by Bruce Wagner
“I was going to call you,” he said. “Are you free? I mean, do you have some time?”
“Sure.”
“I mean now. Because you know what I was going to do? I was thinking of going over to the Self-Realization Center. Ever been?”
“I haven’t. But you’re so funny!”
“Why?” he said, with a smile that charmed her.
“I have trouble seeing you as the mystical type.”
“Don’t judge a book by its cover,” he said, nodding again at the hidden Idiot’s Guide. Finally, she laughed.
• • •
FOR SOME REASON, Lisanne had never been to the Sunset Boulevard Self-Realization temple or church or whatever it was. She’d passed the white-domed tower a thousand times and every once in a while read about the organization in the L.A. Times or heard from a friend how beautiful the grounds were. Phil said it was founded by the man who wrote Autobiography of a Yogi.
The adjoining well-kept park was peaceful in that cliché kind of way, and politically correct in its respectful inclusion of all major religions. A trail circled the lake (an entry sign warned not to feed the fish, who only “pretended to be hungry”). People sat on benches reading or meditating. Unobtrusive shrines to Gandhi and the Buddha garnished the walkways, along with plaques engraved with quotes from Bible and Bhagavad Gita alike. Phil couldn’t help but remark what a valuable piece of real estate the parcel would be should the Fellowship ever decide to divest.
They sat on a small viewing platform by the water. He broke the requisitely contemplative moment by offering sympathies on the death of Lisanne’s father—evidently, the Loewensteins had filled him in. He spoke of his own loss. His parents, in their late forties when he was conceived, had died within a year of each other not too long ago. Until then, Phil said he had deliberately shunned the trappings and responsibilities of the family fortune. A wry proviso of his dad’s will (he didn’t elaborate) forced him to leave the cocoon to help his sister run the charitable foundation that bore their name.
“You’d love Mattie,” he said. “In fact, you’ll love her on Saturday. Because that’s when the three of us are going to have lunch.”
Catharsis
RUSTY TOOK BECCA to Les Deux.
On the way in, they wandered over to the restaurant-owned gallery on the far side of the courtyard. There was an exhibition of bright, poster-size photographs, self-portraits of a fortysomething woman frankly displaying her genitalia. The lady behind the desk said that the subject of “the suite” was Randy Quaid’s wife, a film director. Becca couldn’t really make any sense of it. Was it porno? She tried to summon an image of what Randy Quaid looked like but kept seeing Dennis Quaid instead.
“I’m sorry,” said Rusty, a few minutes after the waiter took their order. “I didn’t mean to go off on you the other day.”
“It really hurt me.”
“I know. Sorry I’m such a dick.”
“I didn’t even know anything about it, Rusty,” she said, quickly becoming emotional. She felt like a child. “I never even talked to Elaine.”
“I know.” He delicatedly put his hand on hers. “I know. Look—there’s going to be a read-through of the piece.”
“What piece?”
“The script. The Spike Jonze thing, on Saturday. I think you should come.”
“But I already called Sharon and told her I couldn’t. That I couldn’t even meet—” She whined and fidgeted in her seat.
“It’s perfect that way—almost better. That it doesn’t come through ‘official’ channels.”
“I just think it would be weird.”
“No, it’s fine. It’s better that you were ‘reluctant.’ ”
“How can I just show up, Rusty?” she asked, with a touch of anger.
“Cause you’ll be with me.”
“So you’re doing the read-through.” She stared indifferently into space, resigned to the web he had woven. “I think I saw you with him, at the Rose Café.”
“You show up, looking totally Drew. Everyone’ll say: ‘That’s the Drew girl! The one we were supposed to meet.’ ”
“Why can’t I just call Sharon?”
“Go ahead. Call her,” he said. She couldn’t tell if he was getting nasty again. “But at this point, I think it’d be a mistake.”
“She’s mad at me.”
“Then don’t call her,” he said, laughing amiably.
