by Corey Mesler
“You have our pages,” Eric said, smiling.
“I do,” Lorax said. “I helped Camel write this one. It’s very groovy, very sexy.”
Eric swallowed hard. This was gonna be a mess. Where was Sandy? He was suddenly sure she would have to rewrite it.
“Heh, heh, can’t give you screen credit, of course,” Eric said, taking the pages from her dainty little hand.
Lorax smiled. Her face seemed to curl upward like the Cheshire Cat’s.
“After we wrote this we made love until dawn,” Lorax said. “I gotta go home and get some sleep.”
“Ok,” Eric said. He turned back toward the bustling sets. “You want some breakfast?”
When he turned back she was gone.
“Did you—” Eric started as he walked back toward Dan and Sue. “Did you see her?”
“Yes,” Dan said. “A petite parcel of unearthly sensuality.” He squinted.
“But—” Eric didn’t know what he wanted to say. “Anyway. Let’s see what they’ve done to us. We may need Sandy to—”
Eric studied the pages, his eyes scanning downward. The dialogue was crisp enough, witty in places. He skipped back to the final pages. The speech Camel had written for Sue Pine was three pages of thick, unbroken prose, a block that would intimidate an old pro. Eric felt he couldn’t throw this at Sue Pine this early. Yet—there was something there—something almost transgressive, something so outré it just might turn an unknown into a known. Damn, he thought, this is an amazing speech.
“What is it?” Sue Pine said. “You look as if it were written in Egyptian.”
“You don’t know Camel,” Eric said.
“It’s good,” Dan said. He made it a statement and he accompanied his words with a buss to the cheek of Sue Pine.
“It is—it is good,” Eric said.
“Wonderful,” Sue Pine said.
“Hm,” Eric said. “Hm, hm.”
“What is it?”
“How do you feel about nudity?”
Sue Pine looked temporarily nonplussed. It seemed a silly question.
“I love nudity,” she fairly sang.
Eric smiled. Dan smiled.
“For art, of course,” she said.
“Of course,” Dan and Eric said.
65.
Lorax returned home to find Camel asleep. She toddled into the kitchen, humming a Lovin’ Spoonful tune, something Camel had played last night while they were entangled. Something about “Six o’clock, hm, hm, hm, at six o’clock.”
She thought she would make herself a smoothie in Camel’s ancient blender. She couldn’t remember what they had blended last but there were marijuana seeds stuck to the sides of the blender with what looked like strawberry sauce.
Now, what did she want to drink? She eyed the bananas warily.
In the fridge she found some yogurt, some wrinkled grapes, some fresh mint (when had they bought fresh mint?), some fat-free milk and some carob powder. With these she concocted her morning meal. She turned the blender on and while it whirled she herself whirled around the kitchen, her short skirt a whirly.
“My Polymnia,” Camel said.
“Oh,” Lorax stopped dancing. “My Sweet. The blender woke you!”
“It’s alright,” Camel said.
“I’m sorry, My . . . Ignaramo.”
Camel’s laugh was quick and hearty. It really woke him up and startled Lorax.
“Wrong,” she said.
Camel took her in his large arms and held her as one might one’s most cherished thing. The morning began with love, a conjuring as old as old Sol himself.
They split the blenderful of muck into two mugs and repaired to the couch. Camel loved early morning TV, which seemed as sleepy-headed as its audience. Many shows seemed to be slow in waking, their participants walking around, bumping around, drowsy but pleasant, smiles half-written on their handsome faces. He found a talk show where the guest was a young actress whose beauty was like Atlantis sinking. She was talking about Meher Baba and macrobiotics and why the president seemed constipated.
Lorax heard none of it. She sat, lotus-style, her drink in her lap, bobbing her head to a melody only she heard.
Camel was half-listening, his attention partly on his teenage love. She made Camel smile deep down.
“Camel,” Lorax said, her eyes still closed, her head loose as a puppet’s.
“Yes, my dear Lorax,” Camel said.
“Aw, you never say my name.”
“Lorax.”
“Camel.”
“Yes.”
“Do you love my name, Camel?”
