Tricks Of The Trade

by Ben Tyler

  Amazingly, sex with Michael wasn’t altogether unpleasant for Rod, especially not after all the pawing from the inner-tube-waisted, pimple-butted Jim. A simple blow job wasn’t enough for Michael; it never had been. He expected Rod to load up on beer and clean out his kidneys the way he used to do in the back room of the Trap.

  So, not only was Rod not getting any work done; he wasn’t using the gym equipment, mainly because Jim liked to watch, which inevitably led to his getting horny for Rod’s perspiration-soaked body. Now Rod was starting to show slight signs of a gut from lack of exercise and all the beers he consumed to please Michael’s predilections. No one but Rod noticed the change in his physique, but the subtle difference was there. Soon, he thought, he’d start to look old, which was a crime in Hollywood. Rod, who had thought he was in control of his life situation, realized now that his career was in the hands of two men he despised.

  “March that tight ass into the steam room,” Michael demanded one afternoon when Jim was out reading for a bit part on The Practice. Rather than have his clothes wet and stinking from Rod’s water sports, both men stripped nude before stepping into the custom built steam facility. There, with the humidity turned up to New Orleans in July, both men perspired copiously as they engaged in a variation on their long-standing practice.

  Over the past weeks, there had been a couple of close calls when Jim returned home sooner than expected. The first time, Michael and Rod were finished with their business and were zipping up their pants and buttoning their shirts when they heard the bell sound indicating that the electric gate was opening. They had approximately two minutes to clean away any evidence of their games and rush to the office, where they pretended to be discussing a scene from Blind as a Bat.

  On another occasion, they had not closed the gate when Michael arrived. Therefore, no warning bell sounded when Jim drove up to the house. Fortunately, Rod had already dressed and was back in his office. Michael, however, was still upstairs when Jim suddenly opened the front door and walked in. He stopped in Rod’s office and asked, “Where’s Michael? His car’s outside.”

  Rod, though startled, pretended to be typing away at a furious pace. He quickly came up with the truth, “Upstairs. Bathroom. Didn’t feel well.” Rod faked being absorbed in his work but was typing nonsensical words onto his computer. He added, “Maybe the flu. Heard him throwing up.”

  “He’s not using my bathroom, I hope!”

  “Don’t know. He just raced upstairs.”

  “Don’t you have a bathroom right here in the office?” Jim said, scrutinizing Rod.

  “For Christ sake,” Rod exploded, “you think I want to hear that freak hurling while I’m trying to work?”

  “Sorry,” Jim said in a conciliatory tone. “Don’t fly off the handle. I was just curious.”

  Just then, unaware that Jim had come home, Michael came down the stairs and swaggered into the office, where he saw Jim standing by a bookshelf. Michael’s shirt was untucked and unbuttoned, and his hair was wet. He had looked as white as a sheet after retching his guts out upstairs, but when he suddenly saw Jim, he turned beet red, as if he really had a fever.

  Rod immediately took control of the situation. “Feeling any better, Michael?” he asked in a tone that read: Play along with where I’m going. “Hope it’s not the flu.”

  “Er, yeah, I’ll be fine. I think my stomach didn’t agree with something.” Michael quickly buttoned his shirt and tucked the tails into his pants. He combed his hair back with his fingers.

  “Probably that all-natural drink you were so enthusiastic about guzzling down,” Rod razzed.

  “There’s some Pepto in the medicine cabinet,” Jim offered. “Maybe you should lie down for a while.”

  “No, I’ll just go back to the office. I’ll be fine once everything’s out of my system.” He glared at Rod.

  Jim walked his agent to the front door. Before reaching the foyer, he asked, “Are you and Rod getting along? I know there was some hostility in the beginning.”

  “He can be an asshole sometimes, but I’m keeping him busy. Doing rewrites on the script. It’s none of my business why he’s here, but it’s probably for the best, at least for now—until the studio buys the screenplay and the film is a go. It’s gonna happen eventually. Until then, as long as he’s happy, we should all be okay.”

  “With all the changes we’re making, I’d say we’ll be in a decent position to eventually arbitrate with the WGA to get the screenplay credit.” Jim grinned.

