by Eric Idle
No sell out.
Don’t take the money and run.
Stand up Stan-ley.
“I thought you were getting rid of them?” I hiss to Janey.
“It’s a freedom of speech thing,” she hisses back. “Remember?”
A short-assed fellow in an old-fashioned pork pie hat is yelling something about Jesus.
“Don’t worry,” I say. “At least He’s not in the book.”
His red face gets redder. His eyes pop. He looks like he’s ready to shoot me.
“Pray for your soul, sinner.”
Thanks, ducky.
“Liberals were God’s only mistake.”
“You give abortion a bad name,” I say loudly.
It’s amazing how brave you can be with two de Becker guards beside you.
I’m shocked to see Marvin Lutwig just ahead of me on the red carpet. That jerk? How did he get himself here? This is my Freedom of Speech gala. He’s suing me. He is wearing a green velvet smoking jacket and is giving an interview, gabbing away to an ABC camera. He is in his element, talking slowly, pontificating, gesturing, waving his arms about and laughing loudly. He’s like a fucking TV evangelist. The nerve of the guy, using my press event for his own publicity. I want him thrown out but Janey has disappeared into a clusterfuck of celebrities. When he finally spots me he gestures theatrically, like Charlton Heston holding the Ten Commandments, and walks towards me with a big smile. How he has the balls I have no idea, but he treats me like we are bosom buddies. Like I will be thrilled to see him. The guy is insane.
“Hello, Stanley,” he says affectionately and tries to give me a hug.
“You cunt,” I whisper, pushing him off.
He laughs out loud like I said something witty.
“Good to see you, Stanley, my old friend,” he says loudly for the cameras. He is beaming broadly. I notice he is sweating heavily in his velvet jacket. Also he stinks. Terrible BO. He is wary of me. He has every reason to be. I am hissing hatred.
“Excuse me got to go,” he says. “Lots to do. Love the book.”
And he’s gone. Left me in the dust, like an extra at my own party. I glimpse him up in the crowd ahead, schmoozing with the Governor, laughing like they’re old pals and putting a hand on his shoulder.
I’m shaken out of my reverie by a warm hand on my flies. I turn to find a camera in my face, its bright lights beaming harshly into my eyes, and a stick mike in my mouth. It’s Dharma. She has a camera crew with her. I feel her hand brushing against me, reaching for me.
“Hello Stanley,” she says rather too brightly; God knows what she’s on. “I’m working for Z now, and it’s all thanks to you.”
Wow. It does seems fitting that the reporter who seduced me and started all this should be here.
“You give great interview, honey,” says Dharma, and she tickles my balls affectionately. We’re pressed so closely together in the crush no one can see what’s happening. I can only smile like an idiot. Dharma is a real pro. She puts the mike in my face and pats me one or two soft questions. I am trying to get her hand off my dick, but I do my best to look charming and unconcerned. She sure knows how to handle an interview. This girl will go far in Hollywood.
“See you inside,” she says with relish, and I believe she means more than just the event.
Entering Book Soup for the first time since my nightmares is not as bad as I feared. I can hardly see the books, the place is so packed. The crush is so great I am carried in by the two suits. They lift me up by my elbows and insert me into the crowd, which parts magically to admit me.
There’s a pile of eight by ten glossies on a white tablecloth. My ten-years-younger self stares back at me. Highlights and too much make up. I manage to look both butch and pretty at the same time. There’s a stack of book jackets ready for me to sign and a podium. Apparently I am going to say a few words.
The crowd is younger and more attractive than I had thought.
“Mmm, I smell pussy,” says Janey, drifting over, beaming. She really is outrageous. The things I have heard coming out of that pale little delicate mouth.
“Look at them. They can hardly wait to get into your pants.”
It’s true. The audience is filled with eager young women. Prime amongst them is Dharma who has somehow managed to grab a front seat. She is wearing a tiny mini skirt. She gives me a quick flash as I pass. Opens her legs and Sharon Stones me.
