by Byron Lane
The ship sets sail, undocked, unmoored. We wander; we shop. The boat has everything: a jewelry store, a bakery, a Rite Aid. Kathi attends an AA meeting (they have everything).
I’ve never seen water so blue, beaches so white, and penises so aplenty. Dicks are flopping in every direction the entire trip—men wearing mesh shorts, see-through Speedos, sunbathing nude on their balconies, in hallways, in cafés. Every morning at ten A.M., the intercoms in the rooms and hallways announce the day’s activities and a reminder not to have sex in the steam room.
We have a day until Kathi’s show and we kill the time the best we know how—lying around. It’s a lazy four in the afternoon and Kathi is painting her fingernails on a lounge chair when her phone starts to vibrate, startling her. “Fuck!” she yells, flinching and causing a little streak of blue glitter nail polish to smear across her finger and onto a fine white linen throw pillow on the chair. “Oh, shit! I just ruined the fucking pillow, Cockring!”
A few hot gays look over at us, but we’re far from the pool, just on the deck getting some fresh air—or it was fresh before Kathi started painting her nails.
She tries to steal a glance at the phone screen but can’t make it out. “Who’s calling us, Cockring?”
I stand and crane over and read the phone. “Studio Assistant.”
“WHAT?!” Kathi yells. “FUCK SHIT COCK!” She flips her hands over and wipes all the polish off of her fingers onto the pillow.
“What? What? Who is Studio Assistant?” I ask.
“My fucking life!” she yells, jumping up and grabbing the phone. Wide-eyed, she answers. “Hello,” she says calmly. “Yes. Yes. Yes. Fine. Thank you.”
She takes a step away from me, and I follow her. I’m studying her, wondering what the hell is going on.
“Okay, love,” she says. “I’ll be waiting. Bye.” Kathi hands me her phone.
“What?! What?! Good news?!” I ask, checking that the call is ended.
Kathi looks around to make sure none of the other cruise-goers are nearby. She grabs my shoulders, pulling me toward her so she can whisper in my ear, “I can’t say a word about it.”
She lets go of my shoulders and I stand up straight. I’m about to say I understand, but then she pulls me right back down again.
“They’re fucking doing a new Nova Quest film and we’re gonna be a fucking star again!” she says, jumping up and down. I mirror her motion, feel her excitement and my own for the continuation of this saga, a literal dream come true for me and other fans—and, apparently, Kathi Kannon—not to mention I get to witness it: the filming, the creating, having a tiny stake in a cultural landmark.
“Really? Who was that on the phone? Who is Studio Assistant?” I ask.
“The head of Sony or one of them—I can’t keep up. They called years ago and I guess someone saved the number. I don’t know, maybe I saved it, who am I? I don’t know. Oh, my God! They’re doing it!”
The original Nova Quest ends with Priestess Talara sitting quietly and alone in a large war room. Hologram monitors blink and swirl around her, showing maps and strategy and bright lights marking locations where individual battles were won. Priestess Talara sobs on her throne, overlooking the empty space, haloed by the massive window behind her. Her chair spins around and she looks out at her planet, green trees and blue lagoons visible under plumes of smoke left over after the war’s end. Lives were lost, scars need time to heal, but the film’s final shot is of Priestess Talara looking out at her world, her life, and her face is still for a few moments, international audiences wondering what’s next, and she smiles. Cut to the theme music blaring and the credits rolling and everyone watching feeling a surge of hope for whatever may come next in her life, their life, the life of the world. That moment was first gifted in theaters three decades ago. In all that time since, fans have had to wonder what came next. And now, it appears, we’ll finally find out.
Kathi yells, pacing, almost dancing, “More motherfucking Nova Quest! Me and the whole original cast and we’re donning our famous outfits again, dressing to impress, to headline the new film. They want to revive the franchise, bring the story to new generations and old fans alike.”
“Holy shit! Congrats!”
“I didn’t want to get too excited, you know,” Kathi says. “There were rumors for years, but everyone in Hollywood is a monster and it takes so many steps to get there, but this is a big step, Cockring. This is our big step.”
