Memorial

by Bruce Wagner

They were late to the film. There were subtitles but some of the phrases were in English. At 1st, Ray thought it was silly. The story was about a wealthy man (he recognized the bearded, aristocratic actor from a poster she kept in the living room) who learned he was dying. He had a handsome son, a wastrel who’d recently married and moved with his wife into his parents’ palatial home. The living room looked like the atrium of a Hyatt. The daughter-inlaw was soon pregnant and the father wanted his son to get a job but the kid was too lazy; he had some damn-fool acting competition on his mind instead, a fantasy longshot that would make him solvent. Now that he’d been secretly diagnosed as having a terminal illness, the dad belatedly realizes he’s ruined his son through a lifetime of coddling. He decides his legacy will be to force the boy to grow up—fast. So he kicks the newlyweds out of the main house and makes them stay elsewhere on the property (some punishment!), a kind of luxury Quonset with no electricity. Dad proceeds to generally torment his heir—already in his late 20s—until he has no choice but to earn rupees of his own (soon there will be another mouth to feed). The kid realizes how tough it is out there in the world. He tries his hand at being a movie stuntman and gets chased by a wild pack of dogs, then inadvertently set on fire. That sort of thing; slapstick but effective. The producer is impressed by the kid’s bravery because he knows he’s an amateur. When he asks what he is called, the young man won’t say. “I am trying to make my name,” he says. “When I do, you will hear it.” The plot was dopey and Ray was surprised because it actually engrossed the hell out of him. (Every now and then there was a vigorous dance number and the actors stood and gyrated. The show would have been fine without it.)

  Then came intermission—these Bollywood deals were long. A slideshow of advertisements: Indian lawyers who could get you out of jail, Indian tax lawyers, Indian immigration lawyers, Indian realtors who sold mansions right there in Artesia, Indian wedding planners, Indian haberdashers. After the slides there were a bunch of trailers for upcoming extravaganzas, with most of the actors looking suspiciously like the ones in the feature Ray and Big Gulp were sitting through.

  The film resumed and the whole thing got very amazing. Ray thought it “damn fine.” Damn good. It turns out that the dying rich guy (who was incredibly charismatic and looked like he was 55) is a famous toymaker and all he wants is to live long enough to see his grandchild born—and continue to strengthen his weak-minded son by being a major hardass. The tough love routine was heartbreaking to keep up and heartbreaking for his boy to endure, but it was what the “doctor” ordered. Finally, the kid has enough of Dad’s bullying and tells him he was at fault for raising him too leniently! That all he ever wanted was “a finger to hold on to but you gave me an arm, all I wanted was to stand with my own 2 feet on the ground but you always hoisted me on your shoulders to get the royal view.” He was eloquent and Ray had to admit the spoiled sonofabitch had a point. The kid said that when he became a father, he would never treat his son that way—nor would he ever banish him from his house or deprive his daughter-in-law food for the fetus—if his son stumbled, he’d be patient and give him time. (The dad said, in an aside, “I would give time if I had time”—but his progeny couldn’t hear.) He was laying the guilt on pretty thick and Ray was worried the old guy would drop dead on the spot. He told his father he would never let him see the grandkid. He was damned pissed and there didn’t seem to be any way out of it. Things got more and more complicated, this and that happened, the boy managed to make the finals of the cockamamie talent show, suddenly he was odds-on national favorite—and if he won, the stakes were enough for him to become completely independent.

  On the night of the televised competition, they rush the sallow patriarch to the auditorium in some kind of beautifully appointed private ambulance. The arena’s packed; even the producer that hired the son as a stuntman shows up. By mistake, he learns that his father is actually dying and finally understands the ruse. He stands onstage distraught and basically relinquishes his spot, telling the millions of people watching that the famed and beloved toymaker is on the ropes, and he doesn’t give 2 shits about winning the damn contest, all he wants is that everyone should take a minute out of their lives—right then—and pray that his dad lives long enough to see his grandson, that his fate is in the audience’s hands. He tells everyone that the toys his father made were responsible for millions of babies’ 1st smiles—the word he used was design, his father “designed babies’ 1st smiles”—that the old guy manufactured the big, cushy, friendly, forgiving toys that helped children learn they could fall down and get up again. Before the transfixed mob, a shaky father and son meet onstage. He wipes his dad’s tears away. “At last,” says Pop, “you are a man! You, who caused so many to cry, now wipe away others’ tears.”

