Forward to Glory

by Brian Paul Bach

  Lust! What could such a thing be, from one who had so much on his mind?

  They waltzed amongst the gobweed for a time, then realized that surely, a descent into a lesser world was the right thing to do.

  ‘I have to tell you something, Butterbugs. I’m engaged to be wed.’

  ‘Oh.’

  A copy of the bloated LA ‘Times’ whapped against Heatherette’s screen door with such force that the headline:

  OOL-AKZAD NAZAR DECLARES WAR ON THE WEST

  was imprinted on the woven surface – if only for a premonitional moment – before lapsing into neutrality.

  Nude she came into this world, and nude she plucked up the paper from its arrival pad on the vast verandah at her precious dooryard.

  ‘West of where?’ she mused with customary skepticism, regarding the statement that carried audacity enough to brand itself on the borders of her amethyst domain.

  ‘On a sphere, ‘West’ can be anywhere, really. And it is always everywhere.

  If I say I am of the North, that is my reality, my choice. I shall choose North, then. That is truth enough for me. The rest is absurdity…’

  Discarding the essentials of the newspaper, she went straight to the vital comic strips of ‘Dryshave’, ‘Doofus’, ‘Underworld’, ‘Mule’s Diner’, ‘Maakies’ and ‘Zippy’.

  ‘Funny,’ she thought, after the funnies were consumed, ‘I don’t even subscribe to this paper…’

  She inhaled the heady bouquet of eighty year-old curtained alcoves, and pondered the quality of light penetrating the wistful peacock-colored stained glass windows that faced the outer world.

  ‘My palisades are secure,’ she whispered. ‘The West may be under threat, but for now, most of the North is at peace.’

  Three days until Butterbugs was due on set.

  20.

  Chamber Music In The Afternoon

  He was always drawn to the hills. A lot of people weren’t, but he was. With a bit of elevation, Butterbugs could get up and above the matrix, and his mind cleared. Because it was a tad cluttered these days.

  An easy transition, though. He had certainly come to this metropolis ’twixt brow and slope in order to do just that. To get cluttered, that is. But with the right things. Well, preliminary processes were like that. Preparation, and all.

  Now the time of preliminaries was ebbing. The slim current was about to be confronted by a man-made channel. Did it lead into a reservoir, or a penstock? A babbling brook, or over a spillway?

  It was not a particularly tense time. Why should it be? It was no time for nostalgia, either. There was no pinpoint reckoning or self-analysis about his previous period in Hollywood. To Butterbugs, aside from a few half-remembered notions, almost everything up to the present was a chunk of time that merited justified oblivion.

  ‘Doesn’t matter. What matters is now!’

  What other maxim did an actor need?

  Oh, he was lacking in several ways.

  ‘Where am I?’ he queried.

  He didn’t know. He had wandered, lonely as a sole remaining billiard ball on lumpy sage-colored felt, along the edge of San João de Capstack Humpback. Where the hell should he go now?

  Over on a neighboring slope, the remains of a failed Portuguese mission, amounting to a modest pile of rubble around the stump of a bell tower, evaded his notice. So there were no landmarks imprinted on his mind.

  The afternoon sun had become mellow, and the atmosphere was fairly salubrious. There was nothing like California’s version of the Mediterranean clime. Even when the visceral smog was bad, and the particulate matter could make things look as if filmed in heavy-grain AnscoColor or similarly pixel-y Plus X, there could be a gentleness of intent. But not today. The sky above was clean as a first milking, and intentions were unnecessary.

  A trail of sorts wended through the clumps of nailweed and the sparse bark of the Parma shrubs. Thus, it became a lyrical jaunt, solo, and the overriding sense was one of sweetness, though little time was to be had around its edges.

  Pausing on open ground before a defile cast in shadow, he stretched his arms out and breathed in the moderate air. The broad-brimmed hat he wore was effective against the wistful but insistent light, and alas, his bota bag was ready to be squeezed of its last drop of water. His exhale was noisy and self-absorbed, but when it was completed, the silence that he had heard in this land was replaced by a faintly melodic line, coming from somewhere adjacent. Then it grew plainer, and seemed to be from a metallic wind instrument. In point of fact, a philharmonic flute.

