He wanted her to lift her dress then and there and spread her butt cheeks, so that he could plant a big smackeroo on each one before exiting the vehicle and planting their feet onto the red carpeted path towards premiere, wet cement, and Sid himself.
For her part, Saskia’s personal choice would have been for Butterbugs to split his tux shirt open so that she could prowl around, up and down the unknown thoroughfare, in search of some sort of musky achievement as a prelude to triumph in Grauman’s great house. This was her picture, too.
But Sirrell the chauffeur was able to look into the MirrorMatic rearview coverage and behold a scene both innocent and sincere, for Saskia was there, pointing up at the huge laser-lighted banner, mightily strung between Meyer & Holler’s fanciful obelisks guarding the courtyard.
‘There, Butterbugs, look!’ she whispered breathily. ‘Your name – before the title! Our picture, in lights, before the public, and on the screen!’
Butterbugs was no prig, no prude, but the moment was so overwhelming, the reality of its majesty and portent so commanding, that all he could do was gaze at the lights above and grasp her hand, kissing it gently but firmly, while noting at the same time the stereo effects of marquee on one side and bodily warmth, physical immediacy, and accessible sensuality, grouped very nicely, on the other. The combination made his head swim, deep in a channel of ecstatic certitude.
Saskia gave him the best facial encouragement she could, before the exterior door handle was grasped by uniformed doormen, while Butterbugs swallowed the built-up oral fluids used in advanced tongue-on-tonguing, and instead prepared to go out and meet his magnificent occasion.
Door opened, white glove gesturing forward, the couple of the moment landed on the proper red pad with total success.
But there was no special reaction from the crowd.
No one in the publicity-generating ranks seemed to know who these people were. They were OK-looking, but in the hubbub of the moment, no showcasing occurred, mainly due to the massiveness of the event. No one noticed that Saskia wore no panties, a truth that was easily revealed when she debarked from the black land-barge, or that Butterbugs’ tie was no longer straight. The former was sheer Hollywood-sans-Frederick’s audacity – a tradition, really. The latter was an understandable discrepancy to correct, taken up by Saskia’s nimble movement past the missed photo-op of her prominent mons-moment. Flashbulbs started to pop aplenty though, when they sensed a dandy scene not to be overlooked this time: Saskia’s attention-getting bottom, poised attentively, with dress hiked up to an interesting extent, until the task of tie correction was accomplished.
In any event, progress up the exalted way by the privileged young couple was a tad muddled.
‘Your ass will probably emerge as the most memorable image of the evening,’ Butterbugs corner-mouthed-quipped to his date.
‘Oh, go on, Big Boy! Once they see our picture, the profound shall overtake the profane. We both know the audience will be melted down, well before Intermission!’
Butterbugs quietly got choked up, knowing of the picture’s great solemnity, its great beauty, and its great power.
Director King, his prodigious age belied by a lofty posture and eagle eyes, greeted them midpoint along the way to the cement-works.
‘Welcome young friends, blooming artistes! This is your night! Welcome to the echelon of extraordinariness, that you both have earned so handsomely!’
‘You led our way, Mr. King,’ replied Butterbugs, with a stately gravitas fitting for the distinguished auteur.
‘I only wish Charles Robert Maturin himself, our original author, man of the theatre, could be here tonight, as well.’
‘Oh he is, Henry,’ said Saskia. ‘I can feel his spirit, his presence, enabled by our star here, in our midst!’
‘Then we have succeeded,’ answered the pantheon director. ‘Go on ahead now. Glory awaits!’
Squire Southern, that beloved wag of filmic premieres and other glittery events from LA’s Broadway to NY’s Broadway, was on hand to emcee, both for the immediate audience and for those observing the event over the satellite feed of the Swelteroverem Networks. Mike soundly in hand, he picked up on the fact that the crowd had let Butterbugs and Saskia come up the red carpet virtually unnoticed.
