Tricks Of The Trade

by Ben Tyler

  As zealous as Rod was about his weight lifting, writing, and sex, he was equally devoted to his answering machine. He couldn’t stand not to know who had called. It was like an unopened Christmas present. If he was not allowed to untie the bow and rip apart the paper, it would drive him nuts.

  But it was the middle of the night. He didn’t want to disturb Bart with the sound of playing back what might be calls from customers begging to drop by for some action.

  Returning from the bathroom, he quietly lay down next to Bart. However, falling back to sleep was impossible. He had to know whom the four messages were from.

  Cautiously, with as much surreptitious movement as possible, Rod got out of bed and made his way over to the makeshift desk where his machine was blinking. He turned the volume down as low as he could, then pushed PLAY. He increased the volume ever so slightly, just loud enough to hear the voice coming through the speaker.

  However, in the utter quiet of the night, no amount of muting was enough to keep the sound low enough. “What’ya doin’?” Bart whispered, still half-asleep.

  “Nothing. Go back to sleep.”

  The machine’s first beep was followed by a man’s voice. “Rodrigo?” the voice inquired. “This is Jim. Jim Fallon. I’m glad you gave me your card. Very wise. I’d never have known how to reach you. Listen. I’m genuinely sorry. I’m extremely upset about being inebriated when you and your friend arrived. I’m not a drinker, as a rule, but I was so sad about the reason for the party—you know, my last show and all. Things got out of hand very early. However, I wasn’t so drunk that I didn’t catch the fact that you’re a screenwriter. When I asked if you had anything I could look at, I hope you didn’t think I was being too forward. I say things sometimes that come out sounding differently than I planned. I mean, people sometimes think I’m mischievous or something. Anyway, I’m rambling here. Sorry for that, too. But I’m serious about looking for new material. Now that I don’t have a series, I’ve got to line up other projects. I’d really like it if you would let me read something that you think I might be right for. So, here’s my private number: three, one, zero, five, five, five, six, two, eight, zero. Again, I’m sorry if I came across as rude or anything this evening. I noticed you left before the screening, and I wanted to apologize. Okay. There you have it. My apology. And my interest in your work. And my phone number. Guess that’s it. Hope we have an opportunity to work together.”

  Beep.

  “Rodrigo? This is Jim Fallon again. Sorry to bother you. I called a little while ago, and I don’t remember if I left my phone number. I’m at three, one, zero, five, five, five, six, two, eight, zero. Just wanted to make sure I didn’t forget to give you my number so we can discuss any scripts you might have with roles that I might be right for. Do I sound desperate yet? Thanks again.”

  Beep.

  “Rodrigo? Jim again. Don’t feel like you have to call back just because I’m a big, important television star. If you just want to have your agent send me something, that’ll be fine, too. Okay. That’s it. No more calls tonight. I promise. Three, one, zero, five, five, five, six, two, eight, zero. Okay. ’Bye.”

  Beep.

  “Rodrigo. It’s Jim again. This is so weird. You wouldn’t happen to be the Rodrigo Dominguez who wrote Blind as a Bat? I have that script here. It says, ‘Written by Rodrigo Dominguez.’ I don’t know of any other screenwriters named Rodrigo, so I’m hoping this is you. I hope so. My agent gave the script to me, so I guess we have the same agent. I hope it’s written by you, because it’s great. Michael says I should think about playing the role of Doug, the gay super of the New York apartment house in the story. I like it a lot. What do you think? I’ll have my people talk to your people. Oh, wait. Your people are my people. Small world. Weird. Anyway, great work. Glad we had a chance to meet.”

  Click. Buzz.

  Rod pushed the SAVE button in order to replay the messages in the morning.

  He climbed back onto the mattress, laid on his back, and stared into the darkness. “Fuck,” he said aloud in a low, incredulous whisper as conflicting thoughts crowded through his head. I’ve been cursing that Actors and Others suit for not doing anything with the script…I hated the party because nothing appeared to happen…Jim Fallon’s interested in my work…I don’t belong to the WGA…Is he serious about liking the material…Why hasn’t that lying, piss-lapping Michael ever said a single word to me?

