Tricks Of The Trade

by Ben Tyler

  Bart got into the movie business because he loved Meryl Streep, Angela Bassett, Jenifer Lewis, and Emma Thompson. Without exception, each of these “stars” was as professional and pleasant as they were gifted. Unfortunately, the Streep/Bassett/Lewis/Thompson wanna-bes were poor imitations. It made Bart morose to recognize that his lifelong passion for showbiz was merely the symptom of a disease rather than the disease itself.

  He also decided to put himself on the dating market again. But this time he would go back to his original intent: to find a guy who was educated, emotionally well adjusted, stable in whatever profession he’d chosen, and ready to settle down.

  “All my men have had dysfunctional personalities.” Bart rolled his eyes as if he couldn’t believe his lack of being lucky in love.

  Prior to Rod, he’d only had one other lover: “the Asshole” a.k.a. Ed. They had shared a condo on Miller Drive, in the hills above Sunset, in West Hollywood. The Asshole was an aberration, albeit a cutie—or at least Bart thought he was cute, in a Bernie Kopell as the doctor on The Love Boat kind of way. But as long as Bart lived, he’d have the horrible memory of the first time he found his so-called lover doing what he did best—destroying Bart’s self-value.

  It still gave Bart a jolt to recall Ed’s numerous acts of betrayal. Bart always went semicatatonic when he remembered the first time Ed cheated on him. Or, more precisely, the first time Ed was caught.

  It was an after-midnight hour, a year into their cohabitation. The night had progressed like many others: Bart had stayed awake as long as possible and finally retired to bed—alone. Ed stayed up to watch a porn movie in the living room. Soon, though, Bart was awakened by the dull report of their front screen door being closed and locked from the outside. Then the sound of the ignition turning over in Ed’s Jaguar.

  Bart recalled waking a couple of hours later to find Ed’s side of the bed still cold and empty, the covers never turned down. Bart’s first response was one of concern. In the distance were sounds, like hearing the ocean in a shell; muffled, unintelligible words heard through an air vent. Phantom noises came from beyond the closed second-bedroom door like smoke—a demonic apparition seeping through the narrow space between the carpet and door. Sounds that warranted investigation.

  Calling out Ed’s name in a low tone, Bart moved from the bed, through the room, and out into the hall.

  The door to their second bedroom was closed. It was a room whose door had a peculiar attribute: A window had been installed at eye level to enable the previous tenant to keep an eye on her baby without disturbing its naps. Bart and Ed had never bothered to replace it with a proper solid door. Instead, they hung cheap, sheer drapes—the color and density of white nylon stockings—over the glass.

  Approaching the door with the trepidation of a survivor come to identify the remains of a loved one, Bart peered through the window past the translucent curtains. His eyes witnessed the first heart-stopping disappointment of his life:

  Ed.

  Naked.

  Embracing someone blond and naked.

  Doing what he had taught Bart to do with him in the privacy of their bed.

  Then the jaw clenching, wounded animal-like sound of an exhausting climax. The variety that is said to peel wallpaper in its steamy intensity.

  To this day, the lingering impression in Bart’s memory was that of arms–and legs—flailing like tangled octopuses.

  Bart’s agony was too large to swallow. Hot misery restricted his breath. He was unable to cry out in grief or express the volcanic rage that churned and melted his self-value. He couldn’t even confront Ed or the intruder.

  Instead, Bart retreated to bed and buried his face in his Laura Ashley pillow, sobbing for the loss of something intangible—fairy-tale dreams that could never come true. He wept for his own stupidity.

  Morning arrived as slowly as payday. Horizontal bars of light, diffused through the slats of the bedroom’s shuttered windows, revealed Ed in his accustomed place, sleeping soundly on his back. Naked. The sheet pulled nearly to his waist. An arrogant, conceited son of a bitch, Ed was oblivious to Bart’s suffering. Ed was a stranger now. Unknown. Unknowable. An easy target for revenge—if Bart had the balls.

  Crimes of passion occur all the time, Bart had almost convinced himself, thinking of the crazy movie actress who reportedly bonded her costar-lover’s penis to his leg with Krazy glue while he slept. The story was memorable for its novelty.

