‘And if I stay, Sonny? If I stay…?’
‘I cannot but think that your patience, your perseverance, your endurance, will but be rewarded in a most satisfactory way. I cannot ask you for mere forbearance under the name of Trust, but I can only add, and I passionately entreat you, allow me one more time-span, as yet (annoyingly) unspecified in length, for I have forces to marshal, and phone jabberings to make, if any reward approaching satisfaction might ever be possible in this whole, wide world!’
‘I thank you heartily, then, Sonny.’
They both almost lapsed into the Archaic Tongue, so epic were these moments.
They both looked out upon the horizon, from where each beheld it.
Then there were a few more matters to discuss.
‘On the Davis Hurricane? Butterbugs, you’ve got to set the needle valve (at the entrance to the fuel bowl) to ‘High Altitude’ setting if you venture over 500 feet above sea-level. I’d forgotten that your activities were not going to be confined to the Plains of Id. I formally apologize. Once you make the correct setting, you will move forward again.
‘We will, together. Come on down to my office. I’m waiting. You’ve got a picture to make. Starting tomorrow. It’s called ‘I, Doughboy’, if you remember properly. Oh, and I sacked that moth-eaten Kerroll Kubbutsch and that slime-caressing Snitz guy. They will not pick meat in this town again. Worthless, worthless, worthless. When do I learn?’
Then he altered his jauntiness into a kind of advanced respectfulness:
‘Take courage, actor. And add patience to your obvious virtues. These are days of great import. Perhaps you have a role of consequence in this town. I know it not, right now. But know this: if we shall set to discovering the truth in this feeling, we must be in trust as well as in like mind. Supposition and prejudice have no place here. This is an elevating plane, raised by pillars of undefined capacity. I cannot possibly know the load they can carry. Wait, be of sound mind, and be of patient countenance. You will hear words of direction, and they will come from many points of the compass, as a capricious-seeming wind, but laden with wisdom, if the direction is determined.’
Butterbugs looked towards the sunset, which was not so base as before. A more resolute and citric color-tone of hope now emanated from that China-bound globe of light.
‘I hear you,’ was all that he found it necessary to say.
And the sunset spread out all along the horizon, transferring things mundane into segments of inventive and original art, higher and higher into the abstract, begging interpretation. But as the colors deepened, their integrity intact, safe in mystery, power was stored, to be saved and employed for another day.
He tried the ignition. The expanding spark within the bubble of the fuel eddy was illuminated within the chamber, and he moved along.
18.
Destination: Lurzlee Cañon!
Finally, well and truly, DeSoto life had passed into the ages. And the last time when Butterbugs pushed the N button and ratcheted the e-brake all the way out, he knew that its lodging had both saved his ass and flogged it at the same time. But now it was time to park himself in more dignified surroundings and take up residence within cathedral-ceilinged construction.
The house: sturdily Populuxe, coated in an earthy red wash straight out of the Straits of Malacca, with a multiple crucifix of high voltage power-grid lines daringly close to the roofline, but running just enough juice to Eva Marie Saint’s place, up the lane a piece. Contemporary, cool, and clean. Cliff May might have designed it! Or Chris Choate! Rumors flew that James Best had once lived there!
Butterbugs had achieved a middle ground of sorts, after all.
Tamed but not humiliated, the main mass of the house, barely 1000 square feet, proudly stood on its mini palisade, projecting at an angle that aligned with one of the canyon’s most dangerous curves, ready to challenge any impatient Aston Martin or Gremlin that elbowed its way up those sequential concrete plates of LA’s noble street offerings.
Lurzlee Cañon – he loved the sound of it.
Sonny had come through.
Trust grew. Confidence in the reality of his meetings with Sonny germinated.
Butterbugs the actor now had the ‘Doughboy’ script in his hot little hands. Thinking that it would’ve been bound in buckram, he almost tossed it in the firepot, as its casual appearance, hand-lettered spine, and no-frills title cover had all the ambience of a irrigation system’s parts list. Indeed, there was nothing exalted about the literature of a photoplay in its working form.
‘I, Doughboy’
A Script for a Motion Picture of that Title
By
High Tea M’zampez
Butterbugs was panting now.
