Forward to Glory

by Brian Paul Bach

  Now, here, in the hothouse light and shadow of this secluded grove, he held out his hands, and whispered out loud, in wonder.

  ‘Vonda! Vonda! VONNNN – DAAAAA . .!’

  He had done it. With her. She had helped him, and it had been beautiful.

  Just think! Gone was the mindless reticence, the pointless introspection, the silly review of the event’s impact on his perceived delicacy. None of that rubbish mattered now. There was nothing for it but to seek her out and develop into his real self, his true self – which had to be around here somewhere.

  With that, he glided away from the present place, as if on a cloud in a Farciot Edouart process shot. It transported him away from that yard of error, without carrying much burden of memory along with him.

  Light in weight, drying in the salubrity, taking steps that knew where they were going, retracing a route, coupled with a sense of ease, the actor turned home. If pride in his sexual accomplishment was not quite fleshed out in his mind, it was only a matter of time before the sounder, healthier, and yes, baser values of what he had done came into their own. Remarkably, his longtime solo commentary was under a new influence: one Vonda Van Den Dell.

  Like a daystar, he stood on the high point where one canyon yielded to the next. He judged himself anew and found he was not as wanting as he thought. Sex with a star, a real star in the overarching heavens of Hollywood, constituted a validation. And for that reason, he would continue forward. Never was Rózsa’s march of success so apropos. Its earlier application was now easily superseded. He began his epic return, rousingly scored.

  Wincing at the tawdry spectacle, the Shinndells huddled in pissed-off conference.

  ‘I swear, the tide is rising, Dane!’

  ‘I know, Kint!’

  ‘Ron Jeremy!’

  ‘I know!’

  ‘Jenna Jameson!’

  ‘I know!’

  ‘Jeanna Fine!’

  ‘I know!’

  ‘Porsche Lynn!’

  ‘I know!’

  ‘Peter North!’

  ‘I know!’

  ‘Michele Derriere, for God sakes!’

  ‘I know!’

  ‘We coulda been workin’ with them, DAY-NA!’

  ‘I know, KINT!’

  ‘Instead, we got this miserable –’

  The horrah, the horrah.

  ‘Cut!’ moaned Hazard.

  Then, pondering for a moment, as his talent let loose into a storm of soused bitching, he called calmly to his videographer.

  ‘Did you get alla that, Jared?’

  ‘Yeah, Haz. Course I did.’

  ‘Hell, I might keep it in. Who was that poor bastard?’

  ‘One of Vonda’s Kids.’

  The director scoffed.

  ‘OK girls, shaddap. Now, looka here, we’ve gotta make some changes…’

  When it came time for ‘Dueling Pre-Op Sex-Change Gangs From Love Canal’ to be released by Peep-Peep-PeepShows Intercontinental, Butterbugs’ face was nowhere to be seen. It remained on the floor of the swimming pool, as it were. Thus, all evidence of his first performance in front of the cameras sank without a trace.

  6.

  Lollipops And Dimbulbs

  Butterbugs sped up the hill.

  This far above the house line, it was possible to dart amongst the sketterweed and milbawm like a hound dog, and the energy with which he bounded along was certainly canine, with balls still attached.

  Nearing the crest, he slowed down, and like a counterweighted Technirama camera, the scope of his vision’s coverage became measured, even cautious. Something told him to simmer down and cool it. This was especially valid in light of the built-up head of steam that had been activated within him, as a result of his late gittin’-it-on. Finally, a proper awareness had dawned. The significance of his first sexual adventure – the personal one that is, not the communal tamasha he’d just escaped – could be placed into a workable perspective.

  It was prudent that he chose to peer over the brow with such restraint. Just below, an ideal view of the VVVDD compound (e.g. Villa Vonda Van Den Dell – once Wallace Reid’s getaway pad, massively expanded and developed since those 1920s days), and it was markedly altered from the last time he saw it a few hours before. It was still there, all right. But clearly, the aspect of control over its domain had changed.

  He thought he’d best take a less direct route, so as not to conflict with what appeared to be a new importance down there.

