Forward to Glory

by Brian Paul Bach

  Disgusted by this terminal nobody, who attempted to heap such a guilt-borne trip upon his conscience, Butterbugs was nevertheless touched by Moby’s acknowledgement of his own innate leadership qualities. He swiveled on the balls of his feet and got the hell out of that creepy, depressing shoppe. He did not venture further over the county line. Instead, he motored back to the more sane uncertainty of the plains below, relieved that the Nash’s distinctive Airflyte styling allowed for such an obtuse-angled back window, so as to minimize any reverie dependent on a rearview mirror.

  In a long internal monologue that ensued in strict privacy, Butterbugs reviewed the issues, the responsibilities, the glory, and the guts needed if he was going to do this political thing. But, with seventeen pictures inked for this season, he had to beg off.

  ‘I beg ye! I beg ye!’ Butterbugs pleaded, literally down on his knees in the barn pasture of his Therapy Bar RanchoRama out past Beggler Springs (which he had just purchased out of advisement).

  Cincinnatus was never so augustly treated as this. The host of retainers bore the actor back to the barnyard on their shoulders. Their whoops and hollers rose to the high heavens.

  ‘We’re going for the Presidency!’

  ‘We shall achieve the high office!’

  They placed Butterbugs on top of the pump shack, so that all could see him above the throngs.

  ‘I hear you, I hear you!’ he called out, and waved his arms in a calming motion, as if he were Herbert von-mucking-Karajan, conducting Menkennawicz’s Symphony #10, ‘The Mollification of the Peoples’.

  Indeed, the People simmered, and waited eagerly to hear the call of their leader and teacher.

  ‘Four score…,’ he began, then paused. ‘Just kidding!’

  The crowd tittered, but did not tune into the jokiness of the moment.

  ‘Who does he think he is, Paul Ford?’ said one groundling to another.

  ‘Hey, I like Paul Ford,’ replied the other groundling.

  And it was with a new seriousness that Butterbugs proceeded.

  ‘You People who have brought me here this day…’

  He looked down at all the upturned faces. Many were his friends, his associates. There were leading ladies and execs, greensmen and script girls, a large contingent from the Sai Baba ashram down the lane, and… Moishe Davis.

  ‘This has been your call. And all I can say is, I HEAR YA.’

  The crowd erupted in joyous cheers.

  ‘You know, he’s kind of like Kennedy,’ said yet another groundling to yet another again.

  ‘I uh, I just want to say, that, uh… Thee, uh…’

  ‘Yeah, he’s really like Kennedy,’ said the yet another groundling to the yet another groundling again.

  ‘Jack, or Bobby?’

  ‘Jack!’

  ‘Bobby!’

  ‘Jack!’

  ‘Teddy!!’ interjected another groundling altogether.

  Butterbugs made a brief pause before continuing with a sort of Kennedy-esque genericness.

  ‘I have uh, listened to your call, and now I uh, entreat you to listen to mine.’

  Then, a much bigger pause, in which the audience’s excitement level rose like a nearly out-of-control Richter reading. Then, total silence. Even the hogs ceased wallowing, yonder.

  ‘I cannot and will not run for the, uh, office you wish to propel me towards.’

  In the next few moments, Butterbugs was absolutely covered with swine slime and advanced soowee-mud, flung by the People.

  Thus spake the masses. But it made them love his pictures more than ever.

  ‘Chuck, I knew we couldn’t get the kid to run,’ muttered Dennison Lutz, star of ‘In Old Massachusetts’ (Your Basic, 2000).

  ‘Den, the Screen Actors Guild will be bereft without him!’ mourned Chuck Heston, star of ‘The President’s Lady’ (20th, 1953).

  49.

  Acts Of Courage, Acts Of Cohesiveness

  For years, they thought she was just an anonymous, innocuous, boring entity. That is, if she was even noticed at all.

  Just another mega-sized cleanup being. The type of grunt-worker who might be theoretically quite visible, yet rendered invisible by everyone in her vicinity. This, due to the simple fact that she wore an industrial-yet-presentable custodial ensemble (basically a tent-smock, with corporate logo attached). Also, her distant Congolese (Brazzaville) heritage ensured that her presence would never be in the willing company of others who frequented these tony parts.

  In her most memorable CCTV-camera scenes, she might, at the most, be wielding a packet of sanitary napkins and a Porta-Butler, or lugging around a chemical squirter and an AutoSuck.

