by Bruce Wagner
As they toured, the staffers gawked. Tyrone sternly, comically shooed them away. “G’on, now! G’on about your business!” After walking what must have been three city blocks, they approached one of the stations.
“Roy getting bath,” said a Cambodian nurse, with a curious eye to the guests. “Be done in few minute.” She broke a toothy smile as her giggling cohorts gathered round. “Is Kit Lightfoot?”
“Yes, Connie. Is Kit Lightfoot.” He turned to the men. “That’s Connie Chung. I give all my girls names. Freshens ‘em up. Now go check on Roy, girl!” he said, with outrageous dispatch. “These are busy, busy men! Go tell Roy he gonna meet hisself a movie star!”
“Tyrone,” said Darren humbly. “What happened to Roy?”
“Glioblastoma multiforme. Now I don’t know if that’s what y’all are looking for—”
“Is that a tumor?” asked Kit.
“Uh huh,” said Tyrone. “But he’s doin real well.”
Nurse Connie emerged from the room and said they could go in.
A pale, beleaguered man stood at the bed, poorly draped by a shabby robe. He was around forty and attended by an orderly, who wasn’t thrilled to be part of any dog-and-pony show.
“Roy, you got y’self some visitors! This is Dar-ren.”
“Hi, Roy.”
“He’s a very famous director. And this is Kit Lightfoot.”
“How are you?” the actor softly inquired.
Roy took them in, blank-faced.
“Do you recognize him from the movies?” said Tyrone. “Huh, Roy? I’ll bet you do. I’ll bet you recognize him from the motion picture big screen.”
Kit was mildly uncomfortable with the approach but let it go.
The man spoke up, in a garbled drone. With Tyrone’s coaxing, the words became apparent:
“I . . . fuck. I fuck. I—I fuck.”
Connie Chung held a hand over her mouth, embarrassed.
“Roy Rogers fucks a lot,” said Tyrone, rolling his eyes. “Least he say he do. If you believe Roy, he get more pussy than Julio Iglesias.”
“I fuck! I fuck! I fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” barked Roy, smiling gleefully as he got up to speed.
“He gettin excited—cause you here, Mr. L.”
Other nurses gathered in the doorway. More hands to giggling mouths. Nurse Connie and the orderly lowered the patient back on to the bed.
“Roy Rogers had his own business. Didn’t you have your own business, Roy?”
“Fuck!” He laughed, messy and unnerving, full of spittle. He stood up again. Tyrone put a comforting hand on the man’s shoulder and said indulgently, “Naw, it wasn’t the ‘fuck’ business. I think he had a McDonald’s.”
Kit noticed a horseshoe-shaped scar over his temple.
“Those Golden Arches made lots of money for you, too, didn’t they, Roy. Roy got some grown-up kids,” said Tyrone, turning to Nurse Connie. “I guess it ain’t been no Happy Trails.”
“They no come,” she said.
Tyrone took a framed photo from the bedstand and handed it to Kit and Darren—Roy and his family, in happier days.
Kit went over and steadied the man with his hands, murmuring softly while helping him to sit. The orderly dropped his sullen demeanor and pitched in, supporting Roy’s other side. The patient’s obscene perorations faded. There was something so touching and fearless about Kit’s tender mercies, and Darren knew for certain that he had found his man.
Field Trips
LISANNE SET OFF for Riverside. It was Sunday. Apart from her main plan, she wanted to scope out the famous brunch at the Mission Inn that her boss was always raving about. It turned out to be a tad Waspy for her taste. She had a general rule never to eat where women of a certain age congregated in colored hats.
She went to Denny’s instead. Lisanne thought she felt the baby kick, but maybe it was too soon for that. Maybe it kicked when one of those big fat pancakes I promised myself I wouldn’t order thunked it on the head.
It was easy to find the house. There were a thousand Kit Lightfoot links and Web sites that listed the address of the local landmark, many containing interviews with Lightfoot Senior. He spoke freely, almost defiantly, of his son’s early years, glibly advertising himself as a good parent, a tough but caring dad, an all-too-human family man who had done the best he could under great hardship, insurmountable medical bills, beloved wife dying of cancer (he fudged time lines and history), a sorrowful patriarch benevolently bewildered by his boy’s estrangement. “He’ll come around,” said Mr. Lightfoot. “He knows I’m there for him anytime he needs me.” In a more current posting, Burke Lightfoot bragged that Kit had indeed come around, and not too long ago at that, to visit the old homestead. (“I still live in the same house my son was born in. I have nothing to hide.”) In fact, it was noted, that with his father’s recent urgings, the star had made a generous donation toward the rebuilding of his grade school’s auditorium—see? Reparations were well under way, all across the board.
