Memorial

by Bruce Wagner

  They made an appointment for brunch. (Another “My Favorite Weekend” opportunity, and the meal would be gratis.) He told Chess to make sure he saved medical receipts and that he ended any contact whatsoever with the producers of Friday Night Frights. Henceforward, he should refer all calls to his representative—if, of course, Chess agreed to the offer, which he did on the spot. That pleased the lawyer, who then asked if the production company had “compensated” him for being on the show. Chess said yes but he hadn’t cashed the check. “That was smart,” he said. “Very smart. Keep it in the drawer for now. My mama always told me to keep it in my drawers!” Adding, “We’re going to be scribbling some zeroes on that 15. A whole lot of em.”

  THE doorbell rang, and Chess was surprised to see it was Laxmi. She looked pale and distraught, avoiding his eyes. He invited her in. There was a haze of smoke. She asked if she “could have some.” They finished the roach and he rolled a fresh joint.

  She was braless. She wore all kinds of layers and carried a bumpy, red rubber mat. Her nipples popped the fabric like pebbles, and she had post-yoga breath, like a dog’s. She watched him limp to the couch before bursting into tears.

  “I am so sorry, Chester. I so didn’t think it was going to be like that! I never even saw that show before! I thought it was going to be totally innocuous. I am not even speaking to Maurie, I am so upset.” She started to cry again and he passed the reefer.

  It was nice that she came over. Kind of brave. He never understood the allure Maurie held—maybe she was just dumb. Laxmi reminded him of that actress Heather Graham; he wondered if Heather Graham was dumb. He boiled water for green tea.

  She settled down a bit then nervously said she had something for him. Laxmi pulled out 5 hundred-dollar bills, the amount she admitted to having been paid for being an Accomplice on FNF. He was tempted to take it but was mindful of what the attorney said, which made it easier for Chess to turn her down and even look gallant. The offer touched him though. She was pretty much a mess and he could relate. He sat on the couch and reassured her that he was OK. He downplayed the physical trauma side.

  They smoked the weed and got mellow. It felt comfortable and right. About half an hour went by. Not much talking. A light breeze through the window. Suddenly she grinned ear-to-ear, like a kid with a fidgety secret; he thought it was one of those passing dope-flash insights but Laxmi said she had something else for him—“and this time, you’re not going to say no.” She reached into her bag to retrieve a silk pouch she had made herself. Chess uncinched the drawstring; a filigreed ivory elephant lay inside. Laxmi said it was Ganesha and she really wanted him to have it because that’s what he was, a protector, he’d protected her in that obscenely ludicrous moment. Standing between her and the moronic actor, Chess had remained vigilant, with full intent to guard her against all harm. She was really “hit hard” by that—Chester’s paternal instincts—and it tripled her guilt over being involved. He turned the sculpted animal over in his hand, inspecting it with a Chesshire smile. He thanked her. Laxmi asked about his back. She said that she didn’t live so far away; she could help with errands or take him to the doctor if he needed.

  She left. There had been some awkwardness (for him) because he thought there was maybe a sex vibe going on, but if that were true neither was up for it just yet. Fine and dandy. There were lots of “layers”—still, it was very cool. Like the lawyer’s call, it gave him something to look forward to, to feel better about. Endorphins or pheromones or whatever had kicked in and for the moment he was cum-drunk and pain-free.

  Chester held the elephant in his hand. It was nicked here and there but intricately painted and carved. It looked old, and made him trip on his mother and the trinkets she used to keep around the house. Maybe Laxmi’s dad had given it to her and she was passing it on, or maybe it was something she just wanted to get rid of. That would still be OK. The bottom line was she didn’t have much money, and any kind of gift would have meaning. Give it to me. Laxmi was the goddess of good vibes and good fortune, Ganesha the “remover of obstacles.” The whole thing was yummy. All was forgiven. All apologies.

  He began to laugh at his crushy high school machinations, his paranoia and frisky wheel-spinning, and the laugh soon became a full-on hacking pothead jag.

  XX.

  Marjorie

  SHE went to the Travel Gals but Trudy was on holiday. Nigel said he could help. Marj told him she was interested in visiting Bombay and he got out the brochures.

