by Bruce Wagner
The old woman was fading. He morfed her face into younger versions of itself, to pass the time. Serena coughed, bad one this time, eyes opening wide in an alarm of pain. She fidgeted and the blanket fell. Simon helped her cover up.
“There’s a man, he’s dying. His wife and him don’t get along too well, physically—haven’t done anything for years. He knows he’s not going to make it through the night. He tells her that, and asks for sex. She turns him down. He says, ‘How can you do this to me?’ The wife says, ‘I’m tired, I’m exhausted, I worked all day.’ He’s shocked, of course—like they all are. And he says, ‘But I’m dying! How could you be so tired that you couldn’t give me sex on my last night on earth?’ She looks at him and says, ‘That’s easy for you to say. You don’t have to get up in the morning’!”
She laughed and coughed and Juana gathered her away.
He was in his office at ICM, thinking about Katherine and her lover. Phylliss Wolfe had told him about as much as he could stomach. Well, his ex could have done far worse than Stocker Vidra, tribadic film critic, book editor and part-time novella-ist: Katherine might just as easily have wound up in the arms of some agent-turned-successful-producer. This way, there was less exposure. Less embarrassment for him. Better a récherchée clitterateur than some art-house director in the thralldom of a freak crossover hit. Better some dyke of Academe than a lawyer-turned-screenwriter. Lawyers-turned-writers were the worst.
He sat there, Dirk Bikkembergs pants at mid-thigh, hand around dick, wondering what they were up to. Probably in Joshua Tree, fisting each other between hits of ecstasy, laughing over his stubby, herpes-ridden shlong.
Taj let him know Phylliss Wolfe was on the phone.
“Hi, Donny. It’s Eric.”
“Hi, Eric.”
“I met you at Sweets. I brought Phylliss the script.”
“I know that, Eric. You’re very memorable.”
“She’s just getting off this other call. I thought I had her but—”
“Old gal’s slippery.”
“Would you like me to call you back? Or would you mind holding a second longer?”
“I don’t mind holding.” Donny looked down at his lap. “Do you?”
“Do I—?”
“Do you mind.”
“Holding?”
He was actually flirting with Phylliss’s assistant. She jumped on, interrupting the volley.
“Donny dearest, is that you?”
“Yes, Mother.”
“I want to thank you again for the lunch. I thought it went very well.”
“It was a stone groove, Mother.”
“Have you heard from her?”
“Don’t be desperate, Phyll.”
“Does she hate me?”
“She thinks you’re the best.”
“Well, I think she’s wonderful. So we’ll see. And if she doesn’t do it, she doesn’t do it. Fuck her and fuck you.”
“That’s my girl.” A message flashed on the Amtel: YOUR FATHER ON 4. Donny hiked up his trousers. “Phyll, I gotta jump.”
Twenty-five years ago, Bernie Ribkin produced a string of low-budget horror films that made a fortune. An over-tan Mike Todd wannabe, he disappeared in the mid-seventies, after the divorce. The story was he’d been living in Europe, producing films, but Donny didn’t buy it. He resurfaced a few years ago and was living in a stuccoplex on Burton Way. On occasion, the agent ran into associates after Bernie introduced himself at Eclipse or Drai’s the night before (“I didn’t know you had a father!”). The Veepee always cringed. He called him “my crazy stepdad.”
They exchanged guarded hellos. Donny promised himself he wouldn’t blow up. That would be his meditation exercise.
“How’s your mother?”
“Why don’t you ask her?”
“I’d like to be able to. I put several calls in but she won’t answer.”
“Serena’s not doing too well.”
“Somehow I don’t think she’s too eager to see me.”
“Guess you’ll never know.”
“She wasn’t all that eager to see me when she was tip-top!”
The agent could smell the cigar and the lox, eggs and onions. “Listen—Dad.” He hated himself for calling him that. Mistake, mistake. “I got five people waiting for me on a conference.”
“I’ll let you go. Do you think we could have lunch?”
“Talk to Taj.”
“What’s his last name, Mahal?” laughed the old man. “Looks like I’ve finally got my fucking sequel in place.”
“Great.”
“Can you believe it took me thirty years?”
“That’s Hollywood. Gotta jump.”
“I could use some of your casting ideas.”
“Talk to Taj and he’ll make a time.”