  Then, to Flowertown Lane – the back route, which connected Vonda’s driveway with Mulholland Drive. In its privacy, Butterbugs saw a familiar and exciting sight: Vonda’s Porsche Cayenne, nimbly and eagerly working its way home. Lying there on his stomach, he instantly felt a poignancy of essential tumescence that, since his lover had come back, stood a good chance of entering into further legitimacy.

  But as the dynamic SUV drew up the incline and entered the cul-de-sac leading onto the VVVDD approach, it encountered SUVs of a different nationality, marque and nature, causing it to suddenly spin an expert 360 and speed back down the Flowertown chute.

  Big dudes in shades and all-black apparel appeared in the VVVDD dooryard. Two of them, spotting the Cayenne getaway, proceeded to board one of the baleful, waiting rigs. Then, keying the security gate’s release, they gave chase. However, the bulk of the vehicle and its clumsy negotiation of narrow Flowertown ensured that some distance would remain between chased and chaser. Once the cantonment-like security gate closed upon the site of his de-flowering, Butterbugs knew that all bets were off.

  So he left. North this time, overland. All through the mountains. Great tracts remained undeveloped hereabouts, up here in the rarefied attic of LA. There was much barrenness, seemingly worthless, but nowhere was without portent. The western views were strangely disappointing, but so was his failure to link with his new girlfriend.

  The focus was on she, and what she meant. Her presence was foremost in his head. Wandering feet, rock-solid mind. What did she really mean to him? Was she a gateway? An avenue to the perfection of love?

  No reason or logic need apply. The possibilities were endless.

  He remembered that she had muttered something about the flats that lay before Upper Big Tujunga Canyon in the supersmart phone conversation he’d witnessed – the one that had taken her away from him. He believed he was headed in the right direction. Therefore, he would duly search that particular quadrant.

  North, ever north, on Vineling Bye-Lane. What else to do? He couldn’t ignore the fact that, since the directive of this mission had kicked into action, his mind was engaged in the process of thinking again. It certainly felt good. Almost as good as the steamy orgasm last night. Occult maestros of sensual development, apparently under his jurisdiction, had reached out from the amorphous tank of drift he’d been flailing in and stabbed him with real knives of sexual experience. He was more of an actor than ever, but also, more of a man.

  Though he passed near to the Warners lot, and right past the gates of the Tuckerbib Studios, he felt no compunction to be drawn therein. For him, his directive sent him straight as an arrow on up the pike. He had walked around LA so much that there was surely a higher level of monoxide in his systems, but his lungs remained pink and his gait was fueled by ‘Maybe-Love’, a much more refined sustenance than he’d ever processed before.

  By sundown the route had brought him to the northern periphery of urbanity. There was a diminishment of intensity, for now he was re-introduced to the fringe elements of the northern hill country that had seen his first ushering unto the metropolis. Those were weird and delicious days before he’d crossed the threshold, with all their tremulous figures, like Moby, Ramón, Sticks Greppels, and the still-treasured Shawna Lee of Vegas…

  He wondered what they were all doing now. Imagine, then, if he’d spent intimate times with her – if Shawna’d had a shot at his ‘premiere’ rather than the more nouveau Vonda. Hell, he’d probably be servicing slots in a Downtown Vegas gambling hall by n
ow. But most assuredly, he’d be in love. As was his apparent style, devotion to the loved one would pour forth with all the poetic romance of a situational opportunity best described by Samuel Taylor Coleridge. That is, commitment, despite debts and trespasses.

  These reveries, perched up in the darkling sky now, remained there, for as his vistavision gathered momentum at the prospect of the neighborhood now before him, a reel change occurred: the Vonda Trail took precedence.

  The shot ahead: a carnival, on the edge of town. Candied lights were just coming on. Lots of missing-tooth illuminations. The exhaust from portable generators created a cow-dust time atmosphere. A puny Ferris wheel rotated slowly, like a neon motel sign, and mercury-tipped fluorescent tubes bade him enter.

  Tawdry it was, but he was used to such sites. Denied the sublime loftiness of LA’s ‘successful’ side (so far), he strode in as an equal, even though he’d had late access to the VVVDD concern, and the lesser but still respectable porno nest in Harold’s Canyon.

  Why here?