  Those wafts of Janitor-Juice, combined with the bouquet of dust kitten-laden wide-track rag brooms, warned whomever was approaching (engaged with your basic smartass cellarphone-PoisonBerry-Pucetooth-BloOutRay-PeemPilot-AyYiYiPhone-GamberPost device) that they’d better steer a respectable berth well around the operator of such humble equipment – or else risk actual contact with her. And, when detected peripherally by significant pedestrians as a tiresome, boring – and probably dirty – entity to be negotiated, the necessity to huff with irritation in the worker’s general direction was a certainty. Such registrations of disapproval were naturally unwritten into the Bill of Rights of the Entitled. Cluttering up their incontestable progress by janitorial failure of any kind, causing a delay of even one second, was egregiously inexcusable. Not to mention the quaking effects of similarly minor disasters, like the unsuccessful manipulation of keys in unlocking a custodial closet (the type that opens onto a main concourse – at rush hour), or a tipped-over bucket of mopped blood from some gun-nut’s shootout, or a not-quite-attended-to-yet wad of baby-sputum in the drinking fountain’s drain, would all rate as adversarial, lawsuit-worthy offenses. Didn’t matter. They, those who maintain, are always at fault, not the all-important passer-by, whether tenant, visitor, or management elite.

  The American version of a class system in action, really. That’s all there was to it.

  However, if the particular custodian mentioned above ever came under specific scrutiny for any reason, whether it be a too-leisurely sprinkling of absorbent compound on splattered vomit, or an ill-timed deck-swab in front of a CEO, then observers would invariably wax appalled.

  In any case, if noticed, her unconventional appearance carried a considerable jolt.

  By way of introduction, the dimensions of this living mountain merit first mention. Such geographical features require a surveyor’s treatment of sorts. Distortion factor: variable. The summit: fully six foot three inches above the Earth’s surface (of the moment). The circumference: if viewed from above, might seem nearly twice that amount, at its widest. Closer to the mass: sculptural lines emerge, heroically dimensioned. Thighs the size of thick girls’ torsos. Upper arms wider than they are long. Monumental dynamism. Momentum-driven strides, with an indeterminate flesh bag bobbing significantly below the abdomen – like an immense radar bulb, not quite disguised enough by drapery. The corporate ground thereabouts might not tremble beneath, but lesser infrastructure is surely at risk. Yet, the plant that powers this grouped materiel is certainly strong, if not magnificent. Some structural wobbling might occur, but not much jiggling. With such bulk comes a considerable degree of substance. And in this case, a gigantic reservoir of soul.

  Once upon a blankly undocumented workday, former super-agent Mikey O’Vitz saw a vision of genius. It happened after exiting his office at Dominant Uninational Dominion agency (which detractors branded ‘Dom und Dommer’; ‘D.U.D.’ was a little obvious).

  It happened in the beauty of a Friday evening.

  [DUD was famous for its toy-like memes. ‘O’Vitz Zits’, as they came to be called, reflected the ditzy side of the biz. Little sayings erupted all over the agency. An O’Vitz-plotted corporate assassination was achieved via a ‘Dud Dud bullet’, a career-destroying gesture was known as the ‘Dum und Dummer Bummer’, a junior gal in the agency, on a mission to �
�execute’ someone, was known as a ‘Domino Trixie’, etc. Stuff that ‘Variety’ scribes branded as ‘vitz-blitz’, and when particularly banal, ‘cheap’ was a sufficient description.]

  Within the expansive plaza that linked his office complex with a series of environmentally-independent boutiques and glitzy grub palaces, Mikey crossed the concourse and headed for his waiting Escalade limo. Ahead of schedule, he slowed his pace and allowed himself a few seconds of downtime. Glancing up from his Prérráld dè lá Gènévè timepiece, he beheld a backlighted panorama of a plastic-plated ad that adorned a full stretch of the promenade hereabouts. It was quite a showcase, extending all the way from the PandaKare shop, along the people-mover stretch, and almost to Queck’s The Cigar Majority, proclaiming the new season’s product selections from The Mundvex Family of Specifics for Women’s Abdominal Pain (e.g. Palcubnorm). This campaign was all the rage at the moment, coast to coast, surpassing even the Bright Teal Pill of yore. There, in front of a lineup of hot Click chicks with deliberately-exposed tummies shaped like windscreen ice-scrapers, in graphic contrast to the whole diverse lot, lost in an orgy of self-loving navel-gazing, was standing, in person, this, this thing.

  Well, to put it in plain language, the person positioned there was a huge black female janitor-edifice, obviously humble, knowing her place, yet exhibiting gestures of complete and utter freedom, if not certifiable madness. The juxtaposition of single black fat in front of multiple taller, thinner, white, latte, wheatish, cappuccino & tan images was… noteworthy.