“I do, Lorax. Because it signifies. It signifies you.”
“Doodley do, Camel. What’s in a name? Doodley do. I love your name, my Camel.”
“Ok.”
“Camel.”
“Yes, Dear?”
“Don’t mess with the movie people anymore.”
“Ok, Dear.”
“I mean it.”
“Ok. Why the concern?”
Lorax opened her eyes. They were steely grey.
“Something bad is happening out there. Something I cannot fix or pinpoint. I have tried but I can’t.”
“Ok, Baby. It’s a bad scene. Money does that.”
“It’s more than that, Camel.”
“Is it?”
“Yes. Bad juju. There’s bad juju in the Pyramid. I got a very bad vibe there this time.”
“I’m through anyway, Sweet.”
“Ok, then.”
“Ok, then.”
“Mean it this time.”
“I do, Dear.”
“Ok, Camel. This smoothie tastes like bacon.”
“It’s not very good, no.”
“Can we get sinkers and Joe?”
“Yes.” Camel smiled at the strange phrase.
“Can we get sinkers and Joe from Otherlands?”
“Yes. Yes we can.”
“Good. Good Camel.”
66.
Eric and Mimsy were eating on the deck of Central Barbecue that evening. The weather had turned unexpectedly balmy, the kind of day that reminds Memphians why they live in the South.
Eric was trying to describe his new actress, this nobody thrust into their midst at the worst possible time. He had used the word sinuous.
“This the gal Dan said fucked like a jungle cat or some such?” Mimsy asked, her cheeks comically streaked with sauce.
“Yes,” Eric said. “You are a carnivore.”
“Save the sexy talk for later.”
“Can’t tell you about the shoot today then.”
“Eric, another sex scene? Isn’t the audience going to tire of the endless coupling?”
“It’s germane,” Eric said, a small stinger in his chest.
“Sure. So you saw the new actress naked.”
“Do you want to hear?”
“Of course. Sorry. Tell me how the shoot went today.”
“Camel wrote this scene. Well, Camel and his Ariel.”
“His Ariel?”
“I can’t begin to—forget it. Camel’s girlfriend contributed, apparently. Anyway. This scene he—they—wrote takes place in a bathroom, for God’s sake. The bathroom on the set, well, I can’t see how Camel or the little pixie knew, but it was perfectly suited for the scene. Setting up the scene took longer than the whole shot, which we did in one amazing take. If this girlie makes it as a star it will be partly because she can deliver the goods with almost no preamble. She was given the blues and three hours later we were setting up the shoot and, damn, she knew every line—but, wait, I’ve gotten ahead of myself.
“She enters this bathroom where Dan’s character is bathing. Dan is resplendent in the bathwater, which had to be boiling hot, per his instruction. And, naturally, Dan will go nude at the drop of a hat, so to speak. And, well—how to say this? Have you seen Dan’s willie?”
“An absurd question.”
“Sorry, yes. Anyway, it is, uh, sizable.”
&nb
sp; “Good for Dan.”
“Yes, and good for Sue Pine, apparently. Anyway, they do this tap dance first. They’ve just met, he’s naked, she’s peeing. They do this thing. It’s pretty good. The lines are pretty good and coming out of Dan’s mouth, well, hell, they sounded like Mamet. And this Sue Pine is holding her own. When it comes to her dropping her clothing onto Dan’s and entering his bath she did it like a pro. Obviously the scalding water was a surprise but she added it to the scene, ad-libbed a humorous little dance over Dan, a water sprite bobbing, and then lowered herself over him in the bathtub.”
“Not another live fuck for your film?” Mimsy said.
“No, I don’t think so. Anyway, no, I don’t think so. So they’re in the water and they get amorous and Dan says something about home, something something something. And then comes this speech, which this unknown actress, with the unlikely name of Sue Pine, nails in one take. An amazing speech, a free-flowing eruption of emotion and anger and an underlying pain that, if feigned, was the performance of the film. After she did it—in one fucking take—there was a moment of silence and then everyone, crew and cast, applauded. Everyone except Suze Everingham who, inexplicably, has disappeared. It was the arrival of a star. I’m telling you. And this Sue Pine took it as her due, as if she knew all along that this was her fate. She kissed Dan long and hard and they both stood up, dripping and naked, and bowed to a renewed round of applause.”