He found himself on the freeway, heading downtown. He got off on San Pedro and there was a woman with a sign: GOd BLeSS. She had a little girl with her. Donny pulled over and gave her a twenty. The woman was pretty and had all her teeth. He asked what had happened and she said she was working for an insurance company. Her employers were hit hard by the quake and had to let her go; people were still dining out on the fucking earthquake. Donny wondered what the real story was, as if a simpler truth lay hidden behind the insipid lie—as if being jobless and alone with a kid wasn’t enough to make you destitute.
Her name was Ursula, and Tiffany was her daughter. He asked if they wanted to get something to eat. She thanked him but declined. He could probably get her to say yes, but what was the get-off? What would he do with them? They probably had the virus—she’d cozily left that one off the verbal résumé. So big deal. Donny figured he wouldn’t have to touch her. For thirty dollars cash money she’d suck him off with the kid watching, gratis. Or do the God thing. That could be fun—rent her a place in Toluca Lake right now, stock it with cutlery, soaps, mops, candles, all that Smart & Final Iris crap, Trader Joe’s cheese, thrift-store bean bags, fifties dinette set, water bed, aquarium for the kid, wardrobe and lingerie, give her the old Bernie-bought Impala, the whole schmear. Do the impossible in just a few hours. Ensconce them in a super-clean utility apartment on Barrington somewhere and pay the rent a fucking year in advance. How much for the whole package? Ten grand? Twelve? That was shit. When it’s done, lay five K on her and disappear, like some saint. Let six months go by, then drop in to see what’s what. What else could he do with her? More immediate. Clean her up. Get her to the doc for a little Private Door dusting, douching and delousing. Have her tested. If she’s negative, go the whole Pygmalion hog: Dr. Les’s magical mystery collagen tonic, creams and unguents and Retin A, plucking and waxing—shave the pussy and storm the blackheads. Shopping at Trashy Lingerie, gallery-hopping at Bergamot Station, Planet Hollywood with the kid. Get Tiffany into a private school. A fourth grader’s tuition at Crossroads was only eleven thou. Be fun having a kid out there in the world, one you never needed to see, who worshiped and was terrified of you, like some miniature Manchurian Candidate.
Donny passed her a business card. He said he could find her work cleaning houses. She plucked a book from her knapsack, a two-thousand-page tome called The Book of Urantia. “Urantia means Earth,” she said. “Our planet’s only one among many, you know.” Donny said he would hereby call her Ursula Major. She smiled and gave him the book, as a gift. He took it, forcing on her a hundred-dollar bill. The homeless woman got weepy and kissed his cheek. Tonight, they’d stay in a Best Western instead of God knew where.
He read Katherine’s draft of Teorema in bed then scanned The Book of Urantia. He flipped through its elegant, tissue-thin pages until he found a passage to read aloud:
For almost one hundred and fifty million years after the Melchizedek bestowal of Michael, all went well in the universe of Nebadon, when trouble began to brew in system II of constellation 37. This trouble involved a misunderstanding by a Lanonandek Son, a System Sovereign, which had been adjudicated by the Constellation Fathers and approved by the Faithful
of Days, the Paradise counselor to that constellation, but the protesting System Sovereign was not fully reconciled to the verdict….
The agent drifted off, rising like a kite toward interplanetary zones.
It was easy getting onto the Sony lot. At the Thalberg Building gate, security was focused on cars, not pedestrians. There was only one guard on duty. Just to be safe, the Dead Animal Guy waited for him to become embroiled in the usual drive-on snafu, then strode right in. Wasn’t this the same studio someone drove a flaming truck into a few years back? Simon remembered that in the news; happened around the same time those guards were shot over at Universal. Bad week for showbiz. But maybe trespassing wasn’t so easy—maybe his furry netherworld shenanigans, veteran wayfarer that he was, had imbued him with a debonair invisibility. He imagined himself in a tux, the Dead Pet Society’s mystic Double-Oh Seven.
Simon thought of looking up his sister, Rachel. According to Calliope, big sissy now worked for Perry Needham Howe, the guy raking millions off that syndicated cop show. Howe had offices somewhere on the lot—probably even knew the Blue Matrix boys. At a certain level of moneymaking, everyone knew everyone.