Lisanne took the leisurely route over to Galway Court. The Lightfoot residence was on a cul-de-sac, making it harder to do a simple drive-by. She parked a few blocks away and hid behind the classifieds, as if looking for rentals. After a few minutes she glanced around, absorbing the sights and sounds of the neighborhood. Maybe she’d take a stroll. Then she thought that wasn’t such a great idea (the street probably had its share of lookie-lous) and decided to leave. Her mood plummeted. She felt common, aimless, unveiled, one more fat, lonely fan in a vast, uncelebrated throng. In a few short moments, she had lost her special connection.
She was embarrassed at having come at all.
• • •
THAT AFTERNOON, SHE accompanied Tiff and his wife to a luncheon at a house in San Marino. The Loewensteins were being honored as the most generous of the American Friends of the Salzburg Festival. She’d been invited by Tiff before the couple had reconciled but they insisted she come. Roslynn had always been kind to her and was grateful for the neutered companionship she provided during Mr. Loewenstein’s sundry postmidlife freak-outs. As a reward, she invited along “a catch” to be Lisanne’s date.
Phil Muskingham was the anemic thirty-nine-year-old heir of a San Francisco telecom clan. He had a minor facial tic and a bad haircut. He wasn’t witty, but he wasn’t unfunny either and seemed to genuinely like her, in spite of her weight, which definitely made him more appealing. (Lisanne had been steadily gaining and thought that Roslynn must have broached the issue to the “catch” beforehand to make sure it was OK.) He was flirting with her, and she wasn’t used to that. He could have been one of those people who got turned on by fatties—hell that’d be OK too. Bring ‘em on.
The awards part of the luncheon was to begin soon. As coffee was served, Phil asked Lisanne if she wanted to walk the grounds. They set off.
“I know where I’ve seen you before,” he said. She couldn’t imagine. “Were you at a gathering a few months ago, in Bel-Air? Kind of a yoga thing?”
“Oh my God, yes!” she exclaimed in disbelief. “But—what were you doing there?”
“The Gubers are old friends of the family. Lynda—Tara—is always after me to start meditating.”
“The Yoga House.”
“I call it Yoda House. House o’ Yoda.”
“I remember you. You were next to me. You were fidgeting.”
“Back problems. I can’t sit like that.”
“That is so funny. You were harmonizing.”
“Gettin spiritual,” he said, with a goofy smile.
She thought he was cute.
“I can’t believe that was you!” she said. Maybe it was a sign from matchmaker heaven.
“Hey, didja hear about the swami at Pink’s? They asked how he wanted his hot dog, and he said, ‘Make me one with everything.’ ”
“I’ve heard that,” Lisanne said, sweetly groaning.
“So . . . you wanna go somewhere sometime?”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know.
We could go out. We could go to Pink’s and be one with everything.”
“Sure,” she said, insouciant. “Why not?”
She was actually being asked on a date. We could go to a movie. Or to the delivery room together.
“Well,” he said, drolly. “I guess that’s better than just ‘Why?’ ”
They laughed. A downsized version of the Vienna Philharmonic began to tune itself, and they headed back so as not to miss the encomiums about to be sung for the studio mogul and his wife.
Dashed Hopes
BECCA DIDN’T TELL Annie about the orgy at the Four Seasons. She avoided Rusty the following week. She had a yeast infection anyway.
When she thought about it, her stomach turned. She knew everyone was really stoned, and that made the reality at least a little less harsh in her head. She didn’t think Grady had been inside her but wasn’t really sure. It made her paranoid that she might catch something. Becca flashed on fooling around with Cass, smelling her smells and licking her pussy, reaching up to rub the taut, protuberant belly while Cassandra sucked the men. She was obsessing so much about the evening and feeling so guilty that she got a flu. At her worst moment, Becca was dialing home to Virginia to confess. But then the fever broke, so to speak, and she decided on a new tack: she would pretend it hadn’t happened. When they were together again, if anyone made some smarmy reference or even hinted at a replay, she would tell them they could all go fuck themselves.