“Yeah!”
“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Kathi says, grabbing her nail polish and flinging a towel around her shoulders. We gather our things and head back to her stateroom. She spills all the beans:
Reviving the franchise.
Stardom again.
More money.
Shooting in London.
More travel.
I’m thinking, Cool!
I’m thinking, Oh, wait. We’re moving to London?
I’m thinking, Reid?
“Bring him,” Kathi shouts, winks, smiles, and then fills her lungs with e-cigarette vapor. “We’re going to have the best time! The time of our lives! We’ll rent a big house in London. Have friends over all the time. I’ll make sure you get paid a big per diem from the studio. I’ll make sure your name is in the credits.”
I die. “My name will be in the fucking credits of a Nova Quest film? Onscreen? On IMDB?”
“It’ll say ‘Cockring: Assistant to Kathi Kannon,’” she says.
Breathless, I float as I follow Kathi up and down the hallways to her room.
A cruise ship is a strange place. It’s billed as relaxing but you’re never still, the boat always in motion. It’s never quiet. You’re never alone. The halls all look the same, patterned carpet to hide stains. Fake-wood doors to keep weight down. Twists and turns, like snakes eating snakes. Railing along the wall to help you keep your balance or cling to life during a capsize.
Walking behind Kathi, I’m thinking, I’ll follow her anywhere. And now, this Nova Quest news at hand, I’ll follow her to my dreams coming true.
* * *
I wake up early the next morning to a text message:
KATHI: Take the morning off, Cockring. Our lives are changing. I’m going to rest and celebrate in slumber and whatnot. You should celebrate by sucking some of the Moby Dicks on this boat. Meet me later before I have to do my stage show and tell.
Kathi’s kindness isn’t always what it looks like. Being set free from her sometimes feels like the toddler telling the parent, “Go, go, I’ll be fine.” Only for the grown-up to return home hours later and find the fridge door open and all the condiments spread on the walls. Sometimes when an assistant is away, it’ll mean even more work later.
I make the best of it, grab some breakfast and wander the deck. It’s me, overdressed in my modest bathing suit, passing every shape and size gay guy in what seems to be tinier and tinier Speedos. No one makes eye contact; we’re all just looking at crotches, as if we’ve beautifully perverted that old saying into “My eyes are down here.”
Tempting as it may be, my heart is with Reid, and I swat away the lure. I sit by the pool, scroll through my phone, peruse the shops, eat lunch, do another few laps on the deck, then head back to my room and plop in bed. As the afternoon sun turns orange and friendly, I take it as a good sign that I haven’t heard from Kathi all day. But Kathi resting all this time means she’ll be up all night and I may as well prepare for that with a nap. I close my curtains, turn up the AC, kick off my shoes, and put my phone on vibrate. The ocean lulls me kindly back and forth and my eyes grow heavy. With all cylinders always firing, a brief nap can be a welcome and powerful drug.
Hours later, closing in on six P.M., I wake from a deep dream that I’m baking to death in a desert, the sound of water all around me but I can’t find it. I gasp for air as I grab for my phone: Where am I? What time is it? What’s happening?
I have a barrage of text messages:
KATHI: It’s getting late, my glory whole, an
d I can’t snooze booze the bombay in the tinkus any longer. There’s a weird smell and smelt in this room and no vacuums within reach to live within my pale sad space of quiet teardrop lemmings and leggings and luxury all a lie in the face of cracked skin and crumpled hearts you know?????
I hurl myself out of bed. As I put on the clothes closest to me and see my frantic, crazed reflection in the mirror, with the window showing the gorgeous ocean behind me, the contrast is real.
I rush to Kathi’s room. The door is open. I dash in and find it trashed, a housekeeper trying to tidy up but not knowing where to even start. There’s glitter everywhere, sheets are off the bed, pillows are on the lamps, clothing hangs from art on the walls, there’s writing in lipstick and eye-liner on the floor and mirror:
Recognition becomes ordinary after its turn. If they believe my truth or let. It does and doesn’t matter that everything has meaning whatever lasting. There really is meaning in everything. If they love me, they believe me. Look for the dreams in things.
