Tricks Of The Trade

by Ben Tyler

  “You read the original coverage, Michael. Why mess with what was considered brilliant in the first place?” Rod demanded.

  “Hey, it’s not me,” Michael countered. “The creative exec wants to package this thing for Ashley Judd and Nic Cage. They need specific changes before they can even approach them.”

  “Why not just send them the script the way I wrote it, for Christ sake?”

  “You don’t know the business, you little bastard. This is how it’s done, okay? It has to be properly packaged. You wouldn’t put Sharon Stone with Julie Andrews, would you?”

  “Wouldn’t you? They might hit it off.”

  “Don’t be an idiot,” Michael scoffed. “Do you want to make a sale or don’t you? There are steps and procedures to follow. Got it?”

  Rod was bursting with anger and resentment. On the one hand, he had come this far and couldn’t let something like “creative differences” interfere with success. On the other hand, all his years of hard work—especially on Blind as a Bat—seemed to have been wasted.

  There was hardly anything left of the original story. Instead of a Mr. Magoo-like building superintendent in New York who causes all manner of trouble for the tenants and building owner, the main character was now a recovering-alcoholic plumber whose life is turned upside down when a distant relative dies and leaves the building to him in her will. However, an evil Donald Trump-like gazzilionaire plans to raze it, and several blocks of brownstones, to make room for building the tallest skyscraper in the world and tries to pull a fast one on the alcoholic plumber. To Rod, the new plot sucked as badly as Jim Fallon’s fellatio technique.

  Almost nightly, as Rod lay naked under the sheets beside a snoring Jim, he thought of two things: the screenplay and Bart. With every rasping snore coming from Jim’s nose and throat, Rod was nauseated by the idea of having to deep-kiss the oinker in the morning. The only thing that saved his sanity was thinking about the imminent sale of his screenplay and maybe fucking Bart again. Playing this game would eventually be worth the payoff.

  God, what a kick it would be if Sterling Studios actually bought the project, Rod thought each night after Jim had passed out from booze or sex or both. It would mean being on my own again and working with Bart, who’d be doing the publicity. Bart would interview me for the press kit, maybe even write a feature article. The title could be: “Novice Scribe at ‘Bat.’” Rod smiled to himself as he considered his clever play on the title of his script, thinking about the publicity fanfare surrounding him when he finally became a famous screenwriter.

  How would Bart handle the situation of our working together? he wondered, frowning. How could I make things up to him and let him know not to take it personally that I dumped him, that it was just a career move. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, Bart,” Rod whispered almost inaudibly. “But business is business.”

  The big guilt trip Rod suffered was knowing that Bart probably would not have done anything similar if given the chance, even for a big raise and promotion or a book deal with a major New York publisher. Bart wasn’t the type to screw someone over for personal benefit. Rod knew this, but he tried to rationalize that anyone who didn’t take advantage of an opportunity delivered on a silver platter was a loser, Bart included.

  But that thought never stuck. Rod didn’t think of Bart as a loser. He just wasn’t a big winner the way Rod was determined to be.

  Nightly, as Rod lay awake thinking of Bart, he invariably got a raging hard-on. He tried to will it away lest Jim should awaken and find him with a boner. If Jim reached over, even in his sleep, and found Rod’s meat steaming, he’d be wide awake in a flash, gnawing away at a midnight snack. Same thing in the morning. After his dreaming of Bart, or any of the guys he used to trick with, Rod’s pipe would be inevitably dripping. Trying desperately to will himself flaccid so he could pretend to be asleep if Jim began cuddling and investigating between his legs, Rod resorted to jacking off as quietly and with as little movement as possible. The sheets were always a mess when the maid came in, but Rod didn’t care what Juanita thought. Thinking of Bart could actually be effective when Jim started in. “Hell, I do what I have to do!” was Rod’s mantra. “So screw Bart. And screw Jim!”

  Rod rolled over and went to sleep.

  Chapter Fifteen

  It was late—nearly 8:00 P.M.—when the telephone in Bart’s office rang. He considered letting it go to voice mail but decided to pick up on the second ring, thinking any call at this hour might be important.