  Just when Ray thought it couldn’t get any more rollercoaster-emotional (Ghulpa was stifling sobs), the old guy clutches at his chest, the daughter-in-law goes into labor, and they’re both rushed to hospital! The grandson’s born and the father is discharged but has only a short time to live. Now he must give the baby a name: with a last breath, he christens him with his own. Ray finally got the whole Indian thing about rebirth—the child is father to the man.

  The cycle would begin again, and that was how it should be.

  It was damn fine. Damn fine.

  On the way out, Ray looked at the poster for the film while BG used the restroom. It said, COME TO LAUGH, COME TO CRY, COME TO TERMS…

  When they got to the car, Ghulpa, eyes still wet, told Ray he must christen their child. Without hesitation, he said Chester—she knew about his kids but had never been told their names—and she smiled her bucktoothed smile, repeating Chester under her breath, and it pained and startled him that he’d blurted out such a thing, that it would be seriously considered; it honored and frightened and overwhelmed him that the whole event was even happening. But life was like a dream and now he understood why, in the midst of melodrama, there was suddenly singing.

  XXXIX.

  Chester

  ATTENTION: Business Owners & Individuals

  Healthcare for the Entire Family

  Medical Dental Rx

  As Low as $54.95

  Per Month.

  ALLPre-existing conditions accepted!

  No limitations on usage!

  YOU cannot be singled out for rate increases or cancellations!

  NO age restrictions!

  Limited Time Offer Good Through Friday!

  He was seeing a lot of Laxmi and didn’t know what to make of it. He really didn’t want to analyze too much. He smoked pot for his pain, and Laxmi smoked along. Sometimes she brought her own. She could roll it too.

  He showed her the healthcare fax and she said it sounded like a scam. He knew that, but wanted to know what she’d say. He liked that Laxmi saw through it. She said lately everything seemed “scammy.”

  “Did you know the Enron guys were trading futures on the weather? That’s what it says in this documentary I got from Netflix. I’m not even kidding.” She segued into a thing about how cigarettemakers were behind a campaign to send free coasters to young people because they knew kids tended to smoke when they drank. The tobacco industry “positioned itself as antismoking,” and even teamed with drug companies to create inhalers for people with breathing problems. “The people who lobby that shit are among the most obscenely fucked-up dysfunctional entities on the face of the planet.”

  The way Laxmi talked cracked him up, even when they weren’t stoned. She took a megahit from the joint and they both guffawed.

  She was writing a book about her “molestations.” Her expat father had been in on that, though he wasn’t “primary.” She couldn’t remember exactly what he’d done but there was inappropriate stuff for sure. Chess had a feeling that whatever went on with her dad might have had something to do with why a sensitive hippie chick like Laxmi would get involved with a crass guy like Levin. Another thing that made sense about it was the Jew Factor: the heebs tended to get mucho
pussita.

  So Laxmi sat on the couch and journaled in her Moleskine (he called it Molestskin) while they smoked dope and Chess watched TV. When they got hungry, if she hadn’t brought food, they walked over to Ürth Café or a tea place on Melrose with a garden in back. He was attracted to her but didn’t have much of a sex vibe going these days, probably cause all the painkillers had done a number on his testosterone. She didn’t seem to care. In fact, he thought she might be relieved in light of her diary and all—being a port in the storm was OK by him. Still, he got Viagra samples the last time he saw his doctor, just in case. For that rainy day. The potential listed side effects spooked him: you could get a headache or your heart might start hammering or in rare cases, V-men went temporarily blind. He knew most of it was bullshit and maybe his pride was the only thing preventing him from giving the blue pill a whirl. (The shape reminded him of a baseball diamond.) Chess wasn’t sure she was all that interested anyway. He didn’t want to rock the vote. He liked her company. They were happy campers.

