by Bruce Wagner
You’re not one who’s lacking in the chest department. (she tweaks a nipple with her long red fingernails, screwing and unscrewing; it stiffens) Wow, look at that.
They’re very sensitive. (she does the other one)
I’m getting sensitive myself just watching. So, Kiv: all this channel-surfing put you in the mood…
I guess you could say that, Troy. I certainly got curious.
What are you into? What turns you on?
Men. I’m really into men.
Have you done a film with a woman?
Not yet. But I haven’t done very many movies.
If you did, would you prefer a petite?
You mean, chest-wise?
Uh huh.
Someone smaller-chested than buxom, yes.
I’ll put your order in right away. (she laughs) Well, how about Singapore?
Singapore is great. I loved working with her in Dirty Squealers.
So you’d feel comfortable doing Singapore.
More than comfortable!
Or being done by.
Mmmmmm. In fact, while we were shooting, I was kind of disappointed you never put us together.
I’ll have to give myself a thousand lashes with the wet noodle. If it’s good enough for Ann Landers—
And she’s really sweet, Singapore. Not at all competitive. She’s just so great.
Speaking of erotic channels…would you mind taking off your panties? (Kiv smiles as she removes them) That’s beautiful. (CAMERA PUSHES IN CLOSER until her bush fills FRAME. It has been shaved in the shape of a heart) Hey, it’s Valentine’s Day. Move over, Edward Scissorhands.
I loved that movie. I think Tim Burton is a genius.
Did you do that yourself or did you have any help?
Just a little. (smiles) A little help from my friends. (laughs)
What kind of acting have you done, Kiv?
Mostly stage. Various productions in Vancouver. But I came to Hollywood so I could get experience in front of the camera. (CAMERA ZOOMS on bush) My plan is to cross over, like Traci Lords—
She’s not doing too bad, is she?
I’d love to do a series—something like Friends—but I’m also pursuing low-budget film work with interesting directors like Quentin Tarantino and Robert Rodriguez. But I really enjoy theater work and might be doing a play soon, in Burbank.
Beautiful downtown Burbank.
It’s Chekhovian—The Cherry Orchard.
I think you mean Chekhov. Chekhovian is the name of my grocer. The Cherry Orchard…that’s where farmers grow virgins, huh. (How had this happened to him? Years ago, he’d staged The Seagull in Topanga with Will Geer.) Kiv, do you think your work in adult films will hamper you? Lotsa prejudice out there.
For sure. But I point to Traci Lords as an example of how nothing can get in your way if you’re really motivated. I look at what I’m doing now as a preparation for film. It’s a legitimate tool.
“Legitimate Tool”—I like that! Can I use that as the title for my next film?
I think that when my time comes—
I’d love to watch your time come.
—(laughs) that I’ll be able to make that transition. Things are different than even ten years ago, especially so as we approach the fin-de-siècle.
The huh? The who? The what?
It’s French.
I didn’t know you were bisexual—I mean, bilingual—
(laughs) It means “end of the century.”
(Of course, he knew what it meant) Can you touch yourself, Kiv? (She does. CAMERA PUSHES IN for EXTREME CLOSE-UP) That’s great. You know, you’re a cunning bilinguist.
(JUMP CUT to CLOSE-UP of Kiv’s face, sometime later. Still the green lawn and blue sky, suburban ratcheting of distant sprinklers. Kiv moans, biting lip dramatically. CAMERA drifts down to breasts, jiggling against her athletic arm. Follows until we reach wrist and flailing hand with long, lacquered fingernails. Then a MEDIUM SHOT of Kiv as a muscular long-haired surfer in Speedo briefs ENTERS FRAME from b.g.)
Chet Stoddard
The housewife in toreador pants had been squinting at him from the moment he walked in. When Horvitz introduced him, the woman went nuts.
“Chet Stoddard who had the talk show?”
“That’s right.” Oh Christ, he thought. Why hadn’t he used an alias?
“I knew it!”
“Isn’t that something,” said the husband.
“Great memory,” said Chet with a Dick Clark smile.
“He doesn’t tell me anything, this guy.” Horvitz smiled too, but a little awkwardly. He didn’t like surprises, especially at the beginning of a pitch.
“That was a good show. We watched that show, didn’t we, Kenny?”
“Yes, we did,” said Kenny, matter-of-fact. “You were one of the first guys to go into the audience.”
“That’s right,” said Chet. “With the long microphones. They called them shotgun mikes.”
“Shotgun mikes!” Kenny effused, turning to his wife. “I remember that.”
“We’re not going to be on a talk show, are we?”
“Not even an infomercial,” said Horvitz, taking over the reins.
“Not today, I hope,” said Marion. “I’m having a bad hair day.”
ViatiCorps helped the terminally ill cash in their life insurance, providing the option of “accelerated benefits.” The debt-ridden former personality dropped by for an interview, then signed on as an “independent seller’s advocate” trainee. Kenny and Marion Stovall were glad to have a nominal public figure in the house. Somehow, it made the investment more of an adventure, and less of a risk.
“How did you become involved, Chet?”
That was the dentist.
“Well, I do a lot of fund-raising,” he lied. “Walkathons, benefits. I met Stu at the carnival.”
“For children with AIDS.”
“I keep wanting to go,” said Marion, demurely glancing at her mate, “but somehow we never make it.”
“I think,” said the dentist, “you have to be invited. They don’t take people off the street…”
“We’re hardly ‘off the street,’ darling.”
“Oh I think we can wangle an invitation,” Horvitz said. “They had a tremendous amount of celebrities this time around.”
“Great turnout,” said Chet, the sudden civic bureaucrat.
“Tom Hanks and his wife, Rita, always make an appearance. They’re good people. Gee…who was there? Jerry Seinfeld, Marcia Clark, Jay Leno. There’s someone who’ll give you a run for your money.”
Chet rolled with the punch. “He’s got a helluva car collection. But I was an unlucky man this year—got trapped in a ring-toss booth with Sharon Stone. It was sheer hell.” The dentist asked if the star wore panties and was promptly swatted by his wife. “Let’s just say that with or without, she arouses some fairly basic instincts.” Everyone laughed as Marion went for coffee.
“Anyway,” said Horvitz, “Chet liked what we were doing and wanted to come along to see how this thing works, on a personal level.”
“I hope that’s not too much of an intrusion,” Chet said diffidently.
“Hell, no,” said Kenny, “but I warn you: by the time you leave here, I will be your dentist.”
“Kenny, stop it!” cried Marion, from the kitchen.
“You have to promise to bring in a photo for my Wall of Stars.”
“It’s a deal.”
Horvitz dug in. “Kenny, your profession certainly hasn’t been untouched by this terrible disease and its attendant controversies.”
“We certainly have been.”
“As you know, there’s a lot of lip service given to ‘awareness.’ What’s wonderful about ViatiCorps—and its database of professionals like yourselves—is that you and Marion can do something concrete, something tangible, to ease human suffering.”
“That’s what’s so appealing,” said Marion, bringing in the tray. She looked to her husband, then added: “To me.”
“How exactly does it work?”
“Simplicity itself. I have a client who’s perfect to wet your feet with.”
Horvitz reached for his satchel, and Chet passed it on. He sorted through documents, grousing about life as a “great paper chase.” Then he found what he was looking for: a Polaroid of a wispy-haired man in his forties. Chet knew the picture had been taken by a nurse who supplied ViatiCorps with leads on the dying, for a percentage.
“He’s a costume designer. Has a T-cell count of twenty-two.”
Marion looked pained as she examined the photo. “Is that very bad?”
“It’s not great.”
“What’s a normal count, Stu?” asked the dentist, with alacrity.
“It’s a little arbitrary, but as a guide or indicator, that’s about all we have. The government defines full-blown AIDS as anything under a hundred T cells.” Marion screwed her eyes and nodded. “You and I may have six or seven hundred. Funny thing is, you can have nine hundred and still be on your way out.”
Ken shook his head. “That’s insidious.”
Marion tucked now shoeless feet underneath her and studied the photo; Chet noted a passing resemblance to Sally Field. “What’s his name?”
“Philip Dagrom. He’s actually fairly well known for what he does. He was working on Blue Matrix up until a month or so ago. I saw him on Friday. He’s pretty much clinically depressed.”
“Who wouldn’t be?” said the dentist.
“He doesn’t look all that terrible,” said Marion, grimly fascinated. “Don’t they usually have those spots? What are they called?”
“Kaposi’s sarcoma. Phil’s had everything but KS. Now, he’s losing his sight.”
