by Corey Mesler
Sandy allowed herself a good cry. She felt horrible. She only hoped Eric hadn’t seen the broadcast. Fucker, Sandy thought. Fucking Luke Apenail. He wouldn’t return to her warm embrace anytime soon. And, dammit, he was set to return to Memphis to see her the next day. What would she say to him? That he betrayed her even as she was betraying Eric? That he referred to her as Eric’s “girlfriend” in such a demeaning way that she felt humiliated and relegated to the sidelines while the film she was working on was dismissed before it was even finished? Sandy was hopping mad.
“What’s wrong?” Eric was saying. Sandy didn’t even want to open her eyes. She hadn’t heard him come in and now he was kneeling next to her while she wept.
“What is it, Ducks?”
Sandy opened her eyes. Eric’s face was all loving concern.
Jimbo Cole stood in the shadows, studiously gazing elsewhere.
“I—I—Oh, Eric, tell me the movie is going to be great. Tell me we’ve made something here,” Sandy blurted.
“Of course, we have, Love. Of course we have.”
Sandy looked around. She returned her eyes to Eric’s.
“Ok, Biscuit. Ok. I trust you.”
“And I trust you,” Eric said. “Now, get dressed. We’ve got the meet-the-media shindig tonight.”
“Oh, fuck, I forgot.”
“Eric says the press loves you,” Jimbo said from the shadows.
Sandy began to cry again in earnest.
70.
“Camel, is this one ready?” Lorax was proffering a dirty carrot.
“Well, if not its life is through anyway.” Camel narrowed his eyes looking at her, the sun behind her like a halo. She was kneeling in the dirt of his yard-sized garden, surrounded by abundance.
Fido was rooting around in the flowers, seemingly in search of something precious. The Treasure of the Knights Templar, perhaps.
“Ha, hm,” Lorax said. She looked at the carrot seriously. “You’re ready,” she concluded.
Camel, himself on his knees, was concentrating on his lettuce, which was coming up with streaks of purple in its delicate leaves. He had never seen that before and he was studying it as if it were a knotty poser in a Pound canto.
“Hm, hm,” Lorax said, pulling up another little carrot and adding it to her basket.
“Aunt Lettuce, I want to peek under your skirt,” Camel sang, softly.
“What’s that, my parasol?” Lorax asked.
“Poem, Sweet.”
“Is it one of yours, my parasol?”
“No, dear. Wonderful poet named Charles Simic.”
“Oh. Was he a friend of Richard’s?” Lorax often asked about Richard Brautigan because she knew it made Camel happy to talk about him. It kept him alive for Camel.
“No, no, I don’t think so. And not the past tense. Mr. Simic is alive and well. I think.”
“Do you know him, Camel?”
“No, Sweet, I do not. Wait. Do I know him? Charles Simic. No, no. I only know his poems, his books.”
“A good enough way to know someone, isn’t it?”
“It is, My Love.”
“Do you love Lorax, Camel?”
“I do. I do love Lorax.”
“Can we have carrots for dinner?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Camel, I am thinking seriously about becoming an artist. A real artist, not a coloring book one.”
Camel set down his spade and sat in the dirt. He looked earnestly at his love, this creature who came into his life like a benison for his waning years.
“Ok,” he said. “Ok, Lorax. Talk to me about that.”
“Well, I was thinking. First I was thinking that there was enough art in the world. Enough writers, painters, musicians. Enough books, paintings, songs. That they basically drowned each other out, you know? There were too many artists and not enough appreciators. That was Thought One. Then it occurred to me that there are people out there picking up a book for the first time. Hearing a poem for the first time. Looking at a Jackson Pollock for the first time. And, my second thought was, there will always be artists and there will always be art appreciators, even if their ranks shrink and swell with the fortunes of the, you know, tides of time. And my third thought, Thought Number Three, Camel Dear, was that I wanted to be part of that special family, no matter its fortunes or lack thereof. I want to add to the world, Camel.”
Camel looked at his catechumen, his wonder child, with doting, awestruck eyes.