After its long gestation period, production was being prepped. Sonny, despite his considerable efforts, still saw no appearance of his newcomer’s name in ‘Variety’. The Showbiz Bible, its fairness renowned, nevertheless did not take up just any publicity planting. Proof had to be in the product before review could ensue. Ballyhoo was one thing, but a ‘Variety’ item was another one altogether.
In any case, there was no reason not to think that things were getting down to business now. Mid-Hiatus was always a funky time.
Sonny was ebullient and respectful. No goofing around. Lots of confidence-building talk. Tips. Advice in dealing with the pros. How to avoid slings and arrows.
They met on neutral ground, in borax coffee shops and second hand bookstores with hip-oid and beatnik proprietors who didn’t even look up from their Bollingen series paperbacks. As long as the venue was antithetical to tinseldom, that was the place to be. Sonny thought it was best for Butterbugs.
Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t.
Anyway, part of his job was to convince Butterbugs that: 1) He, Sonny, believed in him; 2) That this was really happening to him; and 3) That he was worthy of this happening to him.
With the particular kind of personality Butterbugs had, 3) was by far the most important, especially for someone with the guts to admit, ‘I have endured.’
‘After all, there are bigger things in this world than being in pictures.’ Sonny was trying to appeal to Butterbugs’ apparent down-to-earth principles.
‘But images on the screen, they’re pretty big. Especially… in Technirama. And in close-up, too.’
‘Well, that’s true, but…’
Sonny really couldn’t contest him. No need to. That’s why he himself was in pictures. They were big indeed. No need to convince this kid. He knew the score more than he thought he did. Natively-primed.
And Sonny mentored.
Now that Butterbugs was finally and relatively secure in a ‘normal’ residence (with genuine AC power, no less), Sonny was able to provide a pukka VHS/DVD/CoolDood player. It was a Crosley, and it had tubes, but Sonny said it was ‘a brick shithouse’, and Butterbugs grew to love its bakelite and cast-nickel Deco features. The accompanying television was a perfect mate, though not stylistically. A wildly rad Föönföönken, its Finnish Moderne woodiness surprisingly housed a plant that accommodated a 1:2.76 aspect ratio, so that any picture process (even Fox Grandeur) could be presented as it was meant to be. This was especially important to Sonny, who wanted Butterbugs to understand some of the technical realities of the cinema, in order to hone his acting style accordingly.
‘On this device, Butterbugs, ye shall see what picture shows are all about. Here’s a stack of DVDs I brought over from my collection. A mix’d grill: ‘Ducklings Are Also Young’ (Hazel Snyder Presents, 2002), ‘Dongfang hong’ (August 1st, 1965), ‘Le Carabine Existentiel’ (Pathé/Roaring Chicken, 1959), ‘Yidl Mitn Fidl’ (Joseph Green, 1937), ‘The Cool Ones’ (WB, 1967), ‘When Knighthood Was In Flower’ (Cosmopolitan/Paramount, 1922), ‘Admiral Ushakov’ (Mosfilm, 1953), and ‘Hudson Hawke’ (Tri-Star, 1991). Have fun. Oh, and don’t forget your lines.’
He tossed a revised ‘Doughboy’ script on top of the heap. This one had a plastic cover.
The Crosley/Föönf�
�önken combine was practically the only feature in the front room, besides a slim-brick fireplace. And with a good video store not too far away (Warren Sarjent’s Wundurphull Wideos) Butterbugs was heavily encouraged to embark on an exploration of witnessing great pix of the past. Things like ’61’s ‘King of Kings’ (MGM), which formed the basis of a lengthy and enthusiastic Sonnyphonecall to his agent, in which he thoroughly outlined his awe at the power of the cinema. During the call, Sonny put all other appointments on hold – he enjoyed it that much. He found that Butterbugs’ sensitivities challenged his mentoring capabilities, and indeed, increased their on-your-toes aspects.
‘It was panned when first released,’ Sonny offered, almost dismissively.
‘Doesn’t matter. What matters is now.’
‘Panning is a fact of life in our Industry.’
‘Pictures are made for audiences, not critics. And doesn’t a camera ‘pan’?’