  Nigel was young and energetic, and “totally obsessed” with India. He said Mumbai—that’s what he called it—was “very cool but insane” and there were so many other places to consider: the holy city Varanasi (formerly Benares; he said they burned corpses there “24/7, except for the kiddies, who for some reason get wrapped, not burned,” before backing off, admitting that the 35-hundred year old mecca was probably an “extreme destination” for someone Marj’s age. But the old woman remembered it was where Jesus had taught. Bodh Gaya (“Hello, Dalai!”), Kerala (“fabulous ayurvedic spas”), and the Konkan coast, pearl-shopping in Hyderabad (“It’s like their Silicon Valley”), the “superdeluxe spas and 6-star hotels” of Jaipur, and of course, Agra, jewel of the Taj Mahal. (“Oh my God! They’ve opened it at night now, whenever the moon’s out. You have to go at night. That was so smart of them.”) He was literally all over the map. Goa was a Portuguese beach town with beautiful churches but “it skews a bit toward the ravers. Lots of crazy Israelis, and tons of Indians! But super friendly.” Nigel said it was he and his “husband’s” favorite place. She brought up Calcutta, which he said was “dirty beyond words” and a place to avoid “unless you’re into rasgulla and Mother Teresa.” If she was, he would definitely recommend the Grand (where Nigel and his spouse had bivouacked). Calcutta had an incredible zoo as well, “if animals are your thing. But careful! People still get eaten by tigers!” He laughed. “Actually, though, Calcutta—it has another name now but I am so burnt out on the musical name chairs; it’s like ‘cold cuts’ or ‘Katherine Kuhlman’ or whatever—Calcutta actually is supposed to have an amazing kind of intellectual/bohemian/café scene. We just didn’t have the greatest time there because Demetrius got sick.”

  He asked if she wanted anything to drink because one of the kids was making a Starbucks run. Nigel put in his order, adding that Calcutta also had a very cool movie studio.

  Do you want to go to Bangalore? Then he sang the question, substituting Bangalore for San José. Or Hampi? Are you into Buddhism? If she was, she had to visit Bodh Gaya, birth- or deathplace of Buddha (“I always forget which”). “My husband bribed a guard so we could sleep under the bodhi tree—that’s where Buddha got enlightened. Ask me how cold it was! Ask me if there were a million mosquitoes and mutant locusts that tried to wriggle through our netting like little circus strongmen, and I’ll enlighten you! Let’s scratch Bodh Gaya off the Marjorie wishlist! But Dharamsala! That’s where the Dalai Lama lives when he isn’t doing his World Tour Thing. You might even have a Richard Gere moment. Dharamsala is the anti-Chicago!” She didn’t know half what he was talking about but found him a delight nevertheless. Then, thumbing more intensely through the literature piled in front of him, Nigel said that Rajasthan was awesome, and there were amazing medieval deserts, fortresses, and elephants galore. The hotels were “10-star castles in the sand like the Rambagh Palace and, there’s, like, a ton of Oberois.”

  The girl finally came with his latte and Nigel grew serious.