Housekeeping asks me if it’s okay to clean the mirror, to erase the lines in makeup that may or may not be brilliant. “Where is she?” I ask them, to no resolution.
I run around this floating paradise looking for Kathi Kannon, film icon.
The Rite Aid.
The bar.
The restaurant.
There!
Kathi and Roy are in the dessert section, having a buffet-style feast surrounded by a stark mix of gay dudes—both the kind who are older and well dressed and “supper” together each evening, and the glittery kind who grind their perfect teeth and keep mini packets of lube on their person at all times. These are all the kind of strangers I try to protect Kathi from, people who could coax embarrassing comments or steal her jewelry or phone or prompt some embarrassing action or feed Roy grapes.
Kathi spots me.
“Cockring!” she shouts. “Can you believe they have every kind of dessert! I got you a donut shaped like your anus!”
“Hiii, good evening,” I say, wondering what secrets have been betrayed, wondering what photos or videos have been taken, wondering if these guys think I’m cool because I know Kathi Kannon.
My responsibilities include protect her, protect her, protect her.
I shake some hands.
Kathi bolts up from the table, she visits with other diners, she gets another plate of food, she leaves her phone at the prime rib station. I’m rushing around behind her, collecting her.
I pull her aside. “Kathi, we have to go to your room please.”
Roy, still licking Kathi’s saucy fingers, sort of flips me the bird with his eyes.
“What’s going on?” I ask her.
“Everything and nothing.”
“Are you, you know, altered?” I ask.
“How dare you, Cockring? I love you,” she says, truth behind her eyes mismatched with her chemically dilated pupils.
“You’re getting an F!” I yell. “And you have to perform soon!”
“We’re gonna be rich and famous again, darling. Let’s party.”
I wrestle Kathi from the buffet and guide her back to her room as she’s tapping at her phone, texting, shopping, searching for pictures of paradise when there’s one right outside her balcony.
Hey, Siri, I just want her to get through this.
Housekeeping is gone, the room has been cleaned as much as possible, and I close Kathi’s cabin door like it’s a vault. “What is happening?” I ask.
“Cockring,” she says, “while you were away today, I wrote!”
“You did? That’s great. Now, what is going on—”
“Will you read it and type it up for me?” she asks, handing me a yellow notepad as she settles herself and Roy in bed, the two of them yanking to ruffle the sheets so they can cozy up on the tightly made bed. “I’ll rest right now if you read it. Deal?”
“Fine,” I say. “Is this the start of your new book?”
“Perhaps,” she says, plopping down onto the pillows.
“Don’t get too comfy,” I say. “We have the show soon. What are you wearing?”
“Oh, who cares,” she says.
I look at Kathi’s notepad, pride spinning inside me.
But this writing, this notepad she filled with thoughts while she was out of it, it’s mostly ramblings, written in circles and squares around the page, with arrows and dotted lines and “See page 6” and “See page 2” and cross-outs and underlines and circles around random words: “truth,” “sheets,” “fuck.”
I turn the page, I’m thinking, Nonsense.
I turn the page, I’m thinking, Not good.
I turn the page, I’m thinking, Something’s wrong.
“What do you think?” she asks.
“It’s … it’s…” I struggle with the word. “Kathi, I’m worried about you.”
“Why? Do you love it? Tell me. I’m a big girl. Even obese by some measures.”
“It’s … not great,” I say gently.
Kathi shivers. “How could you say that to me?” Her fist pounds the comforter, Roy sits up to see what’s happening. “How could you give me doubt in myself? Even more than I already have, that I was born with? My legacy of doubt, thoughts, prayers, teachings bubbling up from my deep, unruly waters.”
I look at Kathi, a whirlwind of energy. “This is not about writing. Something is definitely wrong. I don’t think you can go onstage. We have to get you real help. This is not sustainable.”
