Forward to Glory

by Brian Paul Bach

  On display was how his bow tie/thin tie had been sucked off by her imprint, leaving a same-shaped shadow on her frontage, a delightfully haughty addition to her minimal costume, from swan neck all the way down to outie belly button.

  Similarly, there was a positive development on Butterbugs’ person, with not only her barely bikini-covered parts imprinted on his cheap suit in a sort of Bernard Buffet effect, but a face full of hickeys that even Ron Jeremy would envy.

  Adhering to the music’s throbs, Teeny licked her non-mike hand with a generous tongue and commenced scrubbing her lip marks on the slab sides of his cheeks, leaving rose-colored love stains that got both couples and singles instantly hot and bothered, frisky and horny, from coast to coast.

  ‘I’ve been anointed!’ quipped Butterbugs, caught in surround-sound in both broadcast and house modes by Teeny’s phantom-switched mike.

  ‘Orra-bora! Morra-in-storra, for you, for you, for you, for you-you-YOU!’ she ad-libbed, perfectly integrated with the beat, which made the sound guy’s expert finesse look especially good, though it was Teeny’s genius, boosted by this boykin muse, that made it all possible. Nothing was drowned out. Nothing was lost. Stagey improv was never so Hitchcockian-controlled.

  It was a tremendously erogenous moment, and the whole nation was watching, as well as the broader coalition of the willing, worldwide. The tally of other nations had yet to be made, and YourBasicToob was already clogged.

  Up in the booth, Bill Conrad didn’t miss a beat, either.

  ‘It’s a moment for two young stars to proclaim their love, for not only each other, but for us all! Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, Teeny Topper and… Butterbugs!!!’

  One casualty: while rushing identity information concerning the object of Teeny’s desire to both Clark and Conrad in the booth – barely in time – a production assistant sprained an ankle.

  ‘Stars! Shining bright in the matching light! Stars so young and new! Stars – for none other than – you!!!’

  Crescendo.

  Reverie in the midst of the moment: it got all-serious in Butterbugs’ mind. What the hell was Teeny’s age, anyhow? Was she even a teen at all? She certainly looked it. A yaunnnng teen! But it was a false starter. No early-bird stuff here. No Gary Glitter rubbish. He wanted fully developed offerings and curvature of contours – near his years, in number at least. No earlier candidate needed, though he remained an admirer.

  Lights out. Pots down. Band off. Commercial break. Talent off stage. NOW. Set cleared. All in their separate ways.

  Teeny vanished into the mote-thick blackout, knowing exactly the path to her dressing room. A total professional. No further complications. All for show.

  Next act up: Tom Jones, and the mechanism of staging his segment was enacted instantly.

  Following the backstage flow, Butterbugs hardly had time to acknowledge the theatricality of the job he’d just done, let alone the sensationalism. He had just crossed the line that delineated the border between strolling players and their appreciators.

  Farewell to the internalization of an extra’s throat-cutting incident in northern Alberta.

  Greetings to the show that must go on.

  Physicality was immediate and compelling. Curiously, the product of Teeny’s oral pheromones on his person was mildly stimulating. Surely there were those who would pay him significant bucks to harvest its residue for profitable eBay offerings, or other business opportunities…

  He also had an erection to discreetly deal with. Secure in the restricted precincts of backstage isolation, he reckoned that a shower might be prudent, despite his own acknowledgement of a bit of star-awe for the babe in the teeny bikini.

  Somehow, he couldn’t quite categorize the bodily offerings from such a cute kid as ‘gross’. The Shakespearean spittle-squirtings he’d witnessed as Shylock, the stage-fright upchucks of others, the cig/pot/likker breathings, the projectile coughings, and other crudities were all just part of the biz, particularly its live division. Conversely, film kept them private and under editorial control.

  Considering the effects of the superstar’s slobber, he then decided to perform his ritual ablution at home. A bit of carefree jubilation at tonight’s achievement was very much in order. The added discovery of conspicuous moisture on his pant leg (from her excited but protected crotch) was something else to savor.