  “I don’t know if you heard about this, Marjorie, but it might be something that interests you. It was even on 60 Minutes. You know, the hospitals in India are really giving American facilities a run for their money. Demetrius and I—we got married last year in Maui—watched a whole thing on TV. There’s one in Chennai—excuse me, it’s now Madras—called the Apollo, like the theater in Harlem? It is amazing! We are talking a 7-star hotel. It is so not depressing, like hospitals in the States? Where no one even knows you’re a patient and you can like
totally expire while waiting for someone to help you go to the bathroom! Or the nurse is one of those death-angel serial killers! In Bangkok, when you go to the ER, they meet you at the car. Even if you just have the flu. They sit with you while you fill out the forms. They have signs that say, ‘If You’ve Been Waiting More Than 15 Minutes, Please Let Us Know.’ America should be ashamed. Marjorie, do you know how many people die from bugs they pick up in hospitals? The statistics are so frightening. They’re ‘superbugs’—antibiotics won’t even kill them anymore. (I so think the drug companies are behind it. My husband’s a rep, and he said they’ve probably already developed the killer antibiotic but they’re going to let tons of people crash and burn before they unleash it. Just like the oil business: supply and demand. Forget your Redux, Seroquel, and Vioxx blues: superbugkillaz gonna drive a bull market! That’s what Demetrius says!) The Indian healthcare system, from this report they had with Mike Wallace, is so much better and cleaner. I mean, all the doctors are trained in America but go back because they want to help their country. Isn’t that so great? Helping your country! What a concept! They do quintuple bypasses. They do face-lifts. Oh my God, Elaine Young just died—the Beverly Hills realtor with the botched cheek implants? She had 46 operations, and her plastic surgeon killed himself! She finally grew a tumor where the silicon had migrated, she looked like Babydoll from hell! And everything costs like a 10th of what it costs here! I mean, I so can’t wait for Michael Moore to rip the healthcare system in this country! (Demetrius said that’s his next target.) Michael Moore should go to India for a gastric bypass while he’s at it! Did you see how much weight Peter Jackson lost? I wonder if he’ll put it back on. They always do. But Demetrius said Michael Moore is going to make a movie about how fucked—I’m sorry, honey, how messed up our healthcare system is. Michael Moore isn’t everyone’s cup of tea but he makes wonderful movies. All politics aside, the quality of work is amazing: they showed the hospital rooms on 60 Minutes and they’re all enormous suites, with stand-alone claw-footed tubs! You would die! (If they let you, which they won’t.) Fit for maharajahs! And the marble. Marjorie, you cannot believe. And everyone’s, like, a registered nurse. You know how in America no one cares? How they’re all surly orderlies, with criminal records? (My husband was just in the hospital for a bunionectomy.) They actually stole from him! They stole Demetrius’s iPod! I am completely trying to convince my mom to have her hip replacement surgery in Delhi or Mumbai. My mom’s had 6 epidurals, 3 on both sides, and now they’re shooting her spine up with Botox. Her back looks like Elaine Young’s face! She has an amazing threshold for pain. 60 Minutes showed this American woman in Delhi who was having it—they do this thing where they put a silver cap on the hipbone instead of sawing it off—I forgot what the procedure’s called, it’s only allowed in the States by experimental trial. That is so typical of the FDA! I mean, it’s all about greed. If something’s cutting edge—and Europe or wherever is always cutting edge—I mean, do you think the paranoid American doctors would try to sew a woman’s face back on? That woman in France whose face got torn off by a dog? And now, she’s a fox. Demetrius and I love her. She still smokes her Gauloises! How French is that. I’m telling you, that cadaver donor was a hottie! The Americans would be so terrified! Of being sued! But it’s not their fault, it’s the system’s. Anyway, the hip procedure is completely legal there, and it works, and the recovery time is so much faster because it’s so less invasive. Instead of costing 40,000, it costs 8. And they don’t pressure you to leave! You know how in America, because insurance companies are so crazed, they’re always hustling you out the door? I mean, it used to be when women had their babies they were told to stay in the hospital a few days to rest. Now they kick you out the same day! Like some Cambodian dropping a kid in the paddies! (Cambodia’s a great place to go, by the way. Super tourist-friendly. Cambodia and Vietnam are totally our hottest destinations.) They were trying to get Demetrius discharged while he was still groggy from surgery! They wanted me to take him home! I said to that mean black queen, ‘Mary, he’s not going anywhere.’ Got a sleeping bag and stayed right in the room. He was in so much pain and they only gave him a Darvocet! Until I did my Shirley MacLaine Terms of Endearment number. So I don’t know, Marjorie, I just wanted to mention it in case you were thinking of having anything done, because the best part is that after surgery the lady we saw on TV was ordered by her doctors to go to a resort and lay on the beach! It was all part of the prescription! ‘Go to a resort! Doctor’s orders!’ And the best resorts are only like $140 a night.”

  Nigel said October would be a good time, or January, to avoid the monsoons. You definitely want to avoid the monsoons. When the old woman mentioned the Taj Mahal Palace where she stayed as a girl, Nigel lit up.