  Bart rolled onto his side and snuggled up to Rod, placing his right arm across Rod’s hard chest. “Told you so,” Bart said in a sleepy voice.

  “What?”

  “Jim Fallon wants you.”

  “He wants to read my stuff. Then he discovered he already had.”

  “He wants you to fuck him. Probably on video. For his collection,” Bart teased.

  “Fuck you. He does not.” Rod felt himself getting angry for no good reason. “I thought you were the one who told me my stuff was good. Well, Jim’s just saying the same thing.”

  “Don’t get hostile,” Bart said, still groggy.

  “I’m not hostile. But you’re accusing Jim Fallon of having an ulterior motive for calling me. Don’t you think maybe he was telling the truth? That he needs a role and really wanted to see what I have? It sounds plausible to me.”

  “I believe he wants to see what you have, all right,” Bart said, still teasing.

  “And you know what? I’d gladly show him. If it meant a screenplay sale,” Rod said with a voice that spoke volumes to Bart about his lover’s ambition and what he’d do to get ahead in Hollywood. “You do what you gotta do in this town, man.”

  “I was just joking,” Bart said in a tone that registered his hurt feelings. He turned and rolled over, his back to Rod. Now, more or less conscious, he said, “Come to think of it, I’ve been a pretty good stepping-stone, haven’t I?”

  There was no answer from Rod, but Bart knew he wasn’t asleep. In fact, Rod was wide-awake, looking at the blinking red light on his machine.

  As his mind raced with thoughts about his career and Jim and Bart, Rod had to acknowledge the truth to himself—that, yes, Bart was indeed a stepping-stone. But who wasn’t? Everybody was upwardly mobile in his or her own way. Bart may have started out as a means to an end, but there was no doubt about Rod’s physical attraction to him. And there was also no doubt that Bart could do, and had already done, a lot for Rod’s career and ego.

  Rod would have been content to keep fucking Bart as long as Bart served his purpose; someone who could help him get ahead. But as of this moment, it seemed Bart’s time was almost over. Rod and Bart had both thought it would take a while before the right people noticed Rod’s work. It was happening faster than either planned.

  The silence in the room created a vacuum. Bart was completely awake now and practically reading Rod’s mind. It made him feel weak and sick to his stomach. Bart realized he had been falling in love with Rod; there was no mistake about that. But there was more. Although Bart had always been involved with serious, successful, intellectual, and accomplished men, they were practically interchangeable. Although the sex with each of them, to varying degrees, was almost always gratifying, there had never been any man whose sexual energy radiated as intensely as Rod’s.

  Bart got hard just thinking about being in bed with him. Everything from Rod’s macho attitude to his well-constructed body was in Bart’s personal theme song: “Mister Sandman.”

  Rod may not have been the type of man that Bart previously would have thought he would marry for life.

  But things had definitely changed.

  Rod was definitely the type of man that would always occupy Bart’s thoughts during sex with anyone else forever after.

  Bart was saddened to think that he might have to give up his sex toy-boy.

  “I love you, Rod,” he said in a whisper. It was the first time he had ever uttered those words to him.

  And although Rod heard the confession, he didn’t know what to say. So he said nothing.

 
Chapter Ten

  The light of Sunday morning began to spread through Rod’s room. It was that early time just after dawn when, in the past, regardless of how many times Bart and Rod had gotten it on during the night, they both awoke with raging hard-ons. This morning was different only because they did not automatically roll toward each other and begin making love.

  Bart sat up, rubbed his crusty eyelids, and looked over at Rod, who was lying on his back, still staring at the ceiling. The bedsheet, pulled to his waist, showed the distinct outline of his erect penis.

  Bart got out of bed and began to dress. Parts of his and Rod’s identical tuxedos were scattered about the room, and he tried to match which were his.

  Things had literally changed overnight. The air in the room was thick with unspoken decisions. Bart didn’t bother to dress carefully. He zipped his pants fly, didn’t button his shirt, slipped on his black nylon socks (or were they Rod’s?), and pushed his feet into his patent leather shoes, not bothering to tie them.