  Since he’d made such a scene with a pop idol on stage, he pondered over a bit of harmless, invitational randiness. Consumers of entertainment, whether at home or sitting in Row 1-A, never get to experience the bodily humanity on display, in its tactile form. Sight and sound are the senses catered to, but none of the others. So because of Teeny Topper’s star power, he was cordially introduced to the wonders of earthy lust in the midst of performance. And he was getting paid for it.

  ‘Surely there’s a fan scene to be had at the backstage door…?’

  Thither he went. Not familiar with anyone who manned this facility’s amenities, or the facility itself, the route he chose to pursue was suddenly questioned by an IATSE crew-member, who stretched out his arms to foil any further steps.

  ‘Why do you bar my passage, stage worker?’

  ‘I do not bar it… star! I merely suggest that you take another, alternate route, right this way.’

  ‘But, I would go out among the people.’

  ‘Sure you would. But maybe not tonight. If you did, right here, your entrance would be in an alley. Ill-lighted, with rubbish dumpsters, and –’

  ‘See here, fellow, I am not so haughty as you think.’

  ‘That has nothing to do with it, mister. The fire exit before which I stand happens to be a hazardous and industrial access to this rather poorly designed complex. I worked at the Shrine Auditorium for twenty years, and I’m used to perfection. This is not it. Save your debut in front of ‘the people’ for somewhere more appealing. After all, presentation is everything, isn’t it? Audiences are impressionable, and publicity spreads, by word of mouth – perhaps even more than via the media. Your entrance amongst those you call ‘the people’ should be worthy of your future. Do not squander it by posing as ‘humble’! You are in show business, and you have made a mark, and I envy you. You have touched the sweet body of Teeny Topper, which I have certainly seen, but not myself touched. And I tell you, I have seen her nude between costume changes, and I am content. But you, you are in desire, and you have stepped up onto the inclined plane of stardom. Take the opportunity! Do not be a fool! There are paths to tread, and paths not to tread! Some are inclined upwards and some just the opposite. Choose wisely.’

  ‘I think I might contemplate the subjects you so surprisingly entertain…’

  ‘Good. I have not served these years in entertainment not to entertain such subjects.’

  ‘Tell me of the land outside this door, good veteran.’

  ‘Grim, it lies. Spread with all manner of pitfalls, possibilities of mishap, and less than grand possibilities. There are those who live there by night –’

  ‘The homeless?’

  ‘Oh yes…’

  ‘Out there, I will feel at home to be among them.’

  The man laid out his arm before the door.

  ‘You are obviously sympathetic, but I sense that you are not of the same mind as they who are without. It is judicious that –’

  ‘I do not fear them.’

  ‘Now looka here. There is nobility and then there is naïveté. You demonstrate the latter. New to showbiz, aren’t you? You stand at the border of its tough side – right at this instant – and even though you have plainly had a wee bit of life experience, you have not yet had it with the added responsibility of being a featured player, and as the object of people’s desires.’

  ‘I have, as you said, experienced the form of Teeny Topper. And I am still whirling from it.’

  ‘I’m sure you well nigh are. Thus, my plain and emerald-green envy. But what I’m talking about has nothing to do with that sunny slope. There are other elements…’


  ‘I have an imagination, sir.’

  ‘Good. Take my word for it. Take the alternate corridor, just at hand.’

  He gestured to dual boomer-doors that shot off in an obtuse direction.

  ‘It will be advantageous.’

  Still flushed with the Bandstand stage experience, Butterbugs had no wish to quibble further with this strange and obviously informed backstage person. There was nothing else to say except to ask him the basics.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Smith. Iowa Smith. Stagehand.’

  Then the laborer raised not one stage hand, but both, equally, while gazing heavenward.

  ‘I will take your word, Smith. You’re on top of it.’

  Butterbugs winked. Indeed, he would direct his steps where suggested.

  ‘Have a good entrance into stardom, Butterbugs. Where it matters!’

  And Iowa Smith, stagehand vet that he was, reached out his index finger, scraped off some of the Teeny slobber that had now set up on Butterbugs’ lapel, boldly stuck the souvenir in his own mouth, sucked, smiled, then resumed his heavenly gaze.