“Wow.”
“I know. It was a wow.”
“So, she really is in the film then.”
“Oh, Baby, she is in the film. This scene might be the making of the film.”
“Baby?”
“Sorry. Too Hollywood?”
“By half.”
“Sorry. Anyway, besides being out-of-this-world gorgeous, this gal is so talented it is only a wonder that no one else has discovered her. If nothing else happens in this film they will credit me with discovering Sue Pine.”
“Huh.”
“Yeah. And then Dan’s other girlfriend showed up.”
67.
“Hello, Eden.”
“Hello, Eric. How’s Memphis, eh? How’s the old hometown?”
“Not seeing much of it, Eden. Not many of the old stomps anyway.”
“Good, good. How’s the timetable? We on schedule? You can’t go over, you know, not if you want to hang onto the scraps of your reputation. Ha, right?”
“Right, Eden. Ha. We’re on schedule. That is, if you want us to finish the thing.”
“What do you mean?”
“Joke. Just a joke, Eden.”
“Oh. Ha. Ha ha. Listen, who’s the new starlet? Do I know her? Is she single?”
“Friend of Dan’s. Sue—something. Did damn good work yesterday. I am very impressed with her.”
“Ah, good, good. Long as it’s not the Angel of Death, right?”
“The angel of death, Eden?”
Eric’s heart hurt suddenly. Mortality with its small awl.
“Sue Aside, they called her. The Angel of Death, they called her. She couldn’t get work in the movies because everyone was afraid of her. Born under a caul. Black arts her calling card. Real name—no, can’t think of it. Who was her agent? Anyway—”
“This is some actress from a commercial. Dan wanted her.”
“And Dan gets what he wants.”
“Yes. Yes, he does.”
“Good. Good, Eric. Wish I had that power, eh? What am I saying? I have that power. It’s why I wanted to make a fucking movie. Right?”
“I suppose so.”
“Listen. As long as we’re adding cast. How about this Capucine? You know her? I’d love to meet her. Can you write her in? I’m sure Sandy can do it. Eh? Can you get Capucine?”
“I don’t know. Time constraints now, you know.”
“I guess so. Still. She’s quite lovely, isn’t she?”
“Yes, Eden.”
“Prettier than this new Sue, I’ll bet you.”
“You’re going to like her, Eden. Her scene, well, it might be the best film I’ve gotten so far. She shows up. She shines like a damn jack-o’-lantern.”
“Right, then. You know best. Love to Sandy.”
“Goodbye, Eden.”
68.
When Dan realized his gun was missing he assumed it had been lifted by the hotel staff. Damn nosy maids, going through his things. Not the first time. One of the casualties of stardom, nothing private. They’ll root through your damn trash cans.
Meanwhile, he had to contend with a ferocious teenager and her broken heart. Dudu had shown up on set, a wild gleam in her eye, an eye like a lynx. She made a beeline for Sue Pine and had security not restrained her God knows what she would have done.
“You had a part for me!” she kept screaming. Dan let the security guards drag her out. He didn’t even turn to look. Not the first time he’d had two women go after each other in his presence. Still, he didn’t relish it.
And what about Suze Everingham, who didn’t report to work? Perhaps it had been a bad idea to bring Sue Pine to Memphis. He could have waited for the next movie. No, no he couldn’t. One thing about overpowering desire is its immediacy. It couldn’t wait. He was hungry for her instantly and he made her appear. His personal magic. His own genie-conjuring.
And wasn’t he surprised when she turned out to be such a powerful actress? He swore she read through that scene no more than once and then delivered her whole scene-stealing speech dead solid perfect. How did she do that? What was that kind of memory called? She read it once. Very impressive.
The evening after that momentous shoot Dan took his new canary out to dinner at Chez Philippe in the Peabody Hotel. There they dined in a private corner on pheasant and champagne. She deserved it. What was this new feeling stirring in Dan? Surely not love. It was something else. He had been in love before and it didn’t feel like this. This was—necromantic. Necromantic instead of romantic.
