Movie Stars

by Jack Pendarvis

  He bid on a pewter ice bucket and remembered saying aloud while flipping through the catalog, “I don’t know why people collect pewter.” Now he did.

  By the time the Baccarat ice bucket came along, he skipped it. He had developed ice bucket fatigue.

  Behind him, a fresh and inexplicable crowd suddenly streamed in, greeting one another with excited squeals. He swooned in the hot jacket.

  Around lot 576, a third set of Judith Leiber belts from the personal wardrobe of Bob Hope’s wife, Chuck realized that he had entered a pleasant state of resignation, like freezing to death. He lazily smiled as he thought, Wow, Dolores Hope sure liked Judith Leiber belts.

  The woman in front of him bought some belts. The auctioneer had flashed his confident yet pleading grin at her. She was putty in his hands. Cruelly waiting for confirmation of an internet bid that would take the belts away from her, he snapped, “Chew faster!” The guy who yelled “YAH!” or “YUP!” was eating as he worked. Just jamming crackers in his mouth while he fucked with people’s dreams.

  They wouldn’t even let Chuck buy Donny an “American Cinema Award.” What in the hell was an American Cinema Award? Chuck could’ve given Bob Hope an American Cinema Award. It was so generic as to be totally meaningless. This auction existed because people burdened Bob Hope with piles and piles of crap wherever he went, to get an honorary degree in Utah or wherever. Stuff with his name on it, like diamond-studded belt buckles. Cufflinks and straps of leather emblazoned with his face. A Cross pen culminating in Bob’s own miniscule head, plaques and bowls, melted-looking clay jugs, cheap trophies with detachable cowboys on top, frosted glass eagles and airplanes, Christmas ornaments and autographed globes, medallions and plaster busts, a barber pole. After a while it probably seemed more like a torture than an honor. They may as well have been gobs of spit flung in hateful rage, these treasures. Maybe it was a relief to die. The world is too full. Angel had been right about the Bob Hope fashion award, which Chuck had approached with a dumb earnestness that a member of her generation couldn’t comprehend. The Nothing American Cinema Award for Nothing went for $2,500.

  Then there were the clowns.

  So many porcelain clowns.

  “We should get Bob a clown, he’s funny.”

  How many clown figurines had been unloaded on Hope by well-meaning dolts per year? Man lives to a hundred, he can accumulate a number of unwanted porcelain clowns. At some point he had so many that people really started to think he liked them, or so went the story Chuck told himself.

  After half a dozen lots of clowns, the auctioneer said, “More clowns! What a shock,” and got a nice ripple. Sotto voce, he leaned into the microphone: “How many more pages of clowns?” After that, people laughed almost dementedly, in a Pavlovian way, whenever he said “clowns,” and finally that was just Chuck. Old Chuck laughed until he cried, barely keeping it together. Hey, maybe that was normal auction behavior. No one seemed to mind.

  Chuck bought Donny some porcelain clowns. They were a gag gift. Angel had nailed it again. But there was a problem when Chuck tried to check out. The reception desk claimed that someone else had won Chuck’s clowns.

  He was so foggy he almost believed them. Harried superiors in headsets appeared. A chicly turned-out clerk rifled through accordion folders. At last it was determined that Paddle 188 had won the clown figurines.

  “That could be a simple mistake,” Chuck said. “I’m Paddle 187.”

  It looked as if negotiations were hopeless when the next person in line came up beside Chuck to engage a secondary clerk. This meticulous sport put down his paddle and Chuck saw that it was 188. The person who had been helping Chuck was ecstatic at the coincidence. She confirmed on the spot that Paddle 188 had not bid on the porcelain clowns. Chuck gave the guy a friendly nudge and said, “Ha ha, you almost got some clowns you didn’t buy!” He was rewarded with a withering squint. Paddle 188 looked like the X-Files villain who enjoyed giving haircuts to corpses.