  What kind of self-absorbency would be required for a person of unconventional and even unfashionable appearance to pose and expose her person to the extent of the one now on display? While it wasn’t exactly illegal, there was the matter of human dignity to consider. There, before Mundvex’s squad of contemporarily conventional female loveliness-cum-sexiness, was this living being, apparently oblivious to the commercial mural behind her, planted with foundational confidence, with smock raised, examining the considerable expanse of her midriff in exactly the same stance as her anorexic sisters behind. Golf-ball-sized belly button protruding like a hole-in-one plugging a bunghole, herniated innards behind built-up bags upon sacks upon slab-sides of coppery flesh, and just below, no truss-braced underwear here, just the upper fringes of limp grey fabric, passing as… unmentionables, of Colossi of Memnon proportions, and –

  Actually, rich, heaven-sent material for an art critic specializing in conceptual installations, or better yet, monumental sculpture.

  All in all, a signal example of life unconsciously imitating art, and without the endorsement of any big pharmaceutical concern of note, too. Yet it was a reflective and sincere state of mind, as seen in the lost-in-thought expression on the live woman’s face, that certified this image as one profoundly original moment in a trillion, as far as pictorially-significant occurrences on this here Earth-planet are concerned. Talk about a tableau devoted to the universality of the human female condition!

  Just at that moment, Annie Leibovitz happened to emerge from the Jean Paul Gaultier boutique nearby.

  ‘Hey Mikey-Zikey, what’s shakin’?’

  O’Vitz said nothing. He virtually lunged at her, grabbed her camera bag, plucked out her Hasselblad H1D (typically bandaged with electrical tape all over), plowed it into her hands, pointed at the image across the way and managed a strangled whisper.

  ‘Action!’

  Miss L. knew what to do. Subconsciously, of course, the theme was very Diane Arbus. But the fresh lip-like gloss of the LED-lit scene here, crisp state-of-the-edge graphics (waaaay beyond those ’90s Benetton eyeball-candies), and the compositional dynamics of turbo-driven seconds in impatient time revved this priceless moment into a recognizable, irreplaceable and relevant iconography of opportunity. Century 21 was being defined, coming into focus Right Here, handed to them on a platter, struck by a thunderbolt.

  Annie’s words were terse amidst the snapping of triple-digit megapixel masterpieces.

  ‘I tell you, this is an image of TODAY.’

  Mikey could only settle into a triumphant yet serene posture of fulfilled exhaustion, like a general on the ramparts, after the day’s victory on the plains below. With this deal, he was in from the start, he was there when the magic happened. Indeed, he was its facilitator.

  The fact that the talent in the captured scene was unaware of the aging superstar shutterbug’s efforts, as well as the ambition behind the mind that inaugurated the high concept of this discovery, and the fact that the talent remained in her perfect pose for an unbelievably long time (about forty-two seconds), made the event all the more manipulatively voyeuristic in its goal of purposeful exploitation leading to profit, via general showbiz technology.

  Think about the fallout from that famous photo group, and its consequences! There is not a single publication or media format or internet site in which it was not produced over the next twenty-four hours.

  What was its purpose? To shock? To challenge anyone to pose questions about its stark frankness? To erode the apathy of the global consumer?

  What?

  Well, that whole scene took place a few years back. Back when Mikey was actually still someone of consequence. It is not an irony that she whom he ‘discovered’ came to be not only his rival, not only his inheritor, but a force by which the entire mechanism of talent representation in Hollywood became transformed into something more elevated – civilized, even. There was simply nothing ironic about it. It was destiny.

  Just who was it that served as the talent in this icon of a new millennium?

  Shonnaleen Gubbins.

  Yes, the Shonnaleen Gubbins.

  Everyone knows her express route to the top of showbiz management: couldn’t help but notice herself plastered across the world’s media. Wondered if it was actually herself, or not. Kick-started into turbo-thinking strategy. Successfully sued every outlet that marketed the photo group, including O’Vitz, but excluding Leibovitz, whom she admired and became fast friends with. (‘Annie, honey, you made me look the best I could look – at that time!’) Changed lifestyle due to mind-boggling awards from successful suits. Moved to a comfortable residence in the Hollywood Hills. Shed landslides of blubber, but kept protective gristle for arrow-proof armoring. Sought success in her next moves. Started hanging out with showbiz types. Started talking to Sonny Projector. Had to make choices. Decided she didn’t want to be a celebrity for its own sake, which she had become. Found she was interested in management. Attracted to representation rather than administration. Learned a lot. Talked a lot. Was offered jobs. Took the most modest offer. Championed by Sonny. Proved herself to be brilliant, in short order. Went from strength to more strength. Then to super-strength. Founded her own consultancy. Serviced all aspects of the Industry: talent, tech, and exec. Started own fashion line. Started own parfum and accessories line. Opened chain of boutiques: ‘Janitoria/Janata’. ‘Janata’ line especially mega-popular in India. Big hits all along, everywhere. