Tricks Of The Trade

by Ben Tyler

  She now recognized his voice. “Personal’s on line two,” she announced with a deadpan smugness. Bart picked up the line and whispered his conversations.

  Every time Personal phoned, it was obvious that Cheets was eavesdropping, because things became utterly quiet outside Bart’s office. Her telephone, which rang incessantly, went unanswered. Bart could make out the silhouette of her shadow as she leaned closer to his door and took mental notes of the one-sided conversation she was hearing. He had to keep everything he said to Rod enigmatic and ambiguous. A cryptic code evolved. Bart spoke in brief, monosyllabic sentences. Rod understood. Cheets thought she did, too. She was always projecting what she “thought” people were thinking, especially about her. Unfortunately for Cheets, she was usually right.

  “Same time?” Bart would inquire.

  “Later, dude.”

  That night, another traffic snarl turned into a harried drive to Rod’s room. The moment Bart arrived, he could tell his lover was not in the best of moods. The sex was perfunctory, as if the stud of West Hollywood were physically present but his sexy goateed and buzz-cut head was off spinning somewhere in cyberspace. Still, it was mind-blowing sex for Bart, who, after only twenty minutes of his prostate being massaged by Rod’s jackhammering, could no longer control his climax.

  Rod, however, got himself off soon after, simply to get it over with. He lay on his back, his smooth, dark-skinned body barely touching Bart.

  Bart took a handful of Rod’s load and mixed it in with his own as it began to drip down his stomach, then cool and congeal. For Bart, this was bliss. But he could feel tension in the air.

  Finally, Rod gave out a heavy sigh of dissatisfaction.

  “What?” Bart asked.

  Another sigh. “How long before your friend reads my script?” Rod whined.

  Oh, shit, Bart thought, no more fooling around. “As a matter of fact, you sexy, talented stud, I wanted to surprise you.”

  Rod rolled onto his side and propped his head up into the palm of his right hand. “Yeah?”

  “Good news. I talked to him today.” Bart smiled, drawing on his best PR bullshitting skills. “He apologized for taking so long. Lots of other scripts to read. But he loved Blind as a Bat. In fact, he said in his report he gave it an Excellent.”

  “Cool, man.” Rod was obviously thrilled but didn’t want to sound overly enthusiastic. “So what’s next? Do you think the studio will buy it?”

  “You can’t even submit it without an agent,” Bart said, quickly bringing down Rod’s euphoria.

  “But if the guy likes it, can’t he recommend it to one of the studio’s creative execs?”

  “He could get in deep trouble for accepting unsolicited material.”

  “Then what’s the use?”

  Bart made a snap decision. “I’ve got a plan. There’s a party on Saturday…at Jim Fallon’s house.”

  Rod whistled. “Jim Fallon. Wow. That’s one sick motherfucking dumbass.”

  “So he has a penchant for rough trade, so what? You’re not exactly Roma Downey, all lit up with a star-filter aura, saying, ‘Gawd looves yeh,’ twelve minutes on the dot before that computer-generated white dove freeze-frames. Anyway, there’ll be plenty of stars and agents and managers there. If you switch your night at the Trap, maybe you can join me and we can network. Parties are where it all happens.”

  Rod quickly agreed. “I’ll definitely get the night off. So what exactly did he say about the script?”

  “He’s going to send me his written report tomorrow,” Bart lied, having received the coverage over a week ago. “But he said it was one of the best scripts he’d read in a long time.”

  “I’m totally jazzed, man. And this guy’s legit? He’s good at his job?”

  “He’s been at it for a long time. The studio takes his coverage seriously. As soon as I get the written report and your script back, I’ll bring it over. We’ll celebrate. That okay?”

  “More than okay, you little shit. I’m celebrating now.”

  With those words, Rod rolled over onto Bart’s sticky body and the two men began to deep-kiss each other, sucking one another’s tongues. The mutual feeling of their hard muscles and velvet flesh made any further thoughts about anything other than physical pleasure disappear. Rod was back to his old self again, giving his undivided attention to sex. This time, their play lasted an hour before either man climaxed. Rod then swallowed a pull of tequila, took another swig, and drooled it into Bart’s open, waiting mouth like the Actors and Others suit in the stockroom at the Trap.

  Before dressing to leave, Bart met Mrs. Carter and her cat in the hallway. Apparently she was getting used to seeing him—or else she was just horny, because for the first time, she stopped and smiled. Her eyes scanned him from top to bottom. When he returned to Rod’s room after sponging himself off, Bart dressed and said, “By the way, you need a tuxedo for this party. I’ll pay for it, if you like.”

  Rod took the offer in stride, as if he expected the invitation would come with all additional expenses paid for. Bart added, “Just go down to Larry’s Tux Rental tomorrow. Don’t forget the shirt and shoes, too.”

  “We’ll be Prince Charmings at the Fire and Ice Ball,” said Rod.

  “Ever been to a glittery Hollywood party?” Bart asked, knowing the truth.

  “The only glitter at parties I’ve been to are what you see after a tab of LSD.”

  “You’re in for a shock…or treat…depending on how you look at it.”

  “What’s the big deal? A lot of phony baloneys all dressed to the hilt. But Jim’s place is spectacular.”

  Bart thought that was an odd statement, but he brushed it off, thinking Rod had probably seen the Barbara Walters Oscar-night special that featured Jim and his “girlfriend” lovingly ensconced in the star’s multi-million-dollar estate.

  “Do you have business cards?” Bart asked.

  “Should I?”

  “You need to hand ’em out to everybody you meet. I’ll have our graphics department make up a box for you.”

  “De rigueur?”

  Rod surprised Bart with his choice of words. What one minute seemed like a limited monosyllabic vocabulary with a heavy Latin accent, the next minute became a mouthful enunciated with a genuine French inflection. That’s the writer in him, Bart surmised. Or the actor.

  “If I could just meet an agent and get him to represent the project, I’d be set,” Rod said.

  Bart cautioned, “These things take time in this town, so don’t be too disappointed if, after all the alcohol and drug-induced bonhomie, you don’t hear from anyone. We may have to go to a lot of these things before people start remembering you. Just stick with me, Rod.”

  Although Bart was once again horny for another round of sex, it was time to call it quits. Plus Rod said that another on-line trick was due to arrive soon, which made Bart furious, although he tried not to show it. Bart was, if not in love with Rod, at least conquered by him. He was envious of the other men Rod was screwing—for fun or profit, it didn’t matter. He wanted to be the only man in Rod’s life, just as Rod was the only man in his.

  “Can I ever expect to be the only hole you’re interested in?” Bart asked, surprising himself with his blunt question.

  “Hey, man,” Rod said, enfolding Bart in his arms, “I’m really keen about you. Grateful, too.”

  “Because I came through with my friend at the studio?”

  “Yeah,” Rod said. “But also because you’re still a good fuck after a whole two weeks. You definitely came along at the right time in my life.”

  “All I can do is open the door. It’s up to you to walk through it.” Bart tried to sound like a benevolent mentor. “You came along at the right time for me, too,” he added before a long, passionate kiss good-bye.

  Chapter Seven

  The next morning arrived too quickly. Before Bart even had his coffee, Shari was on the warpath. She’d left a voice-mail message at his apartment the night before, insisting he cal
l the moment he got in. He didn’t respond. By the time he’d gotten home from seeing Rod, however, it was way too late, although calling her at 2:00 A.M. and waking her up would have been a fun prank.

  An identical message was on his office machine: “Rumor has it that you’re not finished with the press kit for Gratuitous Explosion,” he heard her husky voice shout through his speaker.

  “Fuck you, Shari,” Bart said aloud. It was still early, and the office was fairly empty, so no one heard him.

  “If I come in there tomorrow and find this to be true…well, you can only imagine what I’m going to do to you. You little cocksucker. Think about it.”

  Is this what they call harassment? Bart wondered as he reached for his bottle of Klonopin and dumped twice the prescribed dosage into the palm of his hand. He chased the pills with a swallow of coffee.

  He stared at the wall opposite his desk, on which was framed a poster from The Day the Earth Stood Still. “Klaatu barada nikto!” he said aloud, a mantra, wishing it would rid Shari from his life. The words from the film were an alien pronouncement to summon the robot policemen of the universe to zap Shari with a deadly ray. He’d love to see a giant robot cornering Shari, making her faint from sheer terror, like Patricia Neal in the movie. Or better yet, it could disintegrate her altogether.

  The press kits were indeed late, but no later than others had been. As usual, it wasn’t due to Bart’s lack of diligence. Shari herself had held up production for a full two weeks by failing to read and approve the ma-terial. His work, which needed her endorsement, sat in Shari’s “In” box day after day. Call after call from Bart, but no amount of appealing for her attention caused action. Shari seemed determined to undermine his reputation and make him look incompetent. But because she had the ear—as well as the cock—of the chairman of the studio, there was no one Bart could go to for help.

  He’d discovered over the years that everybody knew somebody with authority in the industry. The gopher you confide in turns out to be Michael Eisner’s son’s college roommate. Your hairstylist also coiffed the secretary to Sharon Stone. The whole town was so incestuous, no one could ever talk to a stranger about anything to do with the business.

  With Shari, there was always an excuse. “I left your press-kit notes on the airplane.” Or, “It must have dropped out of the cab in New York.” Or, “The sentence structure was so poor, I couldn’t go on. If they were done properly in the first place, I wouldn’t have had to make any comments.”

  It was a no-win situation for Bart. Nothing he did would ever please Shari. But at least the Klonopin was kicking in, so he decided he might as well just be himself and stop worrying about his personal Cruella De Vil.

  In Bart’s imagination he envisioned a time when Sterling would be making a film adaptation of one of his novels. As executive vice president of publicity and marketing, Shari would have to be involved with the project. In Bart’s fantasy, he walked into the executive conference room with Steven Spielberg, the producers (of which he is one), “Rover,” and Shari. She would be all smiles, taking credit for having been a mentor to Bart during his formative years in the industry.

  As the meeting began, Bart, with a glass of sparkling Pelegrino in his hand, suddenly stops the proceedings.

  “This is the film with the highest budget for any movie you’ve ever made here,” he announces triumphantly. “I’m so delighted that you outbid Warner Brothers, Fox, Disney, Paramount, and Sony. It’s great that we’ve got Ben Affleck, Angelina Jolie—is she back from rehab?—Meryl Streep, Leonardo DiCaprio, Gary Sinise—sans his hairpiece, for once—and Angela Bassett. I love them all. And Steven’s directing. Wow! I smell Oscars for almost everyone in this room. I always thought this would happen. I just never imagined my alma mater, Sterling, would be the studio to make the picture.

  “With that said, please indulge my one artistic idiosyncrasy,” Bart continues. At this point he stands up. Shari is shocked to see that he’s grown from five-seven to a wide-shouldered six-five just since their arrival in the conference room. His piercing blue eyes look first upon Mr. Spielberg, and he smiles. Then to “Rover.” On to the duo of inconsequential producers. Finally, his smile fades. His eyes bore into Shari. Pointing a well-manicured index finger, he roars, “If this cunt’s on the project—in any capacity—I walk away from final negotiations this very minute. Paramount, Universal, Miramax, and everybody else in town are just as eager to make this film as you are. No Shari! Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

  By now Shari has withered away in her chair, a child swallowed up in a grown-up’s clothes. Security arrives to escort her off the lot and out of Hollywood altogether. Premiere magazine runs a cover story about the incident, and the whole town secretly applauds, just the way they did when Dawn Steel—bless her departed soul—got a brain tumor and found herself edited out of this world. There were few people around who would mourn the passing of Shari. No love lost there. No more than for Dawn’s early exit.

  Bart’s reverie was interrupted by the ringing telephone. His heart raced when he saw whose number appeared on the caller ID: Shari. Ext. 666.

  Giving it his most effusive, bullshit-publicist greeting, he answered the phone. “Morning, Shari! I was just about to return your call from last night. Got in too late to disturb you at home. What? Who’s spreading that naughty rumor? The press kits will definitely ship this week. Right on schedule. Where’d you get that information? Don’t pay any attention to that. Cheets is in rehearsals for an all-female version of Raging Bull. She’s a bit distracted. Yes. Of course they’ll be mailed—by Friday. Great. See you at the staff meeting at ten.”