‘Well now, what’s this?? Laties and chentlemen, I’d just like to point out: he who stars in tonight’s big production now walks amongst you! Approaching me is none other than Butterbugs, star not only of the feature which lies before us, but of ‘I, Doughboy’, ‘The Sinking of Port Royal’, and ‘At Last, Hail!’, that big Roman picture. Here he is now! See what you think of him! Butterbugs! Don’t they know ya??’
A tremendous roar went up from the gathered throng who, now that they were made aware of someone on which to focus, seized the moment and showed their appreciation. They weren’t disappointed in what they saw.
‘Welcome, new kid on the block! Butterbugs, come on up!’
‘Thanks. Thanks. Good to be here.’
‘So super of you to indeed be here on this distinguished night! Let me say, this is the finest night I’ve ever hosted! A really fine night!’
‘Super to be here.’
‘Super to have you! Butterbugs, you’ve made quite a splash, but we hardly know ya!’
‘I’m delighted to meet everyone tonight.’
‘Getting-to-know-you…,’ Squire S. sang.
‘That’s one of my favorite tunes, Mr. Southern.
‘Well, sure! But, this picture, Butterbugs. It’s a very curious picture. A big one, too.’
‘I’m told it runs four hours and forty-nine minutes. I don’t know if that’s a bad thing or not, but –’
‘Wow, that’s a long show! A good one?’
‘I can’t wait for audience responses. I hope they find the picture worthwhile,’ Butterbugs replied with utter humility.
‘And say, this elegant lady at your side?’
‘Ms. Saskia Pingles. She wrote the script for the picture. I am in her service.’
‘Aha! She is your inspiration, your leader!’
‘I didn’t exactly mean it in that way. She is a marvelous writer.’
‘Ms. Pingles, this must be a very thrilling occasion for you.’
‘Yes.’
‘Can you elaborate, dear girl?’
‘It is for a fact, my good Squire. This picture is a product of my most treasured aspirations. I am gratified that we are seeing it here, in this sacred venue, on this night! The Chinese décor might be incongruous to Middle Ages France, but hopefully the picture will speak for itself whilst the surroundings remain dimmed.’
‘I’m sure that will be the case, as it is with every premiere within these sacred, as you call them, precincts. Strength to you, Ms. Pingles! Butterbugs? All best wishes for the success of this, your big production!’
‘Thank you very much, Squire.’
‘I understand that a certain ceremony has to take place first, and you’d better get a move-on, otherwise they’ll have to hold the nine-o’clock curtain!’
‘My grateful thanks, Squire…’
Music swelled: a triumphal fanfare and march, variations on Franz Waxman’s sublime ‘Albigenses’ score, specially arranged by Michael Nyman. The red carpet led ever onward. Up its course, Butterbugs could see an intoxicating sight: bathed in white light and imminent importance, the showman emperor of the west coast, the proprietor of this here picture show, in person. None other than Sid Grauman himself awaited at the end of the passage.
At that moment though, Butterbugs suddenly turned about. There, through the halogen splinters, reflector nets, and the waving, noisy crowds, Butterbugs caught a brief and semi-censored sight of a little neon sign across the boulevard: the Sideshow Tavern. Well then! Here he was, on the opposite side of the street tonight, away from the sleaze, which certainly had a right to exist, but did not at all compute in his current equation, nor had it done so in his past. So here he was, looking back at it, with a stately, high-heeled won
der at his side, and with Sid and glory ahead. He duly registered the contrast, and even held out his palm to pay tribute to his humble past, but the crowd misinterpreted this occult reference and instead burst into upper-volume cheers, thinking he was inviting them into his augustness. Distracted by the loving attention, he instantly absorbed their proffered tribute and erased the unseemly Sideshow factor from his blast-off mentality, reveling in the reality that had once been a fantasy.
‘Remember,’ Saskia whispered moistly into his ear, ‘You’re nothing but a man!’
The auditory message gave him an erection. How handily did intimacy serve as handmaiden up the path to responsibility!