  In the dreary passageway that led way back to the green rooms, Butterbugs marched forward. Though there were no rivers, mountains or grasslands to cross, it was dubbed ‘The Long March’ on account of its seemingly interminable requirements of passage. A thoroughfare to lope along, as if there were mechanized flooring, or if golf carts might appear at any moment, transporting the VIPs of the showbiz world. How dare they have to walk this route! Jolson wouldn’t have heard of it! Joe E. Lewis would have sued! Bette Davis would demand at least a bathchair!

  That is, if he was directed in the proper direction, by anyone at all.

  As he himself had admitted, that Iowa Smith fellow was envious of his success. What if that were the tenor of the attitudes awaiting him? Like, of his recipients – His… fans…?

  What are we going to worry about today?

  Midway along, he encountered a figure that had stopped still. The figure seemed to be preoccupied with taking down notes, or some such activity. Butterbugs paused, as he thought perhaps a bit of post-show small talk might be appropriate. It was a bona fide pleasure, now that he was circulating with purpose amongst cast and crews, to reach out and connect. This from a formerly-isolated ‘alien’.

  With another in his presence having halted along the Long March, the figure was obliged to look up from what he was doing. With everything cast in the cobalt-cold bath of Manchurian-made tubelight from the stark ceiling, the figure’s South Asian-influenced face became a metallic mask of reflective blue and chiaroscuro forms, framed by the wavy coconut-oiled locks of an ascetic in transfigured state. That face – a bazaar artist in Cawnpore could have painted it! Similar to a million calendar pictures from Hindustan, depictions of Krishna & Company, in flowery gardens and evening pagoda landscapes – showing the blissful life we should all want to live, always!

  Butterbugs’ own visage, taller, still costumed, still Teeny-powered, remained in shadow, except for the dim glow that compelled his eyes to network with the other’s own pair. But there were no words, only soulful absorption from the other’s wide, deep-well eyes.

  Time stopped.

  After time was no longer stopped, the actor nodded a friendly acknowledgment, and moved on.

  No words, though.

  [NOTE, With A Few Muted ***SPOILER*** Aspects: Few around this sound stage would have known that the figure midway along the Long March was an assistant director on tonight’s gig, Egaz D’Varzim, who was becoming a fringe director of some consequence. Or that he would later play an important role in the life and works of Butterbugs. He was currently struggling to realize a picture he had just written, coincidentally titled, ‘I Wanna Marry A Chimp Cage Cleaner’ (for 20th-Fox), ostensibly based on the Teeny Topper hit tune, and skedded to feature Yim-Yim the chimp. And from this moment on, he, Egaz D’Varzim, knew he had to have Butterbugs in the starring role. It was destined to be one of the most striking pictures of the modern age. And it would be a very large stepping stone to something much, much higher.]

  40.

  Long Range Planning… NOW! WOW!!

  Have patience everyone, now that the circus train has left the station. And, gathering steam for a perceived long haul, as the anticipation of grandeur begins to be felt, patience is especially critical. It is necessary to adopt methods of maturity, in order to assess and judge courses of action which are based on reality – not the New Reality, that cinematic bugbear – but real reality, warts and all.

  It is a typically American phenomenon to undergo discomfort when successful scenarios are narrated between and amongst the people of the everyday. Comfort zones result from distancing one’s self from undesirability or conflict. If one realizes that one’s neighbor is headed for misfortune, or in the midst of it already, a retreat to zonal comforts is most prudent. Whereas, if fortune is encountered by one whom one knows, depressive thoughts drop in. One feels left behind, to fend for one’s self while the progress towards glory is traversed by others. Hearts today are not so stout as Enoch Arden’s in accepting a fate of abandonment, nor are they at least awarded a dramatic destiny, such as Jude’s in obscurity. No, to hell with acceptance in defeat! The only option is to hitch a ride onward to fame and its vaunted towers, or bail off into shame, mockery, and disdain, while trying.

  In other words, here was Butterbugs, well and truly now on his way, but at a crossroads. Whether he should be sensitive about his struggle to get where he was currently headed, and to maintain that heritage prominently within his heart, or whether to go boldly and completely forward in pursuit of his art and its blandishments, without benefit or burden of constant reminders where he came from, the status therein, and the weight of it all.