Janey, who notices everything, gives me a wicked smile. The Armani boys behave like nothing happened, like a TV reporter flashes beaver at them every day of the week. I wonder if they’re trained for this. Today we have snatch flashing and how not to be distracted by a sneak pussy attack while defending a client.
They shepherd me to a little holding area behind a bookshelf. An elegant lady in a formal red coat dress and a flower in her lapel is waiting for me. She tells me how thrilled they all are at Book Soup to be hosting this event. They have never had such a response to a book. The advance orders are huge. Clearly she has heard nothing from Richard Hume or Pangloss. I begin to wonder if I might get out of this alive.
She briefs me on the order of events but I can hardly concentrate on what she is saying. I’m standing next to a bookshelf.
“Are you alright?”
I have closed my eyes momentarily and am holding on to the bookcase. She is looking anxiously at me.
“It’s okay,” I say. “Just a minor panic attack.”
“I know you authors do get so nervous,” she says. “I remember Mr. Rushdie …”
But I don’t hear what she’s saying as my heart is pounding like a bass line at a rave. I’m sweating. My mouth is dry. There are spots before my eyes. The elderly lady hands me a little plastic cup.
“Showtime,” she says brightly. “The guest speaker is here.”
I swallow my water and then I realize. She doesn’t mean me.
“No,” I say. “Oh no no.”
Oh yes. It’s Marvin Lutwig.
“We were so lucky to get him,” she says mistaking my horror. “We really wanted him as you are such good friends.”
Arghhhhh.
“I must say it took quite a large fee to entice him.”
A fee!
“Hello Stanley,” says the monster. “Isn’t this jolly?”
I’m grimacing like a demented Samurai.
“Look at him,” says Marvin. “He’s so funny. Always clowning around.”
His ability to reject rejection is awesome.
“Well, shall we do it?” he says brightly, and bounds out from behind the book case to the microphone.
There is a chorus of shushing and the bright lights come on.
Somewhere a voice is screaming “No no no!”
It’s me.
Janey casts me a severe warning look. It’s a surreal atmosphere with all these people crammed between the shelves, and there’s hardly any air to breathe. Marvin is revelling in the attention. In his green velvet smoking jacket and cravat he looks like an absurd parody of Mike Meyers. This seems to be his intention as his first words are “Hello, baby!”
There isn’t much response. The audience is puzzled but respectful.
“Ladies and gentlemen, you won’t know who I am. I’m not a famous person. I’m just the salad before the main course.”
Unbelievably he waits for a laugh.
Only one person laughs. Me. A very bitter laugh.
“Comedy isn’t my strong point,” he blusters. “Though Stanley always laughs at me. But tonight I’m here to be sincere.”
“Get off, you creep.”
“Thank you, Stanley,” he smiles back. “You’ll get your chance.”
“You’re a freeloading bastard.”
People are looking around in surprise trying to identify the heckler. They’re not sure what’s going on. Is this planned? Is this some kind of attempt at humor?
“You’re a fucking asshole.”
Marvin is smiling like this is part of an act we rehearsed toget
her.
“Ladies and gentlemen, Stanley Hay,” he says, pointing in my direction and triggering a round of applause.
“What can I say about this remarkable man?”
“Don’t say anything, you bastard. For fucksake shut him up.”
“This is a freedom of speech gala, Stanley,” says Marvin. “Even I am entitled to talk.”
They like that. They laugh. They begin to applaud and that’s the final straw for me. I have made Marvin Lutwig appear witty.
“Pull your fucking self together,” says Janey. “What’s wrong with you? Don’t you know the fucking cameras are on? Here, take this.” She hands me a whiskey and a couple of pills.
“What are they?”
“Swallow them.”
I don’t resist.
Marvin drones on, his self-important voice fills the bookstore.
“I am here today to defend Stanley Hay from some serious allegations that have been levelled at him. People have said that he has shown weakness and a lack of character, that he should have resisted the attempts to silence him. That he should have had more faith in people like me who are willing to come out and stand up for him publicly. That to submit to pressure on such a vital matter is a weak and a cowardly thing to do.”