He decided to head for safe ground: the company store. He bought a Blue Matrix sweatshirt and the cashier told him which stage to go to—asking a guard could have invited trouble. The sparkling backlot had a ritzy Deco theme. He passed a whole block of buildings with wharf-related façades, imaginary fish importers and the like. Rolls-Royces, Hum-Vees and Range Rovers threaded the posh alley-like streets. People drove around in golf carts, as in studio days of yore.
A red ambulance light flashing at the Stage Six door meant they were shooting inside. Simon waited with a small group. When the light went off, they entered the cavernous darkness through gunmetal doors. A girl with a walkie intercepted him.
“May I help you?”
“I’m here to see Hassan.”
The girl was listening to voices in her headphones. She said a few words to the walkie that referred to some humdrum crisis.
“You are—”
“Simon Krohn. Hassan’s a family friend.”
She held the walkie to her mouth, waiting for an audio runway to clear. Finally, she abandoned her efforts and waved him in.
The bridge of the U.S.S. Demeter rose before him like the flagship of an exterminating angel. The legendary players were frozen in grandeur between takes, a tableau vivant for Simon’s delectation. There was Captain Trent Wildwood, with his shock of blond hair and vermilion tunic; the tapir-like Commander Stroth, clacking fingertips poised at ellipsoid console; Lt. Livingston T. Cloud, witty diplomat in residence, a hundred-year-old being encased within the body of a pre-adolescent boy. Someone yelled Take five! and the crew scurried while the actors exhaled, awakening somnambulists.
Simon rounded the set. Before him stretched an aboriginal landscape of lava rock and sand that he recognized as the Fellcrum Outback, sacred burial- and battleground of Vorbalidian gladiators. Grips raised giant blue screens on its periphery. The budding teleplaywright was about to ask directions to Hassan’s dressing room when he saw the imposing figure of the Chief Navigator heading toward him. His face wore the characteristic calcium plating of the Vorbalid race, a dignified mosaic of features that made him resemble a cubist prelate. Mr. DeVore smoked a long thin cigarette and seemed oblivious; he had the judicious, wistful mien of an actor making serious money, at last.
“Hassan?” The shaled head swiveled. “It’s Simon—Krohn.”
The Vorbalid brooded and blinked, cracking a smile. “Well, hello!”
“I hope you don’t mind my dropping by.”
“Well—I’m not sure!”
The smile became a froggy grimace. The actor began to loudly hum, as if preparing for song.
“Scott Sagabond is a friend.”
“Who?”
“Scott Sagabond, one of the producers.”
“He’s not with the show. Left last year.”
“Okay, no estoy es problemo. He was a friend—of my mother’s too. I had an idea for a script, a long time ago, and when I met you the other day, things fell quickly into place.”
“Yes, they did, didn’t they! I can see that.”
“Since my story mostly revolves around you, I wanted to get your input.”
“Revolves around me?”
The girl with the walkie came and stood a few feet away, listening to her headphones. She was waiting for a cue to usher in Mr. DeVore; head slightly atilt, her eyes had the dull, frank look of someone making potty.
“Perhaps,” said the thespian navigator, “we can talk about this some other time.”
“Oh sure! I can come to the house. I saw it in In Style, by the way—your place in Encino? I love the grotto your wife designed. She’s a very talented lady!”
The girl stepped forward. “Hassan, they’re ready for you.”
“Karen, this is Simon Krohn. Actually, he’s my psychiatrist’s son.” The actor sneezed violently but Simon realized it wasn’t a sneeze at all, but a strangled guffaw. Karen grinned, absorbed in finding a free channel.
“Why don’t you send the précis to my agent?”
“But I have a copy with me.”
“Better to send it—Donny Ribkin at ICM.” The Vorbalid was ditching him before Simon could lock on to his coordinates. “But thank you much. Kind of you to drop by.”
“My mother thought it would be a good idea to cut through the normal channels—you know, eliminate the middleman.”
DeVore stopped in his tracks. “Calliope said you should come here?”
Neither of them looked as if they believed it.
“Well, actually, she suggested I drop it off at the guest house for when you come on Wednesday—at five o’clock. Five’s your time, isn’t it?”
“I see. Then let me have it.”
“I can still send it to your agent.”
“Hand it over and I’ll look at it tonight.”
