‘With the third picture, you know, a trifle they call ‘Harold of the Country’? It has the most potential as a monster hit. That means there’s no betting. It’s rock-solid for-sure. This is where the softball becomes hard. That means bargaining for shares becomes top priority. Two pictures in which to gather your momentum, OK? Got that? Then, a monster hit, which is what we all very well know ‘Harold’ would be, OK? It’s more than just theory. It’s based on investment analysis and speculation in all the right quarters. New York stuff. That opens negotiation avenues. Your right, and mine. Dieu et mon droit. That’s big league.’
‘Monster hit, yes, well…,’ muttered Porter.
The producer thought that acting like a spoiled, mopey, sailor-suit-wearing chunk of a kid with an all-day sucker, whose parade had just been urinated-on, might serve as a clever tactic in lessening the severity of his sins. On the other hand, bolstered by the golfing tool on the carpet below, Porter peeked over at his golf clubs in their suede carrier. Jack Nicholson once did a lot of damage with a two-iron… Hmmm… Well, better not.
One of Parker’s goals was to produce a Nicholson picture – any Nicholson picture – before he turned 40, and Sonny was the keeper at the gate of that cherished dream. One gate of many. Was it indeed time to open a Hate Sonny bureau within his organization?
‘Just like the old blues musicians, sleazed out of their rightful dues!’ raged Sonny, his eyes glaring at imaginary legal briefs on a courthouse table in front of him. ‘Why, if I’d only been around when Peppermark Chawkins got screwed over by Jingles Records back in ’32! Died broke of pockmark fever on a Yazoo barge, without seeing one royalty cheque! That’s just for starters.’
‘Yes… But Sonny, I was never going to do a Jingles on our Butterbugs, here –’
‘MY Butterbugs!’
‘Yeah…,’ Porter added weakly. ‘You fifteen-to-seventeen percent-ers…’
‘What did you just mumble, boy?’
‘Oh, nothing, dear Sonny!’
‘What’s that, boy?’
‘Just – nothing!’
‘The deal’s off, Parker. Off. That means the breaker’s been thrown, and I welded a padlock in place. Got it?’
‘No, Sonny! No! I’ll make it up to you somehow. I’ll wash your car. I’ll rake leaves. I’ll get you some grass. You want some grass? I’ll do anything!’
‘You are really pathetic, Pud-Pud Parker. Piffle. Poof…’
Porter started bawling.
‘I, I, I just want my dreams to come true, Sonny! That’s all!’
‘Course you did. At the expense of my stable.’
‘But Sonny, I have a stable too! A real one! I need the money, Sonny!’
‘Deal’s off. You are an earwig.’
Porter started sniffling. His Allen Sherman glasses were getting splattered with greasy tears, but he didn’t even have the wherewithal to take them off, confining him to a blurry miasma.
‘Oh Sonny, don’t let it end like this, please!’
‘Open your safe, Parker.’
Amidst his blubbering, Porter somehow managed to open the locker and produced what he knew was going to settle the matter: Butterbugs’ three-for-two picture contract.
‘That’s one,’ said Sonny. ‘Out of four. Here’s my copy. And here’s Butterbugs’, held by me in trust until we could work out secure storage on his behalf. Not that you need to know all those details. That’s two and three. Fendelson, Chuckerbutty, Chuckerverritty, and Klacksman have already enthusiastically supplied the copy of same that I filed with them. That’s four. So we have them all. And now, Butterbugs and I will settle back into our loges and witness your rippingly decisive destruction of all legally-binding materiel concerning this most horrid of transactions. Proceed.’
Without a word, but with plenty of snufflings and slurpings, Porter Pud Parker personally processed the paper that was no longer worth the ink that was lasered onto it, according to the Ethics Committee of one: the all-powerful Sonny Projector.
And Sonny wasn’t even packing heat.
The first phase was hand-accomplished, pulled in vertical directions, almost like a fabric, à la Charles Foster Kane, destroying Susan Alexander Kane’s disastrous operatic review in ‘Citizen Kane’ (RKO, 1941). The second phase was less emotional and much more thorough, accomplished via Porter’s Moulten-Dichter High-Density .10 Micron ShredDer-O-Matique.