“Real science fiction stuff, isn’t it?” Chet chimed in.
“It’s diabolical, believe me,” said Horvitz. They made a fairly decent tag team. “But Phil’s a fighter. We’re still looking at an expectancy of three to six months—don’t quote me now!”
“Was he an addict?”
“No, no. A hemophiliac—also gay.”
“Wow,” said Marion. “Double whammy time.”
“I’ve worked on hemophiliacs.”
“I always wanted to know,” said Chet, “how you fill a cavity in that situation.”
“Very carefully!” laughed the dentist. “What kind of insurance does he have?’
“A two-hundred-thousand-dollar policy. We can get it for maybe sixty cents on the dollar.”
“We give him a hundred and twenty thousand,” said the dentist, “which ultimately nets us—”
“You become eighty percent beneficiaries, with ViatiCorps retaining twenty.”
“Receivable upon his death.”
“That is correct. And that is subject to federal tax, not state.”
“Why did he wait until now? Pretty soon, he won’t be able to enjoy himself.”
“That’s the risk they take. Maybe he didn’t need the money, Kenny—until now. Or maybe he was just in denial. You have to understand there’s a finality involved in the selling of a policy.”
Marion bounced up. “I’ve got great pastries from Mani’s, sugar-free—muffins, too. Chet?”
“Love some.”
“Then follow.”
Chet brought his coffee with him. On the way, he amended his observation, telling her she looked like a young Mary Tyler Moore. She seemed to like that.
Back in the living room, the dentist was concerned. “Stu…if we do the deal, what happens if he lives a full twelve months—or more?”
“It’s an inexact science, but I’ve got a pretty good gut. We’ll also furnish a doctor’s opinion so you know we’re not whistling in the dark. Let’s say, for argument’s sake, he lives a year instead of six months. You’d still be earning twenty-three percent on your money.”
The dentist nodded. “That’s better than CDs.”
“You betcha.”
Chet chose a chocolate croissant while Marion poured a refill. She asked if he wanted sugar and he said, Just dip your little finger in there. Marion blushed; all in good fun. Gotta keep a hand in, Chet thought.
“Soupy Sales used to come on your show all the time,” she said.
“He was marvelous,” said Chet. “An early genius of the medium, like Ernie Kovacs.”
“And those pie fights! Weren’t those crazy days?”
“They certainly were. Good days.”
They walked back to the living room and Marion replenished the cups. Horvitz was explaining how the couple could go in on a pool if they were leery of forking over the full amount.
“What will Mr. Dagrom do with the money, Stu?” she asked, then looked toward her husband. He was tucking into a bear claw. “If we buy the policy and give him the cash?”
“I understand he wants to take a cruise. I think he’d like to die in Greece. He evidently used to travel there quite a bit.”
The dentist grew pensive. “I know this is a pretty big hypothetical, Stu, but let’s say—for argument’s sake—that out of the blue, a cure is found.”
Marion was mildly embarrassed. “I don’t think we have to worry about that, honey.”
“No, I’m glad you asked,” Horvitz said. “It’s a good question, don’t feel bad about asking anything, that’s why we’re here. Put it all on the table, so there aren’t any surprises.” The advocate clasped hands together as if in prayer, then placed them to his lips. “Even if a cure were found, and that’s highly unlikely”—a glance at Marion—“from everything we know…the people we’re dealing with are just too sick to be helped.” His logic was irrefutable; the room responded with a moment of silent gravity. “What I’d really like to get you in on,” he said, emptying a second pink packet into his coffee, “is an IV-drug user. Once you hand them the money, they tend to shoot it straight into their arms. Dramatically shortens their expectancy.”
Bernie Ribkin
Bernie Ribkin sat at the outdoor table that overlooked the customer service area, scanning Majestic Life, the “exclusive lifestyle magazine for Jaguar owners.” The alarm system on his Range Rover was out again.
Something about Bernie’s body put the hex on electrical things. It had always been that way. When he pushed the arming button on his key ring, the doors wouldn’t lock—or went haywire, locking and unlocking in seizure-like succession. Sometimes he could activate the system from hundreds of feet away; then again, he’d be standing right at the door and nothing would happen. There were other problems. Much as he loved the way the car looked, the interior was chintzy. The dash and environs continued to shed whole plaques of poorly glued walnut lookalike. The plastic burl on top of the gearshift popped out in his hand and a cheap husk of passenger seat molding kept crapping onto the carpet. You could literally see the masking tape that held it in place—and this was supposed to be a new car. Each day brought another hassle. Like Wednesday, when the key froze in the ignition and Bernie had to be towed all the way to Santa Monica. He was over by Western at the time and wasn’t thrilled.
