to write how perfect this man is?"

My friend and coworker, who works with me in the sensationalist section, is tired of reading my articles and blogs about the actor David O'Ryan.

He drags his chair from his desk to mine to look at my computer screen.

"It's news," I defend myself with a smile, glancing at him sideways before returning my attention to the screen. "He's the youngest actor to win three statues."

Do you see that perfect face that's taking up half of my screen? Are you seeing how perfect he is? Look at him closely. Don't miss a detail because you won't regret spending hours looking at him. Admire how well the tuxedo suits him.

My friend coughs to get my attention.

"Yeah, but, I don't know, girl, I don't know, play it cool. You seem like a crazy fan who any day now will sneak into his house and kidnap him. He's a man like all mortals."

"I don't admire him for his abs and that angelic face, dear. My admiration comes from everything he is to the film industry. We're in the presence of a great. He's living history."

"The only thing that interests me about him is the amount of money the guy handles. Did you know he's on the cover of Forbes as the wealthiest young man? Damn. How did he do it? He has a daughter who's almost eighteen and the guy has just turned thirty-five. A lifetime with one woman. Amazing. He must have a boring life there where you see him," he looks at the physical cover of our weekly magazine. "Then there's us, almost thirty, paying off even our underwear."

"We're only good at talking about celebrities, my friend," I expose a great truth. "If luck hasn't smiled at us, I doubt it will when our hair is white."

"I don't know why the hell I studied journalism. I would have been better off being a nobody working at my father's butcher shop. I bet I would even have a paid-off house with the nonsense of selling meat. My father told me so. He knew what was coming my way. Go to university to end up talking about the clothes some tacky actresses wear."

"Shut up, shut up, you're reminding me of the lecture my mother gave me today."

"Again?"

With my mother, I have this thing that always leads our conversations to the topic of my being nearly thirty and single. She wants to see me married with a child or two and doesn't understand how it's possible that I'm still not at that point in my life.

"She wants me to find a boyfriend," I tell Willy for the umpteenth time.

"Find one. Tinder. Match. Elite Singles..."

"It's complicated."

"You spend your time looking at pictures of this gentleman. It's normal that all men seem like crap to you next to him."

"Willy, I'm an admirer, not an old maid dreaming of men she knows she won't even be able to look at from ten meters away."

"We know you don't want anything with him. To start with, you spend your life writing about how perfect his family is, how beautiful his wife is, how beautiful his daughter is..."

"I doubt there's such a long relationship that transmits so much love and trust, my friend," I confess what all the media say about the O'Ryan family. "But well, what I was going to tell you. Today I've been summoned by Universal Cinema and they say it's to talk about work. Surely they're offering me an interview or something like that for the magazine. The boss," I move my head towards the boss's office, "will like it."

"Take advantage of it, it's a great opportunity. Crystal will put you on a pedestal if you bring her an interview with O'Ryan's wife. It's a bomb if she speaks to our magazine."

Crystal is not my direct boss; she's the boss of bosses. Our weekly magazine is just one more magazine among many magazines managed by the owner of the world's best-selling international magazine publishing house. She is the editor-in-chief and shareholder of the fashion magazine Enveloppé. I tried to find work for her, but I couldn't even get close to the same floor where the owner of the publishing empire is. My only chance to make myself visible to the ice-eyed superior is by giving a great exclusive.

"I'm terrified if I'm honest. This appointment changes everything if everything goes as I think it will."

"I doubt they're calling you to offer you a job as a sweeper, honestly. They know you're one of the people who best controls current affairs. Plus, you're damn good at praising O'Ryan."

"Do you think it's going to be something good?"

"If I happen to be a top-level actor and know of the existence of a journalist like you who writes with your artistic journalistic finesse, I'd be one of the first to contact you to thank you."

I adore him with my eyes. I lean my head on his shoulder and rest on him.

"Because you're my best friend and I know you prefer guys, otherwise I'd be hopelessly in love with you."

"You're still in time. I'd change sides for you."

"I love you, asshole."

We're both sitting waiting for the confirmation of the appointment I might end up experiencing in an hour. They've scheduled me at lunchtime because I can't leave my job without the permission of that boss who's had it in for me from the first minute I stepped into the DailyWeek office. Initially, I did my internship at Enveloppé supposedly to write some articles, but they sent me to make photocopies and get coffee. And one day, the human resources guy summoned me to tell me he sees more potential in me for the weekly magazine DailyWeek, specialized in celebrity news and general interest stories. He sent me for a two-month trial at the DailyWeek offices, and here I am, sitting here six years later.

I summarize these six years in two words: scum and people. Scum, ninety-eight percent of the workers. They've targeted me because I had a lucky day five years ago and managed to get some statements from a trendy celebrity. Envy in this world is everyday bread. No one is happy seeing you climb. The only one I can rely on and would put my hand in the fire for is William, my Willy. He's there for the good and the bad. We live together and make plans every weekend. Most people in this office assume we're a couple, and we don't deny it. Let them think what they want. I'd rather they pair me with Willy than have that rumor come out again that I blew a university professor to pass a subject.