“A noble thought, a good thought.”
“Thank you, Camel. Do you think I can?”
“Yes, I do. I think you can. What, um, medium would you like to work in?”
“Hm, hm,” Lorax began to sing again to herself some. “I don’t know. I thought, you know, that when we wrote that scene that perhaps I could be a writer.”
“Uh-huh. You did good help.”
“Thank you, Camel. But, you know, the movies, well, I think they might be—not evil, certainly not evil—but, but—”
“Corrupted.”
“Yes!” Lorax was gleeful that Camel understood. “Yes. I was worried when you were party to their corruption.”
“Yes, dear. Filmdom is not for us.”
“Film. Dumb.”
“Ha. Yes.”
“So, you know, then I thought maybe I could paint.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Do you mean, uh-huh, you could try, or uh-huh, that sounds harebrained.”
“My Sweet. I have nothing but love and encouragement for you. I believe that if you wanted to paint that you could open your heart on canvas and the world would sit up on its hind legs and pay close attention. I believe, My Sweet, that you can do anything.”
“My Camel.”
“Yes, Lorax. Your Camel. I am tired now. I don’t think I can garden anymore.”
“Do we have lemonade, Camel?”
“We do.”
“Come inside and I will get us lemonade and we can watch Gunsmoke.”
“That would be heaven,” Camel said.
71.
Another night transpired during which Eric could not get ahold of Mimsy Borogoves. When he was alone at the house in Midtown Eric’s mind began to feed on itself. He knew better than to spend such hours alone, hours of heartquake and ghosts.
Ghosts.
Sandy had left in a whirl of anger and flying clothing. She was a dervish of incoherent sputtering. Eric sat in the large den with only the TV to illuminate his solitude. On IFC they were showing one of Dan’s most recent films, Paths of Pain. Eric tried to concentrate on the story but somewhere early on he lost the thread and it was not to be found again. Instead he studied Dan’s method, though Dan was not, strictly speaking, a method actor. Paths of Pain was directed by Ulysses Pandour, a friend, and a man who knew his way around a script. It was said of him, more than once, that he could direct Danielle Steel and make it Shakespeare. No one said that of Eric. Not anymore.
Dan’s squint. Was it just a gesture, one used when he had no other idea, similar perhaps to Renee Zellweger’s moue, or Robin Williams’s bag of shticks, or any of Jim Carrey’s chucklehead antics? No, that was too harsh. Just because it was well-known, almost expected, didn’t detract from how appealing it was, how sexy really. Eric could understand that. And he was happy to make use of it in Memphis Movie. He was happy Dan was aboard.
As he was that a pro like Hope Davis was aboard. Perhaps he could call Hope, find out what she was doing for the evening. The talk was that she stayed in every night and worked, prepared herself for the next day, went to sleep early so as to be fresh. Her performance certainly could be evidence of that. She was dead-on, every time. When the camera rolled she was Gayla Spring, her character.
The desk at the Peabody informed Eric that Ms. Davis was receiving no calls. Eric couldn’t remember Hope’s anonym. He explained who he was, asked for David, the concierge, the name he had been given. David was off for the night. Just as well, Eric thought.
He set the phone
back down and began flipping channels. His restlessness found its correspondent in the fast flickering of color and light.
He was stopped short by another familiar face. It was Deni Kohut, his own Isabel Pettigoat in the movie, her darkly beautiful face and apple cheeks, her eyes as wide as summer. And her Rubenesque body was—oh my!—clad in a Harlequin’s outfit. Behind her bright colors swirled, a background seemingly born of an LSD fantasia. What channel was this? One of the children’s channels. Eric hit the info button: a children’s show called Uranium for Your Cranium. He had to smile. It was not the kind of credit actresses put in their résumés.
Suddenly the satellite reception was lost, though the night was as clear as righteousness. The screen was a shower of grey sparks, a nothingness that was troubling somehow. Some deep Neanderthal fear gripped Eric.
Then Eric was made aware of another presence in the dimly lit den. He was almost afraid to turn his head.
