‘At that moment, I didn’t wish to share my lightning impression with Del, as he might’ve gotten the wrong idea. Besides, there wasn’t time.
‘Well, much to Del’s consternation, I whipped my rig up onto the sidewalk in order to secure a steady vantage point, so as to scrutinize you. You scarcely had time to react to any of our offensive acts, but upon looking, not only were you the face that I had subconsciously known, you were also he whom I had handed the last of my Flokkstoddr Gigs Kall Kards to. I can only thank ravintoleur Яance for sacking you, that fabled night! (I might add, I myself avoided extermination that night, as a demonic boulder threatened me with dangerous impact; but that’s another story…)
‘All these occurrences may strike you as phenomenal – or at the very least, the way I am phrasing all this may make it all seem fantastical. But I tell you, I am in a phenomenal business, in which fantasies are realized, and there are no other words for it.’
Butterbugs had been listening intently, even deliriously, while discreetly demolishing a Torch-Singed Mighty Big Sam Sam’wich, generously provided by his new representative, to curtail the savage hunger that had chased him for – days now. He paused after daubing the Red Rivages Pork ’n’ H’radish-flavored sauce from his chin with the provided (non-Яance-type) bib.
‘I don’t really think of it all as a phenomenon,’ Butterbugs said quietly. ‘All I know is that, I was there.’
Sonny smiled. He knew that he had made his point, many times over.
With his Mighty Big Sam in him, Butterbugs started to warm up.
‘That was… good,’ he announced humbly, squeezing the sauce-stained napkin into the spent StereoFome case, the meticulousness of which caused a tedious crumple of arid, pause-filling sound.
Taking his cue, Sonny began to open the door to informality. He regarded the new young client with less conceptual eyes.
‘Man, are you a candidate for rickets or something? What the hell have you lived on, anyway, dreams?’
Butterbugs was silent.
‘Faith?’
He remained silent.
‘In yourself? Faith in yourself?’
‘I cannot say, exactly, Mr. Projector… Agent…’
‘Well, this don’t need to turn into some psych session! We’re here to get going on a picture show career! We’re interested in the serious truth. Are you ready?’
‘I can only think: I am ready.’
‘Because of…?’
‘I – yes, I have believed in myself.’
‘Have? Had? Past tense?’
‘I… still… do…’
‘As far as – what?’
‘As far as… my talents. What I can do.’
‘OK –’
‘I still do… believe. Maybe – now more than ever. But I… I thought you said this wasn’t going to turn into some psy –’
Sonny laughed. ‘Damn right! Good call. Listen man, you don’t need to hesitate any longer. You got me, now.’
‘I am grateful.’
The long, long days of deprivation did not yet seem concluded to him, though the possibility of such now entered his ken, which was something.
‘So you feel OK about things. About our arrangement.’
‘I do.’
No hesitation whatsoever.
‘Yeah, well, you may say that now, but –’
‘I tell you, I do! You can’t imagine, Mr. Proj –’
‘Sonny!’
‘Sonny; how I have waited and tried and imagined and knelt and yes, wept, for this moment! You cannot possibly know, and I cannot possibly explain –’
‘Oh, I think I can … imagine… a bit…’
‘But I tell you, I am ready!’
‘Good. I can see that ye speak the truth, baby.’
They both laughed, Sonny lustily, and Butterbugs, more restrained of course, but soulful.
‘Now, what ideas, what waiting, wonderful ideas do you have for what you want to do?’
It was a question that Butterbugs was not particularly prepared to answer, though he had literally been waiting all his life on Earth to encounter them. Where to begin?
Instead of pursuing the issue, Sonny came up with one of his own.
‘I was thinking, as far as what you have to offer, it might be wise for you to get a bit of legit exposure before your face reaches the screen.’
20th would not release the new logo footage for another nine weeks.
Butterbugs nodded.
‘Let’s see. Some theatre out in – or should I say ‘thiertre’??’
Chuckling, playful but not mocking; Sonny got nothing but an easygoing smile in return.
‘Hey, I like the way you pronounce ‘theatre’. Hell, it’s better than ‘thee-ay-tur’! We might build on that; you as an ‘alternative’ and all. But relax, we aren’t going to package you like breath mints. It was Chuck Heston who said, ‘Once the public gets you pegged, you can’t escape.’ Well, them’s words I’ll live by, I pledge you right now.’