  They brought Paddle 188 a book by Phyllis Diller, one she had signed to Bob. Paddle 188 opened it up and said, “Oh my God.” Chuck glanced over and saw the full-page inscription in neat, packed lines of red ink, but couldn’t read any of it before its new owner smacked it shut.

  As Paddle 188 coolly appraised a crystal urn, Chuck went for his wallet and discovered it wasn’t there.

  “Oh my God!” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

  Even as he crouched and searched his row, even as he started back for the deli, where his mind’s eye placed his wallet on the smeared Formica, Chuck knew that Maria didn’t have a daughter.

  13

  He begged them. They wouldn’t fork over the clowns.

  “But you have all my information already, from when I registered online,” he said. “This is for a dear friend who’s very ill. We don’t even know how long he has.”

  They had no proof that Chuck was Chuck, they said. A nice security guard took pity, gave him forty dollars, and called him a cab. Chuck clammed up about how a couple of sawbucks wouldn’t get him back to Burbank. He had the idea of crashing at Maria’s instead.

  He stood there waiting for the cab as the day gave way to brisk evening. The last stragglers emerged from the building, a large group all together. “Congratulations! You got some nice stuff,” said a sassy, upscale person dressed all in white, with spiky platinum hair. Her friends probably called her “a little bundle of dynamite.” She made him feel better with her electrically crackling eyes.

  “I got some porcelain clown figurines!” he shouted. She and her friends were crossing the street and she looked back at Chuck with a puzzled expression. Then her crowd caught her up and they disappeared brightly down the block like the merry dead.

  He turned to see Paddle 188 climbing into his cab, Chuck’s cab, and shooting off down Bedford.

  He was amazed when he turned to find that the windows of the auction house had been covered in brown paper, like a shameful package. It had been accomplished swiftly and silently, with marvelous efficiency. He found a side door and walked in.

  “We’re locking up,” said the nice security guard who had helped him.

  “I want everybody to know this is for Donny Billings,” Chuck said.

  There was a tasteful, narrow china closet with a flimsy-looking doorframe that housed a pointy trophy and some others. Chuck put his fist through the glass. Blood spurted wildly from his knuckles and wrist, splashed on the gold plate and the frosty Lalique.

  Donny was going to love this.

  Chuck held the three sharp prongs of the Las Vegas Entertainment Award in front of him like a dagger. Was it a crown or a jester’s hat? Chuck made for the Neiman, right for its offensive mouth. He was going to wipe the smile off of Bob Hope’s face.

  They tackled him and zapped him before the damage was done. He felt the weight of a thousand bricks on his chest. He vomited up black stuff from his heart. It came out of his nose. His eyes rolled backward in his head forever.

  He did not see his two dead wives making out with each other in Heaven, Bob Hope standing behind them, golf club slung scarecrow-style over his shoulders, winking in beatific lewdness.

  He saw instead a montage of himself at liquor parties at which he had arrived with an empty stomach. He saw himself interrupting everybody and talking too loud and bragging about a famous punk rocker he knew. This was his life, the one that flashed. He saw himself with his greedy fist around a black plastic fork, cramming an entire serving of macaroni and cheese into his mouth at once. Decent people watched and could not believe their eyes.

  Frosting Mother’s Hair

  TOM AND HIS MOTHER, MRS. WELLINGHAM, WERE PRACTICALLY THE same age. At fifteen, Mrs. Wellingham had married a twenty-year-old man—Tom’s father—who was leaving to fight in a war.

  Tom had grown up and gone off and become pretty wealthy in the soft drink business. These days he lived in a kind of semi-retirement. What he did, mainly, was fly around to different corporate retreats and present a le
cture he had come up with called “Stop Having Fun in the Workplace.”

  Business had brought him back to his hometown after a long time away. Of course he went to visit his parents. Tom sat in a small living-room chair that seemed to have been crafted for a toddler. He wore one of his suits. He had just returned from lecturing a whole auditorium.

  “What was the story about the root beer?” said Mrs. Wellingham.

  “Which one?” said Tom.

  “I think it’s a wonderful story. I’m going to see some of the old gang soon and I want to tell them. Anne Marie is always asking about your work.”

