Selling Out

by Dan Wakefield

  He stopped short of mentioning Al’s idea about coming out to visit on some kind of charter flight. He didn’t want to try to explain why he didn’t really want to encourage it. She wouldn’t understand. In fact, she’d probably want Al to bring Rachel and the kids out, too, charter a whole plane for friends and faculty of Haviland, pack a few pine trees to put in the backyard, and sock in a month’s supply of Vermont maple sugar. Perry didn’t want to get into explaining how he loved all those people but wanted to keep his California experience pure, to enjoy it unadulterated by intrusions from his other life, so he just didn’t mention that part. He didn’t want to argue with Jane tonight, he wanted to make love to her.

  The forty-four share had made him horny. Not “horny” in the old sense of being desperate, of feeling an almost adolescent itch and fever for sex, but rather, a deep surge of sexual energy, a strong, confident fullness of desire. He imagined himself as being like some prize bull ready to bestow his favors on the luckiest of the herd, the one that in his prime wisdom and experience, in the swollen heat of his own power, he had personally chosen as mate.

  He was glad that it was Jane because she was his wife and he loved her, and he wanted, among other things, to make up for his sexual neglect of her these past months; yet, on some other, deeper level, he knew it did not matter at all that she was the precious, singular, beloved woman with whom he had shared his deepest intimacies of mind and body and soul. He did not want or need to fantasize her as any other woman, imagine her a sex goddess or movie star or elegant, expensive, professional mistress. It mattered only that she was a woman, or even more simply and basically, was woman.

  Man of power. Man in command. Man whose own prick seemed to have swelled beyond itself, royal purple pulsing and perfectly rigid, rock-hard, pumping up and down, in and around, in total control, no spillage or early unwanted eruption—this was a tool programmed for performance and Perry had only to guide it, go with it. He moved and molded Jane to his wish, above and below and alongside, over and under, feeling her let go and glide with his—or its—own rhythm, and her responding to it, peaking and pouring again and later again, more fully than he’d ever felt her before, and finally, in his own sweat and juice of lust and fission, entirely by his own removed decision (for somehow he felt distant from what was happening, as if he were looking on it from outside his own body), he let himself go with her too, exploding, the two of them together, dying in one another’s arms, slumping and sliding off the bed and falling to the floor, bodies sprawled like battle victims.

  Afterward, they usually touched and murmured soft made-up, spontaneous words of sweet pleasure and love, but now both were silent, staring at one another, almost like strangers. Perry went off and took a shower and returned to find Jane lying on her back in bed, her hands beneath her head, staring at the ceiling. There were tears in the corners of her eyes. Perry didn’t ask about them, or anything else. He rolled over and fell at once into a dead, dreamless sleep.

  The party at the Vardemans’ Saturday night did not, after all, turn out to be one of Pru’s New England Boiled Dinners, but it was, according to guests in the know, the next best thing in terms of invitational prestige. It was one of Vaughan’s Five-Alarm Texas Chilis. Vaughan did not make the chili himself, of course, it was just from his own recipe, or rather, a recipe he had allegedly won in a high-stakes poker game with the scion of one of Texas’s wealthiest old oil wildcatting families, while raising financial backing for one of his first productions. This was back in the days before any studio in town would have been glad to bankroll anything that he wanted to do.

  Vaughan’s Five-Alarm Chili was actually made by a staff of Mexican chefs schooled at Cordon Bleu in Paris, and served by a bevy of beautiful young women wearing high-heeled boots with jangling spurs, miniskirts, and halters made of red and white bandanas. One rumor was they were the actual Dallas Cowgirls, which might well have been true, since their service at such a power-packed party could have meant the discovery of any one of them for a role in a movie or television show; what aspiring young show business beauty would not have been more than happy to serve?

