In the past I was accused of being indecisive, fussy. My capacity to vacillate was boundless. I would suffer disaffection at the drop of a shoe. Labile as a douser’s pendant, my coach used to say. He had the words. Pronounced lay-bile. I looked it up. But the slippery defect of my virtue was paranoia. Nothing clinical, of course, but if you persist in being disappointed in yourself for being unable to do the impossible you run the risk of becoming your own worst enemy, of devolving into something small, or driving into a lamppost. I don’t want to think about it.
To be multi-amphibian is the thing, to live in many worlds at once. Ambition. I was afraid of it, or used to be. I was obsessive, I admit it, but an actor should be. I told my coach what he was teaching me was starting to feel like a wall between what I was and what I needed to be, and he told me to get out. I felt like a blind man on a roller coaster. At first.
I couldn’t even afford a place to live, so I stayed in the big garage. Agent Barkus used it as a gym, at least part of it, but he never worked out, so he let me sleep there till I got on my feet. His wife, Gloria, has an SUV. Barkus has a Lexus, but for a while, there was room for me.
I used to live in a world of hypotheticals. If such-and-such happens, will the outcome be a benefit or a setback? But no more to-be-or-not-to-be. Action is all. Whoso divineth upon conjectures may as well shoot too far as too short. Too much thought and not enough doing is bad for the actor. But I run before my horse to market. Let me speak for here and now.
I’d seen it before, these Saturday afternoon get-togethers. I knew what to expect; flirty money worshippers drinking Pinot Grigio around the pool, getting up and sitting down. Squalor is what I call it. And if you refuse to convert your attention to the schemes and irrelevancies of their material concerns, you go unnoticed. That’s the respect that makes cowards of us all. Not me; I aim to remain solid, but supple, the optimal state for an artist. Money means nothing to me. I’m as poor as Jesus.
I don’t have much party cred and I’m no crasher, but invited or not, I’m making my move, managing my route in such a way as not to be seen.
The grass feels sharp, newly cut, maybe it’s not Saturday—this must’ve been a gardening day. Trying to keep a cool eye on things, but I got to admit, I’m nervous, overheated. But screw it, he cast me out and now I’m back. Here to show Emperor Barkus that he’s got no clothes. Here to have my way with his wife.
He’d give me advice and shirts he never wore or got tired of. And sometimes, if he had a beer or two, showing off for his buddies, he’d tell me to recite some Shakespeare. Just short little pieces—he didn’t have the patience for more. It made me feel like a whore. See how I rhyme things?
The path is quiet and green. Shimmering blue of the pool, like a Hockney. No birds in the birdbath. Generally animals are not attracted to Barkus. Even his dog didn’t trust him. With good reason. I make my way across the yard. Beach towel spread on the grass. In her white bikini, no top. She has oiled herself. She shines.
Feels like I’ve had a dose of actomyosin, whatever that is, whatever it is that’s making my muscles contract and expand. Excitement, I guess. I’m trying to be nimble, but it’s a struggle. I’ve decided if today I succeed it means I’ll play the Dane. Not yet, but eventually I will, and in a brand-new way. I’m going to do it as a Mexican aristocrat, Old California. A Zorro-type Hamlet with a sword and a whip, and when Barkus gets the news that I’m in a hit he’ll pull out what’s left of his hair for not believing in me in the first place. I hear music coming from the house, but don’t feel it, not like I once did. No need to hear music anymore; I feel constructed of it. Her body, closer now, makes me fizz.
Back when I lived here, I tried once and she made fun of me. Didn’t even tell Barkus. Or so she said, but she must have because when Barkus tried to sell me on the hot dog stand, he accused me of it. He took me to the car wash so he could get his clean Lexus even cleaner. Barkus could never get clean. He owned the place, or so he said, the hot dog stand as well. He wanted me to buy it, said I could pay as I go. I told him I’m not a hot dog vender, I’m an actor. I should have a fallback, his wife was worried about me, then he says, I know you’re fucking her. I told him I wasn’t. I wasn’t. I don’t think he thought I was either. Just give me a down payment, he says, borrow it from Gloria. I sign it over, you hire somebody who knows what he’s doing, doesn’t mean he has to know much. Put a wiener on the grill, mustard on the bun, and you’re in business. He thought that was funny, he laughed, trying to disparage me. He would like me to trade my dream in on a hot dog stand. If ever I play Mephistopheles in Faust I’ll know who to model it on.