“Eric,” his father spoke from the shadows.
“Dad, I, I thought our colloquy was through.”
“Did you, Son?”
Eric now turned. His father, dressed in the clothes in which he had been buried, was sitting in a wingback chair, the murk almost swallowing his rough-hewn features.
“I did. I thought we had—we had finished.”
“The dialogue between a father and son is never finished, never finished.”
Eric marveled that the ghost spoke like a specter out of Poe.
“Eric, tell me what’s going on. Tell me you’re not still floundering.”
“No, Dad. It’s ok. The movie is coming together. There’s a real sense of purpose here now.”
“Eric, is there? Is there a sense of purpose? That would be comforting to me.”
“Yes.” Eric hesitated. Did he mean that the story was drawing to a close and that therefore he had a better understanding of the project, of its merits, of himself?
“There are no second acts in America, Eric. Relish yours.”
“There are few first acts, Dad.”
“Sandy. Is she happy with it?”
“Dad. What difference does that make? Don’t you trust my assessment? I’m telling you, this is happening. I’m telling you I’m happy.”
Eric’s father’s silence felt severe, a judgment. Eric found himself straining to see, thinking perhaps that the ghost had left him in media res.
“Dad?”
“There are factors you have not considered. There are doings about which you know nothing.”
“I don’t understand.”
“That’s what I’m saying.”
“You always looked out for me. I miss that. Occasionally, I need that again.”
“Yes.”
“I dream about you. In the dream I am so happy you have returned from the dead and there is a sense that you have come to straighten me out. Once more.”
“Dreams—” Eric’s father waved an airy hand about.
“You’re trying to protect me now.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
It was then that Jimbo Cole turned the lights on. It was a blast of illumination which staggered Eric and obliterated the dreamstuff of his father.
“Why you in the dark, Cowboy?”
Eric swallowed his anger.
“How did you get in?”
“Door was unlocked. Did you not hear me knocking?”
“I didn’t. I’m sorry.”
Suddenly Jimbo Cole, an irritant at times, was a life preserver. Eric grabbed for it.
“Jimbo, what are you doing tonight?” he asked.
“Free for the asking, Pal.”
“Ok, then. Have you eaten?”
“No, no, I haven’t.”
“I tell you what I need first. First a quick shower. Then some coffee. Is there a coffee shop nearby where we can get some before dinner?”
Jimbo looked at Eric with a smirk, a well-traveled smirk, which, between them, spoke volumes.
“Right,” Eric said. “Coffee on every corner. When did that happen?”
“Modernity, Chum. It happened while we slept. There’s a great place, independent and boho, on Madison. Called Java the Hut.”
“Perfect,” Eric said. “Lemme shower.”
“Okeydoke,” Jimbo said. “Hey, Eric, man. Who were you talking to when I came in?”
72.
Dan had to turn his cell phone off. The other women were after him like disenfranchised harpies. Of course it was a bad situation of his own making and it was not the first time he’d found himself in such a tangle. The difference, he told himself, was that he thought he was really falling for Sue Pine. His lust was only engaged for her and that was a curious feeling in and of itself. Is only wanting one woman love? Dan pondered.
The disappearance of Suze Everingham was troubling, if only because Eric was now thinking he had to find a replacement quickly and reshoot her scenes. This affected everyone, including Dan, who didn’t want to spend more time in Memphis than necessary.
The last he had heard from Suze Everingham was an elliptical message on his cell phone. There were long, unnatural pauses between the words.
It said:
“Dan.
Please call me.
Please, Dan.
Call me.
Where are you?
When. You. Get. This. Please. Call. Me.
Please.
Dan.
Call me.
Oh . . . oh . . . oh . . .”
Dan listened to it but his heart heard it not.
Dan was already making plans in his head to take Sue to his ranch in Montana where, alone together for a few weeks, they could see what would occur, a mad alchemy or a thunderstorm collision. Either one excited Dan, who loved his emotions raw and edgy. This Sue Pine provided. There was a danger to her that was partly inexplicable and partly the danger of the newborn star. He’d seen it before, that first adrenaline rush of attention and a monster is born.