And the job was done; the session concluded, like a puff of soon-to-be-utterly-forgotten space-dust, emitted from ancient stone joints throughout the shifting of the asteroid Urhixidur, for the 11,242nd time in a given solar day.
‘Sonny! I’ve never seen you open up like that before. Weren’t you a bit… harsh?’
Butterbugs was finally able to find words as he was climbing into Sonny’s newly-acquired 1953 Delahaye Type 235.
‘Naw! Porter’s a simp, but he’s also made of gristle. Damn good producer. He just got a tad greedy, like I said to his face. He’ll be all right in a minute. And so will we. Thing is, the Bucolics are off.’
‘Oh, no…!’
‘Yeah, I know…’
‘Truly…? Off…?’
‘Yup. They’re off… for now. To teach Porter a lesson. Oh, but we’ll do them. I tell you, we will. Maybe even with Porter. But not yet awhile.’
Solo, in his rooms, Butterbugs was confused, stalled. The Bucolics were off, all right. Sonny had put the nix on the whole thing, and strangely, his new ‘hot’ actor was left high and dry…
…Which led to him getting mixed up in ‘that neighborhood party’, with ‘all those dimbulbs’, which led to him ‘getting really shit-faced’, which led to him to ‘guzzling that horror drink’, which led to him ‘going loco’ on OxyCynara, which led to him getting arrested for ‘doing all that crazy shit on a respectable Bev Hills Blvd’, which led to his ‘prudent hospitalization’, which led to all that ‘insipid, Hollywood-hating publicity’ promoted by a ‘tiresome Hollywood-hating doctor’, which led to his rescue by ‘a sweet nurse of Tibeto-Burmese heritage’, and ‘the promise of a cure’ by Cody, his yummy savior-love, after some ‘terrific, healing’ hospital sex, and a ‘10:00AM doctor’s appointment’ at 42nd & 5th, New York City.
‘Oh my, Mr. Butterbugs, that’s quite a story. I’m very sorry for your difficulties. However, the doctor is quite noted for getting to the bottom of, you know, problems that are off the beaten track. And yes, she will see you now.’
33.
I Vomited Violently
NYC: high-rise at 500 Fifth Ave. An upper floor, with great views from a suite that allowed onto both the East and Hudson Rivers in chamfered aspect. It happened to be the office of a doctor of Orthogonal Psychiatry and Tensagenic Medicine (OPTM), who was world-renowned: Dr. Pixie Jasperberry Huapphuapp (BTh, Oxon, PhD UC Berkeley, MD Cantab).
After his third week in super-sized treatment and analysis, the ‘cast’, so to speak, that had protected Butterbugs’ mind and body while healing, was ready to come off.
It was a beautiful, season-less day over Gotham. The atmosphere was savory, the cityscape bright. Like a daystar, a ray of sun caught on a panel of the lantern atop the distant Cities Service Building and shot into the doctor’s office like a laser beam. It lasted for a second only, then was gone. The door upon which it hit, as chance would have it, then opened, and Dr. Huapphuapp came through.
‘Good day, Butterbugs. And a fine day it is! You are clearly rested and ready for us to wrap up our sequence of treatment. All procedures are now complete. I realize that, in its course, we haven’t dealt with some basic topics; sort of ‘background-type things’, you might say. I thought we could just have a pleasant wind-down session as a finale. We can talk about anything. Anything at all. Your questions?’
‘Your name. I’ve never heard one like it before, but I suppose it’s all right.’
‘You’ve a right to ask, as it is unusual. Like ‘Butterbugs’, really. I married Seltzer-Mendel Huapphuapp, of judiciary fame, five years ago, but we are estr
anged. Intact, I am an O’Kenna, the descendent of Celtic princesses.’
Her words were without guile.
‘Now there’s a thing!’ commented Butterbugs, lacking a similar statement of his own to make. He wasn’t even sure which hemisphere his ancestors hailed from, north, south, east, west, northeast, south-southwest… That is, if he even had any ancestors at all. Perhaps he could claim some Alexandrine conundrum of origins leading back to Hunza, or somewhere. And there was always the planet Saturn to consider… But never mind.
He was struck by her sudden physicality.
‘And you and Cody?’