If Butterbugs did not genuflect before Sid, it was because he was not a Catholic. A kowtow in this Chinese environment might have been an appropriate gag, but no doubt an occasion-cheapener. One good-looking ass in the air was enough for one Grauman premiere. But he bowed elegantly anyway, because when actor and impresario met face-to-face under these circumstances, a welling gratefulness overflowed from both, and if the nearby cement had not already been liquefied, perhaps the outpour of feeling from the actor for this person of consequence, who had given him a toehold toward success, would have upset the careful Notre Dame mixture, thus spoiling the printed results that would remain on the tablet below for all time.
Instead, the two engaged in a muscularly mutual handshake of understanding. For Sid, the venerable showman, belief in a newcomer had paid off. For Butterbugs, a formal acknowledgement before public and press, and that credit should go to those who have earned it.
Sid’s wild Brillo-pad mop-top of snowiness added to his mystique, and now did Butterbugs feel fully arrived at the proper level of Hollywood stardom. After all, it was about to be set in concrete. Now he had a crystal-clear concept of what it meant, and what it entailed. It was about people and mechanisms paying attention to what one did, and one had to decide if one were up for the task, or if the whole package might not be a bit much.
With Sid before him and Saskia at his side, the choice evaporated. Of course this was what he chose: to be among those in the Industry who mattered.
‘Butterbugs! You’re ready?’ Sid’s voice was benevolent.
‘I am,’ he said with a big and confident smile.
‘Come then! Approach!’
They arrived at a raised platform over the waiting slab of stone pudding, specially prepared by bétonièrre deluxe, Vercingetorix-Hippolyte d’Trujeaux, decked out in smock, immense bow, mustachios, pince-nez, chapeau artistique, and three sizes of trowels.
‘All now is prepared, M. Grauman et M. Butterbugs.’
Key-lights brightened, cameras dollied and boomed-in for medium close-ups. The noise of the throng settled in expectation. The showman himself was conductor, assisting the star while he planted his left shoe first and right shoe next, and then, both down on their knees (Sid’s were bonier), palms were pressed into the soft-as-Justina’s-belly mixture. Some slight ponding occurred in the depressions, which was always considered a promising omen.
‘Good mud!’ commented Sid, making Butterbugs feel more at ease than he already was.
This was all so natural.
A girl attendant in a mandarin slit-skirt then brought a basin of warm water, and laved the earthen hands until clean. After this ritual bathing, another girl provided a linen napkin of almost papal weave, and when the hands were dry, a sgraffito tool was placed in them, which the master showman had produced from his breast pocket.
There, writ in letters vaguely Laotian in their curves (it was the actor’s first ever inscription in the strange viscosity of cement mix), and finishing off the vignette of foot and handprints, name and date, was the cipher:
‘THANKS TO YOU, SID’.
‘There.’ Saskia said to herself, ‘Croesus in concrete!’
A cheer went up from the thousands, making the ornamental bells, which hung from the sharp metal projectiles on the main pagoda’s roof above, almost ring.
Just after the Intermission for ‘The Albigenses’ concluded at about midnight, across the street, the neon of the Sideshow Tavern, barely-fizzing, its purpose depleted, its ownership bankrupted, its very surroundings soon to be razed, sputtered once, and went out – forever.
47.
Two Girls Talk
Butterbugs’ appearance on the Gribgrib show had been an astounding success. Email, hashtaggery, skwaaks, peaps, cheefs ’n’ tweets – as well as conventional Facebookings – had all been aggressively in the actor’s favor, and interest was being generated in mondo-bytes from a passionately captivated audience. It was as if, here was someone truly new, someone with something else to offer, even if they did not know exactly what was in the offing, and even though it wasn’t spelled out explicitly (to which the public had been negatively accustomed).
It was also a huge boost for TABP, as a great many people turned onto his thang and were compelled to explore what he was about. What the hell was he about anyway, doing stuff in these oddball and under-known countries? What they discovered spurred their curiosity, a trait previously dormant in lieu of other, more self-interested and mundane distractions, such as the New Realism.