  ‘What strange tones…,’ he mused. ‘To be followed, to the source…’

  The tune was enchanting, though somewhat absent, abstract, thoughtful, transporting. It was easy to trace the track to where it originated, just further up the slope.

  He stopped before revealing himself to whoever was playing the music. Their form was still obscured by a sketchy scrab bush. So it was through this veil that he waited politely for the odd opus to runs its course. After it ended, there followed the practice toots and bar replays of one in rehearsal. The performance was successful: Butterbugs was transferred into a serene mood, with flavors of old cherries, leather, dried hanging herbs, and a touch of generic sweetness, that lingered.

  The general tone of the moment was one of comfort, thoughtfulness, peace. Certainly it was permissible to present himself, to thank the musician for the serenade, if nothing else.

  A young woman sat in a folding chair, music stand in front her, perfectly poised on the side of this domed hill, with fair and unpopulated prospects all round. The subtle appearance of the lone male, who approached from around the protective vegetation, must not have caused her much concern, as she noted his presence, then glanced down to her score.

  Butterbugs approached, respectfully, non-threateningly, of course. As no response came readily from the musician, he doffed his great wide hat.

  ‘Your song has brought me to this spot, and it is my humble pleasure to thank you for the accompaniment.’

  The actor was just emerging from a conspicuously Shakespearean sequence in his life, so there was more than a hint of courtliness in his etiquette. A flute sonata in the wilderness did require special treatment, however.

  She placed her flute on the music stand.

  ‘I thank you. I hope that it didn’t disturb your repose in this outback territory.’

  She was somewhat reticent, but his demeanor was acceptable, and indeed, apparently non-threatening. A tote bag was hard by her chair; whistle, smartphone, pepper spray, firearms, within? All of the above?

  ‘Not at all. It was a remarkable experience. Unique!’

  Her obvious sophistication called for an actor’s skills in such society.

  ‘I come to this locale in order to claim the solitude that is my need,’ she explained.

  ‘And I have broken it. I will withdraw, duly.’

  ‘Please, no. You are parched.’

  ‘I am. But do not trouble yourself.’

  ‘How could I not, wayfarer? Come. Take. I have a spare cup. Try.’

  ‘I am right glad you have the extra vessel!’

  ‘For souls who have left by now.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Those friends who are no longer with me. I retain this cup for their memory.’

  ‘I offer my respect, but I cannot –’

  ‘Come then, you will share their cup, without offense.’

  ‘I thank you.’

  ‘Not at all. You just take…’

  ‘I am refreshed!’

  ‘I and my late friends are gratified.’

  ‘You perform in this place of bare nature! Your music is before you. What is it, pray?’

  ‘A sonata by Z. Rykovlanskrebskovskaya, a composer friend of mine. It is very difficult. Are you… familiar with her?’

  She did not necessarily expect a candid answer.

  ‘No, but I should be. Are you, may I ask, a professional musician, then?’

 
‘I am. With the All-Goth Filmharmonium Magnum.’

  ‘That is a studio orchestra?’

  ‘We are a freelance ensemble, born of the Goth Studio at one time, now free to play upon request.’

  ‘So you are of the Industry?’

  ‘I am a musician, first and always. I also am a member of the Chisinau Symphony, and the Cheng Ensemble of Shek-O, Hong Kong Island.’

  ‘Oh, that is exciting.’

  ‘I am nothing if not sanguine, when among music and musicians.’

  ‘I see.’

  Both remained formal, but with gaining friendliness.

  ‘And you? One who ranges amongst the hills? I have not seen you before.’

  ‘I? An actor, if it please you.’

  ‘So… you are of… the Industry?’

  ‘I don’t know if I am or not.’

  ‘Right now you are here.’

  ‘In this place.’

  ‘Yes. I think you know what I mean.’

  ‘I’m not sure…’

  ‘The sense of place. At any one time.’