“She got really mad when I told her I didn’t want to do it,” she said, tearing up again. “After you yelled at me, I called and said I didn’t want to go up for a ‘look-alike’—this whole long thing about how I was just doing that kind of work to pay the bills and if I was going to make it, I wanted to make it as myself. And Sharon said I was being really stupid and that she was the one who discovered the guy who won the Golden Globe for playing James Dean and the girl who played Judy Garland on that TV movie and how those actors were doing really, really well. She said that if you have talent—and I did, she said that I did!—then that talent comes shining through and that if you really want to make it you just have to take whatever opportunity comes your way. She said it was a really incredible opportunity to have a meeting with a famous director and that I’d come out a winner either way no matter what because even if they didn’t think I was right, I would stay in their minds for future projects. She said that actors would kill to have a meeting with Spike Jonze—and I felt really bad, Rusty!” She began to cry, full-blown. “I came off as such a jerk! Because I was loyal to you and didn’t understand! I was loyal and I didn’t understand why you wouldn’t want nice things to happen for me! I just couldn’t understand!”
A Gathering at the Gubers’
KIT AND VIV went to a gathering at the Gubers’ for a visiting holy man. H.H. Penor Rinpoche was the head of a monastery in Mysore whose lineage was associated with Kit’s teacher, Gil Weiskopf Roshi.
It was an odd assortment of people. Matthew Perry, Ray Manzarek, and Paula Poundstone listened in rapt attention alongside a contingent of poets, meditators, and a dozen or so saffron-robed monks. But the person whose presence interested Kit most was Ram Dass.
They’d met a number of years ago at a benefit in San Francisco, long before Ram Dass had suffered a debilitating stroke. The onetime Harvard professor and cohort of Timothy Leary had always been charismatic. Now, paralyzed on one side, he radiated “fierce grace.” His dancing eyes still burned with celestial fire; the famous white hair ensorcelled his head like candescent wisps of cloud. After the talk, Kit, Viv, and Matthew went over to say hello.
Ram Dass spoke slowly but without the slur-and-drag Kit had expected. He remembered seeing Kit at Tassajara in the early nineties and knew Gil Weiskopf Roshi quite well. He spoke fondly of his own guru and said that when Maharaj-ji was alive, he wished they could be together more often. But now that his guru was dead, “I’m with him all the time!” Kit asked about the experience of having a stroke, and Ram Dass showed his sense of humor to be fully intact. He mentioned a book he once wrote called How Can I Help? The moment had come, he said, to write the sequel: Who’s Going to Help Me?
• • •
“I FELT KIND OF mercenary,” said Kit, as they drove down the hill. “When I saw Ram Dass, the whole actor thing kicked in. I couldn’t wait to go say hello, then listen to how he talked. I wanted to try it out on Jorgia.”
“You are so bad,” said Viv, smiling. “But that’s why you’re so good.”
“I thought he’d be much more Kirk Douglas.” He shrugged sardonically. “I was extremely disappointed.”
“You know who Ram Dass kind of reminded me of? Larry Hagman. But I loved the man who spoke. What was his name?”
“Penor Rinpoche. He’s the real deal.”
“You met him before?”
“In Mysore.”
“I’ve seen pictures of that place. A real eyesore.”
“Haw haw.”
“Heh heh. Now who is he again? Penor—”
“A Nyingm
a master. A tulku.”
“What is that?”
“A reincarnation of one of the lamas of his tradition.”
“Are you going to help them?”
“They do very well without me, thank you very much. I’m going to give them money for a clinic, in honor of Gil. That’s who first took me there.”
They fell silent. He stared out the window as the dark, luxurious world whooshed past.
“I was reading,” said Kit, “about this tantric practice where you learn to use your cock like a straw.”
“What do you mean!”
“You, like, put it down and suck stuff up.”
“No way.”
“Hoover time. First you practice with water, then milk—then some kind of oil. At the end, when you’re a certified master, you’re supposed to be able to do it with mercury. Suck it up.”
“That is so weird.”
“It’s about drawing your semen and the woman’s come up to the soma chakra.”
“Oh! I’m all about that! Kids, don’t try that at home. Penor Rinpo-whatever doesn’t do that, does he?”