The Devil is a gentleman / he dances very neat / wears patent-leather shoes on his pointy little feet . . . That’s not Kit Marlowe, of course, but it fits, except Barkus has big stupid feet and footwear to match. He wears customized cowboy boots with fancy stitched dancing girls riding on the backs of wild-eyed longhorns made of hand-tooled fossilized eagle claws and kangaroo hide. He told me you had to have a license to wear them. Three grand a pair. His initials, W.B. (first name is Walter), engraved in white rhinestones at the top. Loud too—he’s got taps on the heels. Truth was he didn’t give a shit about the Old West, but he fancied himself some kind of gentleman cowboy. The only gentile to run a major agency in this town. Have your Jews call my Jews, he used to say. I heard him do it once, then he winked at me.
I’ve come from behind the hedge, from the raw and unruly into the refined, faultlessly crossed the grounds under the burning sun, but I must be early. She’s out to get some rays before the party starts. Or do I have the wrong day? I’m confused.
Who knows what it all means, how things happen. Suddenly you just end up somewhere. You take the journey. Who was it, Pauline Kael, said Hollywood is the only town where you can die of encouragement? I hadn’t been encouraged in a long time. I wouldn’t mind a little dose of that kind of dying.
The sun is so swanky even the shadows shine. Up close every blade of grass is crystalliferous, but the distance is blurred, I’m nearsighted. I can make out the outline of two persons on the porch, one short and fat—that’s gotta be my friend, the humble gardener, José—listening to the instructions of King Barkus. If I don’t hurry, my duet could turn into a trio, even a quartet, but from the look of the lawn, I think José is done for the day.
I try to remember that people are odd and more fascinating than starfish. Miscellaneous points of kindness. Even Barkus had his loyalties. Not to Maxwell he didn’t. Mainly to money. Maxwell was the dog. But I do have mixed feelings. Exasperating and selfish as he was, I had a soft spot for Barkus. He liked to take a walk after dinner, for instance. When I realized it wasn’t for the fellowship of sharing a stroll beneath the stars, but to stimulate his bowels, I liked him even more. I admire a clever agent. He relaxes not to calm himself, but to be coiled and ready for the next deal. And sometimes he reminded me of a fat little boy, the way he laughed and clapped his hands when he was happy. I could understand how Gloria loved him. But it’s a question of space I would think—people only have so much room to care about something else beside themselves.
Maxwell wasn’t a purebred, but he wasn’t a mutt. Usually the mutt is small; Max was built like a wolf. And he was smart too, more like a person, but better. He could have been a star back when dog movies were big. Maybe that’s what bothered Barkus—not making money off him, but his agency didn’t rep pets. One night he tells me, get rid of Maxwell. Take him somewhere, drop him off, and drive away. Where?
I don’t give a shit, he says, just get rid of him. I was dumbfounded. If you can’t do this one little thing for me, how do you expect I’m going to do anything for you?
He was talking about my career.
He wanted me to drive him to the desert, Newhall or someplace, push him out of the car. There was no way would I do that. I’d just take him down to Sunset, let him out there. For sure he’d get picked up by some
babe in a Lincoln; the ladies loved Maxwell. But it didn’t happen that way. Going down the hill we had an accident. And that was the last I ever saw of Max. I don’t remember the details, blindsided I guess, but it must’ve been bad. I don’t like to think about it, but I’m pretty sure that’s when everything changed.
It happened sometime around then; I can’t recall exactly, there was no face to it, just a memorandum slipped under the door. It said the gym was going to get expanded and that was that. I was out. José told me they were going to tear it down, the garage, but not so far they haven’t. Before me, Barkus had another actor who lived here. A sadder story than my own.
I saw a photo of him. He was a raw, handsome young man. Some said if he didn’t drink himself to death he’d be the next Jimmy Dean. But instead, on Christmas Eve he drove his Austin-Healey off a cliff. That’s how come I got to live here. And for a Hollywood minute, which is about three or four months, Barkus talked like I was going be a star. One of those short-lived enigmas who flame out fast and become legends, I guess. Who knows? But I was never fast, never caught fire. Never even drank.