  Rod raised himself up on his elbows and looked over as Bart was about to unlock the door and leave. “Talk to you later, man,” Rod said. It wasn’t a question.

  “Yeah. Later, dude,” Bart replied in a somber tone. He was thinking it was probably the last time he’d ever use the word dude in a sentence that didn’t include the word ranch.

  Both men knew that “later” didn’t mean later that day. Or maybe even later that year. The incredible joy that Bart had experienced over the past several weeks was suddenly sucked out of him. Part of his being was simply gone. Empty. There was a huge gaping hole where he had allowed someone to occupy space. Now that someone had been ripped away from him.

  Bart slid the door open and stepped outside. The cool morning air hit him hard, like a sucker punch. Sliding the door closed, he stood for a moment, staring at his reflection in the mirrored glass.

  Bart looked like hell to himself. His hair was tousled. He needed a shave. His eyes were puffy. His open shirt revealed lines on his body from where the sheets had etched crease marks. He realized he was missing his bow tie, but he didn’t want to go back inside to retrieve it.

  Most of all, he was feeling how much he would miss coming to this strange room. He’d miss meeting Mrs. Carter in the hallway. He’d miss the sounds of her television programs drifting down to Rod’s room. Most of all, he’d miss being intimate with Rod.

  Rod stared back at him anonymously.

  Bart admitted to himself that it wasn’t just the sex he enjoyed. There had been real intimacy. Or so he thought. But apparently he had been duped into thinking that something deeper than superficial orgasms were shared between them. He didn’t want to think that Rod had used him, although it seemed pretty obvious now. He rationalized that he’d kind of used Rod, too; used him for spectacular sex.

  Bart turned and walked away.

  As he moved down the walkway by the side of the house, he noticed a gold-plated cuff link on the ground, glinting in the weak sun. He picked it up, then gave a cursory look around for its mate. He didn’t find it right away, so he gave up and walked off the property. At the edge of the driveway, where the cracked sidewalk began, Bart stopped for a moment.

  Bart was trying to remember exactly where he’d parked his car. To Rod, who had left his room and walked down the hall to the living room and was peering out the front picture window, it appeared Bart was thinking about turning back.

  The Mustang was a block away and covered with morning dew. Bart opened the driver’s side door—which he discovered he had neglected to lock the night before—and sat inside the car, warming up the engine as well as himself before driving away to his own apartment in Silverlake.

  Pulling out of his parking space, he drove over to La Cienega Boulevard and took that all the way up to Sunset. The usual bumper-to-bumper street traffic was nonexistent this time of morning on a Sunday, which made the stretch of road an easy drive. He passed Fairfax, then Highland, heading east to Western Avenue. After an inordinately long red traffic light at the intersection, he hung a left, crossing Hollywood Boulevard, and headed up to Los Feliz. Bart passed Griffith Park, ignoring the early-twentieth-century mansions built for silent-film stars and studio moguls that lined both sides of the street. Somewhere along here Lily Tomlin and Jane Wagner had a place. So did Madonna.

  Bart had actually been in one of the old gated estates on DeMille one time, which was owned by a cast member of the old television show The Waltons. The actress was exactly like the shrew she played on the series. If Rod had been to one of her parties, he would have gotten the full impact of what it was like to be treated as if you didn’t belong. It had happened to Bart when he accompanied a friend to an elegant dinner party there. As he remembered, the old woman’s complexion was as pale as Max Factor’s pancake, as cadaverous as if a vampire had sucked out all her blood. Her hair was dyed Mars rust red, and she wore brown lipstick and a red satin brocade ball gown that was appropriate for the refined ambience of her home but not for the dinner party. She never once acknowledged Bart, even when they were introduced. He could have been invisible.

