I’m Losing You

by Bruce Wagner

  Maps to the Stars

  On Sunday, spoke to Mother and did NOT tell her I was let go. I didn’t want her to worry needlessly. She doesn’t have an inkling of how this town operates; nor should she. They miss me but I reiterated how I said from the beginning I’d give my sojourn in the City of Angels a full year. I’ll stick to my guns. Daddy respects me for that but it’s easier for him all around because he’s stronger than Mom. She hinted they might come out here to visit and that’d be fine as long as it doesn’t interfere with auditions, acting class, etalia.

  On the Sweets front, I keep turning it over in my mind {seem to have more time to do that lately}. I KNOW there’s probably much more under the surface “to be revealed.” What I was told by Rodrigo is most likely the proverbial tip of the iceberg. If I wanted, I could find out what REALLY happened, POLITICALLY. The Incident with MR. BASQUIAT and Ms. Wolfe may just be more of a tempest in a proverbial teapot than anything else, a smoke screen, if you will. It’s more than possible Tammy was to blame—the malicious bitch from O.C. who thought I was flirting with PETER WELLER {AS IF he was going to marry her!! Besides, he’s NOT my type—like JAMES WOODS, he’s too thin-faced and INTENSE}. She is a majorly “ho” and had it in for me from Day One. It may also be I somehow became the sacrificial lamb in a ritual bloodletting of which Ursula Sedgwick was but the first casualty. HARRY DEAN has been the sweetest and most understanding, inviting me to sup at his beautiful home high on MULHOLLAND DRIVE. He’s starting a new DAVID LYNCH and said he could get me a “meet.” It’s so refreshing being with someone who has made it on his own terms and is not a BULLSHITTER. HARRY DEAN was genuinely outraged at my being let go and is thisclose with one of the investors. He offered to throw his weight around, talking to Rodrigo at the very least. But I told him no, don’t intervene. I don’t wish to use him in that way—HARRY DEAN is a genie and I refuse to waste a wish on something so petty. But I will ALWAYS be thankful for his kind offer and concern. He cooked kickass gumbo and I cried some more and HARRY DEAN held me and told jokes and we sang songs and he didn’t even try anything—what a gent!!! A true friend. I kissed him good night on the mouth, though. He had earned that.

  Jabba is working at a club in Century City called BAILEY’S TWENTY/20 GENTLEMEN’S CLUB. I interviewed today and all looks well. It’s topless during lunch {with lap dancing} and is frequented by famous attorneys and their clients, plus a host of top TV executives from the ABC Entertainment Center across the way. It’s a safe and very unsleazy environment—site of the old Playboy Club. There is also minimal, well-heeled street traffic—the Shubert is there and Harry’s Bar, etalia; it’s quite the complex. The dancers are all gorgeous and taller than NICOLE KIDMAN CRUISE! At lunch, I counted twelve, on three different stages all at once. I can live with showing my breasts {the pay is high}—all one has to do is flip through HARPER’S BAZAAR or VANITY FAIR ads, etalia, to see NADJA and AMBER and CLAUDIA and KATE doing just that. Women have been baring breasts since time immemorial; I’m certainly in good company. {DEMI RULZ!!!} Jabba made a joke that her father the talk show host was a “regular”—and I believed it. I hate being gullible.

  Hello, Columbus

  TO: SHARKEE@CLS.OHIO-STATE.EDU (STOCKER VIDRA)

  FROM: DOLPH@AOL.COM (KATHERINE GROSSECK)

  House bare of you now. No, I wasn’t with Pargita while you moved out your things. Would it really have mattered? And who is feeding you information, Vidra, is it Phylliss? Is that why you got her a book deal? To buy yourself a spy?

  Not even sure why I’m putting down words…sweet habit, I suppose, downloading my conscience-ness to you, somewhere in the Columbusian gridspace. I still feel the plug, like a phantom limb—I took it out this morning…now all your Tender Buttons are gone, removed for evidence. I’m sequestered and police yellow-taped: Katherine Grosseck Unplugged. Still not sure why I did what I did—the calculus of how it happened (Pargita)—or who I was with you—or who I am now—maybe I’ll go see my “impersonator’s” shrink. Ha! There’s a movie idea for you. Everyone has a double who gets therapized because no one has the time—and the doubles get better! At least somebody does.