  “Don’t think that’s not why I’m having him make so many changes.”

  “I like Rod being around here just ’cause he’s so fucking sexy. The screenplay’s a bonus. I may even keep him after the screenplay’s sold. He thinks I’m hot stuff.”

  Jim didn’t notice Michael’s look of incredulity.

  “By the way, the audition you sent me on sucked,” Jim complained. “Why do I still have to audition, anyway? Doesn’t anybody know I’m a friggin’ star, for Christ sake?”

  “Past-tense friggin’ star.”

  “It’s so humiliating. I just know those casting assholes were mocking me as I left the reading today.” Jim was almost in tears. “They were thinking of that fucking tape, which they’ve probably all seen. How come Wayne Knight is working as a regular on three prime-time shows simultaneously, plus he has about five thousand national commercials all airing at the same time?”

  “Because everybody likes Wayne Knight. And he doesn’t do porn. At least not that I know of.”

  “Everybody used to like Jim Fallon!”

  “Listen. Someday, when you get that Oscar, they’ll be licking your boots. Even Wayne Knight. Trust me.”

  Jim and Michael walked outside and down the steps toward Michael’s Mercedes. Suddenly, Michael put his hand to his mouth, ran to brace himself against the trunk of a tree, and vomited again, this time drenching some newly planted peonies.

  “Christ, Michael,” Jim said, “the gardener’s costing me a fortune. Couldn’t you do that someplace else?”

  As Michael weaved his way to his car, Jim went on: “Anything else coming up—a part, I mean—that I might be right for? It’s driving me nuts to stay in the house all day.”

  “Hell, at least you’ve got Rod.” Michael wiped his mouth with a tissue and blotted perspiration from his forehead. Getting into the car, he buckled his seat belt and pushed a CD into the stereo. “A stud like that has got to provide hours of diversion. Better than just sitting in your screening room watching DVDs of porn and whacking off.”

  When Jim returned to the house, he sang out, “Teatime,” in a voice loud enough to reach the office where Rod sat staring at his computer monitor.

  “Christ,” Rod said softly. He cringed.

  What Jim meant by “teatime” was that it was time for the first of his six or more martinis of the night. What it meant for Rod was that Jim would become disgustingly amorous. Rod would try to keep up with Jim’s drinking just to anesthetize his loathing of the sex Jim would ultimately insist on.

  It was during times like these that Rod missed the diverse guys who had responded to his E-mails in the past. At least then it wasn’t the same old fart four or five times a day. Rod also conceded that there were many times when he actually missed Bart, who was both sexy and sweet. Bart never made demands. In fact, he was always the one trying to please. Jim, on the other hand, was simply a mean, selfish drunk.

  However, Jim and Michael were still stringing him along. Paramount, Fox, Sterling, Disney, and Miramax were seriously considering the screenplay. This kept Rod from going out of his head and literally killing Jim during sex.

  Killing Jim wouldn’t have been difficult, and Rod had come up with several plot twists in the scenario of their life together. Considering some of the sex toys Jim enjoyed playing with and the drugs he consumed along with the vast amounts of alcohol, a death would be easily accomplished. Jim could drown in the pool, for one. The games he liked could get slightly out of hand and end up wr
inging the air out of him.

  But Rod was a writer, not a killer. Although, he thought, sometimes a person could be both, couldn’t he? Books by mass murderers had been best-sellers. But Rod could not see himself in prison, serving a life sentence and becoming some con’s bitch. He wanted to be famous, not infamous. Therefore, whatever Jim wanted, Rod was resigned to giving him—at least for the time being.

  Equally difficult for Rod as sex with Jim was going out to parties with him. On this issue Bart had been mistaken. Dinners and premieres did not get easier to attend. It wasn’t comfortable to be the young stud living the high life off the spoils of an older man. Straight men could leech off their famous wives, and women had been doing it for centuries. But two men—one young and devastatingly handsome, the other older, fatter, and rich—still raised eyebrows.