  Again, the memories of Vonda’s phone conversation were fractured. Something about kiddie rides in the north, as a rendezvous point. There was perhaps something of ‘The Third Man’ (Selznick, 1950) here, but it went unnoticed by the ardent youth who was as yet unacquainted with the amusements of Vienna’s Prater.

  Venturing in, Butterbugs saw the full nature of the place. A poor excuse for anything entertaining, and an anathema to wholesomeness. Unbeknownst to him though, it was certainly a cover for more illicit activities, such as the drug-in-the-box culture, the easy exchange of extortional business, and perhaps even the trafficking of human flesh.

  Persons of disadvantage seemed to frequent the place in small knots, or else those who were too poor to find their recreations elsewhere. Close-cropped Latinos, trailer court denizens of indeterminate origin, and po’ boys of all kinds from beyond the ridge.

  But it wasn’t the patrons who made him feel slightly ill at ease. It was the infrastructure of the place, and the staff who manned it. Sleazy, puke-making people, some more vile than others. Practically no one was redeemable, not even the twin girls who had barricaded themselves behind the cotton candy swirler in lieu of catering to the public. They thought only of Ecstasy, GBH, THC – and TMZ.

  Butterbugs gazed hungrily at the partial row of second-rate but tantalizing all-day suckers (some with optional cobwebs), and quarter-filled syrup bottles of sickeningly sweet toy flavors, coated with grease-dust. A poor legacy, but it was all to be had at this particular stall. They were supposed to bring joy and entertainment, but the sticky containers, catch-alls for loose hairs and dust-fluff, brought only weariness and repulsion. As offerings, they represented failure.

  Despite the less than inspiring ambience, which Butterbugs had seen so much of in this southern metropolis (though he was not ever going to be acclimated to its effects), his spirits remained sensually aware during this hunt. Why else was he even here?

  It was not so indirect, this mission. He was, for all purposes and intents, simply looking for continued sex, but at least he had a focus. Besides, it was between consenting adults, and all he had to do was locate its subject to establish the time and the place.

  Now that he was sexually active, he had to admit, a thrilling change had occurred.

  Not only was this cachet a rather important thing for actors, bringing with it a boosted self-confidence, there was also a sense of ‘belonging’ to acknowledge. That 40-year-old virgin movie, plus ‘The Last Picture Show’ (Columbia, 1971) and ‘Summer of ’42’ (Warner Bros., 1971) were all in his camp now. All the bozo humor entailing sexy subjects was no longer applicable to his vulnerabilities, so any sophistication resulting from being free of restraint could grow and be exhibited, from now on.

  As a pre-orgasmic teen, he’d once stolen, on all fours, onto waste-ground near a drive-in picture show near JudgePagetTown, so as to sneak peeks at ‘I Am Curious (Blue)’ (Grove, 1970). No sound, but bits of Swedish skin. There were subtitles, but they did not document any moans. Minimal snippets of sensuality, seen from the fringe of a fringe, but time well spent…

  Like Don Knotts putting his arm with license around Joan Staley’s shoulder in ‘The Ghost and Mr. Chicken’ (Universal, 1966), women would surely sense his seasoned ability. And what’s more, the status of his conquest (or, to be fair, her conquest) was unimaginably high. Plus, she was a player of consequence in the Industry, with which he strove once again to be a part.

  Never, from his days of embryonic goofing around in Carstairs, right up to a few days ago, could he have ever envisioned intimacy with Vonda Van Den Dell, scary black-chick hottie and fancy-panties movie star! And it had all been achieved without weirdness, without conventional dangers, and without the threat of STDs.

  [Vonda had impressed him with her presentation of the very latest doctoral certificates from Bev Hills clinics of an extremely private nature, proving her pristine bill of health beyond the shadow of a doubt; and as far as Butterbugs’ official statement was concerned, Vonda believed him, heart and soul, when he admitted, but without words, his lack of experience; thus was her latent tendency to sweetness, poignancy and compassion stirred; protection was, nonetheless, employed, more for the sake of age-old etiquette than for the mandates of Century 21.]

  That was why he had come to this forsaken place, to simply continue what had been started.