‘Thank you, Sonny.’
‘Don’t mention it. Now, here’s the deal…’
1:00AM came and went. Then, round about 3:00 in the AM:
‘How do you feel about ‘Merchant’?’
‘I know the role of Shylock. By heart.’
‘Crazy. We’ll kick you off out in Jibbonstown. Tough audience, but their playhouse, as well as the other tank towns out past Plaster City, are wanting.’
If Butterbugs had retained any of the bitter memories he had of places like Plaster City, they refused to surface now, for it was time for a new life, and to hell with the old.
About 18 hours in, the day was finally wrapped.
There was no way that Butterbugs would’ve reached the Selznick Studio by the deadline without being picked up by Sonny. It was a noble effort to attempt on his own, but the terrain was hostile, the traveler at loose ends, and, like Dathan, he did not know where (precisely) he was going.
It was a last burst of attempted duty, a last chance, really. All who had been a part of the effort, conscious or unconscious or subconscious, would have been rendered invalid if not for this final link in the ‘team’.
Also, the aspirant’s lack of knowledge as to what he was up against was mercifully lacking. Even if he had reached the studio at noon, chances are he would have been delayed at Security, or in finding the rat cages on the sun-blasted loggia of William Cameron Menzies Block C, for the rules of the game demanded that each prospective talent be given a ten minute window before the next applicant attained the prize. Process would proceed through every ten-minute window until the role was filled. Almost every eminent and eligible young buck in Hollywood, known and unknown, was interested in this part, and their entourages (or lack of them) were assembled at the Ince Street Gate. Why else would Sonny Projector and Del Nind happen to be making their way to Selznick Studios on this day? Time was money, even before cameras turned, and there was no room for sluggards.
But he had made it. With seven minutes to spare. Seven minutes for Sonny to rush this kid, about whom he knew nothing, into destiny. The nineteen-minute ride to the studio after picking the derelict up was filled with some pretty insane driving on Sonny’s part, as his formidable motorcar demanded, and got, pride of place in making meatloaf out of the brain-dead boulevards leading into Culver City. The rant-and-rave wordplay between Sonny and Del concerning the validity of picking up this mess-of-a-person, without a second’s dedication to addressing or grilling the mess-of-a-person himself, as the mess-of-a-person was not really a threat at all, was pretty crazy, too. But the picked-up one did as he was told after the scrap of paper in his hand had been grabbed by Sonny, summarily judged, and, based on its contents, appropriate action undertaken.
His first picking-up – on old Sta. Monica – was about ‘things-maybe’.
His second – near Selznick International – was about ‘things-for-sure’.
Hollywood mysteries, Hollywood phenomena. All things probable. Some things impos
sible. Some things… possible.
And when the action undertaken proceeded unto the ding-dong-ding-dong Mount Vernon façade of the Selznick Studio, and the Maybach lurched to a stop in front of the entrance, the agent hustled the pick-up through the screen door, followed by the still-ranting talent artist. And that’s when the seven minutes kicked in, which were filled not only by getting the guy in the direction of the rat cages of William Cameron Menzies Block C, but to banish some semblance of derelict-like unpleasantness from said guy’s appearance; a comb through the excessively greasy locks, the sprinkling of a resident bottle of Old Chimneys fragrance over his form, and the installation of a thin tie, lifted from a passing Wardrobe trolley between B. Reeves Eason Block B and William Cameron Menzies Block C, around his great unwashed collar, and the desire to whip him by Sugar-Ted’s Shoeshine Throne for a quick brush-up (scuttled for lack of time)…
The actual door to the Flokkstoddr Gigs rat cage suite was reached, with 27 seconds to spare.
Sonny and Del, both puffed, looked at each other and decided to smile.
Butterbugs? He was puffed also. Perhaps more so.
Sonny had the deal brokered and signed by 12:19PM.
‘A record.’
At the very minute, the agent still knew next to absolutely nothing about his new client.
‘Flokkstoddr! Test?’