  “I’m sorry. What story do you mean?”

  “You said they really don’t taste different, your brand and the other. I can’t believe it.”

  “Well, now, that’s true. It certainly is. It’s quite a story, how that information came about.”

  “I have to get to the drag strip,” said Tom’s father, Mr. Wellingham Sr. He rose. Tom followed suit.

  “Your father keeps strange hours these days,” said Mrs. Wellingham.

  “That’s okay,” said Tom. “I understand working for a living and pursuing what one loves.”

  Mr. Wellingham Sr. had finally sold the machine shop that had given him so much heartache over the years. Now he was a private consultant for a wealthy car collector. His job, as far as Tom could understand it, was making sure that suppliers of vintage car parts did not rip off his employer. And sometimes he lifted the hood of something and got his hands dirty for fun. He even drove a race-car as a hobby, despite his age. He won a lot of side bets from the smart young punks who thought they could take him. He and Mrs. Wellingham looked a lot happier these days, Tom thought.

  “I need to fetch something,” Mrs. Wellingham said. “I think it’s going to be a delightful surprise. Now you two hug goodbye.”

  When she left the room, Tom and Mr. Wellingham Sr. stood there looking at one another.

  “Your lady friend couldn’t make it again, I see,” said Mr. Wellingham Sr.

  “Sam? Well, no. She bought two enormous stones and she’s having them erected in the yard.”

  “Please don’t tell your mother that. It would really hurt her feelings.”

  “I can’t imagine why,” said Tom.

  But Mr. Wellingham Sr. was on to something. Sam was the main reason Tom hadn’t seen his parents in two years. There was always something going on—her movies, for example, and big projects like her stones.

  Sam couldn’t understand why Tom would want to talk to his parents. She stood close by and mimicked him during his phone calls home. It was what made her special. She was only twenty-six. You never knew what she would do next. In a sense, though, she was probably jealous and acting out. Tom bought his parents nice things, such as the house they were living in now. They didn’t want anything too roomy. They were alone.

  Tom and his father said their goodbyes. Tom was still standing when his mother returned. She didn’t sit down, so neither did he.

  “Finish your story,” she said. “I’ve promised lots of proud mother stories for my get-together.”

  “Oh, the taste test. Well, that was a long time ago. I’m not sure how interested your friends will be. They took us upstairs and blindfolded us for a lark. We had to admit that we couldn’t discern our own product. There is actually more variation in separate batches of Mugsy than there is in the average batch of Mugsy versus the average batch of King Kevin.”

  “I just don’t believe it,” said Mrs. Wellingham.

  “It’s absolutely true, though our advertisements at the time stated the contrary. There is technically no difference in flavor between a bottle of Mugsy and a bottle of King Kevin.”

  “I still like Mugsy best, because that’s your brand.”

  “It was,” said Tom.

  “And it really does taste better. You have too much faith in science and testing.”

  “Science is pretty reliable,” said Tom.

  “I wish I had a can of each in front of me right now,” said Mrs. Wellingham. “I’d show you.”

  “Do you have something behind your back?”

  “Yes, that’s my lovely surprise.” She revealed a box with a smiling woman pictured on the front. “It’s something for us to do while you tell me your wonderful stories. You’re going to help me frost my hair.”

  “Really?” said Tom. “I’m not sure that sounds feasible.”

  “I’ve been meaning to take care of it. I have a high school reunion coming up, as I was saying. Not a formal one. Just a group of us girls. But I’d like to look presentable.”

  “I’m not sure what frosting entails.”

  Tom’s cell phone went off, a ringtone Sam had installed for him, some hip hop that embarrassed him in front of his mother.

  “Jazzy,” said Mrs. Wellingham.

  Tom looked. Caller ID said it was one of Sam’s friends. Unusual for him to be calling this number.

  “Do you mind if I get this?”

  “Why would I mind? I’m your mother!”

  Tom answered the call.

  “Tom? This is Barry Wick.”

  “Of course, Barry. Is everything all right?”