I admit, there is vengeance in this enterprise, but the tune of it is love. Not for her, but for the work itself, which is everything. The Prowling Pilgrim is a musical I’m planning to write, going to star in it too. Already I’ve got the first line to the opening song: “Dead birds in standing water don’t fly away so fast, / because the Almighty ain’t strong enough to make the future last.” Self-reliance is the theme. Destination? Broadway.
We all need attention to embellish ourselves. To suffer the setbacks without losing heart is the thing. When I wasn’t working for Barkus, I studied the Bard. Oh, those words! But living a life of double-duty hyphenated me. Who was I? How is it I got like I am? That kind of thing. But the greats must be defiant in their willingness to be misunderstood. To persist when no hope can help and none is offered. I didn’t even have a phone. Barkus was too cheap to install one. That actor who lived here before me, the one who drove off the cliff, was a dirty lodger. The area around my bunk stunk of bacon and nicotine, and opening the window didn’t help. If I complained Barkus made fun of me, called me Mr. Sensitive. In the innermost meat of his being, what actor is not?
Here’s what I call a correlation: How come we’re fascinated by what we abhor? For fear of its power and the good it could do us. He’s a major agent, no way around it, but I was never even an official client, no standing at all. His fancy friends, they all knew I lived in the garage. That I had no phone. But what about Gloria? She was a call girl before she met him. Not a streetwalker—she was high class—but still, what right did she have to look down on me?
Her foot! The pedicured toes, the polished nails. I’ll cover the length of her before this is done. It’s a tricky situation, though; if she wakes, what then? But it’s not like she was always snooty to me. More than once, going to market or bringing in the mail, I got the sly look from her, I swear. Now here I am to claim the crown! Joking. Here to claim what? Not sure exactly. But great journeys are not for the cautious; still, distances have to be gauged. I’m not going back to check, but I think it was her knee I just passed.
“I can’t breathe, come away and see me!” is what I dreamed she would say. She never did. But I know one thing, I’m no longer on standby, I’ve made my move.
But progress dresses in setbacks, we all know that. Something could go wrong, and I’ve never been good at what happens next; I must stay alert. Gloria’s muscular and stuck-up, proud that she’s not fat. Already I’m conveying myself along the ridge of her thigh. I’m moving fast.
Rarely was I ever invited into the house for dinner, the parties and all that. Actually just once, the day before Christmas, for an eggnog and a gift. White socks. I kept them for a while, but never wore the things. I can’t bear wool on my skin.
The upper thigh is achieved. I’m startled by something dark next to me. It’s my shadow! More time has passed than I thought. I have arrived at the juncture. The eternal triangle, this nest of spicery, a little box of treasure to unlock. But mar not the thing that cannot be amended. Not that Gloria is a virgin, but what a glorious line! And as if on cue, I hear the cry of a passing bird, a crow I think. The vile squealing of the wry-necked fife. There’s some bardolatry for you!
Paradoxically, in sleep, she welcomes me. Our pulses are in sync. I travel the firm soft roof of her tummy, the ticking organs beneath the skin; I can feel the angel energy of her blood thrumming through me. I am a silent tide on the heedless sea of Barkus’s wife. Onward! I climb higher, extend my neck to look again. Beyond the sprawl of the yard, there’s Barkus on the porch still talking to poor José, who is wearing a newspaper on his head like a pirate’s hat. It’s too far away to hear, but I bet the topic is a wage cut. If Barkus turned now he would see me on her breast.
The tissue of her nipple is like the skin of myself, no contradiction. For some reason I feel like crying. The idea that she would take me in I gave up a long time ago, but the dream of love does not punch a clock. The head is where I’m headed, her face is slightly tilted, the profile sublime, the golden clutter of her hair a crown. But I’m not so good of a sudden. Something flits and flutters within me. I feel wobbly, my balance is off. Could be sunblock. She’s probably slathered with the stuff. O tiger’s heart wrapped in a woman’s hide. Always a reckoning to be paid.
In the hollow of her clavicle I pause for breath. Here is a spot the color of coffee, the size of a tear, her birthmark. But it delights not me. This project is done.
I climb to the knob of her shoulder and try to adhere. It’s hard; I feel sleepy and sick. An association with me on top is what I came to achieve and I did!
To mark the occasion a little more Shakespeare would be good, but there’s no time. Barkus can be brutal when he’s upset. I need traction. He comes! Above all, I can’t afford to take a fall. But the strumpet awakens—I go!