“He hasn’t shown me, personally.”
“Tara Guber should have a workshop.”
“Peter would be all over it! Hey, are you hungry?”
“Kind of. Want to go to the Polo Lounge?”
“Or we could just go to the Bel-Air.”
“Nah—too tired. Let’s go home.”
“We’ve grown elderly, huh.”
They passed through the gate, onto Sunset.
“Getting psyched about your movie?” she asked.
“Yeah. Yeah, I am. Superpsyched.”
“That’s so great, Kit. It’s not scaring you?”
“Why should it?”
“People are gonna think you’re making fun of retards.”
“People are going to think whatever.”
“Do you want an Academy Award?”
“Do I want an Academy Award?”
“I asked you first,” she said, impishly.
“You know what I want? You know what I really want? I want to be excited about what I do while passing my time on this fucked-up, dying planet. That’s what I want. And you know what? This little movie has me juiced about acting again. This little movie has me juiced about my fucking practice. At the end of the day, I just want to be able to live with myself, Viv. Which lately, hasn’t been so easy.”
She paused before serenely repeating: “But do you want an Academy Award?” Her tongue licked her lips. “Just answer the question.”
“Don’t fuck with me,” he said, mad-dogging her.
They laughed.
The Getty
KIT MOANED then screamed.
Viv bolted upright.
“Baby, you OK?”
“Yeah. I’m OK.”
“What was it?”
“Whoa! Fuckin strange.”
He shook himself like a beach dog after a wave.
Viv passed a bottle of water.
“I was hugging him or some shit.”
“Who?”
“The Getty kid.”
“What Getty kid?”
“The one with the cut-off ear. But there was something really fuckin creepy . . .”
“What.”
“I met John Paul—man, a long time ago. I don’t even think I was into my practice yet. I was hanging with Gianna Portola. She was fuckin wild before she got sober.” He laughed. Viv was glad he was out of the panic zone. “She brought me over to meet him. They used to be lovers. Somehow I kind of remember that she was still balling him, after it happened.”
“After he was kidnapped?”
“After the stroke.”
“It was a drug thing, right? A coma thing?”
He shivered again and pulled from the Aquafina. “I was curious, so she took me to see him at his house in Laurel Canyon. He got around in this supervan, Ironside style. Shit, maybe he still lives up there. It was like a very cool house with an elevator to the master bedroom. We rode it up and Gianna introduced me. Kinda ghoulish but kinda cool. He and Gianna started talking. It was a trip! The guy was talking like this, Viv, I swear to God: argabuggagoogagoolalalalmamamaoogagooguhgooguhgoo. I couldn’t understand shit! But Gianna was just gabbing away. Back and forth, back and forth. And John Paul seemed to be having a really good time. He was excited that I was there—like having anyone new around was a fun thing for him. I think that’s why she brought me.”
“So what did you dream?”
His face darkened. “It was sad. Sad, sad, sad. And he—in the dream—he, like, gave me a weird hug. Weird. Like prolonged. I don’t know. Can’t remember now.”
She softly rubbed his head. “Poor Bumpkin!”
L.A. Confidential
HE AWOKE TO the jingle-jangle light of morning. He heard voices and stood, swaddling himself in the duvet. He lit a cigarette and stepped over Mr. Raffles.
Her voice grew louder as he neared the guest bath.
Viv sat on the toilet. Her assistant stood a few feet away with pad and pen. The bath was running. The room was steamy and rank.
“I am so backed up from the codeine,” she said when she saw Kit, before directing her words to Gingher. “I need you to get me a laxative from Wild Oats. I think it’s called Quiet Moment.”
She farted loudly then laughed.
“They should call it Unquiet Moment,” said Kit. “Jesus, Viv, why don’t you let Gingher take five?”
“Because I can’t, Bumpkin, I’m on a schedule. I need to get gifts for the crew.” To Gingher: “Or Metamucil, but it has to be sugar-free.” To Kit: “What do you think about those Prada cell phone holders?”