  Barry was the director and sometime costar of Sam’s films, in which Tom was often the principle investor.

  “Don’t worry, sir,” said Barry. “There’s no emergency or anything like that.”

  “Is Sam okay?”

  “Yes, that’s what I mean. Don’t worry. I just had a quick question, if you don’t mind.”

  “Well, I’ll give the best answer I can. What’s on your mind this evening, Barry?”

  “I want to sleep in the same bed with Sam tonight. Fully clothed. It’s nothing sexual.”

  “I’m not sure I follow you, Barry. I think you’re going to have to clarify this one for me.”

  “Sam and I are collaborators, you know that. We really draw a lot from one another. There’s a certain energy between us.”

  “Right…”

  “That’s it, really. I’d just like to hold her tenderly. All through the night.”

  Tom saw his mother looking at him. She had taken a seat and was holding the box of frosting in her lap. Tom turned away and faced the dim foyer.

  “Uh-huh…” he said. “I’m afraid I’m not one hundred percent sold on this idea, Barry. It seems a tad intrusive.”

  “It’s just the opposite, sir. We’d be fully clothed. I want to emphasize that. Look, I’m not going to do it without your permission. Sam didn’t even want me to call.”

  “I see.”

  “But I thought it was important to get your input. To make you aware.”

  “Well, I certainly appreciate the thought.”

  “It’s the thought that counts,” said Barry.

  “I’m just not sure that holds true for me here at this moment,” said Tom.

  “So what I’m hearing is, you’re resistant.”

  “I believe that would be an accurate assessment,” said Tom.

  “I want you to know I’m going to take that into consideration as the night moves forward,” said Barry.

  “Thank you,” said Tom. “I hope you will.”

  “I will.”

  “Terrific, then.”

  “Okay, I guess I’ll be seeing you.”

  “Sounds good, Barry.”

  Barry was gone.

  “What was that about?” said Mrs. Wellingham.

  “Business,” said Tom.

  “You seem upset.”

  “I’m not,” said Tom. “Where’s that flatscreen TV I bought for you?”

  “I put it in the guest bedroom.”

  “That’s a funny place to put it,” said Tom.

  “I thought it would be nice to have this room just for sitting and talking.”

  “Sure, that’s nice,” said Tom.

  “Come on and help me frost my hair. I want to involve you. You’re home. My son’s home. Althea used to do it.”

  “That seems more appropriat
e,” said Tom.

  “I’ll put on my special poncho,” said Mrs. Wellingham. “You’ll love it!”

  Mrs. Wellingham went into the other room again. When she came back she was wearing her special poncho. It was white, with bright dots on it that made Tom almost remember a picture book of his youth. Something about a shaggy creature with colorful spots. When he shook himself his spots got flung about. Something like that. It was hard to remember.

  “We should go in the kitchen, over the linoleum, in case there’s a mess,” said Mrs. Wellingham.

  They did so.

  Tom’s mother opened the box and laid out all the frosting equipment on the burnt-orange kitchen counter. It had come with the house, the counter had. Its color was of the 1970s. It should have been replaced.

  “Noisome,” said Tom.

  “This is going to be a real ball,” said Mrs. Wellingham. “Aren’t we having fun?”

  “Yes.”

  Mrs. Wellingham sat on a high kitchen stool. She put on a strange silver cap with holes in it. She tied a string under her chin to hold the cap in place.

  “Do I look like a bathing beauty?” she said.

  “Yes,” said Tom.

  She told him how to use the white plastic hook that came with the kit to pull strands of her hair through the holes in the cap.

  “Just the holes with circles around them,” she said. “I want an overall frosted look.”

  “It seems to me,” said Tom, “that if you sincerely want an overall frosted look, you’d want your hair pulled through all these little holes, not just the ones with circles around them.”

  “I’ve been frosting my hair for many years,” said Mrs. Wellingham.

  “Very well. I’ll defer.”

  Tom pulled some of his mother’s hair through various holes.

  “Just the ones with circles!” said Mrs. Wellingham.