  “I’m all alone in this big old house,” the voice said without preamble. “My agent’s finally gone. Asshole’s at a screening of that new Woody Harrelson film. I’m a loser who thought he’d get ahead faster if he slept with the right guy. I feel like Rita Hayworth in that movie you made me watch, Cover Girl, or Miss Clairol or Avon Calling. Remember how she thought she could get ahead as a dancer by getting her picture on the cover of a Vanity Fair or Modern Maturity or some other funky magazine. I think that story was a euphemism for sleeping her way to the top.”

  “Rod?” Bart hesitantly asked, interrupting the stream-of-conscious monologue.

  “What other loser do you know? It’s me. A voice—make that a fuck—from your past.”

  Bart was in a drop-jaw state of shock. Hearing Rod’s sexy voice conjured up the most erotic memories of his life. In spite of himself, he got immediately and uncontrollably turned on. “What’s the problem?” was all he could come up with on such sort notice.

  “Nothing. Okay, everything.” Rod sighed. “Actually, I guess life’s great. I’m living it to the hilt. I just wanted to hear a friendly voice. I don’t know why I’m calling. Guess I just had to take a break. Working on the screenplay night and day, you know. No time to make any friends of my own.”

  “I thought you and Jim had tons of famous friends. Didn’t the Star just report Jim’s name on the guest list of Barbra Streisand’s birthday party last week? That must have been fun.”

  “Sure. Fun. We went. But we never met her. Too many other people. Why would a hostess have a party, then not come meet her guests? She’s not very warm. Of course, you didn’t read my name. I’m an A-list nobody.”

  “Every somebody was once a nobody,” Bart said, trying to placate his ex-lover. “What about the screenplay? I read in Daily Variety that Jim’s close to making a deal for a film. I keep thinking it’s Blind as a Bat.”

  “It is. But it isn’t. I mean, it’s what used to be my screenplay. But so many people have made so many changes, you wouldn’t recognize it.”

  Bart said, “Tom Clancy complains about the same damn stuff, but he cashes his checks with no problem. That’s the business. You’ll have a bundle of money when this thing gets made.” He paused. “Listen, I’m just about to leave. I have to meet someone.”

  “Bart? I don’t know what to do,” Rod said. “I’m living in a fool’s paradise. Everything should be so great. But it’s not. I’m just another trick of the trade.”

  “What can I do?”

  “I was hoping you’d say that. You could come up here for a drink, for starters. Jim won’t be home for hours. There’s a party after the screening, and he’s always the last to leave those things. Comes home stinking.”

  “I mean, there’s nothing I can do about how you live your life. Rod, I’m running late,” Bart said. “I’m seeing someone, and I have to be across town in half an hour.”

  “Seeing someone? As in dating?”

  Silence. Then: “He can’t be as great as me,” Rod said, sounding doubtful that Bart’s romance was anything more than a rebound infatuation.

  “There’s no comparison,” Bart said. “Believe me.”

  Of course, Rod smugly took that to mean Bart thought he was beyond comparison, that anyone Bart was seeing couldn’t hold a candle to him.

  “Couldn’t we at least have lunch or something? At the studio, maybe? I’ve got to work something out with this screenplay, and I need your help.”

  “Is that the reason you cal
led? To get my help with your screenplay?”

  “No. Yes. I really do want to see you again and make up for being such a shit. Also, I’m at a point where I need a talented writer to help me out.”

  “Rod, I’m sorry, but I’m all wrapped up in my own projects. There’s my career at Sterling and a new book I’m starting, and…everything.”

  “‘Everything’? Meaning the new guy you’re fucking?”

  “It would only hurt me to see you again.”

  “So you still have feelings for me, eh?” Rod chuckled. “I’m unforgettable.”

  “Unforgettable? Hell, do you realize the pain you inflicted on me? No, you probably don’t. That’s so typical of you. Remember how you just let me walk away? How could you have done that if you loved me, Rod? I don’t understand. I’ll never understand.”

  “I don’t understand, either,” Rod admitted.

  At this point, Bart could hear Rod sniffling, as though he were crying. “Rod? Are you okay?”

