by Bruce Wagner
Tomorrow they would visit Nip/Tuck at the animal hospital on Sepulveda. It was a long haul. The fellow in the paper was right, they ought to build monorails in LA, not subways. Subways are for cold climates. Wouldn’t it be a hoot to hop a monorail and see the Friar? Chess and Joanie loved the ones at Disneyland. He’d heard there were monorails in Vegas now. He mightily missed that dog. The Friar was gonna get himself a hero’s welcome, for sure—their lawyer had suggested piñatas and party hats. It was the 1st damn thing Ray and the man could agree on.
The smell of spices wafted in and he heard Big Gulp singing.
XV.
Chester
“I DON’T understand you, man,” said Maurie. “Why wouldn’t you agree to sign the form?”
“Because I look like an asshole. Do you think I want the world to watch me pissing my pants?”
“You can’t even see that. It’s too dark.”
“Fuck off, Maurie.”
“Did you tell them you hurt your back?”
There was something accusatory in his tone that Chester didn’t like.
“Yeah, I told them I hurt my back. Cause I did. It’s cut up from the glass and I’ve got a weird pain.”
“You always have a weird pain. Just take your Vicodin like a good little boy.”
“I can’t believe you did that, man. I might have to get a fucking epidural. My mother’s dead husband used to get epidurals and he was in his fucking 70s.”
“Then see a chiropractor. Shit, Laxmi’ll give you a massage, she’s got a certificate. Stop being such a baby! Look, we each got a little bread for our trouble. How bad can it be?”
Friday Night Frights gave them 15-hundred apiece. Maurie brought over a tape for him to watch, and the producers had been calling, eager for Chess to sign a waiver. They backed off when he said he’d injured himself. (Don Knotts’s daughter had already provided the number of her acupuncturist.) He wondered if he needed an X-ray. Maybe he should just go to an ER. Someone from the legal department of FNF had phoned as well, trying to make nice. The cunt said she could maybe “find” 25-hundred dollars if he’d agree to absolve them of responsibility. Chess had been in enough fender-benders to know better. Did they think he was stupid? It was tricky and bogus, and tweaked his mood.
“What about your Manson girlfriend?” said Chess.
He wouldn’t say it directly but felt grossly betrayed by Laxmi’s participation in the stunt. Blindsided and humiliated. All of his fantasies had been shot down—her involvement was a major hard-off.
“It was a joke, Chess, OK? You’re the only one who doesn’t seem to get it. Plus, you got paid. Aren’t you the guy who’s always bitching about not making rent? You still owe me 7-fifty, if you haven’t forgotten.”
“So now you want your 7-fifty?”
“No, man. I’m just saying: I did it cause I thought it would help—everybody. OK? Things are a little tight with me right now too, OK? I thought it’d help us both.”
“I always pay my debts, Maurie. Haven’t I always paid back anything I’ve ever borrowed?”
“You’ve been really great about that,” said Maurie, in earnest. He seemed almost contrite. “And that’s not even the fucking point. Why are we talking about $750? You’re a friend, and would do the same for me. I don’t give a shit about that 7-fifty, OK? OK? We’ve been through a lot together. We’re gonna make a movie one day. OK? All right? We’ll make our Saw or our whatever. I just think you’re being a little prideful here, Chess. You said they offered you 25-hundred. Why don’t you just take it?”
“Because I don’t want to look like a schmuck. I don’t want this shit on cable or the Internet.”
“Maybe they’ll give it to you anyway. To make it go away. It’s a wash. They probably have a fund for that shit.”
“If they have a fund, they should give me 5.”
“Then ask for 5. But don’t get greedy or you’ll wind up with zip. You know, I’m thinkin about it, and I’m not even sure everyone agrees to be on…but you’d be nuts not to. It’s a goof—a goof that could put you 5 grand ahead. It’s not like you’re on Dateline, showing your schvanz to a tweener! It’s a hip show. People download it on their iPods.”
“Great.”
“You’re being way too serious about all this, Chester.”
“What did Laxmi get paid?”
“500.”
He shook his head disconsolately.
“Hey man, I’m sorry you whacked your back. OK? I don’t think you’re gonna wind up in a wheelchair, I really don’t. It’s all, like, no big deal. It’s only a big deal if you make it one.”
He told Chess to take an Ativan and chill. He left the tape, along with a DVD compilation of past Friday Night Frights.