  What construct, then, should define the Butterbugs of the future?

  Certainly, he had already chosen the forward block, but his sensitivity about his previous alienation caused the concerns to intersect. Significantly though, it was before a dawn in which he was required to stand up before a Panavision camera and recite a soliloquy for an important character role (Paul Rée), when he reviewed these thoughts, once and for all.

  ‘How can I continue,’ he mused, ‘if I am burdened by thoughts of others’ minds, or what they might perceive as concerns in which I am scrutinized and sidelined? What good is that? To sympathize, to empathize too much? These uncertain weights! I must shed them.’

  He gasped, then sat back in wonder, absorbing the eastern light that suddenly spread its modifications of his bedroom interior for him to feast upon, if he chose.

  He did indeed choose.

  ‘Fuck it. I’m going on. Alone. If need be.’

  It read like a suicide note. Nevertheless, it was something to believe in.

  ‘I’m going on.’

  Thus was the last binding tie cut. He was now finally and firmly free of his amorphous but conscientious past. A heritage in which he had been a consummate outsider. If he’d chosen to still adhere to it, that past would bar him from any purposeful participation in the moment and its many successors. The facts were stark, easy to understand, and the choice was a cinch. Thus was the discipline to which he had always aspired so automatically installed and implemented.

  He duly spread a butter knife’s surface of horseradish on a piece of zintercrisp, crunched its austerity, and exhaled the past, expecting to inhale the future on the very next breath.

  Butterbugs’ agent’s office took on extra personnel. Sonny employed a staff of ten now in his Butterbugs Unit, which occupied the second largest suite in the brand new Rem Koolhaus-designed Associates & Ultra-Creators Agency for Management building (Sonny’s new corporate moniker), on sumptuous Magma Blvd in the West Governor district. Posh, indeed.

  The suite was a virtual penthouse, set in a monitor-shaped upthrust, away from the main mass of stainless steel, acrylo-pane, and poly-module buildings, surrounded by monkey-arm trees, banyans, and weeping palms. It was an ecosystem all
to itself, with carefully designed water features, fauna conducive to the environment, and a hologrammatic display of mood lighting after dusk set in.

  Mr. Wick, the CEO of A&U-CAM, took great pains to super-create a world that was not of the LA that surrounded it, but some distant savannahland, innocent of degradation, disinterested in corruption, and divested of creep-money. How Mr. Wick maintained his position as one of the Ten Most Powerful People in Hollywood did not seem to enter into the equation, but the subject never came up, either.

  Environmental sophistication permeated the entire A&U-CAM world. Staff tended to dress in sleek alpaca or charcoal grey. G+Ts, Wackerbath cocktails, pale sherry, Pamé aperitifs, tubes of Apfel 1876 cordials from Weimar, and light green pilsners were served, from midmorning on. Bitcher’s Tea, Kutty’s Chai, and Wayne’s Coffee were exclusive. Dames were well-designed. Miniskirts encouraged. Dudes had to at least shave every day. Thin, thin 16mm ties recommended. No pinwheels or abusers tolerated. Non-tabac cigs, twist-joints, hubble-bubbles, and ’gars were OK, but in their proper terraces. Fooling around was permitted, if it would cement a deal, if mutual entertainments were urgent, or if love was mentioned.

  Butterbugs’ chief agent remained none other than the legendary Sonny Projector. And now his son, Pennefold Pendennis ‘Penny’ Projector, was 30 and entered the firm. Penny, having risen from being a drummer in some of the most influential stone bands of the ’90s and ’00s (The Bigs, The Kobers, and The Duets), was also a hit writer (‘The Man of K’, ‘Whup!’, ‘Terrible Tragedy’, and countless others). The ordeal of touring, plus the fact that his ‘tinker-toy’ style of drumming had passed by the wayside, eventually led him into his dad’s management circles, and he soon rose to near the top.

  The O’Vitz-dominated era in representation had thankfully passed, and now that Sonny was king, the entertainment biz could easily be set on pedal-to-the-metal, wide-open-cruise mode.