  Bart was still choking back tears later in the day when Ed telephoned him at the office. Ed had thought he’d gotten away with the infidelity. From Bart came a cold, monosyllabic response to Ed’s cheerful greeting. When Bart finally explained his desolation, Ed was, at first, silent. Then he was sincere in his remorse and apologies. Then angry at being made to feel guilty.

  By conversation’s end, the circumstances of the night before were Bart’s fault. “I can’t be responsible for what happens when you’re not around,” Ed said. “It wouldn’t have happened if you had stayed up with me last night.”

  Ever since then, Bart had purposely avoided falling in love. His occasional dates were for sex alone. Now, for a second time, just as he had started to trust a man again, Rod had betrayed him.

  “Time to grow up!” Bart announced aloud. “Forget Rod. Forget Ed! Go out and find the ultimate marrying man!”

  Bart figured if he couldn’t have Dr. Niles Crane, he’d take Miles Silverberg, from the old Murphy Brown sitcom. He’d actually seen Miles at the gym one afternoon. The guy had a nice little bod.

  But, on second thought, Miles, or the actor who played the wimpy television news-magazine-program producer, must have been an idiot to have left that hit show just before the curtain came down after seven or eight seasons. He wasn’t even mentioned in the final farewell episode. It was as though the wrath of Candice Bergen or someone equally strong had closed the iron door on him. He appeared to be persona non grata in television.

  It wasn’t meant to work out with Rod, anyway, Bart decided. In retrospect, he could see that they were on different life paths. Rod was determined to do whatever he had to do in order to become a successful screenwriter. He’d popped so many different guys just waiting for a patsy like Bart to come along, someone he could manipulate into helping him get ahead in the biz. The only thing Bart really wanted was to settle down with a life partner. The guy didn’t have to be rich and famous. In fact, the man of Bart’s dreams was successful but not in showbiz. Ideally, they’d both want the same ranch-style house, a farm in the country. Their evenings would be spent giving intimate dinner parties and making love at night, before going to sleep, and again in the morning before going off to their respective jobs. They’d hold hands in public. They might even have a commitment ceremony.

  Bart had been starting to think these were pipe dreams, but he was not one to give up hope for too long. He was innocent enough to actually believe that the fulfillment of all his dreams was just around the corner.

  “CGA!” Mitch called, running into the coffee-break room in a panic, as agitated as if Will & Grace had been canceled. He came to a screeching halt beside Bart, who was pouring the dregs of a pot of java that had been left sitting on the burner half the day. “CGA! CGA!” This was Mitch’s code. It meant “Cute Guy Alert.”

  “FedEx just send a new delivery boy?” Bart asked, taking a sip of what looked and smelled like burned molasses.

  “No package—and I do mean that as a double entendre, if you get my drift.” Mitch smiled facetiously, as if Bart might not get the joke. “This one doesn’t transcend your old beau in the looks department, not by a long shot. But that’s showbiz. You’re in no position to be fussy, young man.”

  Mitch took a certain amount of pride in being the bearer of bad news just so he could be there to comfort the grieving party.

  “What on the grave of Freddie Mercury are you yammering about?” Bart asked. “What’s a glorified messenger have to do with me and my sex life in the first place. You know I’m not that kind
of guy. That’s your boudoir, remember?”

  “He’s not a menial. And he’s not my cup of CGA, anyway. But I know you and your off-the-wall, bizarre sort of ‘I’ll-take-anything-on-the-thirty-one-flavors menu, please, and thank you.’ You couldn’t care less if it was Ryan Idol, Mitchell Anderson, Dan Butler, or Tom Brokaw as long as they were ‘nice.’ Whatever that means!”

  “What’s wrong with Tom Brokaw?” Bart feigned wounded pride.

  “Nothing, except he’s got a big ol’ butt.”

  “Give Tom a break. That ass spread is from sitting in that damn anchor chair all these years. Notice he stands up now when he reads the TelePrompTer and talks all about what’s going down in Bosnia or Chechnya? Don’t forget you have a desk job, too. As the good book says, ‘He that is with ass, let him cast the first bump and grind.’”

  Bart sipped his coffee and made a face. “Is this alleged CGA person Mitchell Anderson cute or Dan Butler sexy?”

  “More like that actor-who-used-to-be-on-M*A *S*H cute.”

  “I guess Alan Alda’s sexy, in a Michael Douglas sort of way,” Bart teased, knowing how his offbeat taste in men infuriated Mitch.