• • •
WHEN THE CASTING director called to say that Spike Jonze wanted to meet, Becca nearly fainted. Sharon suggested they go to the Coffee Bean on Sunset, to “strategize.”
She said that Spike was making a film about “the nature of celebrity and what this town does to people.” The script was by the genius Charlie Kaufman, and they were already signing up big actors (Russell Crowe, Raquel Welch, Cameron Diaz, Benicio Del Toro, John Cusack), but the real stars—the heart and soul of the piece—were look-alikes. Supposedly, Spike didn’t want to do any special effects like he did with Nic Cage and his “brother” in Adaptation; that it was important the actors resembled the stars instead of being exact duplicates. They were throwing out a wide net for look-alikes who could act, and of course Becca qualified because, as far as Sharon was concerned, she was an exceptionally talented actress who just happened to moonlight as a Drew Barrymore impersonator. Becca asked if Elaine Jordache was involved in the production. Sharon hadn’t heard the name.
In the parking lot, they clasped hands and Sharon said that she had a really good feeling about her meeting with Spike. She kept gently pinching the pressure point between Becca’s thumb and forefinger. It hurt a little but felt good too. Becca closed her eyes and asked how she knew about that kind of thing and Sharon said she’d actually trained in shiatsu and deep tissue massage; that was what she did in her college years to get by. She told Becca she would do bodywork on her if she wanted. Then she gave a quick, firm rub to the back of Becca’s neck, saying she had “a few rocks back there.” She kissed Becca goodbye on the lips but with mouth closed.
• • •
HEART IN THROAT, Becca immediately called Rusty. She was eager to share the news with him. Also, it was a feel-good way to close the book on the whole creepy sexcapade.
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying,” she said enthusiastically, “that I’m supposed to go see him tomorrow morning—some place on Gower. Rusty, I am so totally terrified!”
“Supposed to go where,” he said testily. Obtuse.
“This address on—no, Ivar. To see Spike Jonze! Oh my God, I have to rent Adaptation . . . I mean, I already saw it but not for a while. And I never saw Human Nature—but that’s by a different director, not Spike [she was already on a first-name basis]. Still, it’s by Charles Kaufman—I mean, he wrote it—so I probably should see it. . . . And Annie says there’s some other movies—the one George Clooney directed, that Drew’s in—I should— Ohmygod, Rusty, I looked on IMDb and Spike’s from Maryland, where Annie’s from! Did you know he was an actor? He was in that movie The Game and that movie Three Kings? But I don’t think I’m going to rent those. Not until he gives me a part!”
“Would you please shut the fuck up?”
“What?”
The air went out of her.
“So you called Elaine?” he said accusingly. “Or did she call you—did Elaine call you, Becca?”
“No! Rusty, what is wrong? Elaine had nothing to do with this. Sharon never even heard of her. Sharon said—”
“Sharon?”
“Sharon Belzmerz—”
“Sharon who?” he asked sarcastically.
“Sharon Belzmerz. She’s a casting director, at Warner Brothers. I told you about her—I met her through Cyrus. She put me on tape.”
“Oh. Sharon Bullshitz put you on tape. Oh! Oh. Right.”
“I ran into her that night we were at the Four Seasons”—here she did start to cry, with the forced, fractured memory of in-suite high jinks. Don’t go there. “Sharon said that someone saw my tape, someone— But why—why are you so—”
“I met with Spike Jonze, OK? OK, Becca? I already fucking met with him. Do you hear what I’m saying? I know all about the ‘look-alike’ project. And they’re not trying to find any ‘Drews,’ OK? I read the script, which not even the fucking studio has read, OK? He gave me the script. And they’re not looking for Drews.”
“OK. All right.” Her voice grew thin as she capitulated. “He just said he wanted to meet me.” Hating herself for whining. For backing down. Hating him. Fighting for breath. “He saw my tape.”
“Well,” he said, voice dripping acid, “maybe Sofia, who’s probably your new best friend, maybe Sofia is having a surprise party for old Spike. Remember the one you did for Cameron? In the Colony? The Colony’s your hood! Well, maybe they need a Drew to hand out hors d’oeuvres and blow jobs.”