Dudu had been calling every half hour or so. Crying into the phone. Threatening him and Sue Pine. She was going to bring all 16 years of her terribleness to bear. It made Dan laugh for a while and then he had to cut her off. And Ray—Dan felt a little bad at how quickly Ray let go. She called a few times, ran herself down to Dan, said the threesome had killed the love, blamed herself for agreeing to that “perversion,” cried a bit, hung up on him twice. Dan gave her little encouragement other than a half-hearted apology. He told her she was “sweet” and promised to keep in touch. Even Ray didn’t believe that.
Now, in Dan’s deluxe suite, he had spread a vast picnic out on the floor. Food from various downtown eateries, handpicked by someone named Jimbo Cole, a runner for the movie apparently, were spread out like pirate’s treasure. There were chicken wings from Gus’s World Famous Fried Chicken, fried green beans from Friday’s, hummus from the Arcade, Wild Turkey sandwiches from Café Francisco, pickle-flavored popcorn from the Flying Saucer Draught Emporium, Isaac Hayes’s Famous French Fries, ribs from the Rendezvous, some other fried veggies from someplace called Marmalade, and other foodstuffs untagged. Dan had gotten the hotel staff to set the picnic area up on the floor on a large white sheet, laid over the thick, teal carpet of the room. It was as big as a parson’s barn and there was enough food for ten people. To one side of the picnic sat a large-screen TV with pornographic movies playing. This Dan did not ask the staff to do; he did it himself.
“Well, this is formidable,” Sue Pine said. “I hope I’m hungry. Oh boy, movies!” She watched for a moment. “Is this one of yours?” she asked.
“Yes,” Dan said. “You are hungry.”
“I believe I am, yes.”
“Only one stipulation. Gotta eat naked.”
Sue Pine smiled her sinuous smile. Dan dropped his robe. He was wearing nothing else.
Sue looked at Dan’s handsome body, some scars, a few extra pounds well placed, a nice thin scattering of body hair, and that cock. My God, that cock, she thought. Even flaccid it
was a thing of great beauty, like a long sausage, thickly corded and the color of loam.
“Join me,” Dan said.
Sue Pine did a slow striptease. She was wearing a dress that clung to her body like a snake’s superfluous skin. Coming out of that was a delicious thing to watch. Her underwear seemed to be made from butterfly wings. Dan watched her seriously, bringing his artistic concentration to bear. When Sue shed her last covering Dan asked her to just stand there a bit, legs akimbo. He loved the long line of her, the dark snaky outline of her elongated but perfectly proportioned torso. It really was a work of art.
“My,” he said, succinctly.
“You, too,” Sue returned the compliment.
“I want to eat you,” Dan said.
“Your gun is cocked, or your cock is gunned,” Sue said with a smile.
“Yes,” Dan said. “Oh—speaking of guns. Mine is missing. I think the maid took it but how do I accuse someone of taking something I have illegally?” he asked as he surveyed her pubic patch.
“Your gun?” Sue Pine asked.
“Yes, my sleek, mean gun.”
“Hm,” Sue Pine said. “Do you want to talk firearms or—”
“Eat,” Dan said.
“The spread here?”
“Maybe the spread there first,” Dan said, moving toward her and placing his gnarled hand over her pubic hair. “I’m glad you’re hairy,” he said. “Not a big fan of the shave, or the wax. I don’t know how that started but it’s out of hand.”
“You’ve seen many,” Sue said, even as she grew lubricious.
“I have,” Dan said, his finger finding a wet groove.
“Ah-ah,” Sue Pine said.
Soon, they were both spread out on the picnic, feeding each other bits from here and there. Their faces grew slick with juices, their fingers sticky with sauces and grease. They touched each other often, between bites, and they rolled around on the floor with no regard to the waste of eatables. At one point, Sue, with fingers oily from fried chicken, wrapped her hand around Dan’s pizzle.