CHESS watched a few oldies but goodies. The host was some faded TV star he couldn’t place. 1st he walked the audience through what they were about to see, to minimize viewer confusion—the FNF skateboarder demographic had total ADD. At the beginning of each segment, the camera freeze-framed on “Perp” (sometimes with an “Accomplice.” That would be Laxmi) and “Vic.” The Perps gave short interviews directly to camera saying why they thought it’d be fun to fuck with whatever friend they’d set up. People were thrown into incredibly well-choreographed, unnerving situations, which initially seemed absurd or unlikely to the home viewer but distressingly convincing to the Vic. Most of the stunt scenarios were drawn from the Texas Chainsaw/Alien canon—the effectively familiar date movie genre. Common themes were plague or radioactive outbreaks, creepy Village of the Damned kids with telekinetic powers, Big Foot/UFO shenanigans, and the like. The deranged serial killer motif was a fave. Chess hated to admit it but he became engrossed; from a purely psychological perspective it was amazing to watch how people reacted to life-threatening situations. He sat through 5 full half hours, astonished that none of the Vics—none of them—ran, not even when it seemed certain they were going to be slaughtered. Some froze in their tracks like the actors in Blair Witch, voices becoming eerily basso as they pleaded not to be hurt; others were manic and jokey, like the bespectacled nerds who get impaled in splatter films. A couple of them grew quietly grim and nonreactive, as if watching a movie in their heads, waiting for the part when they got killed. In one show, a Vic was about to be set on fire with a blowtorch by a disfigured Freddy Krueger type. Chester was blown away when the kid—who, earlier in the segment, before the shit hit the fan, revealed he had “taken the calling”—actually shouted, “Go ahead! Do it! Light me up! Cause I’m a Christian, and I’m goin to Heaven!” (Chess thought, That boy could really clean up on the evangelical circuit. All he’d have to do was run the clip at the Crystal Cathedral.) Another thing he noted was how young everyone was, which explained why, when the Vics realized they’d been had—“Are you freaked out? Well, you shouldn’t be—you’re on Friday Night Frights!”—they were so quick to forgive after reflexive disbelief and rain of bleeped expletives. When teens got spooked or shamed (kind of where they lived anyway), they were resilient by nature and physical constitution, not to mention super-reactive to peer pressure. A teenager’s ego ultimately demanded he show himself to be a good sport or risk further abuse—there was no way his friends would allow him not to sign the release. Also, kids were less likely to have fucking heart attacks. That’s why Chess couldn’t understand why they went with a guy who’d hit 40. Must have been a programming aberration. He guessed they were trying something new but it sure as hell didn’t fly. The producers had to be kicking themselves; whoever hatched the bright idea was probably on his way to being terminated.
He looked at his own segment over and over, a hastily edited approximation of what would air. They had deliberately left out the part where Maurie said what a hoot it would be to fuck over his bosom buddy. (Also, the tape was unsweetened as yet by cheesy musical “stings.”) There he was, walking through the empty clinic, a cocky Judas (wasn’t Judas the New Saint?)…. Chester’s bit about the satanic ritual training video, and how the place looked
like something out of Saw.…Laxmi’s stage-yelp at the crucified taxidermist’s dog. When the hollow-eyed, stringy-haired psycho appeared, he looked ridiculous, the acting campy beyond belief; Chess was shocked he hadn’t snapped to the put-on from the get-go. (But why the fuck would I?) Laxmi did seem genuinely distressed, gaze flitting between “the maniac” and Chester…he wondered if right then she was maybe having 2nd thoughts about the prank. That cunt. That stone pony stunt cunt. His heart sped up as the clip came to a close.
He put the tape on slo-mo, to see if he could catch the stain of urine on his trousers. Maurie was right—it wasn’t there, at least not at this resolution. They’d probably find a way to insert it digitally. If George Lucas could make whole movies of shit that didn’t even exist then some Geek Squader surely could figure out how to make it clear to the world that Chester Herlihy had peed himself.
XVI.
Marjorie
SHE went to Riki’s for more lottery tickets but it was closed.
A news van was there. A tall white pole spiraled from its roof. A woman was interviewing people gathered outside. The storefront was plastered with flowers and handwritten notes. Marj asked someone what happened and a man said Riki had been shot last night. She started to faint; he lowered her to the sidewalk. The lady with the microphone came over. She kneeled beside Marj for an impromptu interview but a neighborhood girl shooed at her.
“Get away!” said the girl in anguish and disgust, blocking the cameraman’s view. “She’s old! Get out of here!”
The lady backed off with a phony, apologetic smile.
Marj thanked the girl, who then helped her up. She asked if there was anyone to call and Marj said no, she’d be fine, she just had the wind knocked out of her. The man who said Riki had been shot came over and that was when Marj saw the girl had been crying. The girl said she couldn’t believe someone would have killed such a good man, that he was her friend, if the killer had only asked, Riki would have given him money or food or whatever he needed. The man said he’d only been to the store twice but when he heard on the news what happened, he came right over. He said he was a poet and had gotten into a long, “erudite” conversation with Riki about Indian writers. He’d spent about an hour in the shop reading his own poems to the shopkeeper in between customers. He had already written some stanzas in memoriam. He pointed to the scribbles, a piece of paper wedged into the metal accordion fencing now surrounding the store’s facade. Votive candles burned weakly beneath yellow CRIME SCENE bunting.