  Butterbugs grinned. ‘The philosophy of the flute . .!’

  ‘Is that a role?’

  ‘I was just making light.’

  ‘Yes. I see.’

  He returned to formality. ‘I’ve put you off. I’m sorry.’

  ‘I come here for solitude.’

  ‘Yes, and I’m an intruder.’

  ‘That’s all right. Really. Perhaps I do get rather isolated with my thoughts.’

  ‘You seem to know where you are, though. The sense of place, as you say.’

  ‘Yes. That’s right. You know, then.’

  ‘Well, I’m not so sure, as I said.’

  ‘What aren’t you sure of?’ Her face emanated kindness now.

  ‘Where exactly it is – that I am.’

  ‘That’s something which can be determined.’

  ‘I’m not sure what it takes, in order for…’

  ‘If you want it to be determined, it can be,’ she said with a ready sureness.

  ‘I think I do.’

  ‘Then, you might consider what I do. Often do.’

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘When you walk into a new frame of mind, know its dimensions. Know its nature.’

  Butterbugs was intrigued. ‘I follow you.’

  ‘Know that it is connected somehow with where you’ve been before. But more importantly, it’s the next step towards where you are going. I know it sounds basic. I’m not very profound, I realize. But now, if I don’t think those things, if I don’t keep the thread, you know, as it’s followed all along, in one piece, I will lose my way. For good this time, I would think.’

  He regarded her in her folding chair, behind the music stand, petite, somewhat rounded, organized in her catalogue-y clothes, quite together.

  ‘This is exceptional. Seeing you here. Hearing you here. Practicing. You’re a lovely discovery, I think!’

  ‘Please, I don’t need any sort of – I’m not in a state of mind for – Although you are – Well, I’m flustered now.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Your sensitivity shows. You’re sorry! You’ve said that more than once.’

  ‘It’s because… You make me articulate things, I guess, more directly. You’re sensitive. Thus, I am too.’

  She gave a slight smile of intrigue.

  ‘I have an influence over you, then?’

  ‘I think you do.’

  ‘I’m not sure what to say.’

  ‘Might I have another ‘memory’ cup of water?’

  ‘I’m not at all sure… I should further engage…’

  ‘Your hair – it’s beautiful in this light.’

  She looked down past her music in modesty. The thick wave of her parted richness caught all the splendor of the sideways light, confirming Butterbugs’ emboldened train of thought, made public by the circumstances.

  ‘Oh, but only if you’d come two days before!’ she said, her puffy, flutish lips were all that he could see below the line of her lowered hair. Then she looked up at him, shaking the strands from her restrained cheekbones, though some remained on the sides of her glasses, as they are wont to do with any attractive music nerd in the heat of a trio with flute.

  ‘Actor stranger!’ she continued. ‘You speak to me like you should, by telling me your truth. I look back, and I don’t need to say much. I could play you a song on my instrument, and you’d know what it means. You came up here. The first time anyone has. I’m surprised, but – not, somehow. I’m not even afraid of you. But I cannot talk further with you. You must understand.’

  ‘I – understand. I guess… But you do not appreciate my, my appreciation, of… You, then?’

  She gazed up at him plaintively.

  ‘I do! Though I know you not! Not at all. I know nothing about you. Nor you me. It scarcely matters. You say things, just these first things, that I’ve longed to hear, but I will not hear them right now. You may deserve an – explanation, but I cannot speak it myself – right now.’

  ‘Indeed, I shall go.’

  ‘Yes, please – I’m sorry, it’s my turn to say it. Please, understand…’

  Butterbugs bowed, but not grandly, and turned to leave.’

  ‘Actor?’ she called after him. ‘Do you know where you are going – now?’

  ‘In my truthfulness, I must say, not really. But there is this: by seeing you today, I can follow my own footsteps in a more watched fashion. To see where they’ve been, and to mind where they go.’

  She turned away. Her eyes fully welled with tears she did not want him to see.

  He wanted to call after her.

  ‘I won’t forget you, gentle, solitary one!’