‘Good analysis, but don’t fall in love too much with one particular picture. And yes, yes sir, panning has multiple meanings in our Industry.’
Butterbugs smiled. ‘Our Industry…!’ He loved the sound of it.
‘Yeah, but don’t get too possessive. Just like zeroing in on one film.’
‘Oh, I don’t need to. Not at all. That series you sent me, you know, of Zundun Vzulkowitsch conducting all of Mahler’s symphonies! It was astonishing.’
‘Hmm. Like that stuff, huh?’
‘I do! I tell you, I do!’ quoth Butterbugs. ‘And that Steven Jesse Bernstein CD, too. Unforgettable!’
‘Good. I’ll keep it in mind. You seem comfortable with heights.’
‘I like the view.’
‘Higher the better?’
‘Oh, there’s no need for limitations. The depths have just as much intrigue. Gorky, Lynch, Jessica Simpson…’
‘Also good. And I know you’re not trying to be funny about Miss Jessica.’
‘Not at all! She’s great!’
‘You are very catholic in your tastes, Butterbugs. That’s excellent, especially for a strolling player.’
‘I’m not afraid to agree. Last night it was Gustav Mahler. Tonight it’s ‘King of the Hill’ (20th-Fox). Each one stands on its own. I have a two-disk set of B.K.S. Iyengar yoga to watch, before principal photography commences on ‘Doughboy’.’
‘Go for it, baby. Delighted to hear about your personal tastes in diversity. I feel the same way. Did you know I represent both Valery Gergiev and Shecky Greene?’
‘Neat.’
‘And everybody in between!’
‘Have you seen the EXTENDED ads on color TV for DVD/videos of the Dean Martin Celebrity Roasts? Dohn Rickle hosts, and the clips they show are utterly hilarious. I had never known just how high quality they were. All the gang is there, from Nipsey to Jonathan to Loni to Orson. In one vignette, Berle is hassling li’l Sammy, pats him condescendingly on the head, and then comments on his greasy hair! Thought I’d bust a gut.’
This was somewhat unusual language for Butterbugs, but Sonny promoted it.
‘It’s Rickles, baby, but I dig…’
It wasn’t that the young actor was priggish or un-hip, but Sonny thought he could use some loosening up. So as not to alienate any co-workers by his language, if nothing else. Sonny had heard from TABP about the austere, even ascetic Butterbugs who presented himself during ‘The Waiting’ outside the VVVDD Estate.
‘Yeah, Butterbugs was one solemn but focused dude,’ TABP confided in Sonny recently. ‘Thing is, he was on the verge of something. Not just the thang with Vonda (blessings and peace be upon her). No, he could have been flirting with fucking enlightenment or something…’
‘Didn’t even know it?’
‘How could he know it?’
In the process of all this video-oriented yakking with Sonny, Butterbugs learned to relax into the moment more, to laugh, and to address his sexuality with natural acknowledgement instead of boxing it up and locking it away inside a Kremlin wall. Enough time had passed since Vonda to throw open both levels of the Dutch door before him, and enter into the next room, whatever it might be.
‘Who’s the girl?’ Butterbugs asked when they were viewing a 1940s Warners picture once.
‘Ann Sheridan,’ replied Sonny, quiet admiration in his eyes.
‘Boy, I’d like to – you know what…!’
‘I sure do, woo-woo-woo…’
‘I mean, go out for a FizziFoam drink with her, or something!’
‘Yeah, ‘or something’ is right.’
‘And maybe a picture show afterwards.’
As the Max Steiner score simmered down, Sonny said quietly, ‘You’ve never really done anything like that before, have you?’
‘Nope, but I’d sure like to some day!’
Sonny only smiled.
In their picture perusings, Butterbugs was particularly attentive to supporting players. Samm-Art Williams made a standout impression, in every role he saw him play.
‘Samm-Art’s been on my A-list these ten years now…’
Comedy’s consideration was full-spectrum, too.
Joseph Surface, in Richard Brinsley Sheridan’s hit, was one of his favorite characters.
‘And that Dohn Rickle always gets me!’
‘It’s ‘Rickles’, Butterbugs, Don Rickles, not ‘Rickle’, OK?’
‘Same thing!’