As she slowly walked home, Marj thought about the sudden widow and the beautiful son. She wondered if they were hidden away in the store’s recesses or at the police station or at home. Maybe they were already doing a puja—she thought that was the word—a ceremony of mourning. Indians are so close-knit. She wondered how much of the family lived in Bombay and hoped they had lots of friends in the local Indian community who would comfort them. But how could anyone be comforted after something like that? It made her sick and she felt herself become faint again; she was almost home.
It was hard enough when Ham passed; still, that was natural, a natural death. She decided to offer them monetary help as soon as they resurfaced. Marj didn’t think they would be offended, and just now, didn’t care. It was what her heart told her to do. She could track them down through the police then thought it simpler to offer condolences when they came back to close shop. Though maybe they wouldn’t close; maybe they would persevere. Indian people were used to adversity. She truly hoped they’d stay on. The neighborhood wouldn’t be the same without them. Perhaps it was selfish of her. And that young girl—so sweet, and so touching! Riki had that kind of impact on the world. It broke her heart.
Cora was outside with Pahrump.
“Terrible!” she said. She had watched a news report about the murder. “Did you hear?”
“Yes! I was just there—I went to buy a ticket.”
“Was he black?”
For a moment, Marj was confused.
“I’m sure it was a black. Stinky, smelly animals.”
Pahrump darted this way and that, giving no indication he was ill. Cora leaned down and grabbed him.
“Did you see the collar? Steinie gave it to me. Don’t ask how it works but Steinie says that if Pahrump dares leave the yard—and you wouldn’t, would you, Rump?—a message pops up on his cellphone. You know how my son is with technical things…where he got the ability, I’m not sure. It certainly wasn’t his father, no no, it wasn’t Jerry. Jerry was a Samsonite, like the Unabomber!” She stroked behind the dog’s ears. “And if, God forbid, Pahrump should ever run away, Stein could use his phone to find him, just like one of those things they put on a car. A hijack or a low-jack or a whatever.” She laughed. “Stein says if I ever left him in the car—which will never happen—Marjorie, can you imagine me forgetting about my Rumper? Leaving him in a hot, stuffy car? Well, if ever I get Old Timer’s disease, the collar would call Steinie’s cellphone and let him know my Pahrump was hot under the collar. Don’t ask! I’m afraid Steinie is going to put one on me!”
Marj wobbled toward the house.
“Let’s go see a movie!” Cora called after her. “Let’s see what’s at the Pavilion.”
The old woman had turned away from her neighbor and was focused on getting to the front door.
“My poor Pahrump—he starts treatment tomorrow. Poor baby! You’re going to be a brave little soldier, aren’t you, Rumpus? You know why we named him Pahrump, Marjorie? Did I ever tell you? When Jerry and I bought him, it was Christmas-time. And Jerry always loved the ‘Drummer Boy’ song. That’s why we call him that: Pah rum-pum-pum-pum. Me and my drum. And because he’s got a tiny supermodel rump—don’t you, Rumpelstiltskin!”
Marj made a beeline for the La-Z-Boy. Her blouse was soaked in perspiration and after a minute or so, she was fast asleep.
XVII.
Joan
IN bed with Pradeep at the Wyndham Bel Age—talking about Lew Freiberg.
Watching Larry King. The topic: migraines.
A few experts were on, plus a passel of longtime sufferers, including Larry’s wife (the old Jew had chutzpah), and actress-turned-director Lee Grant.
“Did you see Lee Grant’s face?” said Joan, nonplussed.
“I tried not to look.”
“Did you see it was out of focus?”
“Not really.”
“Oh my God, Pradeep, look! You have to! It’s like that Woody Allen film! Pradeep, you have to look.”
She forced him. Larry King’s wife was on the left, in clear focus. Lee Grant was on the right—a blur.
“They have a gel on the lens!” she shrieked.
“The woman’s in New York. Maybe it’s a technical thingie.”
“That is insane. I am telling you they have something on the lens—or in front of it. She would have to have requested that. It’s the most bizarre thing I have ever seen.”
“So what?” he said, ever the diplomat. “Why make a fuss? Warren Beatty does it. Whenever he gets photographed, he brings his own lighting people. What’s the problem?”
“It’s so sad.”
“Zaha Hadid had it on Charlie Rose.”
“Oh, bullshit.”
For a moment, he got her attention.
“I know you have a thingie about Zaha.”
She turned the channel in antic disgust.
THEY had originally met at some welcome-to-the-neighborhood fete for Frank Gehry. Pradeep made frequent trips to LA; when his wife wasn’t visiting her parents in Delhi, she preferred to remain in the Bay Area with their 2 young children. There was an instant attraction between them which Joan thought weird, from her end anyway. He had Bollywood good looks, or at least that was her idea, because she’d never seen a Bollywood film. Not really her type.