“Why are you being so mean?”
“I don’t like people doing snaky things around my back.”
“But I didn’t—”
“I’ll take it up with Elaine.”
“I told you, she didn’t have anything to do with it.”
“There isn’t any reason for you to go see Mr. Jonze tomorrow, OK? Unless you want to be humiliated. But maybe you do. I forgot who I was talking to. Maybe that’s your thing.”
One-Man Show
KIT WAS ALONE onstage.
He had sublet the Delongpre Avenue space from the Metropolis troupe for a private, weeklong intensive with Jorgia Wilding. When he first landed in Hollywood, he’d attended the acting coach’s legendary class. She was in her seventies now but hadn’t lost her acumen—or her bite.
He slouched à la Monty Clift, slurring and stammering his words as he flailed about in bravura Method mode.
“No!” she yelled, cutting him off from her middle-row seat. “No no no no no!” She stood and shuffled toward him. Her head poked through an immense wide-knit purple poncho, like some crusty cartoon character caught in a fisherman’s net. “You’re gonna win an Oscar for this, all right—an Oscar Mayer. Cause that’s what you’re doing. You’re hotdogging.”
She climbed to the stage. Kit hung his head and waited, as a prisoner might to receive his blows.
“What are you doing? What are you doing? You doin brain injury? Or you doin retard? I’m asking you: Is this traumatic brain injury or is this mental retardation?”
“It’s, uh, it’s both,” he said lamely.
“Both,” she said, slack-jawed. As if that were the dumbest thing yet uttered by actor or man. No one could’ve said anything dumber.
“I guess I’m not sure,” said Kit. “I’m finding my way.”
“Well, you sure as hell are. We finally agree! And by the way, ‘brain injury’ for ‘retarded’ is like Cockney for Bostonian. They’re completely different languages, OK? With their own aphasical rhythms and syntax.” She took a deep, disappointed breath. “Kitchener, we’ve known each other a lot of years.�
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“Yes ma’am.”
“Unless you dig deeper you’re gonna be laughed off the screen. Folks are gonna think you’re in a Farrelly Brothers movie. Sling Blade you’re not; Sling Blade you don’t want to be. But this isn’t some TV movie, am I right? This gonna be a TV movie?”
“No ma’am.”
“This is Aronofsky. He’s very demanding. I know— I worked with Ellen for Requiem. Very smart and very demanding. And he won’t let you get away with it, honey. So guess what: you’ve got homework. We need to unlearn you some bad habits. Bad movie star habits.”
“If you say so, ma’am,” said Kit.
He laughed, breaking the tension.
“Yeah, well I say so,” said Jorgia, softening. “You want to be on Jimmy Lipton’s show, doncha?” she said facetiously. “Have you done Actors Studio yet?”
“In fact I have, ma’am.”
“You did?” She seemed genuinely surprised.
“Yes ma’am.”
“I missed that one.”
“That’s probably a good thing.”
“Well, you want to be asked back, don’t you?”
“No ma’am, not really.”
They both were laughing now. It was the end of their day and he was exhausted. She was indomitable.
“All right then, let’s stop wasting time. I want you to sit on that cushion and center yourself!”
He assumed the pose of the Buddha, spine erect, eyes half-closed. Jorgia, an old yoga hand herself, sat opposite. She began to speak, trancelike: “All those years of meditating. All those years of clearing the mind. The discipline. The energy. Call on it. Call on emptiness. Dérèglement. Derange the senses. Breathe. Pull, from your root. Everything flows through you. Empty the mind. Astonish me. Astonish yourself. Be still, in the core of you. Untangle. Undo. Erase Kit Lightfoot. Kit Lightfoot is overpaid for what he does. Kit Lightfoot doesn’t know what he does. Kit Lightfoot doesn’t have a clue. Kit Lightfoot doesn’t know what he’s capable of, the heights and depths he can reach. Kit Lightfoot is retarded, brain-damaged! Kit Lightfoot is the enemy. Erase Kit Lightfoot. Breathe. Go to that yoga place. Yoga means ‘union.’ Erase the self. Breathe. Forget the self. Breathe . . .”