  Perry pointed out to Jane just a few of the powerful directors he recognized—Steven, of course, Randy, and the brooding Francis. She was of course more interested in the stars, right there in the flesh, and Perry, though he tried to be cool and not betray his greenness to power, was awed himself. He tried to keep up a good front of casual, almost-about-to-yawn composure, on seeing the likes of such legendary older greats as Gregory, Jimmy, and the ageless George, as well as contemporary legends like Warren, Meryl, Harrison, and Teri.

  There was another category of stars whom Perry knew not by their real names but the names of the characters they portrayed, characters who had become part of the national consciousness. They were known by anyone who had flipped the dials of the TV set on idle evenings at home or scanned the pages of People while waiting in a supermarket checkout line. Here in living color were such famous faces as J.R., Fonzie, Archie and Mindy. Perry realized they had become part of the background of the times, like reference points for personality traits, just as characters in novels had been a century ago when Simon Legree, Huck Finn, Mister Pickwick and Little Nell were familiar symbols. It was an eerie, exciting feeling to be rubbing shoulders with them, fictional characters come to life.

  “Lapping it up, are we?”

  The arrogant, almost sneering voice broke Perry’s pleasurable sense of being part of this real-life fantasy, and he turned to see the snide countenance of the Vees’ pet English novelist, Cyril Heathrow.

  “Oh,” Perry said, deflated, “it’s you.”

  It was not only the Englishman’s insolent remark that brought him down, but the very fact of his presence made the party seem less brilliant in Perry’s mind, as if the guest list had to be padded at the last minute by such third-string hangers-on, which brought into question the value Perry might attach to his own presence on the scene.

  Heathrow was not in his riding garb, but was decked out in white duck pants, white buck shoes, and a sports jacket of wide pastel stripes, topped by a straw skimmer tilted jauntily on his head. He touched a finger to its brim in a sort of salute to Jane.

  “You should have brought your camera, shouldn’t you?” he asked. “Snapshots of the stars, sent back to the hometown gazette? A sure sale, I should think.”

  “Sounds a bit old hat, Mr. Heathrow,” Jane said with a wide smile. “I’m sure they’d rather see a genuine English literary figure in the midst of the Hollywood scene, looking so … croquet?”

  The left corner of Heathrow’s thin mouth made a slight downward twitch, expressing disdain.

  “Possibly so,” he said, then turned, his pastels melting into the crowd.

  The Englishman’s barbs were quickly forgotten when Pru Vardeman suddenly swept down on Perry and Jane, bestowing on the cheeks of each a quick, dry peck, making them feel as if they were being greeted on the Merv Griffin show.

  “How too sweet of you to come,” she said, then grasped one of Jane’s hands in her own. “May I borrow your decorous wife, Perry? There’s someone absolutely dying to meet her.”

  “Me?” Jane asked.

  Perry felt himself reddening, wondering if one of the famously lascivious stars, known for his hobbylike conquest of women, had picked Jane out of the crowd as his new morsel. But before he could ask any questions Pru was already towing her off at almost a run, pulling Jane behind her like a kite she was trying to get airborne. Perry started to follow, when a sudden goose from behind made him jump. He turned to see his host.

  “Friggin’ chili,” Vaughan said, emitting a spicy belch, and shaking his head, “stuff’s hot enough to scorch a wetback.”

  He threw an arm around Perry’s shoulder and started guiding him toward the house. Now Perry understood why Jane had been suddenly swept away; Vaughan wanted a little private time with his old pal who was now making a mark in this new scene. OK, fine. Let’s see what’s up. He was r
eady for anything.

  Vaughan and Pru each had their own office at home, conveniently located on either side of the comfortable private screening room they shared. Pru’s office featured authentic New England antiques, while Vaughan’s was a clashing combination of Danish-modern desks and tables, along with scruffy leather club chairs and couch that seemed to have been rescued from some ancient college fraternity house. There were framed posters of the movies he had produced, as well as autographed photos of Vaughan with celebrities ranging from Tommy Lasorda to Don Ho.

  Vaughan opened a desk drawer and pulled out a scruffy, slightly deflated football that he tossed to Perry.