  One afternoon they got completely out of their skulls and watched something on television about “assets forfeiture.” There was a stretch of highway in Florida where cops pulled people over for burnt-out taillights or whatever—everyone from rapper-types to single moms with babies onboard. The cops acted all friendly but just when they were giving folks the greenlight, the pigs would say, Oh by the way, do you happen to be carrying any contraband or firearms, and would you mind if we have a look? The question was so left-field that it kind of blew people away, especially since they’d already been softened up for the kill. The cops then “confiscated” their money, peeling the lettuce right out of their wallets and purses! Told em whatever amount of cash they had was “suspect” and would, like, grab $300 from Mom while her 2 year old bawled in the backseat. The trippy thing being—Chess and Laxmi went from seizures of stoned-out laughter to slack-jawed silent awe—that the whole deal was full-on taped by police car camcorders! That’s how above the law they were! You could go to court and try to get your money back (one guy had 9 grand taken off him, a builder who later proved he was on his way to buy a used tractor) but that alone would cost 20 or 30K. The segment bled over into other forms of corruption and the one that really stuck in Laxmi’s craw was the 60something Grace Slick lookalike now facing 8 years in federal prison for sending Hillary Clinton a New Age “dreamcatcher,” one of those Native American feather-things people hang on their rearviews. Eagles were under an endangered species protection act and even though the woman said she found the feathers while hiking, the motherfuckers were going to put her away! The last thing on the tube was about a kid who’d been raped and murdered. A guy abducted her from school. They finally figured out how he did it. The little girl had been told never to go with a stranger unless he used the codeword Unicorn, which only the family knew. What happened was, the parents got divorced and the husband told a friend about how clever they’d been. So the guy drives up after school and says, “It’s OK, come with me: Unicorn.” Then he takes her to a creek and fucks her in the ass and crushes her head in and they only catch him when he does the same thing (sans codeword) 10 years later. He confesses, sittin with the cops in the interrogation room, and tells em he’s just like an alligator, he comes up and feeds then sinks to the bottom of the river for another 10 years or so, “digesting.” That’s just the way he is, he says, and nothing can ever change im. Laxmi cried hard at that one. Unicorns were the new bogeymans. Jesus! It was grimmer than the grimmest Grimm’s.

  REMAR phoned to say the parent company “was willing to settle for 50,000.” Chess would have to sign a general release (like he thought) “holding them harmless” from any future medical bills he might incur. Remar said it was a joke but he was obligated to pass on the information. “They can eat their release and shit it out in front of a jury too.” Chess liked Remar; he made him laugh. Hang tough, he said. The Friday Night Frighters were in for a major scare of their own—and damn well knew it. Things were lookin good. Parent company can rim my black ass. You heard of Meet the Parents? Well, we gonna eat the parent.

  LAXMI continued to give him nonsexual massages. She poured her heart out. She wanted to be an actress, and write books too, like Shirley MacLaine, a dream her mother once had. Mom was a “major depressive.” Laxmi read aloud from an incredibly moving article in the Wall Street Journal about an American boy who’d been abandoned in Nepal “back in the day.” His mother, originally from Beverly Hills, was named Feather (in his stonedness, Chess misheard Father for Feather). His dad was a Jew and an artist, just like hers—this was during the 60s—and they lived on a commune in New Mexico before making the hajj to India. (Laxmi said the parallels were weird: she’d been raised in Beverly Hills before living with her parents in a “tribal family” north of San Francisco.) The couple split Sebastopol and went to Europe. Feather got pregnant and had their kid—the boy—in Switzerland. She and her husband, who was kind of crazy, wound up in Dharmsala, where the Dalai Lama makes his home. Feather decided to become a Buddhist nun but the dad couldn’t hack it without her and snapped, begging on the streets of New Delhi until the authorities sent him back to the States. Feather left their child at a monastery. She was this ice queen whose own mother had committed suicide and later, when he was grown, half apologized for making certain choices and told her son the only thing she ever wanted was to give him the dharma—a path free from suffering. That was so tragically ironic to Laxmi because all of the woman’s actions had only caused suffering. It made her cry (she cried a lot when she hung with Chess) because she thought of her father, alive and rich and mentally sound, and his abandonments and pretensions of detachment. He didn’t have schizophrenia as an excuse! Schizophrenia would have been better than narcissism. Laxmi kept the saga folded up in her journal and reread it about a hundred times because it was so resonant. Her mom was long dead from an accident that Laxmi had an inkling was a suicide—the car swerved into a tree on a street called Lasky in the middle of the day—and now her father was in Pune, India, a wealthy, high-functioning guru capitalist. The story of the boy and his parents had motivated her to write the Moleskine memoir of her upbringing on a Sebastopol commune that was later branded a cult. Yes, she was young but so many youngish women now wrote stories of their adventures as drunks and seekers, addicts and adepts. She would do something different, something epic, she would finally be understood, she told Chess that’s what women really wanted, and Laxmi hoped she could manage it without self-obsession. It was so hard. She cut photographs and epigrams from magazines and pasted them in her diary. She made little drawings too but most of the time felt completely lost.