Who started the rumor?

Me.

Me with a dozen cocktails inside. I let my tongue loose and started telling nonsense to brag about my active sex life, and here I am, five years later, accepting they say I'm in a relationship with my gay roommate just so they stop mentioning that ghost blowjob I never did.

I receive a message. I look at Willy before unlocking the screen.

It reminds me that I have an appointment at 14:15 at the Universal Cinema office.

"No jokes, we're in Manhattan and Victoria O'Ryan is in California. I mean, she's not the one summoning you. It might be for someone else. That production company is full of renowned actresses."

"It's true. Who could they have sent? Can you imagine if she takes her private jet to come have a meeting with you?"

"I don't know. But I have to rush off now."

I grab my coat and bag in a hurry. William takes my hands in his and makes me look him in the eyes.

"Breathe. Your life doesn't depend on this. It's just a meeting. It won't change."

"It's true. Thank you, thank you, thank you for always being by my side."

Getting to the building where I'm summoned by subway hasn't required much of my time. I arrive at the appointed time in less than half an hour. A woman about thirty years old with the most spectacular afro hair I've ever seen in my life greets me.

She greets me with two kisses.

"Kinda, Mrs. O'Ryan's secretary."

Mrs. O'Ryan. Victoria O'Ryan is involved.

I celebrate.

I have a hunch that, I don't know, I might see her in person.

"Hello, Kinda. I have an appointment right now," I say with my best smile.

She looks me up and down, analyzing my attire. How am I dressed? Like a woman who only cares about her physical appearance at occasional events. Wide-leg jeans, a sweater from years ago, Converse sneakers, and a faux leather blazer Willy gave me for Christmas.

I'm not disheveled. I'm simple.

New Yorkers from high spheres who occupy skyscrapers tend to see my attire as inappropriate for walking on their floors. Snobs. People who live off their image. Look at this woman wearing a Chanel outfit that must cost at least three thousand dollars.

What does she expect with that look? That I spend a fortune for a meeting with a producer. Damn, I have a journalist's salary that I would say is mediocre compared to hers.

She starts walking, leading me.

"It's a telematic meeting," she informs me, drawing a kind smile on her face. "Mrs. O'Ryan couldn't come due to personal reasons."

"If she's busy, we can leave it for another day."

"I wouldn't recommend telling her that when you have her in front of you on a screen. She's a complicated boss."

The tone she uses with me tells me she's not as repulsive as she wants to appear with so much brand.

"I work for DailyWeek," I reveal. "I don't know why I've been summoned."

"You're in the office of the most prominent film production company, why do you think you've been summoned?"

"I'm not an actress."

"What little I know about the matter that brings you here confirms that you're facing the best job offer of your life. Take advantage."

The sliding doors of a meeting room with a table surrounded by about fifty chairs welcome us. Only a woman and a man are standing, waiting. The image of Victoria O'Ryan on the TV is waiting. Is it a live image? Am I really going to have a telematic meeting with Victoria O'Ryan?

Damn.

How intense.

Someone pinch me; this is the closest to heaven I've ever been.

I smile without knowing if there's a camera capturing my image. I have one of the people I admire the most so close I can almost feel her near me.

"Good afternoon," I greet, not knowing which point in the room to address.

"Good afternoon," the woman on the screen greets. "Victoria O'Ryan."

"Amanda Palmer," I say hesitantly.

She smiles.

The two people in the meeting nod and sit down. The afro-haired secretary looks at me, inviting me to take a seat. I sit in the first chair I find, and she does the same, sitting next to me.

"I imagine you're wondering what this meeting is about. I'm sorry I couldn't catch the plane to have this face-to-face meeting, but sometimes family steals your time without you realizing it."

I look at her fascinated, astounded by her perfection.

Victoria O'Ryan is an Australian, the daughter of powerful big fish in the film industry. Little is known about her life, except for some details that her husband and she decide to share with their followers. They often say she's a woman with a lot of character who controls her husband's career at will, a fact I usually refute. It's clear she loves her husband madly. Just look at the position she's putting the actor in with her good management of the intricacies of fame. She does everything. What's her biggest handicap according to her? Her beauty. The few statements she gives to the press often talk about how hard she finds it that people think that because she's beautiful, she has to dedicate herself to fashion or cinema. She's a goddess from Olympus. Blonde, golden skin, feline blue eyes, Hollywood smile, athletic body, and a long etcetera of characteristics worthy of perfect people.

Whenever I have to talk about her, I admit I spend a few minutes analyzing the delicacy of her features. She's like the blonde version of her husband. The two together hypnotize you.

"Ah," I manage to say after a long while. "I..."

"I have a job offer for you," she says bluntly. "We're looking for someone to be in front of the camera during the filming of a documentary."

"A documentary?"

This I did not expect.

"Yes. A movie that will talk about my husband's life."

She has just left me stunned. The last thing I expected was a job offer of this nature.

"David O'Ryan?"

"Yes," she crosses her hands and draws a friendly smile on her face. "We're going to release a movie about his life soon. The idea is for you to take a few months off to come live in California."