In the Jack Cosgrove Commemorative Screening Hall, Sonny saw the screen test. Then he saw it with Del Nind. Then he saw it again, alone. Then he saw it with Butterbugs. And that’s when Butterbugs passed out. That’s why Sonny and Del had to revive him with grub and pop and patience.
‘I don’t know, Sonny. He’s – worth noticing, worth – But I don’t know. Look at him, slumped over there. Maybe we’ve got an epileptic, or a schizoid…’
‘Hang on, Del. I think we may have something here, some body, some presence. Get him going on that there sandwich. Try some elocution on him. I’m gonna make some phone calls.’
Indeed, the day was wrapping. Led into the Oliver H.P. Garrett suite, which was currently vacant before some anonymous production manager took possession next week, Sonny got the happily shattered actor set up with some basics.
‘You can crash here for a couple days. The loo’s over there, always outfitted. Do what you need to do, at your leisure. Cool it. Recharge. Anything you need. Ask Yellen, out at the exec desk. Grub, sodic beverages, anything, ’cept chicks. Or… We’ll take up tomorrow afternoon, OK? Oh, there’s a complete edition of the Bard in the bookcase, over there. Later.’
Butterbugs was impressed by Sonny’s candor, his resourcefulness, and his power. As a theme of responsive behavior, externally, he had established and maintained a TABP-like cool. Whereas, internally, bombs of bliss were exploding with tantric-high value, convincing him that yes, this was real, and yes, this was finally a foundation on which to make his stand. Wheels might spin like hydrostatic tops, but purchase, on terra firma, was right here, at hand.
Well, he was an actor, with an agent, and a contract, in a studio – right now. That was he. He eased himself back onto a seasoned leather-upholstered casting couch, and couldn’t quite not masturbate.
14.
Curtain Call At Kunky Creek
Kunky Creek may have been about as out-back as the Back Porch Majority became, once they plummeted from fame, but there were still some vestiges of civilization to be found way down deep in its GroundUp™-free cracks.
The route all the way out there was a bouncing, bucolic byway of charm and grace, a lazy-line fence of sourwood strung together with last-leg rusty wires, with a tricklesome gulch here and there. Such an itinerary was accessed in Sonny’s gigantic ’56 Packard Four Hundred, butting through Neil Young’s overhanging trees. Then, on to drier and more open ground, horizons scudding west then east, mostly east. Then down and around scads of jackrabbit hideouts.
‘I had a change of mind,’ announced Sonny, as they plowed along the flour-like gravel track. The Four Hundred became matte black from the demi-desert-dust, and the dual A/C was on full blast. They were way past Bent Peak already. On the radio: Elmer Bernstein’s march-like Main Title from ‘CHARGE! – Teddy Going Uphill’ (Paramount).
‘Jibbonstown’s too ‘metro’. Besides, the manager of Grauman’s Moroccan over there is a bozo-boy. Not even a NATO member. Sid doesn’t know it, but when he finds out, woe unto bozo-boy. Sid’s got a whole repertory of practical jokes he hasn’t even tested yet. So let’s just head up-country. Up, to another, further, lesser light of a place.’
‘OK.’
Sonny switched off the A/C and let the electric-power windows down all at once, wanting to feel the real air. He inhaled deeply, as if it were the first genuine oxygen he’d attained after being a good little boy in his high-powered agency management duties. Radio off now, the V-8’s rumble was the only score necessary for this sequence. They hung their free arms out onto the hot, pockmarked slab sides, sipped tinned beverages and lunched at a grody Squat & Gobble along the way.
The comfort zone that Butterbugs sensed around Sonny was growing. They were successfully proving themselves to each other. Their talk was separated by spaces filled with scanning the surroundings, for it was hot afternoon-type travel, and energy had to be manually conserved. No Industry talk, just stuff of the moment, mostly.
‘Seems a fella could make a life for himself out here,’ observed Butterbugs.
‘Well now, that’s a mighty nice thought there. But don’t bet on it. It’s rough, unyielding country. Harsh environment. Lots of hard luck Hidalgos and Harrys out here. ’Course, a lot of that, right back there, is mine. I don’t remember how much.’
‘The land?’