‘What if I were to call you ‘Butterbug’? Just that, nothing more.’
‘Why, that would change everything!’
‘OK, then?’
‘Yeah, I know. It’s not the same, really.’
One week now, before Butterbugs was due on set.
19.
I Love You. And Yet, I Hate You
Further in. Back up. Further back up, under the lights of the conurbation, toward the limits of human occupation. Into the hills.
Backup lights (in the form of flashlight) burned into the foggy realm of the San Goth highlands. Turnabout, then up Scragglewood Road quite a ways, getting on, towards the Observatory. Almost like Going To The Sun in Montana. Going To The Moon here. It was a bit unsettling.
For several hours Borah and Butterbugs had sat amongst the scrabbleweed and protoplasmic dust, gazing out onto the sodium-lit matrix of less-than-optimum nighttime LA. They were too far south and east to get the juicy bits. Here was simply the orange-ish sprawl of boulevards ’n’ split-levels, far, far away from the mountain peaks.
A date! Really, it was. Sonny had turned him on to Borah Candéz, pretty as a small town grad picture, hip intern at Projector+Associates’ Anjar Lake Terrace offices. They liked each other, but decorum was high. She looked awfully hot with her shoulder-length hair parted in the middle, framing glittering eyes and Olmec lips. A little black dress, invisible at this time of day, was perfect in the midnight heat. Fortunately, she wore white socks with her clunky high heels.
She was really neat.
For his part, Butterbugs sported a Hugo fon Bambo handkerchief, which protruded out of his breast pocket like a pale blue phosphorescent flower. It was his first ‘name’ accessory. Borah liked it. She could find him in the dark.
Butterbugs buried his head in Borah’s lap – so to speak. If only he could! But he was able to unburden a bit of his soul to her.
‘Crysigon DeLaCrue Pictures is filming ‘The Early Life of Captain Bob Falcon Scott’, and the semi-lead role was up for grabs. I could have done it! I tell you, I could have!’
Borah was astute: ‘Merv LeRoy is directing. One of Sonny’s star clients, you know.’
‘Yes! And I was right for it. I know that now.’
‘Have you ever thought that you were just right for a picture, but that, you know, there was some mysterious force that was keeping you from achieving your dearest wish?’
She was also really sweet.
Butterbugs positioned himself so that he could see Borah’s pepper-black eyes to advantage, given the somewhat suffused glow from lesser LA, below.
‘I confess,’
he said in a stunned murmur, ‘that has never crossed my mind. Perhaps it should have.’
‘Oh, you don’t have to be so hard on yourself.’
Was it possible for someone, sure to become an agent in the near future, to be this neat and sweet?
He had never considered falling in love with this delightful Latina before a minute or so ago, but now he was sorely tempted to ask her consent to raise her dress above her pepper-black eye-level so that he might, after chivalric prefacing, pursue a more tangible reality than the far off glories of the early years of Captain Scott. Their un-short hair was blowing in the puffy breeze, and the reasoned nature of the night above called for them to cast off their clothes and be glad.
Borah had privately gobbled her Pill before the incline of the San Goths, but now she was dull from exposure to the night, and the moist thrill of promised athletic prowess from the young idealistic actor had dehydrated into a wish for banal comfort. Something like the comforts of home.
Butterbugs too was muted. Perhaps the landscape was too big around them, the night too expansive. It minimized their roles in the contextual drama. Nevertheless, they felt content in their feelings, shook hands, and curled up like pie dogs amongst the Jehoshaphat scrub until washed-out dawn found them grungy and hog-untidy in the morning.
Butterbugs thought of Henry King’s ‘The Sun Also Rises’ (20th-Fox, 1957) and credited Papa Ernie H. with a good cinematic premise. He wished he had known the writer, and envied him for his all-night Cuban drinking and legend-making capabilities.
‘If I could hang with Ernie,’ the actor thought, even now, with Borah across the swale in half disrobed proto-sleep. ‘I should be the happiest of all men who dwell in these hills!’
Though she now discreetly, but mate-wise, lowered her panties to pee the night’s reserves away, he nevertheless focused on her full lips, which were contorted in bitten determination to fulfill the dawn’s duties of elimination with resignation.
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