  “Not A.A. But I always thought Hawkeye was probably well hung. Loretta Swit wasn’t named Hot Lips for nothing. No. I’m talking about the one who married Donna Reed’s TV brat Mary, what’s her face? She used to be on Coach when she got old. Hmmm…”

  “Shelley Fabares?”

  “Captain B. J.—blow job—Hunnicutt, that’s the one, all right!”

  “Mike Farrell?”

  “But younger. Much, much, much younger. I’m so glad Mike’s career has bounced back and he’s on Providence. He has that totally cute son on the show.”

  Bart’s interest was piqued. “UPS? FedEx? Sparklettes? I’m sure you’ll let me know before the hour’s up all about the ‘package’ Mike Farrell’s Hollywood Wax Museum double delivers.” Bart imagined the guy, in a uniform, being escorted to Shari’s private powder room and Mitch locking the door behind them.

  Mitch said, “Hell, I have absolutely no interest in this one, I assure you. Also, FYI, he doesn’t deliver water or do overnighters, either. Well, the latter’s just a guess. He looks as square as Alex Trebek. Is that still a word used for his type? Anyway, I leave this one to you, honey. I still feel guilty about the whole Jim/Rod situation. It breaks my heart to see you suffer. After all, it was moi who inadvertently got Butch and Slamdance together.”

  “It’s no one’s fault,” Bart lied. Although he had immersed himself in his Sterling. work day after day since the breakup and wrote copious, mean-spirited, but truthful notes about his coworkers’ behavior in his diary at night, he still could just barely summon the wherewithal to think about the concept of going out with another man. It had been only a month since he left Rod’s room for the last time. “Broken-Hearted Me” was his new theme song. Damn that Anne Murray! He was on his way to being just fine, but if not having jacked off even once since the breakup was any indication, Bart had a way to go to full recovery.

  “Rod and Jim as a couple? Pul-eese!” Bart said, mocking the spring-fall “romance.” “Rod’s not too young for Jim, but Jim’s way too old for Rod.”

  Bart was trying to convince Mitch as well as himself that the match had no valid foundation and therefore was doomed. “Even though Rod’s used to tricking with flabby gut relics who have to pay for sex, I give this ‘relationship’ six months, no more. Jim’s a disgusting pig. It only hurts when I realize how much I was merely a means to an end for Rod. Just as Jim is now. If I thought Jim was anything more than a hustle from Rod, I’d actually be happy for both of them. I’d step aside and throw a party or something.”

  “You do that little thing, dear. If Ephram could let Dolly get on with her life, you can come out of mourning Rod. And here’s your chance. Your Walter Matthau is in Shari’s office having a meeting right this very momento.”

  “What’s he meeting with Shari about? Don’t tell me he’s an actor or a writer,” Bart pleaded. “And I don’t do producers. I made the grave mistake of going off track and falling for the last guy on my list of before-I-die possibilities. When I start dating again, it’ll be with someone from the top of my sensible list: a brilliant but boring seismologist from Caltech who will charm me with endless pillow talk about tectonic plates, the Richter scale, and volcanic eruptions.”

  Mitch preened. “I could be a seismologist. I know a lot about the earthshaking volcanic eruptions. As for eruptions with a seismologist from Caltech, forget it. You’ll be lucky to get lukewarm oozing. But nothing volcanic, honey,” Mitch deadpanned, doing a poor hands-on-hip impersonation of Pearl Bailey.

  “Or else he’ll be an architect who designs strip malls in Tucson, and his idea of domesticity is to have me for a lover, build a Victorian dollhouse for us to live in happily ever after, and make annual pilgrimages to Falling Waters and all the other Frank Lloyd Wright houses in America. We’ll spend Friday nights playing Monopoly, or entertaining successful, monogamous gay couples.”

  Mitch rolled his eyes. “Success as in ‘filthy rich’ or as in the other doesn’t know what his lover’s doing on the side. ’Cause trust me, sweetheart, you show me a couple who claim to be monogamous and I’ll show you a couple who hide their porn and insist on getting the American Express bill sent to his office. Yawn.”