  “Oh my God, the Taj is the best. But you have to stay in the old wing. Demetrius and I were there and Cameron Diaz, Bill Clinton, and the Australian Prime Minister had just swept through. I think Wild Bill Hickock and Cammy Tell Me True maybe shoulda got somethin started! The Taj is amazing. The service is unbelievable. And the boutiques! They have a Louis Vuitton and a Burberry. I almost bought one of those 7,000 dollar cellphones—the Vertu? With the 24 hour concierge button? No matter what country you’re in, you can ring them up and have a pizza delivered. They could probably get a slice to Elaine Young! Or tickets to a movie, DVDs, whatever. Demetrius was about to die. Do you use the Internet? Probably not, huh. My husband loved it, because we didn’t bring our computers, but every room had huge flat plasma screens—just plunk yourself down on the bed and use the remote to get your E. The Indians so have the tekkie thing wired—we outsource everything to them. I heard they were so busy they were outsourcing outsource jobs! Oh! They’re outsourcing babies! Women from the States are renting out their wombs! Marjorie, I am so serious. The Indians are amazing—more amazing than the Chinese. Well, maybe not, but damn close.”

  Marj asked when Trudy was coming back. He scrunched his face and said he wasn’t sure; she was having health problems. “I keep telling her to go to India!” She didn’t press. They talked some more about the Taj and Nigel went rummaging for something. He returned with a DVD he said was made by the hotel on its centenary. “But you need to give it back, Marjorie. Promise? They’re really hard to get and it’s the only one we have.”

  She took a different route to Beverlywood so she wouldn’t have to pass Riki’s store. She couldn’t bear to see it locked up with all the wilting garlands and tattered memorials.

  XXI.

  Joan

  SHE was late, as usual. On the way to her appointment she must have passed 3 roadside tributes. They were all over LA now, commemorating places where pedestrians had been struck down, or fatal car crashes and robberies had occurred, and thus far the city had benevolently let them be. Some vanished within weeks, while others were maintained for years, carefully tended and refurbished by loved ones. (The mems lasting the longest were usually for kids who’d been run over near schools.) She was always dumbfounded by their simple eloquence—suddenly revolted by her own pimp-ride, high-end vanity project. She’d never be able to speak in the demotic language of the people; there would always be the arcanely contaminative architectural babel injecting itself like syntactic bacterium into what should have been simplicity itself. There was even a new crop of art photographers who tried to make a name for themselves by documenting the funeral venues, as if those sites were quaintly worthy of pretentious scholarship. It was exploitational, not Egglestonian, a bloodless catalogue of macabre, trivializing juvenilia. Meet the Folkers.

  Joan was lunching with a group at Architects Without Borders, a nonprofit that built shelters for victims of the “Boxing Day Tsunami,” now redeploying its efforts to New Orleans. Average White Band (which Barbet insisted calling them) had joined together with a slew of organizations—Shelter for Life, Relief International, Architecture for Humanity—to put up cement-block homes in Sri Lanka, a thousand or so for around 15-hundred dollars each. The gang had experience
building in places like Bosnia, Afghanistan, and Iran (earthquake-stricken Bam, which Barbet said should now have an exclamation point after it, like a Lichtenstein). Ever since ARK lost a competition to design transitional housing in Kosovo to Gans & Jelacic, Barbet had chilled on altruism, sending Joan out as emissary—it was good for networking. Katrina itself had spawned a cottage (shack) industry of moveable “Southern venacular” crib prototypes from a pair who called themselves HELP (Housing Every Last Person). Barf.

  Even Mayne and Libeskind (and MVRDV, Huff + Gooden, Hargreaves, UN Studio, ad nauseam) were getting into the act. “What a surprise,” said Barbet. Shigeru Ban talked about making digs out of cardboard tubes and plastic beer crates, modeled after homes that sprang up after the Kobe quake; “durable prefabs” and “flat pack” Future Shacks were on the boards. Someone even dared to mention Prouvé’s aluminum/steel Tropical House; Joan was ready to kill. She knew it was mostly PR talk and no action—starchitects and borefucks were good at that. The New Urbanists would prevail. Sketching out Sub-Saharan HIV clinic thumbprints or collapsible origami-like bungalows (anything but blue tarp tents or Fleetwood-trailered FEMA Village agglomerations) was a way for Joan to distract herself from the demands of the Freiberg Mem, and do something beneficial in the process.