  TO: SHARKEE@CLS.OHIO-STATE.EDU (STOCKER VIDRA)

  FROM: DOLPH@AOL.COM (KATHERINE GROSSECK)

  Heard a great country song: Turn around slowly, walk straight back to me, nobody has to get hurt—

  The doctor’s bag sits in the middle of the den like a sadistic alligator-skinned aunt—I knew what was in the box the second I saw the R. Crumb girl from UPS. It’s out of the cardboard nest now, and I’m afraid of what’s within. I don’t want to hurt anymore, Sharkee, not today. I bought it for you in Paris, at the flea market, remember? Then Proust’s grave in the rain and all that sad lover’s jazz—funny little flower shops by the Père Lachaise, ridiculous chalk portraits in Montmartre; late afternoon shoeboxes on folding tables by the Seine, each filled with Genet and Colette and Novalis…and Stocker Vidra. I was so proud and so happy. Here I am with my maudlin slideshow, gushy and inane—circling the bag like a predator who’s lost her stomach. Mementos inside, my heartbreak piñata: return-to-sender things, old love letters (mine) and chloroformed smells: you’d send back blood and cum if you could. Oh Vidra…I’ll postpone the inventory just a little while, so until then: more Percocet and wary circling of the Trojan whore’s radioactive goods. If I gathered the courage to march right up and, peering in, found it empty—would that be better or worse?

  *** The THIEF of ENERGY

  I found Jabba through her mother, who still lives in the same peculiar garish house in Mount Olympus Estates. As I knew that Lavinia does not answer her telephone nor does she return messages, I paid a visit. Mount Olympus is a very strange community, forgotten and anomalous. Lavinia remembered me as she remembers all and everyone she has encountered; that is her curse and her bane, her reckoning. The house is neo-Grecian in motif but is run-down, as are many in that now anachronistic, desultory neighborhood. I hear there are Persian drug dealers living large on the Mount but perhaps that is slander. Lavinia is a heavy drinker (sounds like the start of a limerick) and, like many alcoholics, particularly women, has not aged well. She is fat and looked like a giant (stubbed) toe, with psoriasis to top it off. She rails against her ex but, to the point of bathos, watches tapes of The Chet Stoddard Show. I could hear it from behind the door as I peed (too, grabbing Tylenol #3s which are so old as to probably be ineffective); she lobs obscenities at this handsome Talking Head—so clearly obsessed. Whatever gets you through the night; I am certainly not one to talk. (That is a detail—haunted watching of the old show—The ‘Ex’ Files—I sorely wish could be worked into the filmic version of *** The THIEF of ENERGY ) She said Jabba was there not too long ago and gave me her home #. All this, luckily, without my having to expend much. In fact, upon sight, I deliberately erected (á la the Vorbalids) a discrete Wall of Energy so as not to be tainted by her needy, blowsy, volatile energy demands. Her strands looked like frozen wine-colored urine, rubbery too—ironically suitable for web-weaving. Crappy, weak-looking people like that (often obese) are usually more dangerous then they appear.

  Jabba was in jail five months then got clean (she’s dirty again, haha), going to AA, NA, the whole caboodle. She lives in Jew World on Fairfax (near Erewhon) and dances nightly at a club in Century City. We went to the Beverly Hills Hamlet and caught up. It seemed as if she was marshaling her energy, emotive yet otherwise leery around me, not very giving rather into a mode of lambent self-preservation. In short, reticent, and I, respectful of that—having been there. I told her about Jeremy and because she would like the money and possible TV connections (still trying to be the Great Actress), the three of us went to dinner at Sweets. Johnny Depp was there and Andre Agassi, Ellen Barkin and someone from Friends—I have not watched that. In the middle of all this, funnily enough, was James Earl Jones and that was apropos because of Jabba (him being the voice of Darth Vader). I thought I would run into someone I had rubbed, but alas it was not to be the case. Som
e of Jeremy’s overseers and agent-like colleagues trooped by the table with chagrin, to say hello. (He is represented by ICM—Sweets being a veritable hotbed of aforesaid crowd.) Mr Stein thought he was so hip to be seen with the trashy whores.