  But he couldn’t possibly.

  Tomorrow he was due on set at the Selznick Studio at 5:00AM for makeup call. He knew his lines.

  In his Davis motormobile, he waited at the gate that entered the long and narrow back lot of Selznick’s venerable Culver City spread. His heart beat no faster than the three-wheeler’s idling Hurricane mill, which was a pretty low RPM unit to begin with.

  Was this an exciting time? Well, yes and – yes. Of course it was.

  On the other hand, there was a strong current of propriety that dominated his current progression toward Doing What He Always Wanted To Do In Hollywood. Proper in that it all seemed so fitting, so right. So natural, too. Therefore, he did not feel either a teen-like frenzy of butterfly elation or an edgy lack of weight on his nerves at this moment in time. His belly was in neutral, his neck pliable, and his cerebellum stunningly clear, despite the tweaky feel of an early LA morn. Even his fingernails were without negative emotion. The somewhat emergent makings of a pro?

  The gatesman scanned his access list for the day. The morning light was starting to illuminate the back lot scene, which was doused in the same tired stucco-y yellow as his three-wheeled tube. (Had the Davis been a prop car here in its past?) Things were starting to come to life. Wardrobe trolleys clattered along like rickety and sordid cranchees from old Bengal, driven by veteran union guys with cig ends in their mouths. Carpenters were taking their first break of the day, filing out of a small soundstage to the left. Several chorus girls in glitter costumes and matching derbies pranced past in impossibly high heels.

  ‘Woo, woo, WOO!’ crowed one of the gawping carpenters.

  A wonderland awaited!

  Butterbugs shut his engine off. The gatesman was taking ages in futzing with his clipboard. He then went back into his kiosk and got on the phone. The young actor began to sweat. The morning was already heating up, and the humidity was more noticeable, now that there might be trouble in getting in the gate.

  ‘Whud ya say yur name whuz? Joby?’ the gatesman asked as he put down the phone.

  ‘Er, Butterbugs.’

  He glanced over at his ‘Doughboy’ script on the Rexene upholstery, as if it might have to serve as a pass.

  ‘Sure it’s not Joby?’

  ‘No
, it is not, sir.’

  ‘Oh. OK.’

  He glanced down at his clipboard again, then called out from the window.

  ‘Just go on down to Wardrobe.’

  ‘Where is it, pray?’

  ‘What? Huh?’

  ‘Where might Wardrobe be, sir?’

  ‘350 feet on down, to the left.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Fittingness and rightness took a dip, while nervousness rose a tad. After all, he was about to do something that untold thousands of aspirants dreamt of, longed for, fought for, grew ill for, and perhaps would kill for: entering a studio, with camera and crew waiting.

  The Davis would not start. Loaded-up carburetor, flooded, regardless of altitude. He engaged the thrashing starter repeatedly until the tone indicated that the one-cell battery might be declining. Suddenly things were barely in control. There was a little crank in the trunk, but since Wardrobe was 350 feet away, the alternative must be attempted. There were others waiting in the growing queue behind him, probably producers, executives, and especially directors, ready to get dictatorial even before they reached a set. Plus, they weren’t smiling. They made movies; they didn’t want to live them. This was a factory, and the first shift of the day was starting.

  Butterbugs had to get out and push. No one helped. Fortunately, the vehicle was easy to trundle along, so he propelled it like a bulky motor-sickle with sidecar, until it came to rest against a barrack wall near Wardrobe, virtually blending in with the slabby side of the building.

  More and more, the studio was coming to life. This wasn’t the ‘high’ season, but the plant was operating up to a measurable capacity. Traffic along the thoroughfare increased.

  A convoy of wheeled brute-grade arc lamps was approaching. Butterbugs figured he’d better get across to his appointment before he was flattened.

  One of the grips pointed at the Davis and said, ‘Hey Stan! Get a load of the oddball goon-car! Looks like it’s from a carnival ride! Say, wasn’t that stupid thing in the Hag Haggadorn musical, last Halloween…?’