Oh thank you, Marvin. This is speaking up for me? This is my defence?
“People have said that his behaviour has been shameful. That he is spineless, and has shown craven pusillanimity under fire. Still others have told me he is just a hack who got lucky, a Hollywood whore who kissed and told, a man who got a book deal he didn’t deserve while other more talented writers couldn’t even get a publisher. That he exploited his friends. That he exposed his lovers. That he bared the secrets of many innocent actresses who had no idea that their intimate moments would be blazed across the pages of a cheap memoir for all to read.”
I think this must be the first time the words innocent and actress have been used together in the same sentence. I hate him. He’s not through yet. He carries on defending me.
“Some people say that Stanley is a hypocrite. That he doesn’t give a fig for freedom of speech. That he is the Benedict Arnold of the bedroom. The Judas of the boudoir. The betrayer of Victoria’s Secret.”
He’s revelling in this. He must have been up all night writing this crap.
“They say he is a gutless toady, a parasite, a mess on the stain of humanity. And maybe he is. But I wouldn’t say it. Not because he’s my friend, but because I think it is utterly wrong to condemn a man before we have heard what he has to say. And that’s why we are here tonight ladies and gentlemen. This is his chance to defend himself from the many severe charges we have heard. So, will the real Stanley Hay please stand up. Ladies and gentlemen, Stanley Hay.”
Wow. He has just thrown me to the wolves. The audience looks at me like a pack of hungry lions who have just been chucked a Christian. Marvin leads the applause. The smug bastard has a big beam on his face. What can I say? How can I possibly defend myself? I can’t. I must kill him. Now. I’m out there heading for his throat. I actually do get my hands round his neck and begin choking him but Marvin pretends it’s a joke.
“Always so affectionate,” says Marvin squeakily.
I can feel his panic.
Wham. I’m elbowed aside by a powerful force as the Armani twins bound forward. I think they’re about to kill me, but no, they’re about to save me. From Marvin. He’s lifted off his feet and removed bodily. It’s like he’s weightless. He is gently but powerfully hoisted up by his elbows and propelled to the exit. He doesn’t lose his smile for a minute. He winks at the crowd as he is carried out. There is applause like we just pulled off a well-rehearsed comedy scene.
Only then do I see the gun. It’s pointed right at me, and the little guy in the pork pie hat has a gleam in his eye as he squeezes the trigger.
“So long, sucker,” he says. And I’m so close I can feel the powder burn. Pandemonium.
He disappears under a pile of bodies. But it’s too late. I’m down. Oh fuck. I’ve been shot.
All great American novels end with a death.
*
I didn’t die. Of course. In fact I’m strangely calm as I lie on the floor awaiting the ambulance. And soon I’m in Cedars and they are checking me for vital signs. It’s ok. My credit cards are intact.
Cedars. The legendary hospital. They all come here to die, or have their babies, or have their stomachs pumped from ODs. Frank Sinatra died here. There is a Steven Spielberg wing. You can guarantee a decent mention in Variety if you get in here. The doctors must major in journalism. I am in the emergency room and an admitting doctor has just examined my wallet. I am to be accepted, thanks to the Writers’ Guild. They are preparing my suite. I love that. They try to persuade you that you are at a major hotel, so that you won’t have a heart attack when you get the check.
“It’s just a minor bullet wound,” says the doctor. Like I disappointed him. I hate him already.
“Do you know the major cause of death in this country?” I ask innocently.
“What?” he says.
“Doctors” I say.
I am wheeled up to a high floor. I spend the rest of the day being examined, prodded, probed, starved, and X-rayed. Then I’m shunted into a room with an IV and a TV. I’m hooked up to both.
I’m feeling very sorry for myself when Sam’s head appears round the door.
“Did you die?”
“Not yet,” I say. “Though I have an appointment for tomorrow.”
“Oh that’s good, because I brought this,” he says, waving a bottle of bubbly. Vintage Cristal Louis too.