The party was at Dennis Hopper’s metal house in Venice. There were a lot of artists there (Hopper considered himself one of them)—both Eds: Moses and Ruscha; Robert Williams and John Baldessari. In
profile, Ruscha’s wife, Danna, looked like an empress on a Roman coin. Bono and Kirsten Dunst and the 2 Germans, Wenders and Herzog, and even a Caltech Nobelist. Joan just felt stupid. She was starstruck and her usual engine of contempt had been flooded—she stalled out and got drunk. Funnily, she found herself as attracted to Gehry as she was to Pradeep, and spent half the night with an eye on both. Barbet wanted to introduce her to Frank but Joan was too filled with self-loathing. What was the point? Gehry was gemütlich and gnomishly, gnostically bewitching, a wizard-changeling sitting on a bus bench at Fairfax and Beverly—a wolf in gefilte fish clothing. He was like a creature out of Bellow, I. B. Singer, or whatnot. He showed off a watch he designed, with his name etched on the back, and an aggressive starlet asked if she could wear it awhile. He graciously acceded. An hour or so later, with Jack Benny timing, he said, “So, can I have my watch back?” The tough little gamine didn’t look like she wanted to part with it just yet and that’s when Gehry gallantly said, “You can have it.”
The rest of the evening, attended by his gorgeous young son, he told everyone, in that nearly imperceptible voice, how the famous gal had stolen his watch, words modulated like a deadpan imp, he got a great kick out of it, which made it all right. Still, Gehry was hard to read. He could look right through you and that scared her. He jetted around the planet kibitzing like a cosmic potentate, and Joan noticed how his face could darken into impenetrability as easily as becoming mawkish at the mention of a recent visit to his old Canadian grade school where they sang to him the national anthem. Once, cheating on Larry King, she watched pre-heart attack Charlie Rose. (Letterman was the pioneer. Months later, Joan saw Rose on Larry the very night before Larry guested on Rose—it was like swapping spit. The whole near-death thing disgusted her. Charlie Rose was about as near death as Karl Rove was to enlisting. Cardio-Charlie was telling Larry—they shared the same Manhattan surgeon—how he was in Syria having shortness of breath and how he got their doctor on the line and their doctor said you better get your butt to the City of Light and Charlie of course happened to have an apartment in Paris, and happened to know Bernard-Henri Lévy, and Bernard-Henri Lévy happened to know a cardiologist willing to see him at 7:30 Friday night, and the cardiologist happened to know the best mitral valve man in the world who happened to be out of the country but happened to return on Monday to give Charlie the once-over. When Larry asked how the trip back to the States was after his recovery, Charlie said fine, a friend from New York sent a jet, and there was a doctor onboard. Joan kept thinking, what if you’re some poor schmuck with 4 kids and a fatass wife in tow on some National Lampoon European Vacation and you’re having chest pains and shortness of breath? What if you’re not motherfucking pigvalve man-about-town Charlie Rose?) His guests were Gehry, Renzo Piano, and that relic Ada Louise Huxtable. Piano was like an Italian Thom Mayne, a bad actor playing an arrogant duke (his dukes were always up); Huxtable, a doyenne courtesan, mummified madame out of 120 Days of Sodom, some Edith Head–wardrobed Fountainhead buzzard. Charlie Rose was an incorrigible architect buff and wanted the whole world to know it. (He’d even done a whole hour with David Childs, who looked and talked like a cousin of BTK. CR said, “David, I’ve had the ‘signature’ architects on this show—you know who they are. But here’s what the world says about David Childs: 1) You’re the guy who gets the building built; 2) You get along remarkably with your clients and patrons….” Joan hung on her chair, waiting for number 3: You are a bloodless bureaucrat without talent or vision—but the unctuous host never delivered.) Rose looked like a ghoul with a hairpiece, a cross-dresser doing roadshow Guys and Dolls; those idiotic gesticulations of faux passion and creepily orchestrated adolescent enthusiasms made Joan cringe. (Other times, he’d morph into a rouged-up 2-bit Casanova.) The frank Piano player got the architects to shoot the usual no-brainer shit, the Bilbao Effect, all that deadly dialectic about museums servicing art or museums as art-in-themselves, Rose and Huxtable with their heads so far up the celebrated men’s asses—Charlie and the Chocolate Factory!—you could practically see their scalps crowning in Frank and Renzo’s mouths. Renzo had his head up Frank’s ass (the ultimate museum add-on) all the while pretending he wasn’t a man to suck up to anyone but G-d—how it nauseated her! Piano actually said, “I am a craftsman—I do work with my own hands, so I never take on too much. Yes, we have 100 people in the office, but…”