  “Was rereading some of your stuff the other day,” Vaughan said casually.

  Perry smiled. He bet he knew exactly what day. He bet it was the day the Nielsen overnights came in on “The First Day’s the Hardest.” Vaughan probably had some kind of hookup to the Nielsens like the Dow-Jones ticker tape that provided the latest numbers. Maybe they were fed right into his own home computer.

  “That so,” said Perry, noncommittally. He gripped the football along the laces and lofted it back to Vaughan in a graceful arc. He was enjoying the game they were playing. Not long ago he would have thought Vaughan’s sudden interest in his old short stories after all these years was disgustingly phony and hypocritical. Now he realized it was just part of the business, part of the game. When you’re hot, you’re hot. Might as well enjoy it.

  When Vaughan got the ball he tossed it up toward the ceiling and caught it himself.

  “There’s one in your latest collection that grabbed me,” Vaughan said. “‘The Springtime Women.’ I think it might make a feature.”

  “So does Ned Gurney,” Perry shot back, as if hurling a bullet pass.

  Vaughan caught the comment without so much as a wince.

  “Did he take an option on it?” he asked, casually tossing up the football again.

  “We agreed that when ‘The First Year’ is all set, he’d take an option. I think his lawyer is drawing up some papers.”

  “So you just have a verbal agreement, is that it?”

  Vaughan sent the football in a hard spiral that stung Perry’s hands as he caught it.

  “Well, I guess so.”

  Vaughan made along whistle and shook his head.

  “You probably gave it to him for a song.”

  Perry felt himself flushing. He cradled the ball against himself, as if in protection.

  “Ned and I are friends,” he said.

  “At least you don’t have anything in writing,” Vaughan said, giving out another five-alarm belch.

  Perry squeezed the ball harder against his belly, feeling his gut heaving.

  “Ned and I really work well together,” he said. “He sparks ideas in me.”

  “Too bad he never got his feature off the ground.”

  Perry gave the ball a fling. It wobbled in the air toward Vaughan.

  “Hamlin Productions has it now. Ned says they’re really hot about it.”

  “Hamlin? I wish him all the luck.”

  Vaughan tossed the ball across the room, past Perry’s head. It ricocheted into a corner, and Perry went scrambling after it, puffing as he trapped and held it and called back to Vaughan, out of breath.

  “What were you going to do with ‘The Springtime Women?’ I mean, if it was free.”

  Vaughan yawned, and scratched at his crotch.

  “I wanted to show it to Harrison.”

  “Harrison Ford?”

  “Why not? You can’t see him as the starving artist-type who lives in the pad below the two women?”

  “Well, it’s not a very big part in the story.”

  “If Harrison was interested, we’d build it up. Maybe the artist ends up getting it on with one of the chicks.”

  “I guess that’s possible.”

  “With Harrison involved, we could take it to any studio in town.”

  Perry was squeezing the football.

  “But he’s all booked up, isn’t he?”

  Vaughan shrugged.

  “No harm in showing it to him.”

  That wasn’t just Hollywood talk. Harrison Ford was here, at this party, tonight. Perry had actually seen the guy with his own eyes.

  Vaughan held out his hands for the ball, beckoning.

  “I guess there’s no harm,” Perry said. “After all, Ned and I don’t have anything in writing.”

  He tossed the ball to Vaughan.

  Outside on the lawn, among the stars and cowgirls, Jane was enmeshed in some animated conversation with a middle-aged woman who looked, like so many other people present, hauntingly familiar. Her name was Mona Halsted, which didn’t ring a bell, and when Jane introduced her Perry asked her if she used to be on that excellent show called “Family,” one of the only classy prime-time series.

  Mona laughed.

  “No, but a lot of people mistake me for Sada Thompson,” she said. “The actress who played the mother.”

  That was it! This woman looked like the ultimate mother, the warm, slightly hefty source of all-American comfort. She must have been the mother in a number of movies, if not a series.

  “Mona’s not an actress,” Jane explained, “she’s a producer.”