Hassan made his exit, “Heart of Arknes” in hand. Simon crouched at the edge of the Fellcrum Outback, collecting thoughts and breath, amazed at the adrenaline the afternoon had required. On the other side, they readied for camera. The Dead Animal Guy sat cross-legged amidst the rocky purplish wilderness, contented, a solitary celestial soldier. Only the presence of a lone grip, Styrofoam cup in hand, surveying a table of pastries, fruit and trailmix, invaded his fantasy, rooting it in the workaday.
Gliding down Sunset Boulevard. Something in the road. Harpy upon him, hurls him to the ground, scattering teeth to curb like a bloody herd of mah-jongg chips. The dreaming physician ran eastward with the piggybacked cargo, necrotic hands clapped around his neck—trying not to glance down at the wormy holes in the cuticles—apocryphal howling wind chilling him to the bone. Rounding the recurring corner and standing at recurring gate…
On the way to Malibu, Dr. Trott turned over last night’s images; they still had punch. Same dream, of varying degree, for weeks. Tranquilizers didn’t help. He wondered if soon he would be in the grip of agrypnia, the insomniac’s insomnia: total inability to sleep. This disorder, said the literature, fatal if it lasts much longer than a week, is also seen in diseases and intoxications—especially encephalitis lethargica and ergot-poisoning. He felt foolish and anachronistic, the “recurring nightmare” concept itself a throwback to the fifties, to the time of shelters and tailfins and Miltown. The Three Faces of Les.
It was a big blue Sunday and Obie invited him to the beach house for a screening of Teorema. The old friends had had a few whispery, dishy early morning phone chats (Obie saying everyone was full of shit and no one would be able to prosecute, Les trying to believe, scared, needy, unconvincingly cavalier, hanging on Big Star skirts through the incessant hiccups of her call-waiting; just when the paranoia started to recede, Obie would click back on and ask if he had any Percocets. Les would panic, wondering if the feds had tapped the line, and ask, stilted and absurd, if she was kidding. “You know, you should really try to stop being suc
h a fag,” she’d say—so cutting and unnecessary—then take another call and leave him dangling, marooned and punished) but this would be the first they’d seen of each other since the “controversy.”
Moe Trusskopf, Obie’s personal manager, lay sunning on the deck with a new boyfriend, a sweet-faced gay mafia moll who’d been on the circuit awhile and was looking to settle down. Les remembered him from the office. About a year ago, he came in with a boil on his ass; he lanced it, then jacked him off. (Moe knew the story, and introduced the boy as Lancelot.) He’d met Cat Basquiat before too, but not in the comfort of his professional offices. At twenty-three—ten years younger than the hostess—his fee was in the mid-sevens and rising. His mother had recently died, rendering the tiny MOM tattoo on his hairless chest mildly poignant. He had a manta ray–shaped birthmark on the upper left quad and pierced nipple as lagniappe. Les scanned greedily. The whole package gave the potential indictee a stony hard-on.
The viewing room had a clarinet-sized Giacometti, a Noguchi landscape table, a Kitaj pastel and a Baselitz “inversion.” The projection screen dropped down over one of those big Ed Ruscha movie paintings that spelled The End. Baccarat bowls brimmed with blue M&Ms and rock candy. The doctor liked Pasolini well enough but wasn’t up for it. He let his thoughts drift back to a year ago, Lancelot face-down on the table, Les numbing and pressing and draining. Time for some dilatation and curettage…When his rubbery attention snapped back to the screen, the father was about to discover Terence Stamp in bed with his sleeping son.
“Like to have been a fly on that wall,” said Moe.
“How ‘bout a fly on those jeans?” said Obie, and everyone laughed.
Les wandered again, rudderless, this time to a recent meeting with the lawyer. While the attorney general’s formal accusations were imminent, counsel was confident the matter would end in a letter of reprimand from the Medical Board—a slap on the wrist. If that wasn’t forthcoming, an alternative might be probation and community service; at worst, a DEA administrative hearing aimed to revoke or curtail the dermatologist’s prescriptive powers. Les sucked on a saccharine crystal. The baronial law office yanked inside-out like a sock, reborn as a dungeon with a Philippe Starck sink—the free-floating physician now in protective custody at the downtown jail in all its slabby City of Quartz splendor, co-starring with Terence Stamp in Kiss of the Spider Woman. Stamp sure was gorgeous. Could’ve used a nipple ring, though.