"But..."

"I know you have a contract with DailyWeek. I don't want you to worry about that. I'll make sure they give you these months off work."

"It's just that..."

"It's a golden opportunity. Initially, you'll live in our guest house while we organize everything."

"It's just that I don't want to be in any movie. I struggle to perform with a camera pointing at me. I'm not a presenter. Nor an actress."

I admit, I'm terrible in front of a camera. I turn red as a tomato. I sweat excessively when I know I'm being recorded. I stutter. I speak without finishing sentences. I leave key words hanging so that what I'm talking about is understood. The things I have to say I forget when I suddenly appear in front of a crowd and in front of a camera. I'm a disaster.

But, truth be told, the problem is not that I'm bad in front of cameras, but that cameras are bad for me. I think I have an allergic reaction to what people will think if they see me on television. I don't know why it happens to me, but it scares me a lot.

When I appear in front of a camera, I worry a lot about what others will think of me. And that makes me act weird.

"It's not complicated," the woman with the best angle in front of a camera I've ever seen says. "Your job is to be there when we're filming and be part of the O'Ryan family for a while."

"It's an honor that you count on me, but..."

"I don't want to pressure you any more. Think about it. If you decide to take a leap in your career as a journalist, call my secretary and arrange a meeting with her to sign the contract."

"Okay."

"Then we're settled. Kinda, you'll inform me."

The video call ends.

How quick! Two minutes on screen are enough to leave me disconcerted.

My stomach bubbles like a glass of champagne.

I freeze looking at that screen now displaying the producer's logo. The three people accompanying me start moving some documents to pass a folder to Kinda. She checks the inside and takes out some papers that look like a contract. She glances at it and leaves it on the table, in front of my eyes.

"This is the contract. It binds you for six months with the producer."

"Six months?"

"That's how long the filming is supposed to last. David O'Ryan is an actor who doesn't stand still, so we're going to have to steal triple your time so that the documentary is recorded."

"Yeah."

"Look," she points with her finger to a figure written in the contract. "It's very generous."

What!

I carefully look at the zeros to not get confused because with that figure it's easy to get lost.

Let's pause here for a moment. This is important. This figure changes anyone. For this money, I'd sell my soul to the devil if necessary.

"Half a million!" Half a million dollars for throwing some phrases in a documentary.

"How!" I exclaim, hoping she says she got the wrong contract. "Is that money for who?"

"For you. This is the sum you'll receive for your work."

Damn.

I can't believe it.

All this for me?

It's what I'm going to earn in fifteen years working as an editor.

"Half a million dollars?" I ask to make sure I saw the figure right.

She looks at me, nodding.

"Yes."

"That's a lot."

"If they pay you that, it's because they know you're going to give them much more."

"But are you serious they want to make a documentary? I often hear the rumor, but David O'Ryan dismisses..."

"It's going to happen," she interrupts.

"Is the documentary focused on the actor or the whole family?"

"You know he's the famous one. He'll appear along with his wife, but in theory, it will be sold as the actor's documentary."

"And do I have to live close to them?"

She sketches a slight smile.

"Live in the same house," she says as if she's telling you today's weather. "It's a requirement."

"Same house?"

"Can I tell you a secret?"

I nod.

"There's no way you'll run into each other in the same area with how big that house is. People visiting need a guide to walk around. Nearly ten thousand square meters of living space."

She leaves me speechless.

"I didn't expect this. I thought they wanted an interview."

"Interviewing the O'Ryans for six months is an interview, isn't it?"

I smile. She's right.

"It's too incredible for me to believe," I confide in her.

"You'll like it. If I were you, I'd sign now. You don't know what might go through the heads of these Hollywood celebrities tomorrow. Today they promise you heaven and tomorrow they send you to unemployment."

This woman sure knows how to convince people.

"It's many months away from New York," I express my concern. "I have to talk to my family and work people."

"Do you have a partner?"

"No," I shake my head. "Well, yes. It's complicated."

"It's always complicated. Do you think they won't let you go?"

"Hmmm, I don't know, I think not."

"Do you prefer to live the experience of your life or stay with the doubt of what your life would be if you accept this contract?"

"I don't know... Six months?"

"Six months."

"Half a million?"

"Half a million."

"And worldwide recognition?"

"Yes. There will be plenty of that."

My instincts tell me to sign, not to wait. Whoever put this contract in my life did it to give me progress in my stagnant professional career.

Damn.

This is a dream.

"And you're telling me it's best to sign now?"

"Knowing a bit about the O'Ryans, honestly, I wouldn't recommend leaving it for another day."

"Why me?"

"I can't answer that. You're an excellent journalist. I suppose they've seen potential in you for the documentary."

"You know what I think? They picked me because I'm a nuisance who keeps saying they're a perfect family and all that."

"What does it matter?"

"What does it matter?" I ask her with smiling eyes. "Can I take a look at the contract, okay?"

"Okay."

I don't take long. Contracts usually give me headaches. It's like the words are written in another language.

"This looks good."