  Bart replaced the telephone receiver on the cradle. “Fuck you, bitch!” he whispered.

  When Cheets finally wandered into her cubicle at 9:45, Bart could hardly control his impatience. “Afternoon, Cheets,” he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

  “I’m sorry. I flushed my miniature electrolysis machine down the toilet. Had to call the plumber.” It was one of her more wild excuses for being tardy.

  “Last week you locked your dog in your car—with the engine running—all night and asphyxiated the poor thing. Whether fact or fiction, I wouldn’t tell those stories about myself if I were you. They really make you sound like you’re a few planks short of a full stage. Anyway, I need you to call the printer right away and find out when the press kits for Gratuitous Explosion will be ready. You told Shari they weren’t available, but I told her they’d be shipping this week. Don’t make me out to be more of a liar than I already am, please.”

  The day was not starting out auspiciously. Not only were the press kits for Gratuitous Explosion not ready; other projects, such as the synopses for the studio’s entire slate of films for the remainder of the year, weren’t ready to be mailed to the press. The other publicists in the department needed the material to pitch stories to the muffin magazines: McCall’s, Ladies’ Home Journal, Redbook; as well as the glossies, such as Vogue, GQ, Premiere, and Maxim. It was time for Bart to stop thinking about Rod and start concentrating on the fearsome deadlines he was facing.

  But as soon as Rod called to confirm he’d been able to switch with another bartender and could go to Jim Fallon’s party, after all, Bart fell back into his lackadaisical “God I don’t want to be here working today” mode. Hearing Rod’s voice just made him crazy with desire. If it weren’t for Rod’s unbreakable writing schedule, Bart would surely run over for a nooner. But Rod was extremely disciplined. He had his routine. The gym, writing, hustling, and Bart. In that order. Bart felt doomed to be a puppet to Shari—and to Rod. He hoped things would change after the party.

  Once he and Rod were seen together in a social environment, people would automatically jump to conclusions and think of them as a couple. Bart hoped that Rod, too, would start to see them as partners and begin to think of their relationship as more than a business arrangement. Bart wasn’t ready to rock the boat by making domestic demands of Rod, but the prospect of being Rod’s on
ly man was definitely high on his wish list. If they were a success at the party, perhaps Rod would keep him around.

  Saturday afternoon finally arrived. Bart—dressed to the nines—drove over to Rod’s. Parking was easier now that Rod had arranged a street-parking pass for him, but it was still hard to find a spot.

  After the glass door to his room slid open and revealed Rod in all his splendor, Bart uttered, “Oscar De La Hoya has no competition in the sex-appeal ring.” Rod looked sensational—wearing anything—or nothing at all. But he was especially attractive in his black tuxedo.

  “You like?” Rod asked.

  “Ah, ha.”

  “The guy who altered the pants paid me twenty bucks to let him suck me off after hemming my cuffs.” Rod laughed, pleased with himself.

  It was typical narcissistic Rod behavior, and Bart was never in the mood to hear about his sexual exploitations with others. It was one thing to hear Rod was totally turned on by Scott Speedman from Felicity. (“Great lips, man.”) That was just insipid observation. Bart himself admitted to Rod that he was floored by Alec and Billy Baldwin. (“You think they’re cute?” Rod had said with incredulity.) But whenever Rod flaunted how much sex he had, it cut to the core of Bart’s insecurity and fear of rejection. He knew he could never expect Rod to be monogamous. Hell, he made a good part of his living by letting freaks and geeks suck him off. But it was way too late for Bart not to have become possessive of the only man who had ever given him an erection merely by talking on the telephone.

  “I was buck-naked,” Rod continued. “I looked great. And there was a plate-glass window, so anybody could have looked in, which just made it more exciting. There I was, on a carpeted platform in front of a three-paneled full-length mirror, while this ravenous pig knelt on pins and buttons and a pair of scissors, completely oblivious to the sharp pricks.”