“What do I think? I think you should concentrate on moving your bowels.”
“We have to get one of those Japanese toilets, Kit. They douche and dry you. You never need to use toilet paper again.”
“You wouldn’t be able to wipe in front of people. Won’t that be a deprivation?”
“I’m getting everyone a Mini Cooper.”
“The crew?”
“The cast, silly. Cell phone holders for the crew. And I’m going to New York in about forty-five minutes. You knew that, didn’t you?”
“No. Why?”
“I already told you, Bumpkin. I’m doing Letterman.”
“You told me two weeks ago. When you comin back?”
“Sunday. So give me a smooch.”
He edged past Gingher and knelt at the altar of the bowl, hands on Viv’s downy thighs, fingertips reaching the matching at the fold of her crotch. The assistant shyly averted her eyes while the actress closed her own to receive the courtly kiss. As their lips touched, she oopsed and the water plashed. Kit stood, shaking his head in mock disgust. Viv guffawed, involuntarily farting.
“Sorry, Gingher,” said Kit. The efficient, overweight girl had comically stepped back, with a forced smile. “Jesus,” said Kit to Viv. “Who have you become, Anna Nicole Smith? Who have we become?”
“Liza Minelli and David Gest.”
“Right,” said Kit. “I’m Liza, you’re David.”
“Don’t worry, honey,” said Viv, regaining composure as she wiped herself. “Gingher signed a confidentiality clause. It’s ironclad.”
Viv farted again. This time, everyone laughed.
“I’m outta here,” said Kit. He turned to Gingher and said, “Can you see why it took me so long to pop the question?”
“Maybe you should have pooped the question,” said Viv.
He had something to say about that, but she was laughing so hard she couldn’t hear. He took his wraparound floor-length comforter and shuffled out, shaking his head.
“Bumpkin!” shouted Viv. “Buy me something nice while I’m in New York! There could be a terrorist attack! You might never see me again!”
Supreme Bliss-Wheel Integration
LISANNE WAS ENTERING the second trimester. All the mommy magazines said that any day now she was supposed to start feeling better. Less
fatigued, sexy even. She felt worse than ever.
A cashier at Erewhon vibed her pregnancy and told her about yoga with Gurmukh at Golden Bridge. Lisanne got the time wrong and arrived at the end of a class. She stood outside the musty, lily-scented room while rich, distended women danced to drum and sitar. When they began to chant, Lisanne fled.
• • •
MATTIE MUSKINGHAM, Phil’s older sister, was petite and unneurotic. Lisanne liked her right away because she was one of those no-nonsense gals who called a spade a spade. Lisanne still couldn’t believe her luck—she had the feeling this sort of luncheon was arranged whenever Phil met someone who was potential relationship material. But she felt so fat. Her self-esteem was at its lowest ebb, and on top of it all, she was living a serious lie.
Rita Wilson was at a patio table with a girlfriend, and Mattie went to say hello. The Hankses were on the board of the Muskingham Family Foundation.
When the bill came, Mattie asked Phil if he’d forgotten about “the meeting,” and he rolled his eyes. He pretended to cop an attitude and said he would go only if they brought Lisanne. Mattie (who it seemed to Lisanne was also playacting) told her brother that he knew it was “strictly against the rules to bring in outsiders.” Her delivery was a bit arch. “We’ll just say she’s family,” retorted Phil. When Lisanne asked if they were talking about AA, the two laughed out loud. “I wish,” said Phil, cryptically.
As they left the Ivy at the Shore, the sibs were as giddy as children initiating a new friend into a favorite game. They told her not to ask anything more about where they were going; it would be their little surprise. Phil made Lisanne promise that, if pressed, which was unlikely, she would inform “the group” she was their half sister. No, said Mattie, not half sister—first cousin.
They swept through the lobby of Shutters, taking the stairwell to a lower floor. Lisanne was steered toward a series of conference rooms at ocean level. A few nondescript types congregated outside one of the smaller suites. The Muskinghams called some of them by first name, casually introducing their “poor relation” before going in.