  However, a few people he’d met actually tried to be nice to Rod, especially old queens. Whether it was because of his extraordinary good looks or because they were being condescending in their own way, Rod could only guess. But he could sense that people were, if not talking, at least thinking thoughts about him and his relationship with Jim.

  Bart’s scenario about scrutinizing other dinner-party guests for common procedures of etiquette was nothing like what Rod had to endure. Rod’s table manners had become impeccable. He used the correct utensils, learned not to have too many glasses of wine with dinner, and kept himself respectfully distant from the serving help. Inevitably, however, a rude guest would pose a question of the table regarding current political events or moral issues during coffee and dessert, then, in a patronizing tone, ask what Rod’s thoughts were on the issue.

  “Rod, dear,” a face-lifted Nancy Reagan-type shoe store heiress would say, “you’re from an ethnic culture that many of us have not had the privilege of experiencing except vicariously through our respective household staffs, bless their hearts. Perhaps you could tell us the views of your people on California’s new strict crime codes for juvenile delinquents?”

  Guests at the table would invariably become silent. Coffee cups would clink back onto their Dresden-china saucers. All eyes would turn to Rod, from whom they expected nothing more than “No hablo inglés.” Instead, after a theatrical pause for the curious to come to a prejudged conclusion, Rod would begin to speak. His enunciation was clear and considered.

  “First of all, I am an American citizen, as are my, as you put it, ‘people’ ‘Mi familia,’ as you might expect me to say. But I will be more than delighted to offer my personal point of view on the subject to which you’re obviously referring: the state legislation in which transgressors—as young as fourteen—will be subjected to adult-style incarceration to fit certain crimes.”

  A simple declarative sentence, spoken with authority, as if from a professor of cultural anthropology, never failed to achieve Rod’s desired impact: undivided attention and genuine interest.

  “I imagine you quite understand that as a result of this law, youths—who in many cases may still be merely suspects in a case—will have their names in the press prior to actually being charged with any specific crime. They may ultimately be sentenced to jail time in adult facilities, thus ensuring negative hope for rehabilitation. This, of course, translates to a virtual guarantee that troubled juveniles will have little choice but to turn to a life of crime as adults.

  “In the long run, society doesn’t become better off by subjecting youths to adult punishment for their crimes. Countless studies have found that in other jurisdictions in which teens were placed in adult facilities, the youths were more likely to commit new crimes following their release than comparable youngsters from juvenile facilities.

  “I would say that to reduce crime, our government might want to consider more rehabilitation for youngsters rather than sending them to adult prisons, where they eventually return to society as adult criminals.”

  By the time Rod completed his discourse, the other guests, predictably, were dumbfounded. The old bitch who’d tried to steer Rod into the embarrassing corner, hoping he would fumble and reveal himself to be a vapid intruder into their superior society, was the one who was revealed to be the fool. Rod’s rapier responses to similar questions posed to him wherever he and Jim went out were the only aspect of these evenings satisfying to Rod. But he nevertheless knew he was on display as the stud Jim Fallon was keeping. He was a sideshow freak: a sexy stud with a mind and the verbal capacity to speak that mind. An idiot savant.

  “Now,” he would say, addressing his opponent, “perhaps you would care to share your views on the plight of Tibetans struggling against Chinese occupation of their homeland for the past forty years?

  “No? How about Chrissie Hynde’s arrest for protesting in the window of a Gap store against what she claimed was the use of leather from illegally slaughtered cows in India.

  “Not too keen on that one, either, eh? Perhaps you have a view on the new Elizabeth Taylor doll from Mattel? She’s costumed as Cleopatra.”

  That particular dinner ended quickly after this altercation. During the drive home Jim complained, “Don’t ever embarrass me in front of my friends like that again, you little shit.”

  “Who’s the shit?” Rod retorted. “The bitch who tried to make us both look like fools? Or you? These people aren’t your friends. Tomorrow morning they’ll all be on the phone with each other, gabbing about who was at the party. That sicko Jim Fallon and his new trick. However, if just one says, ‘You know, we misjudged Jim, he’s found himself a kid with a brain,’ living with you would be worth the goddamned effort.”