  Well it seems Jeremy has missed a lot of work, critically so, one colleague brought him to the bar for a heart-to-heart while Jabba and I were otherwise engaged, attended to by the remnant crew of ten-percenters. They are just like pimps! Every once in a while I overheard Jeremy say: ‘Sara has the baby now,’ and ‘She is a wonderful mother,’ ect. And that is to his credit but I know he’s weasling just the same. He is exceedingly grateful the baby is out of his hands responsibility-wise, knowing he isn’t fit to be a dad at this juncture. I went to the ladies’ room and was immediately buttonholed/waylaid by one of the confessors who took me aside (before heavily hitting on me) and said, half with reproach, I should be mindful of Jeremy’s substance intake because he didn’t look so great. Like I am the nurse. I wondered whether this colleague was attempting to posit a legal threat; energetically, I could not read him.

  When we got home, of course Jeremy’s dick wouldn’t work so Jabba and I messed around, with him smoking the crack. (Too bad James E. Jones wasn’t in attendance!) He burned a giant hole in the Laura Ashley comforter and the smoke alarm went off and he thought that to be funny. Because I was fairly loaded my guard was down; I could not resist bringing up the theft of 90210 ect. and Jeremy became furious—not helped by the fact Jabba said I was now ‘tripping’ and not to be indulged. She can be a cunt when so desirous. He became so eerily unhinged/mixed-with-defensiveness that it was obvious my theme had merit, and did strike more than one nerve. I quickly skimmed (aloud) the essential curricula vitae: [a] that I myself had attended Beverly Hills High, this Jabba would attest, having seen my yearbook and photo within; [b] that I am an award-winning writer, albeit it on a student level; [c] that I had a long, well-documented interest in and aspirations to the Television Arts & Sciences, not to mention the Literary; and [d] that I had as the coup de grace long ago submitted my ‘Story Bible,’ featuring an ensemble piece skewered toward the young which happened to emanate in locus from the most maddeningly obvious place on this earth (so obvious no one ever thought of it but myself and Wanda) for looming Gen X faddish involvement and piqued global interest (Wanda and I had soared so far ahead of the curve)—Beverly Hills High School and environs. Myself, having lived on South Peck for many years with Wanda and that man who in the end, ect, ect,—90210 was even our Zip! I had within the purloined proposal speculated adding the five digits as suffix to said locus to create a certain panache, personal-/individualizing. There may be no record of the latter extant. Alas, Wanda is not here to join in corroborative oral history.

  I said everything in my prècis—the existence of which was ludicrously disclaimed upon written inquiries to Mr Spelling’s offices. All this time while ‘90210 tripping,’ Jeremy grows angered, I see his energy swell and become dirty yellow—like toffee that is rotten, his denial fueled my own flames. For I knew he had worked under Mr Spelling at that time, albeit a far lower level, and may easily be the one to have come across the stolen sheaves for his own wiles. Too, he knew Darren Star, the then-unknown scriptwriter, of this I am aware through research. Throwing a lit candle at me, JS said, ‘get out,’ and I did, leaving Jabba on the futon in front of the fire to baby-sit his flaccid knobby penis.

  I coolly ransacked the house for themes and items to appropriate. In the Master Bed, I took jewelry which could only assume belonged to Sara. From what I have gleaned, she is a strong women and the jeweled items, tho of lesser value I assume than the ones she chose to take with her, will prove useful re: vestiges of energy I might choose absorb. I continued my perambulations, taking favored power objects: custom pens and stray coins, then: to the baby’s room. I took a mobile which hung above the crib (with poignant irony, for I knew the baby was blind). It was of the Blue Matrix genre and will serve as a potent ‘power object.’ I heard Jabba call my name as if in panic. When I returned to the living room, the scene was most bizarre—Jeremy having a seizure (crack-induced). There was blood on the sheets from a minor gash on his head where he fell. Breathing was stable, as, I assumed, were other vitals. I told Jabba to gather her things, which she shakily did. I pretended to call 911 to soothe her (I had already deemed it unnecessary). Now, if there is justice, I will create a new show: and call it Beverly Hills 911!

  You’ll Never Eat Me During Lunch…

  Out of the hospital and into the fire. Well, E, you’re a real trouper: thanx for holding down the fort while Mama had her nineteenth nervous breakdown. I know you’ve been holding down something, nudge nudge wink wink. By the way, your visits were wonderful. You’re a very good boy and I’ve decided not to fire you. For now.