“You were magnificent today,” he found himself saying, raising his glass.
“I followed. That’s all. You’re like a powerful magnet. I was drawn along in your wake.”
“Kindly put,” Dan said.
“It’s true. I loved the scene they wrote for us.”
“Yes.”
There was a pause. Dan thought the muzak was Dylan played by a klezmer band.
“Do you think you could get them to do another for us?”
There it was.
“I don’t know. We’re awfully close to wrapping. I think Eric is under the gun. You know, on a short leash, especially money-wise, time-wise.”
“Right.”
“I think this one scene is going to be the making of you.”
“Do you? Really?”
“Yes. I’ve known careers started with less. You were—electric.”
“Hm.”
“And, you know, it doesn’t hurt that naked you look like a goddess. Audiences won’t just remember you—they will seek you out. Your private life is probably over.”
“Hm.”
“At any rate, there is reason to celebrate. Today, you were reborn.”
“Yes.”
“My Streep.”
“Was I that good?”
“Yes, you really were.”
“Then you can get them to write another scene for me.”
69.
Sandy found herself alone at the house, alone as the sun set, and she found herself, for whatever reason, missing Eric. She and Eric, well, this had been going on forever. From the start they had understood each other’s private proclivities and it was not much discussed, the desire to keep the relationship open. Open, with its stink of 1970s pop-psychology.
She also was thinking that her part of the picture was over. She had finished the script, and barring any unforeseen changes, she wasn’t really needed on set. Which left her feeling somewhat deflated and disheartened. While Eric was humming along, gaga over his new actress, proud of how Dan’s part had coalesced into a thing of power a
nd importance, and seemingly in love with someone new, Sandy was planning her return flight to L.A. The Memphis part of her life was over. Was it over for Eric? Would it be soon? Would it ever be? Had he rediscovered home? These thoughts troubled Sandy.
She decided to watch TV to try and take her mind off things. She also didn’t want to think about her new paramour, the man who had suddenly appeared to take up space in her already overcrowded heart. She didn’t want to analyze that. She didn’t want to think about him and how it reflected on Eric. She knew it was betrayal. Betrayal beyond what their loosely structured relationship allowed. Because of who it was.
On TV there were men and women talking about the movies. Quick snippets of interviews that lasted about 15 seconds each. Sandy hated this, this new way of presenting things to an audience whose attention span was shrinking daily. Everything moved too fast; nothing was absorbed, or it was, but not digested. Everything was absorbed because the human mind is a sponge and it cannot filter things too quickly, so pulses of light and sound enter and take up residence, like cancer. TV works this way. MTV, CNN, VH1, all the initials, sent their information to their audience in scraps, explosive little scraps of sound and fury, each blast no longer than the initials by which they are known. Humans no longer had time or patience for anything that took longer than 15 seconds to develop. Would anyone still sit still for Bergman or Tarkovsky? Sandy doubted it.
Then, there he was on screen, the man she was seeing secretly. There he was, one more talking head.
And what was he talking about? About Eric Warberg and his mire down in Memphis. Eric Warberg, rudderless by the Mississippi. Sandy squirmed. She knew that at least part of his information came from her, little secret confessional whisperings in bed, little winks between two lovers. Now she felt ill.
“And the question remains,” he was saying, “can Eric Warberg pull it together and make a coherent film again? Or was this another Spondulicks? The skinny out of Memphis is that he is flying by the seat of his pants, that this film will not come together at all, and that the money behind it, mogul Eden Forbes, was nervous. Moviegoers: Eric Warberg has not made an important film in decades. There is reason to believe he is not capable of it even now. The word I have is that he is allowing Dan Yumont to run wild, that he is constantly off on his own, disappearing at night with no explanation, and that he is relying on his girlfriend, Sandy Shoars, and his cinematographer, the estimable Rica Sash, to pull this errant project together. It’s the old story, a man losing touch with his muse, wandering around in a town he used to call home, but one that now is only a city of ghosts for him. Literally, a city of ghosts.”