Here was the opportunity to find out why his case was actually taken up by the really quite amazing Dr. Huapphuapp in particular, and not some other specialist.
‘We roomed together at Smith,’ she added.
Everything made sense now. Now he could truly relax. Now he could be truly emotional.
‘Cody! She saved me! You both did! Me from myself, and the forces swirling about me in such confounding whirligigs! The only way I can possibly thank you is to – well, humbly and quietly say… Thank you.’
‘You’re very welcome, Butterbugs. I like success stories.’
‘Cody’s really something.’
‘She is for a fact. I knew she’d make an important contribution somewhere. And I’m not just talking about saving you!’ Her eyes smiled more than her mouth.
‘Looks like you both did. Important contributions, I mean. Not just saving me, of course.’
‘Indeed,’ she sighed. ‘But on opposite coasts. We rarely get together these days. In fact, why didn’t she fly out with you? It would have been heaven, seeing her again.’
‘She’s got some big stuff at the studio. And her kids…’
‘Are you, um, still dating? Oh, pardon, excuse my bluntness… This isn’t an ‘official’ session, you know… And we’re not in my professional examining rooms, either…’
Butterbugs was somewhat pleased that the doctor now had her own questions, for him. Er, he.
‘Cody and I? Er, Cody and me?’
‘Uh-huh. Yes, that’s right.’
‘Doctor, after what we’ve been through, you can ask anything you want. Why, you and I are practically –’
One of her coppery eyebrows rose.
‘Practically…?’
‘Cody and me, that is; I mean, I love Cody. And Cody loves me. We decided – We’re friends. Friends forever.’
‘I get the picture. I just wanted to know. If you, ah, had a support system and all. Waiting for you, on the Coast.’
‘Oh, yeah. I know now that I can rely on Cody for all the support I’d ever need. And hopefully, I can give some back. She’s so cool. She’s been just… awesomely great. We’re both really busy, you know. Or, she’s really busy. I’m not sure about me, right now.’
‘That’s one of the reasons I asked, Butterbugs.’
‘To make sure I don’t go… wobbly again?’
‘Abbb-solutely!’
The doctor obviously had a bit of fun saying that word. Not so ‘officially’ sober today.
‘I’m touched by your caring, my Doctor. No, I think that, with you on one coast, and Cody on the other, you two roommates have me covered. Relapse? Impossible. This I know.’
‘In your actor’s soul?’
‘And past it, Dr. Huapphuapp. In my real soul, too!’
‘All the way down?’
‘Abbb-solutely!’ he mimicked, cheerfully, flatteringly, sincerely.
She knew he spoke absolute truth.
‘Excellent!’
‘It’s as if – All that time, that time before I knew of my condition, that I was sort of, I don’t know, vomiting violently. Inside. A violence of some kind, you know? I didn’t even have any kind of overview. Now I do.’
Dr. Huapphuapp smiled.
‘I’m glad I didn’t disappoint you.’
She liked the imagery he used.
‘Who would’ve guessed that my problem was not having enough horseradish in my diet?’