  She was the most inhospitable hostess Bart had ever encountered. Well, almost. She rivaled another glacial personality: Audrey Christie. He remembered being taken by the same asshole who showed him off at Katie Grayson’s to a party at the tract home where Ms. Christie lived. She had played Mrs. Upson in Lucille Ball’s film fiasco of the musical Mame, and she was also the crusty rich lady who snubbed nouveau riche Debbie Reynolds in The Unsinkable Molly Brown until Molly became a heroine when she removed her fur coat and placed it around the shoulders of a freezing lifeboat survivor from the Titanic. Audrey Christie defined rude. When Bart’s asshole escort mentioned to the bartender that Bart’s cola was flat, she overheard the remark and made a big deal out of this young man, whom she didn’t even know, calling her cola flat. It wasn’t even Bart who’d made the comment. He would have been satisfied to drink whatever he was served. “What a bitch,” he now said aloud. “Dead. Too bad. No love lost to the world!”

  Once home in his Silverlake apartment, Bart shed his wrinkled clothes, leaving them on the floor beside his bed, and climbed in naked under the cold sheets. Being nude in bed always made his cock stiffen for some unexplainable and uncontrollable reason, as if at any moment some phantom lover would join him.

  However, to Bart, his fantasy had come and gone. He couldn’t imagine ever having another to replace what had been perfection. Although he was rock-hard, he had no desire to do anything about it. He decided he’d stay in bed the whole day, just to recuperate—from last night and the past few weeks of not getting much rest. He had no other obligations. So that’s just what he did. He slept.

  Rod didn’t waste any time getting in touch with Jim Fallon.

  Shortly after Bart left, Rod jacked off, just to alleviate the pressure. He brushed his teeth, got a cup of coffee, went to the gym, came home, shaved around his goatee, and showered. Then, at ten, he picked up the phone and pushed Jim’s number on the keypad. After three rings, Jim’s answering machine picked up. “You know the routine,” Jim’s distinct voice advised. Beep.

  “Ah, Jim. Ah, this is Rodrigo Dominguez. We met last night at your party. Then you called me. Sorry I’m just now getting back to you…”

  “Oh. Hey. Ah, hold a sec.” It was Jim, picking up the phone. Earsplitting feedback filled the receiver until Jim turned off the recording device. “There. Morning. Sorry. I was still asleep. The ringer was turned off, but I heard your voice.”

  “Hey, sorry. Want me to call back? Sorry I woke you up. I thought by ten it would be okay.”

  “No, this is fine. I should have gotten up by now, anyway.”

  “So, you called me,” Rod said. “You really liked the script? Oh, by the way, your party was great.”

  “Thanks,” Jim said. “Sorry you had to leave so early.”

  “I hope you didn’t think we were rude.”

  “I didn’t think you were rude at all. And you can c
atch the show when it airs next week. That is, if you have any interest in my swan song. And yes, I really liked the script.”

  “I’m sure it’s a great script. Final episodes of hit shows are usually a letdown, but I’m sure yours—”

  “No. I mean your script.”

  “Oh. Far out.”

  “Is there anyone attached? To the script, I mean. Attached. You know, starring?”

  “Of course. I mean, I knew you meant attached to the script. No one’s attached that I know of.”

  “I could easily see Kathy Bates in the role of the slumlord owner of the building,” Jim said. “And how about Greg Kinnear for the part of Gene, the new yuppie tenant?”

  “Is he still doing movies?” Rod said. “I sort of wrote it with Jude Law or Rupert Everett in mind. But yeah, whatever. But it’s not a sold script, if that’s what you’re asking. Michael, your agent, who gave it to you, isn’t exactly my agent. He’s just someone I kinda know. He never even told me you were reading it. You’d have to ask him what’s going on with the project. Michael and I don’t exactly talk.”

  Jim was lying in his bed naked, holding the cordless phone with one hand and stroking his penis with the other. As he spoke to Rod, he was fantasizing about getting his ass fucked by the Latin stud. Jim was beating off even as Rod was explaining the status of the screenplay and mentioning others he’d written that might be equally suitable for Jim.

  “My day’s rather free,” Rod said. “If you’d like me to drop by with some other stuff, I could do that.”

  At the very thought of Rod’s coming by the house, Jim climaxed and shot the biggest load he’d unleashed in a long time, squirting all the way up to his face.

  “Jim? Are you there?” Rod sounded concerned.

  Jim clenched his teeth in ecstasy, trying not to make any orgasmic noise. “Sorry,” he finally said, breathing heavily.