  “Oh?” Perry asked with rising interest, “features?”

  “No, we only do television. I’m with Allerton, a production company.”

  Perry felt his attention slightly sag.

  “They’re doing what sounds like a wonderful series for teenagers,” Jane enthused, “and best of all—oh Perry, this is so amazing I can hardly believe it—Mona went to college at Middlebury! And she loves Vermont!”

  “It’s not only my favorite state of the union, it’s my favorite state of mind,” the motherly Mona said sweetly.

  “Mmmm,” Perry said with a nod of acknowledgment.

  So that was it. Pru Vardeman had played the good hostess by getting Jane together with the one person in the whole glittery crowd who got her rocks off reminiscing about Vermont, for God sake. Well, he guessed it was harmless; better than introducing his wife to one of those well-tanned seduction artists among the sucessful-actor set.

  “I loved ‘The First Year’s the Hardest,’” Mona said. “It’s the sort of thing that makes all of us proud.”

  “Thanks,” Perry said, beginning to look around the lawn, trying to spot more stars.

  “Maybe you and Mona could even work together some day,” Jane said. “She’s read your stories!”

  “I’m sure you have many fans out here, Perry,” Mona said, “but I hope you’ll remember me as a genuine one of them.”

  “Sure. It was nice to meet you,” he said, and pulled Jane away to the bar.

  “You could at least have been polite,” Jane whispered at him harshly. “She’s a wonderful person.”

  “I’ll vote for her,” Perry said, “for the Mother of the Year Look-Alike.”

  He had bigger fish to fry than Mona Halsted.

  Perry was on a roll.

  When the final compilation of national Nielsen ratings came in, “The First Year’s the Hardest” not only won the night it was aired, it was number one for the whole week, barely—but still, amazingly—beating out the highly touted “Frills,” a lascivious four-part miniseries about an orphaned transvestite who overcomes a crippling bone disease and ruthlessly rises to the top of a worldwide lingerie empire. Analysis showed that “Frills” was up against stiff competition, going head-to-head against “Dallas” one night and “Love Boat” the next, while “First Year” had only the hapless magic show special and the bottom-drawer baseball game to contend against, but still, number one was number one, no matter how you sliced it, and the creators of the new hit were enjoying their growing prestige and power in the Industry.

  “We’re number one for the whole damn week,” Perry intoned with slow emphasis when he called Jane the morning of the latest momentous news.

  “Perry? Is that you?” his wife asked.

&
nbsp; “Who else, love? Is Archer himself calling to tell you the ratings news?”

  “No. It was just—you sounded kind of like Orson Welles.”

  Perry roared. Like a lion.

  Evidently his voice was getting even deeper. If his success continued at this accelerated pace, he would soon sound like James Earl Jones doing Darth Vader.

  And why not? It seemed his work meant death to the opposition. In a few seasons, rival networks would tremble on hearing that a new Perry Moss show was going on the air.

  “Do you feel like a traitor to the world you came from?”

  Perry felt himself start to flush, then laughed expansively.

  “You make it sound like I’m a visitor from another planet. Some kind of Isaac Asimov character.”

  The reporter, who was working on his second Dos Equis, and had hardly touched his enchiladas, was obviously trying to bait him. Perry took a delicate sip of his Virgin Margarita, feeling cool and in control. The reporter was obviously hostile, probably jealous, which made it all the more essential for Perry to stay calm, aloof. He didn’t want to look a fool in the Entertainment section of the Los Angeles Times.

  “Aren’t the values of the academic world some light years away from those of network television?” the reporter pressed.

  Perry dabbed a napkin at the salt around the corner of his mouth and settled back in his banquette.

  “I can only go by my own experience,” he said. “I’m lucky to be working with topflight people like Ned Gurney, Kenton Spires. And of course Archer Mellis, of Paragon, whose sole purpose in bringing us together was to try to do quality television. His faith has sustained us, and the network has loyally supported us.”

  “So you’re giving up teaching for television?”