Sonny was elated. No longer did he have to micromanage the route to be taken. To him, it was all based in the metaphysical, non-homoerotic strip act he did that time on Butterbugs’ terrace. Now that he’d bared his soul (and his privates), the flow of logic emanating from his important client was as a primal spring. And now, with multi-dimensional understanding worldwide, the way of its rill had become the course of a torrent, with no portages or barrages on the horizon.
What was there to figure out with that?
Saskia, she who not only lusted after Butterbugs, but provided bedrock material for him to interpret in front of the camera (in a variety of screen processes), was very much in the picture. There was an element of competition in her goal-oriented modus operandi, but the all-stops-out admiration she felt for him was a sensible blowout valve that never came close to redlining. Though she saw him regularly, her passion meter was apparently under control, if not subject to adjustments.
And Justina, who shared Butterbugs’ life on the most intimate of levels, was a marvel. She saw to his every need, but not with any sort of condescension or enablement. She was there because she wanted to be, and because his efforts were turning out to be significant, his purposeful being was easy to love.
After so long in privation, especially in this city, and even though it was not a conscious memory for him, Butterbugs observed complete and utter simplicity in his daily life. As she helped him, he helped her. Consequently, he was eminently easy to live with.
Easy to live, easy to love.
It was a particularly mellow afternoon up at Butterbugs’ villa. Justina had suggested that they rechristen their haven Vinejuice, after the original builder and owner. He enthusiastically embraced the idea.
Justina was a collector of fine wines, which positioned her to advantageously cajole fellow oenophiles into making huge contributions to her many charitable pursuits. She found the ‘winos’ much more liable to cooperate than most of the selfish bozos who inhabited this metropolis on such high levels.
At any rate, Vinejuice neatly matched the winey names hereabouts, such as the eponymous Wine Canyon, a Grenache Hall here, a Rubaiyat Close there, as well as Grapeshot’s Chifforobe, down near Sunset, the prettiest little wineshop-cum-winebar in the canyons. You could get anything there, from a Tinzio 1911 to a Jimtown 2001.
Besides, ‘The Retreat’ was a common enough name, especially in Indian hill stations.
So, life was mighty good at Vinejuice, and those who lodged there believed in the lives they’d always wanted to lead, and here, with the possibilities made tangible reality, confidence was present, as was building wisdom.
A Maserati Quatroporto, big family car that it was, occupied LA-style, by a single person, took the slant off DeLorca into the Vinejuice drive without undercarriage distress. Civil engineering in
the great city was usually kind to low-riders. One of the fringe benefits of the dissolution of the trolleys in the ’20s was to accommodate motorcars of all kinds, not alienate them. When Melwyll Vinejuice specified the paving of the driveway in the delirious days of 1922, a Stutz negotiated the slope with tractor-like valor, but its sublime descendant did pretty well in dropping on down to the security call-box with shadowy finesse. A window then lowered under pneumatic power, and a God-given hand, buffed and varnished, reached out and pushed the button.
‘Good day. I’m Saskia Pingles. I seek Butterbugs.’
As staff at Vinejuice were still on an outcall basis, Justina herself answered the enquiry.
‘He’s at studio right now.’
There was a pause. She knew very well who Saskia was, but oddly, she had never met her before.
‘I have something for him. A script.’
‘You wish to leave it for him?’
‘I could catch him at studio. But probably not for a couple days.’
‘You wish to leave it?’
‘I could, if that is all right.’
‘It is. Come in. Have care. The gate opens out.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Proceed to the principal entrance, in, dead slow, if it please you.’
Past sleepy plantings and vivid vine-clad ornamental columns supporting lanterns, the Quatroporto purred, then settled. Saskia was greeted on the spacious entrance verandah by Justina herself, who had the whole place to herself, apparently.
‘I’m Saskia. Pleased.’
She held out her hand.
Duly taking it, Justina’s response was equally warm. ‘And I’m Justina. Welcome to Vinejuice. Where Butterbugs lives, and where I live.’
‘Thank you for receiving me. It’s a bit of a barge-in…’
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