  What was the point of being gay, Mitch thought, if you didn’t set your sights on the most beautiful men, not the average, everyday sort of Plain Joe that any woman could easily get. God, in His infinite wisdom, created gorgeous men, for one purpose: for other men to walk into lampposts over, to stay awake at night crying over, and to do things together that one’s mother would have a heart attack over if she caught you. In other words, gorgeous men having sex with other gorgeous men. “You wouldn’t think of sitting anywhere behind row twelve in the orchestra section for the ballet, darling, so why would you for an instant think of settling for a guy who wasn’t at least the general population’s idea of a sexual Adonis? Or Rupert Everett?”

  “The general population seems to think Mick Jaggar is hot,” Bart said. “I don’t see it.”

  “Nah. Me, neither. But Garth Brooks…chub stud that he may be…”

  “That’s my point!” Bart declared. “I’ve done that with Rod. I never again want to date someone who’ll be courted by every other beautiful man in town. I don’t want the hassle.” Bart paused. “But just out of curiosity, who is this CGA person with Shari, anyway?”

  Mitch gave a cursory is-anybody-else-around-within-listening-range turn of his head and twitched a finger for Bart to come closer and be taken into his confidence. “Shari’s interviewing personal dog trainers.”

  “Finally she’s doing something about her barking and chasing after studio executives, er, mailmen,” Bart teased.

  “That’s redundant.”

  “M-A-I-L. Not M-A-L-E.”

  Mitch grinned. “Anyway, he certainly must be someone’s type. I’m placing a bet he’s yours. So go dig up a press release, or better yet, a photo of Angelina Jolie—all her head shots need serious retouching, anyway, especially around those puffy, spaced-out eyes—and bring it down to Shari for approval. Come on, now. This is one chance I won’t let you fuck up.”

  Mitch pushed Bart out the door of the break room and gave him a swack on the ass to get him started. Reluctantly, Bart went back to his office, where he picked up a file folder with a draft of a press release announcing new casting of the studio’s soon-to-be-produced remake of Mr. Peabody and the Mermaid. Hilary Swank just bailed out.

  He walked down to Shari’s office. “Just go in,” Mitch prodded.

  Bart took a deep breath and walked with purpose into the room. “Shari?” he called. “Oh. Sorry, I didn’t realize you were in a meeting.” He paused halfway into the room. Shari clicked her tongue in irritation. “What do you want? Can’t you see I’m busy?”

  “Sorry. It’s the Hilary Swank press release you wanted written in a hurry. I’
ll just put it in your box. Would you please approve it as soon as possible?”

  Mitch was right about the guy sitting opposite Shari. He was very definitely Bart’s idea of attractive. In a hazy, sort of out-of-focus way, he looked like a younger Mike Farrell. And there was a resemblance to Tom Wopat, too. Bart made a point of looking straight into the guy’s green eyes as he was addressing Shari. The guy smiled and nodded his head, a nonverbal introduction.

  “Just go away,” Shari snarled. Then she reeled herself in, trying to control her tone of voice. To Bart it suggested she was doing her best not to fly off the handle in front of a guest.

  “Again, sorry,” Bart said, still looking at the Mike Farrell/Tom Wopat fresh-from-grad-school-spit-polished CGA. “As I said, I’ll just put it in your box.” Bart placed the manila file folder on top of her overflowing stack of papers. He retreated toward the outer office, turned once, and saw the guy looking at Bart’s reflection in the glass of a framed poster of Marked Woman, starring Bogart and Bette Davis, behind Shari’s desk. Bart had once looked that film up in Leonard Maltin’s Movie & Video Guide: 1937, “Bristling gangster drama of D.A., Bogart convincing Bette and four girlfriends to testify against their boss, underworld king Ciannelli.” Bart always thought that poster apropos hanging where it did.

  Back in the anti-office, Bart said to Mitch, “Mmmm. I like. What are his stats?”

  “Shall I put it in your ‘box?’” Mitch said, castigating Bart’s announcement of where he was placing the file folder. “You wish!”

  “Sounded stupid, but I was extra nervous!”

  “Here. I made a copy of the CGA’s dog-training brochure. It speaks volumes, especially if you read between the lines. Grrrr. Now go back to your office and study this, because you’ll be quizzed when I send him down to you.”

  “Oh, don’t,” Bart protested. “He smiled at me, but who knows? Maybe he’s just trying to get a job. He could have been smiling out of sheer nervousness.”