“Not sustainable?” she asks. “Don’t you think I know that? I mean, at least give me some credit, which you do a lot, but not in this case, my stepson, stepbrother, step on this. From cute to profound, the full purple range of enigma.”
I shake my head, frustrated and sad, crestfallen. I turn back to the notepad she wants me to transcribe. I flip the pages until I get to the cardboard backing. She’s written on that, too. She has the strength and stamina of ten thousand manic monsters. Not an inch left uncovered. And on the back of the cardboard, at the bottom, scribbled in big letters over tiny letters and words and thoughts and feelings of the last hours: “Ticker tape parade don’t let these be my last words.”
I call Miss Gracie. “There’s a problem,” I say. “Kathi is unwell,” I say. “Talk some sense into her,” I say.
“Put her on the line, dear,” Miss Gracie tells me. I hand my phone to Kathi.
“Hi, Mommy! Yes. Yes. Yes. Okay. Love you.” And Kathi hangs up and hands the phone back to me. “She says I’m fine and I’m an adult and she trusts me because she has no choice because she’s low on her blood-pressure medication.”
“WHAT?”
Kathi hoists herself from her bed and starts taking her clothes off. I turn from her. “I’ll be in the bath if you need me,” she says to my back, and slams the bathroom door.
Roy hops off the bed and goes to the bathroom. Kathi opens the door until he’s inside with her, then she slams it again.
I ask, “What’s going on?”
She yells, “I’m celebrating!”
“Oh, my God. Celebrating what?”
“Nova Quest!” She yells back.
I call Dr. Miller. “I don’t know what to do,” I say. “She won’t tell me if she’s, you know, taken anything,” I say. “She seems manic,” I say.
“I’m happy!” Kathi yells from the bathroom. “Why won’t you let me be happy?!”
Dr. Miller instructs me to give her 800 mg of Seroquel. I’m shocked. “We don’t have that much,” I tell him. “We usually only give thirty milligrams a day. We don’t have enough.”
“This will all make a good anecdote,” Kathi yells from the bathroom. “That’s the nature of it. It’s a quarry. A mine. The days, the weeks, the years—they can’t all be gems, right?”
I tell Dr. Miller, “We have a show soon.” I’m thinking, Kathi Kannon is manic and on a boat and about to be on a stage in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of a manic episode.
KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK on the cabin door.
I hear Kathi get out of the tub, the water dripping from her body, dripping back into the tub, onto the floor, puddling in the doorway.
“Two seconds,” Kathi yells.
Dr. Miller tells me to call the boat doctor. I open the cabin door. “Can you get the boat doctor for us please?” I ask. One of the escorts nods and starts to walk off. “Please hurry,” I yell after him.
“Everything okay?” the other escort asks.
The bathroom door opens and Kathi emerges, dressed like she’s going to Burger King, in old leggings and a black tank top with a small blanket from her bed as a shawl.
“Ready!” she shouts, her hair still dripping wet.
“Kathi, you can’t go onstage in front of thousands of people dressed like that and pretty much out of your mind.”
“Excuse me,” she says. “First, I’m in show business. Second, the show must go on. And third, I can’t think of a third one. Let’s go.”
“Kathi, please,” I beg.
She says, “Grab my purse.”
I say, “You need to at least put on a bra.”
While Kathi “dresses,” I go into the bathroom and it’s a familiar scene, her purse nearly empty, the contents spread out like a twisted cornucopia—that cornucopia, I know the one, just like from the day Agnes took me into Kathi’s bathroom. I put my hand in Kathi’s purse, I unzip a little side pocket, I pull out a pale-blue pill container, I open it up, and I pour a thimble’s worth of little white pills into my palm.
I’m thinking, You broke your promise.
“What are these?” I ask her as she tries on sunglasses, looking at herself in a mirror.
She turns to me matter-of-factly. “Vitamins.”
“Really?” I ask. “Then maybe I’ll take one.”
“I wouldn’t,” she says. “We can’t have two of us estranged from ourselves.” Kathi yanks the sunglasses off and throws a scarf over her shoulders, adjusting it just so.