‘Yes, sir. Bought it for pennies a square-meter during the ‘Hate the East’ days. You know, when being out-back was out and everyone was banking on city lots to crown their futures. Before the collapse of the egalitarian powers. Funny thing, huh, for one such as me to speak so?’
‘You’re also into real estate?’
‘Anyone in the Industry who isn’t diversified, is a kluck. ’Course, because I hate capitalism so much, I’ve had to seek out squirrelly ways to appear like I’m one of them, when actually I got other ways and means. Know what I mean?’
‘I think so, although, I’m not sure.’
‘Don’t worry about it. You gotta understand, my heritage demands certain loyalty to certain traditions. Besides, corporations have nothing but contempt for democracy.’
Butterbugs was pleased. Sonny reminded him of TABP: the man from the outside who hit it big, but hadn’t sacrificed his true self.
‘Cool.’
‘Yeah, I’d say so, too. Glad you get the message. I got this land, and others, which I’ll keep neutral cuz it’ll never get gobbled up if LA needs it. It’ll always be a preserve. It’s even protected from any ‘eminent domain’ bullshit. You know something else? I’ve got 360,000 hectares in Bolivia, outside of Sucre. Heard of it? It’s its own nation, really. We’re doing amazing things down there, my man. So don’t get me wrong. I’m a corporation, but NOT a corporation at heart, if you can wrap yourself around that… To me, democracy will always be the ideal. True democracy will always be the goal. And you may quote me.’
Somehow, all this new horizon knowledge gave Butterbugs different perspectives on his thoughts of himself – as an actor. It was as if the sliding door to a zeppelin hangar-sized resource of things still amorphous was beginning to creak open, and a matrix of its comprehension was materializing in his mind.
Then, as the afternoon wore on, through the bug-splattered windscreen, a remote settlement was spied, and they’d reached Kunky Creek.
‘Welcome to ‘The Kunk’, Butterbugs. A reasonably good place to kick things off.’
The thing most remarkable to Butterbugs at this moment was: here they were, he with the Industry’s most powerful agent (most probably), in his banged-up luxury rig, panning around the stub-end of a village, everything about it promising desolation, or, at the ver
y least, a moribund neutrality, but there was every reason to be excited, because the communal state of mind that framed everything was so elevated and liberal.
‘Where do we start?’ he wanted to blurt out, but thought better of it and stuck to standard-issue exclamations. ‘Quite a place!’
‘Yeah. Dig it. Kick it! Hell, kick the Kunk! Let’s check this out over here…’
The steering wheel turned, then straightened out.
A vertical sign stood way up and tall. Red letters topped by clear and shiny tubes of nighttime neon travel, mounted on peeling black sheet metal, embellished with white lines of elegance. Attached to it was a great big block of a building.
The Guelph Theatre was really a pretty impressive pile. It could’ve been placed in St. Louis or Pierre, or any number of towns much larger than the one it dominated. The style was something like Baltic-National Romantic, and the glazed caramel-and-black brick was still doing a superb job of preserving this built-for-the-ages hulk from the abrasive environment.
‘She does double duty as both legit and picture show house, now that vaude got phased out last year.’
To Butterbugs, the Guelph had the same feel as his hometown Goth: an anachronism today, but a sign of premium times. In this case, its presence was easily explained. In the 1920s the Great InterBasin-cum-Desert Spanning Railway had big plans for linking Topeka with LA, spreading prosperity all the way, even to Podunks like Kunky Creek. Well, it did for a while, until the Santy Fe took the GIBDSR down to the mat in hostile style, broke it with a yoke, then pushed it out a window. They even pulled up every sleeper, every spike, all the way back east. A scorched earth policy assured that even the whistle-stop freight stations were razed, their ashes scattered to the winds, and salt poured on the former foundations. If corporate rivalry mandated such draconian tactics like destroying many a town like Kunky Creek, then it was highly ironic, that in the process, a facility like the Guelph could even remain open. Indeed, in these after-years, enough clientele continued to dribble in. There were still enough ex-railway workers in the vicinity, lucky recipients of pensions while in their 20s, as part of the takeover deal, who had stayed on, still willing to purchase the occasional piece of speckly cardboard that allowed them into the well-worn interior.
Forward to Glory Page 18