  It was not a search out of jealousy or desperation or anxiousness or even much mental processing. Complications were nonexistent. Still, the young fellow’s energy was beginning to run down a bit again, so, calmness accompanied his peeled eyeballs, turned head, and investigative steps.

  There wasn’t really much to investigate. Hardly anyone was around, and though it was early in the evening, it didn’t seem likely that there would be many ticket buyers for the ramshackle carousel, the Toot Toot Trolley, or the Melting Girl. Many of the garish lights were burned out or hadn’t even been plugged in yet. The food looked terrible, and there was no telling what went on behind the counters, under the green tubes, or past the begrimed trailer doors on the shadowy fringes.

  A cannier Angelino would have indeed written off the place indubitably as a front for something illicit, but sometimes these sorts of environments were sincere in their lack of talent or opportunity.

  Yeah, right.

  In light of all this tenuousness, Butterbugs chose to make an effort that might provide a safety net for his renewed but always long-shot progress towards something viable in the Industry. This here Carnival of the Semi-Light and the Demi-Darkness was still a venue for show business, albeit one at the tail end of a third-string. Perhaps though, a connection could be made, a word of mouth, or a referral. Because, most likely the referrer would just want to get rid of him, and a stroke of luck might result. This new enterprising notion, undamaged by the Shinndells’ little pornographic detour, was surely a sign of intrinsic practicality, reborn through Vonda’s assertions.

  Sex was such an optimistic thing!

  Additionally, any chalking-up of something independent on his part might impress his new girlfriend. The hell if he was going to be the consort of a star and not pull his own weight! Besides, there was a good chance that he wasn’t quite ready for the cutting-edge, the matte-black and brushed-stainless-steel parameters of Vonda’s A-grade circles yet. And doubtless, he’d need approval from Da GardzADaBody.

  The little he had seen of her house told him that awe might be a wise choice in establishing a theme in approaching her coterie. He would have to work his way up. The resume of a green boy in such a world would be essential to prove his worth. Of course, he was solitary in these assumptions, helped along by no one. That was what he was used to, anyway.

  After a considerable time, he was fairly satisfied that Vonda wasn’t around here anywhere. Now that he thought of it, it was a pretty absurd thought that any high-class and high profile babe like Vonda would ever be caught in a clunky sideshow like this in the first place. But it was a testamen
t to his innocent instincts. So, he sought out the nerve center from which this cockamamie operation was run.

  One of the trailers that encircled the site seemed more ‘important’ than the others, and he could see slightly-moving silhouettes in the windows, which had been sprayed with that cheap frosting gunk out of a can, in an attempt at privacy. Drawing nigh, he saw an actual sign, composed of mailbox stick-on numbers and letters, that read ‘0FF1Ce’. Things were pretty sedate, so there was no need to pluck up much courage. He tapped on the partially-latched door.

  ‘Yoe!’ a liverdumpling-altered voice sounded from within. ‘Turn the knob, whydonscha!’

  Butterbugs did. Clinical tubelight cast its sterility in a triangle onto the waste-ground. There was cig-coughing and throat-clearing and ‘OK, OK. Now thatsch how it’ll be.’

  ‘Oh, oh, oh,’ offered Butterbugs. ‘If you’re busy, I’ll…’

  ‘Be whitsch ya in a minute, Bub,’ said the voice, which then addressed others who were in the trailer: ‘Now, ya all schet? Ya like the location, huh? Do I get schkreen credit?’

  ‘We’ll, uh, we’ll see. Thursday morn, the grips’ll be here. Uh, thanks.’

  ‘Thank you, gentsch.’

  Butterbugs beheld two men who seemed to be concluding their conferral with he who was obviously the head honcho around these parts. One of them was a prosperous looking fellow, well groomed in the ‘plastic’ LA sense, who aspired to perma-youth, even though he was entertaining a 50s-ish gut of prosperity which showed through his Grikelle’s turtleneck like an approved threat.

  The other was curiously nondescript; nothing of his person particularly stood out, except that he wore a pair of huge polymer sunglasses. Because of the dimness of the evening and the half-lighted carnival therein, maybe? He was apparently not a blues musician, nor was he black, if that was any qualifier. To Butterbugs’ mind it meant that he was probably some sort of drug addict.