A relief to be on solid ground. But here’s the stupid part: I’ve taken a tumble, landed on my back. Barkus is bigger than I thought. Now the bottom of his boot, the silver half-moon of the tap nailed to his heel, as am I, transfigured in the grass. For a moment I saw the sky.
He didn’t have a choice. Ignog needed the job; he was on his knees. So broke he had to sell his dead father’s cuff links to buy a ticket from LAX to Seattle and back. The Sisters of Vindictive Mockery had its headquarters up there.
Ignog would rather have done it on the phone, but Lazard wanted a face-to-face. It was Lazard who had given him his first job, given him his name, in fact. Ignog was not his original name, but Lazard deemed it a compelling byline, and you didn’t argue with Lazard.
The Sisters of Vindictive Mockery was a monthly of critical discourse, politics, literature, and art, but it was the interviews, interviews with famous people who were famous for never doing interviews, that made the magazine. J. Paul Getty, Cagney, James Jesus Angleton (almost), J. D. Salinger, General Franco the week before he died, Madame Chiang Kai-shek at the age of ninety-nine. Ignog got to her through the laundry man.
He had done four years at the Sisters and six covers (a record), but the more he excelled, the less he was liked, plus he was slow. After taking seven months to turn in “The Imperial Dogma of Top-Down Doctrinal Pedophilia, War and Foot-Washing,” an anticleric screed of two thousand words, he was taken to a last supper at a café called the Pickle and fired. Out of indignation, Ignog snapped back with a book. An underhanded investigation on why NFL running backs who happen to be handsome tend to succeed, but before dying, usually of sclerosis of the liver, raised children who were losers and brats. It was his first and last book. Not a big seller, but it was well reviewed and led to higher ground. Harper’s, Esquire, The New Yorker. The good stuff. Then things got bad. And Ignog did the bad stuff. Then no stuff. He hadn’t worked in over a year.
He thought a lot about calling Lazard, but Lazard was mean and Ignog’s pride wa
s frail. Then, out of the blue, Lazard called him. The assignment was to interview one of the richest and most inaccessible eccentrics of the twentieth century. An old-school tycoon who loved money, airplanes, and big-breasted starlets. When he was alive, Howard was a household name, revered and feared, and now he was dead for thirty-eight years.
Kleenex. Howard was famous for his obsession with it. Lazard thought Ignog should call a shrink, get a medical opinion. A shrink would cost money. Make it up then, read a book. Ask him what he thought about 9/11. Who, the shrink? No, Howard! Write down what I’m saying. I’ll remember it. No you won’t. Lazard punched him on the shoulder. Write it down! Ignog started scribbling.
Find out why he stopped tying his shoes. Ignog figured it might have been the accident back in ’47. After that Howard knew he wasn’t invincible, lost his edge, stopped changing his clothes, didn’t shave or cut his hair. Lazard wanted Ignog to interview people who thought it couldn’t be done. What couldn’t be done? All the things he did, the shit he invented when he was young. The wrenches, drills, whatever they’re called—oil-sucking devices. And talk to his enemies, dig into his origins. You want me to go to Texas? No! Lazard didn’t want Ignog to go to Texas. He wanted him to buy a bottle of Listerine. You smell like booze. On second thought, never mind the Listerine, do it on the phone. Lazard was rich but cheap. He had to be. But what he didn’t want was stale, hashed-over, already told, dickhead facts. Unauthenticated, sensationalistic conjecture from unreliable sources would be fine. And he didn’t give a damn about lawsuits either.
That was one of the advantages in interviewing a dead man. But the estate still had lawyers who could make money litigating posthumous claims. Fuck the lawyers. Here’s a wacko who lived on a mattress in the middle of a hotel room surrounded by memos he wrote to Jane Russell’s tits. But maybe you got a point, Ignog, the fucker ran a movie studio, he bought a city—get an explanation for that. Write down what I’m saying! I already did. And don’t forget the beard. Went to his belly, right? Right. He never washed. So full of phobias he wouldn’t let anybody touch him. Wouldn’t touch himself. Never wiped his ass, is what Lazard heard. Had bugs in his hair. Lived on burgers and chocolate bars. Common knowledge, but Ignog wrote it down. As far as he knew, there had never been a successful interview with a dead man. Lazard said the Mormons were setting it up.
Shape of the Final Dog and Other Stories (9781101600665) Page 11