Once semi-famous for a series of zombie films made in the early seventies, the producer was desperate to re-enter the Business. He had traveled the world for twenty years and the money was nearly gone. Now he’d come full circle, back to where it all began. He would have to reinvent himself—Christ, it’d been done before by lesser lights then he. If the concept was right, he could strike gold again. He had just paid fifteen hundred dollars in corporate filing fees: Bernard S. Ribkin was the new President and ceo of Scramblin Entertainment, Inc. He loved the ballsy, mischievous allusion to Spielberg. Made the broads laugh. (Next time, he’d do Scream Works.)
The best part about a Range Rover was that if towing was needed, you simply dialed an eight-hundred number and they came in about twenty minutes with a giant flatbed to cart you away. Bernie was towed three times in five months, once when he stalled on the Sony lot—an ignition thing again—and another, when the hydraulics jammed at Le Dome. All told, the car was in the shop around eight
een times in the year he’d owned it. Buying it had been one of those impulse things. He went to the showroom in Beverly Hills and wrote out the check, fifty-five thou, high-roller style, that’s the way Bernie always did it, bigger than life. He used to play the tables like that in Vegas, back in the days with Serena. One bet, twenty-five grand, win or lose. Then walk away.
For months, when the thing acted up, Bernie didn’t seem to care. He came to view his forbearance as a sign of mental health. Why fret? His way of saying “fuck you” to the car and its sundry hissy fits. Besides, it was the other fellow’s nickel. If repairs took a few days, they got him a loaner. He paid only with his time. The ritual of service relaxed him. He came in early, got his cup of coffee, flirted with the cashier. Sat at the customer table outside and worked the cellular. Watched the bored Fendi ladies cruise by and make the servicemen jump through hoops.
Bernie enjoyed the shop’s wide, clean driveway and the men who emerged from glass hives to diagnose and schedule. They wore white lab coats and studiously entered the producer’s complaints into a computer. They had carefully manicured beards and were even outfitted with sterling Anglo-Saxon surnames, courtesy of their supervisors. Bernie didn’t mind the subterfuge, as long as its aspirations were first-class. For shorter repairs, an obsequious Mexican in a Jaguar Polo shirt shuttled him back to the Edith-Esther, his apartment house off Burton Way. Yes, the producer perversely admitted, he sopped up everything about the place, even the part when he paid his bill and a “porter” was paged to bring down the just-washed car. Like checking out of friggin Claridge’s.
He sat there trying to come up with a Concept, a twist that would buy admission to the game—horror again?—or something like that crazy Pet Detective he’d seen on cable. His mind kept drifting to the car. The producer had bought English before and knew all the problems; he just couldn’t see himself in a Lexus. But then the airconditioning fritzed (twice) and the seat belt snapped and the window jammed and the hood wouldn’t pop and the dash CHECK ENGINE light stayed on three months and the sunroof wouldn’t sun and the engine hummed, hideously augmented through Howard Stern (because of the power lines, said the men in white smocks: “It happens with all cars”), and the hatch door wouldn’t hatch and Bernie replaced brake pads thrice the first six months (“because the car is so heavy,” said the men). Often, they fetched him from the Edith-Esther at the end of the day with great apologies because the mechanic discovered a part was needed that wasn’t in stock and would have to be UPSed “from the East”—assuming the mystical East was in possession, which was never certain because by the time they requisitioned, the East was usually already closed. A “part” might take three weeks to arrive. When the alarm system went code blue (fifth time), Bernie sat in the manager’s office to show he meant business. The smocked men coaxed it to work but along the way uncovered something grievously wrong with the pistons, a good two-to-four-week job—warranteed, of course. That was the day something turned and Bernie saw himself as the pawn of a bunco repair syndicate, an addled mark, juicy as a widow. They had singled him out. He couldn’t help but wonder: would these men actually have the gall to tell Zev Turtletaub the reason he couldn’t listen to the news—literally could not hear the commentators through a banshee of revving engine interference—was because of the fucking power lines? Maybe they would.