“Just pour it in the IV, will you,” I say.
“It’s not for you,” says Sam.
“It’s for us,” says Tish, coming through the door.
How do I instantly know that the “us” is Tish and Sam? How do I intuit in the second it takes to see she is looking great that she is here with Sam. That they are an item. That this is what they have come to tell me. There is an uncomfortable silence while I look at them.
“So,” says Sam eventually. “Apart from being shot, and me taking your girlfriend, I think that all went very well.”
I love Sam, he really makes me laugh.
“Do you hate us?” asks Tish.
“No,” I say. And I mean it.
“I must warn you if you are thinking of killing me I shall have to switch off your IV,” says Sam.
“Very fair.”
“Tish wrote a great synopsis of your book.”
So it was her. I should have guessed.
“I tried to stop her but she said you deserved it.”
“I can’t wait to read it, Stanley” she says.
“And rumor hath it that you made a ton on the film rights,” says Sam.
“Oh yes I did. Thanks.”
“So no hard feelings?”
“I have no feelings left at all, Sam,” I say. “I’m on powerful painkillers.”
“Oh good. Because we were hoping you’d be our best man.”
“I don’t think they’ll let me out for that.”
“They’re going to let you out in two days,” says Tish. “It’s only a minor bullet wound.”
I wish people wouldn’t keep saying that. It’s a fucking oxymoron.
“I don’t mean out of the hospital. I mean jail.”
“They can’t jail you for writing a bad book” says Sam.
“There is no book,” I say.
He doesn’t understand. So I explain. Maybe it’s the shock of the proximity of death, or maybe I feel I have nothing much left to lose, but I break the habit of a lifetime and I tell the truth.
“I never wrote a book. It doesn’t exist.”
Sam begins to laugh. He laughs and laughs and laughs. He laughs for five minutes. I think he’s going to die. Eventually a nurse comes in and gives him water. Even then he practically chokes on the water, he starts laughing again so hard. Each time he looks like he might stop he starts
again.
“It’s not that funny,” I say
But that only sets him off.
“It’s magnificent, Stanley. It’s hysterical.”
He has another fit of hysteria.
“I wondered how you had the time to write a novel when you couldn’t manage to write a scene with me.”
“Oh my god,” says Tish. “That’s why you never showed it to me.”
“So you see I cannot attend your wedding as I shall be in San Pedro.”
“Bullshit,” says Sam.
“Sadly yes. I’m afraid I’m in deep doo doo this time.”
“I don’t think so” says Sam, turning on the TV.
Huge explosions in an eerily lit up city. It looks like the Valley. Screaming headlines announce Shock and Awe. Bush is bombing Baghdad.
I’m not in the headlines any more. The caravan has moved on.
Blitzing Baghdad two days before the Academy Awards. Bit tacky that timing. But mercifully they don’t cancel the Show. Steve Martin hosts and he is very good. I watch it on TV from my room in Cedars-Sinai. They left me the Cristal.
*
By the time I came out I was colder than Kato Kaelin.
They arrested the shooter at the scene. He seems quite mad. They didn’t ask who paid him. They just assumed he was a religious nut. But I suspect that husband.
It’s Marvin who puts me out of my misery. Because it was undoubtedly miserable at the end, waiting for the roof to fall in. In The Book That Never Was, first a blog in the Huffington Post and afterwards a much longer New Yorker piece, Marvin finally reveals that there was no book at all. He should know. He was supposed to be writing the screenplay. I guess in the end he didn’t have the balls to continue the fraud, or perhaps the skills to make one up. So he blew the whistle. Once on the internet the jig was up.
The movie deal conflated like a star that doesn’t quite become a black hole. The much hyped event movie ran out of energy and collapsed in on itself, like a white dwarf, all that tremendous heat dissipating into the empty space of Hollywood. Barry Levinson had looked interested for a while, before saying “Ya know, this just ain’t funny. Who gives a monkeys about a writer schtupping an actress?”