  They bonded over the fathers they never really knew. 2 hurt people tilting against the injustices of the world. And all that. She liked listening to what she dubbed Chester’s “love rants” (so named, he thought, because he got so passionate; she called him Chester, never Chess). The latest was on class-action suits. There were apparently attorneys who specialized in suing banks for the clever little wrongs regularly committed against customers. Judges forced settlements—5,000,000 here, 10 or 20 there—and the lawyers took half. The rest was distributed, minus a mysterious calculus of deductions, to X number of the public, who never even knew they were involved in a class-action suit to begin with. That would explain how one day he got a check in the mail for “Zero and 23/100 Dollars”—23¢. (Laxmi went on a mucousy laughing jag when he dug through a drawer to show her the perforated stub.) The Internet said if you didn’t cash it, the 23¢, or whatever, would go to a shadowy “charity,” the beneficiary details of which the banks refused to disclose. He spent an hour at Washington Mutual, standing there while pain shot up his leg, just so he could endorse his 23¢. (Laxmi went on another jag.) Worse than that, Chess was convivial with the teller, who was some kind of mongrel bitch that wouldn’t even joke along through the bullet-proof glass; the microphone system was so fucked that when he wasn’t cupping his ears from feedback he was practically doing sign la
nguage.

  (Laxmi nearly crapped her pants.)

  He dared to wonder how much he could squeeze out of Friday Night Frights. There had to be a formula to it, one of those statistical templates accountants dispassionately applied and attorneys rubberstamped. Had to happen each and every day. Buyouts and hush money settlements made the world go round! Shit, they were still giving so-called falsely accused Rampart scandal cops 5,000,000 apiece—and they’d already compensated the bad guys to the tune of 50 or 60 mil. Chess thought it would probably be hard for him to get a mil, but you never knew. He wasn’t even close to plumbing the litigable depths of his physical trauma, no real diagnosis seemed on the horizon, plus Remar said it was the type of thing juries would automatically be sympathetic toward because “plain folks” could definitely relate. Everyone could see themselves in exactly this kind of unjust situation; for reality shows (like frequently sued tabloids), settlements were the cost of doing business. The popularity of the genre was definitely on the wane and jurors would probably want to sock it to em, for fun. Nobody liked to be made a fool of for free—it was unAmerican. Besides, Remar said he’d scored with a bunch of similar cases. Chess hadn’t yet had the giddy conversation with counsel about how much he might expect monetarily. The lawyer would take a 3rd but hadn’t even clarified if the award was taxable. Part of him didn’t want to know. Part of him knew that whatever anyone got in this world would be chopped off like that knight in the Monty Python movie, arm by arm, leg by leg, until only a dancing torso remained.

  He just needed to make sure his slice of the piñata had enough cash stuffed inside: if it was ¾s of a million, then Remar and the MDs could take the arms and legs. ¾ s of a mil was a lot, as long as you made sure to move your ass out of the country. Go subtropical and comport yourself like a king. Set up shop in a walled compound in San Miguel de Allende, right next to Remar and his gay caballero’s homo hacienda. Laxmi told him that in Costa Rica you could get a hundred acres easy, plus servants, chef, and private yoga instructor—for the rest of your livelong days.