‘Science has discovered many such curiosities, Butterbugs. It was your destiny to have to discover that in your internal chemistry, bound to its matrix of endocrine and ixenisephric systems requirements, the precise lack of an obscure but essential compound of components is, in your case, in fact made up for by the molecular composition of, yes, humble horseradish. This may sound too simplistic, but your condition was obviously exacerbated by a generally-lacking diet, too. A diet that would send most anyone into some sort of deficiency-related pathology. (An increasing problem today, as we all know – or should know!) We talked of your ‘dining out’ at convenience stores and Vons, which, even taking your considerable physical assets – or, should I say, reserves – into question, eloquently explains such unconventional experiences, as you have mentioned to the best of your recollection. Euphixicological sub-deficiencies are direct demi-influences on memory/recall jam-ups in patients with parthenæsian-sforicœnic tendencies; a specialty subject of mine, by the bye. Probably the most quintessential event (among the many incidents you handily referenced, though not in so much detail), that best illustrates your symptomatic progression, was your run-in with hooligans along Pepito de Tacos-Queveres Memorial Avenue in Nether-LA. Fortunately, my findings were – and are – conclusive. As you related, upon alarm-awakening, you exited your vehicle in search of life-giving air, and you lost control of your motorized equilibrium, largely due to your gathered deprivations. The discharge you absorbed from the appendage remains of that non-walking bystander in the bathchair was a significant factor in altering your systemic balances. A legitimate chemical threat to your life and limb was regrettably ingested during that unhappy incident. I’m particularly grateful that the memory of the encounter was so graphically engraved on your at-risk memory banks (thus, your ‘vomiting violently’ as a response). With this advantage, I could therefore methospherically deduce the intrinsic elemental breakdown in a fast-track manner, instead of having to ‘ferret out’ said bystander himself for biopsy-pulls and subsequent Petri analysis. Or, if said bystander no longer breathed upon this Earth, his remains would have had to be traced, naturally. Then, after judgeship allowed, exhumed from memorial park, churchyard, potter’s field, and so forth. Or, if his remainders were combusted, diligent collection from sentimental jug, or favorite flowerbed, or even open landscapes would necessarily ensue. You know, residual toxectomorphrenic isticies of the type that threatened you can be detected even from cremated granules, provided samples are run through our improved dististic testing machinery, in station here. In addition, we have like facilities on the Coast, near San Cauldres del Canotauna. So we had that in our favor. As damn good science would have it though, none of these procedures were necessary. Incidentally, I have an extensive library of mezzo-studies on these matters, most of which I have at least co-authored, should you be interested. Another obvious factor required amplification. There was the overwhelming evidence that you were particularly susceptible to invasive difficulty due to your unintentional but aggressively dubious nutrition: viz. fringe junk food (i.e. bubble-drinks packaged in Zunlon containers, boil-crisps, pea-whips, SnizzlSnaques) and the like, as exemplified by the first minute you got to LA. Again, I’m so grateful for your recitation of your bills of fare in these seminal situations of introductory and third-tier stentellean noxium. Oh, gosh – please, Butterbugs, stop me if I’m getting too technical, will you? I just, well, my field is so rich with stimulations and excitements! It kind if gets me… Oh, ahem…! Well then. So, in easy summary, despite your intrinsic abilities, the chemical ‘combo’ of insidious junk and convenience sustenance conspired against you. Then, the ensuing massed subjective-cum-ontro-psychological manifestations especially captured my attentions. I’m referring to your ‘weird’ sequences: doubtless, there was a distinct and present link to the surreal quality in the pitch of your feelings. Especially in your cogent perceptions of your given environment and your interpretation of it. Given the s
omewhat irreal nature of many facets to be found in your adopted city already, any chemical aberration stacked on top must have seemed like a double dose of, well, uncertainty, chaos, and loss of control. Assertively will I add that, without the extensive Analysis of Patient Fettle, signally precipitated by your unfortunate run-in with OxyCynara, we might never have been privy to how all this data sums into the wonderful authoritative diagnosis we now have. In all estimations, the parthenæsia gravis (that’s our word for your condition) was intensifying and progressive. We were fortuitous in waylaying it, completely and utterly. Your conscious but uncontrolled lapses into surreality will never return. Provided, that is, you partake of at least one .5-gram serving of horseradish or its tincture at least once a week. This, for the foreseeable future. Or you may partake of the root at every mess, if you so desire. You can suit yourself. There is no overdose factor whatsoever.’
She brightened by adding, ‘Only what your shredded taste buds can tolerate, pilgrim!’ – as if to convey, ‘You’re such a lucky duck!’ more than ‘Until we find a cure!’
‘Could this be called a rare condition?’
‘Yes. Well, not in principle. There are many humanoids whose deficiencies might reside in the union or addition of some supplemental compound. Yours happened to come together in this elementary form. That is, external elements combining with internal chemical mutabilities.’
‘Got a microscope?’
She laughed lightly.
‘You are too funny, Butterbugs.’
‘So you, yourself, if you had any deficiencies (which you obviously don’t), might find out that an extra dash of wintergreen or peppermint would make you whole again… That is, if you were – incomplete…?’
Dr. Huapphuapp laughed again, musically.
Butterbugs smiled.
‘As a kid, I never liked that name, ‘horseradish’. I suppose the stuff itself was okay. I always liked the little purple, gold and green foil containers it came in, that I saw at Tucker’s Super Duper Mart.’
Forward to Glory Page 38