  “I hate Jim Fucking Fallon! He’s a total son of a bitch! I hate living up here! I used to call all the shots in my life, and now other people do. What do I have to show for it? Nothing! They promised me they’d get my screenplay produced, and I believed them. So far I just write and rewrite and rewrite the rewrites. Nobody’s happy with what I produce, day after day. I know it’s supposed to be a collaborative art form. But everybody wants to take credit for the good stuff I do and blame me for the bad.”

  “Who’s ‘everybody’?” Bart asked.

  “Jim and that asshole Michael. He’s my agent now.”

  “The one who…?”

  “Yeah. And to answer your unspoken question, we still do it. But it’s no fun for me anymore. I’m burned out, man.”

  “I’m sorry,” Bart said.

  “Listen,” Rod continued, “let me at least give you my cell-phone number, all right? It’s the only private form of communication I have. Depending on the circumstances, I might not be able to get right back to you, but I promise I will ASAP if you’ll just call.”

  Bart wrote the number down as he cradled the phone receiver on his shoulder and simultaneously slipped his arms into his sports coat, preparing to leave the office to meet Rusty for a glass of champagne at the Four Seasons.

  Rod was pleading: “Promise me. Please, Bart. Promise me that you’ll at least think about calling me. I need a friend, and you’re the only one. If it makes any sense, I’m really sorry for the way I put my friggin’ career ahead of you.”

  “How early or how late can I call?” Bart asked.

  “Doesn’t matter. I keep it on vibrate. There’s also voice mail. Just leave a message. I check it all the time, but that fucking woman just keeps saying, ‘You have no new messages.’ ‘You have no new messages.’ Hell, I don’t ever have any old messages, either!”

  “I’m really late,” Bart said again. “You know me, punctual to a fault. If I’m five minutes late for anything, you may as well call 911, because something’s happened. I can’t keep Rusty—that’s his name—waiting.”

  “Call me, man. Please?”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Don’t try. Please don’t try. Just do it.”

  Still in a daze, Bart gave a cursory wave to the guard at the main gate as he drove off the studio lot. The stereo in his car was playing a CD of Handel’s Water Music, but Bart hardly registered the usually soothing sounds.

  As he drove along Olive to Barham toward Beverly Hills, he didn’t even notice traffic signals or the striking union workers picketing outside the Warner Bros. gates or Chris O’Donnell in the Mustang convertible next to him, even though the actor kept looking over at Bart and smiling, probably because he was amused to see someone carrying on such an animated conversation with himself. Bart’s thoughts were divided between Rod and Rusty and his conflicting feelings for both.

  “Is it possible to be in love with two men simultaneously but for different reasons?” Bart thought aloud. “Sure. But this is stupid because one of them is an asshole. He’s incredibly sexy but a total shit. Rusty, on the other hand, is exactly the type of man I always knew I’d marry. Rusty and I don’t just have sex; we make love! Rod was just fantasy sex. For crying out loud, you can have fantasy sex with any of hundreds of guys who advertise in Eros. But damn it, Rod says he loves me, too! And damn it, I loved him fucking me! But that’s not the same as love! Or is it? Christ, I’m so confused!”

  Bart challenged himself to get a grip. “There’s no dilemma here!” he insisted. “The only question is, simply: Are you going to pine away for some sexy stud who fucked you over or embrace a sexy stud who fucks you like you’re some valuable treasure? A guy with whom you can sit in a room and quietly read…and laugh together…and share interesting stories and friends. How can there be any question, you dunderhead? How can there be the slightest quandary or hesitation?”

  As he drove on automatic pilot, chaotic thoughts blasted through his head. “Fuck you, Rod!” Bart screamed. He pounded the steering wheel. “Why’d you have to come back now, just when I was getting my life back on course! Rusty and I do things together. You and I only screwed. Rusty and I are equally at home together at the beach as we are at the Getty Museum. We bought a season subscription to the symphony. We wear our tuxedos. But we have just as much of a blast going to dance clubs, working up a sweat and boogying with our shirts off in a sea of other men doing the same thing. We call each other a dozen times a day. I know Rusty likes Indian food, and I go along with it. He knows I’m kinky about Burt Bacharach/Hal David songs, and he surprised me last Friday by renting Lost Horizon and going above and beyond the call by sitting through the whole video holding my hand. We do these things because we care for each other.