  I am so tired. And feeling so upset…Did you know Gene Tierney had a complete collapse when Aly Khan wouldn’t marry her? Went into the nuthouse for a year and a half. (Had to have one hell of an HMO.) I read about this in Vanity Fair, while confined amongst detoxers and wannabe crazoids::::::::::Oh, Eric…serves me right for being so blasè about losing the baby. That’s actually what I tell people, isn’t that sick? I pretend I miscarried, I tell myself that. Oh God…Everything came home to roost. The stuff with my father—one morning I just couldn’t get out of bed anymore. You saw what I was like. They say I didn’t talk, not for a whole week—me! I still sent Vidra tapes but they were blank (my own version of the typewriter shtick in The Shining). Scared the tits off her. But she was my only link and I think she knew that. I never experienced pain like that in my life, never thought such pain existed, was possible. Not in this realm, anyway. Bill Styron knew what he was talking about (his daughter Susanna came to see me, so sweet).

  I think once Vidra saw I was going to be okay, she was secretly thrilled about the Big Depression—I was having it for her because boy is she due. And it’s good for the book, you know. She actually said, “Write your way out of it!” Real rah-rah Iowa Writers Workshop crapola. But you know what they say: what doesn’t kill you scares the freaking shit out of you and possibly damages you for life! That you laughing, E? Hope someone is…probably you and God. You know, you were the only person I wanted to see. The only one who wouldn’t judge me. Calliope loves you too; I told her all about your visits and the variety of hilarious contraband smuggled in. And the Show and Tell! When I described your Prince Albert, she smiled this ridiculous affectless smile of total generational befuddlement::::::::::It’s good to be home but I need to work—and soon. I’ve got two hundred and thirty-five thousand dollars to my name and it don’t feel cushy as it might have a few years ago. Oops—time for my meds. “Zoloft, it’s been good to know you…Zoloft, been good to—“I make the housekeeper walk them over in a tiny little paper cup, while I’m in the “dayroom.” (Gettin’ nostalgic for that ward, baby):::::::::I’m Taping as Fast as I Can…and catching up on lots of reading: the Tarkovsky book, Elmore Leonard, Primary Colors, the Vidal memoir…came across Sexton’s To Bedlam and Back, inscribed by Grosseck, no less: “For Teorema and the Wolfe, these ‘Notes Toward a Final Polish.’” Fuck you, Katherine. And polish this. Message last night from Cat, the machine said four A.M.—:::::::::The part that was so strange was how I remembered everything about my father, how it came back so vividly—suddenly I was there, I could smell it, smell him—sitting with the bankers in that Nexus meeting, watching it like a movie: heavy steps coming to the door, asking if I’d bathed. I’d say no and he’d say the water was drawn. Always a bubble bath, like that would make it all better. The sound of his shower in the master bath as I sat and soaked and shivered, numb; I could hear it through the pipes. When the pipes would stop, so would my heart. A few minutes later he’s mixing a drink at the wet bar, swizzle-stick and chink-chink of ice. Honey? Out yet? Come on now, you’ll wrinkle like a prune—standing at the door watching as I climbed from the tub, hunching to cover myself…leading me by the hand to bed. My bed. Once the phone rang when he
was about to start in and it was Mother. He used my pink Princess. She was in Denver and they talked ten minutes while I lay there nude, dreaming of Richard Basehart, Father rubbing my neck as they spoke, hand drifting down to brush my nipples, then between my legs as they finished up—“I just looked in on her,” he’d say. “She’s asleep”—she must have asked to talk to me—goodbyes and I love yous as he turned me over…Sleep well, darling. And hurry home. E, why did the Fool have to die?

  In the shadows of my room I became Gelsomina and my father, Zampano, under the circus tent. You know, as a girl, I had a funny gift: when I went on planes, I could hear any song I wanted in full orchestral accompaniment, plain as day just beneath the drone. I could do the same with people—when it was half dark, I could make them look like anyone, anyone in the world. So I saw the Fool on his tightrope and wished with all my heart he would stop being a dysfunctional harlequin with a death wish and that he would rescue me. The thing of it is that when I got older, I came; Zampano made me come. I never forgave myself for that:::::::::Oprah, book me!