  “If I’m such an effort, you can just move out!”

  “Don’t think I wouldn’t!”

  “They’re probably saying, ‘That’s the last time we ever invite those two faggots again,’” Jim yelled, drunk on martinis. “Tell me, how many times have we been to the same home for dinner since we met? Only once!”

  “But they’re all getting a turn to play host to one of the most famous ex-stars of our time!”

  “Don’t say that!” Jim cried. “Don’t ever say I’m an ex-star!”

  By now, he was blubbering, seated on the passenger side of his Rolls-Royce. Rod maneuvered the car along Mulholland, finally arriving at their home on Woodrow Wilson. The gates parted, and they proceeded up the long drive. Jim had to be helped from the car and practically carried into the house and laid out on the bed. On nights like these, Rod gave Jim one last stiff drink to get him to pass out, then left him alone.

  By morning, Jim had usually forgotten the incident at whatever dinner party they had attended. “Did we enjoy ourselves last night?” he asked Rod, holding an ice pack to his throbbing temple. It wasn’t the royal “We” it was an honest-to-God-I-don’t-remember-a-thing question.

  “Just fine,” Rod said. “As usual, you were the life of the party. Don’t forget to call Karen Valentine and thank her for her extraordinary filet mignon.”

  “Don’t they know I don’t eat red meat?” Jim protested. “Did I rave about how good it was? How many drinks did I have?”

  “Just a couple. But you had a couple before we left, too.”

  “Who else was there?” Jim asked, making a mental note to let Karen Valentine know he really did have a wonderful evening.

  “Let’s see, Stockard Channing, who lives down the street; Lorna Patterson and Michael Lembeck, who came all the way in from Malibu; Sally Kellerman, who I think also lives on the street; Lainie Kazan, and Alan Seus. Oh, and that bitch we keep running into, the department-store heiress. The one who always tries to make me look like a fucking fool? But be nice when you call Karen. I like her. She treats me like I’m part of the family.”

  “I suppose we have to reciprocate one of these days,” Jim said. “We can’t keep accepting invitations and not return the courtesy.”

  “Hell, you just had that big party when your show was canceled. That should keep us in good stead for years! Any idea what that shindig cost you?”

  “What do you care?”

>   “It must have been bloody expensive. You don’t know the value of a buck.”

  Jim rolled his eyes. Now that he didn’t have a steady income, Rod kept reminding him that every purchase was a major issue. If anybody knew the value of a dollar, it was Rod. He counted the years he’d hustled for rent and gas money and enough change to buy a cheeseburger at McDonald’s. If the fleeting thought of one day suing Jim for palimony, as his so-called girlfriend had (and failed), was ever to be worth his trouble, he didn’t want Jim spending everything ahead of time.

  “Did we do it when we came home last night?” Jim asked with a grin.

  “Oh, yeah, you were an animal,” Rod lied, hoping it would keep Jim at arm’s length for a few more hours. If Jim had thought he simply went straight to bed, he would have felt cheated. “I’m still worn out,” Rod said.

  Karen Valentine wasn’t too thrilled to hear from Jim when he called to express his sincere thanks for a lovely evening. She was polite but distant.

  “So glad someone enjoyed themselves,” she said with a cold tone in her voice. She had already heard from nearly every other guest, all of whom, without exception, vowed never to return if that drunken old Jim Fallon and his insolent faggot toy-boy were present. “How can you be friends with those two creeps?” the Nancy Reagan–like shoe-store heiress asked. Karen had tried to smooth things over. “They’re really nice once you get to know them,” she said.

  “I never want to know them,” the heiress scoffed, and hung up.

  “Yes,” Karen said to Jim, “I’d love to have dinner with you and Rod one of these days. I’ll call you when I get back from New York.” She wasn’t planning on going to New York, but it sounded like a good excuse at the time. She just hoped she didn’t run into either of them at Gelson’s.

  As the weeks passed and the script began to take on a completely different story line than Rod originally wrote, he became angrier with Jim and Michael. The studio most interested, it seemed, was Sterling, the one whose story analyst had liked the script in the first place just the way it was. But still there was no firm deal.