  “Rusty helped me to put you and me into perspective. He enabled me to move on with my life. I didn’t think I ever wanted to get into another relationship. I may be stupidly walking the high wire again, but at least Rusty feels like a safety net.”

  Still speaking aloud, as if to an invisible Rod, Bart continued his diatribe. “You and I didn’t have any sort of world outside the sack. That was cool for what it was, but everything was on your terms! You had your inflexible writing schedule, your slutty bartending job, and your freakin’ hustling. There was never really any hope for us to have a long-term relationship. Maybe a friendship. Someday.”

  But Bart couldn’t help thinking of the hottest sex he’d ever had—and the heartless way it all ended. He pounded the steering wheel again, this time accidentally pushing the horn and getting the finger from the driver of the car in front of him. “Fuck you, too,” Bart said to the pair of eyes reflected in the rearview mirror of the vehicle he was following.

  “Okay…” Bart continued his solitary debate. “You’ve known Rod for what, six months? You’ve known Rusty only a month. You know exactly how Rod plays his games. You were just one of his suckers—literally and figuratively. Rusty doesn’t appear to have any ulterior motives. He’s got the heart of the Good Witch of the East and the sensitive soul of John Boy Walton and John Denver rolled into one man. While Rod was far better looking than the half-naked guy smiling in the Gillette shaving commercials, Rusty is just as beautiful—because he’s Rusty. And his soul is much more beautiful. He’s perfect, in every conceivable way!

  “There’s only one logical choice,” Bart declared. “Don’t fuck it up!”

  He made his way along Fountain Avenue and turned left onto Crescent Heights. He drove down to Melrose, where he turned right, heading for the Four Seasons Hotel. He had made peace with himself. For the moment.

  The champagne was Veyve Clicquot, of course. Dominic, the host at the Four Seasons’ lounge, didn’t even bother to ask for their drink orders anymore. As soon as Bart and Rusty arrived in the cocktail area, two flutes of ice-cold, fizzing champagne were placed before them on a thick beveled-glass coffee table, in front of the sofa, before either had a chance to take his seat.

  Rusty, who had turned Bart on to the Four Seasons, e
njoyed coming here for aperitifs because of the impeccable service as well as the elegant setting. There were few public places in Los Angeles or Beverly Hills where he felt more at home. That he was considered sort of a VIP among the members of the hotel’s staff didn’t hurt. But Rusty would have patronized this bar even if he weren’t treated like royalty. That he was unfailingly polite and respectful endeared him even more to the waitpersons. Also, he was generous with his allocation of tips.

  “To another day of being together.” Rusty smiled and raised his glass, touching it so lightly to the one Bart was holding out. “Such delicate, thin glass,” Rusty observed. “And yet two equally fragile flutes are able to buffet one another and not result in the slightest crack.”

  “Like two sensitive souls,” Bart added. “If we’re careful, we can collide at just the right velocity and not find ourselves broken.”

  Rusty looked deep into Bart’s eyes. There he saw a man who was as attractive on the inside as he was on the outside—a gifted, intelligent, intuitive, and tender human being. He had met too few of those during the journey of his life of thirty-five years. Bart had made a strong, positive impression on Rusty from the moment they met in Shari Draper’s office. That impression had never diminished; it had only enlarged as they grew to know one another better.

  Although they had been dating for a month, they were a perfect complement to the other. To anyone observing the pair, they appeared to be an ideal couple.

  Rusty and Bart. Two successful, confident, and attractive young men living in Hollywood. If The Talented Mr. Ripley were recast, Rusty and Bart could play Tom and Dickie—only nice.

  Their obvious compatibility was becoming the envy of all the gay and straight couples they met. Observing them in the lounge of the Four Seasons or dining together at Morton’s, anyone could see that these two men were what the song People was all about. It was obvious that these two “whole” men were first and foremost friends. They clearly adored each other.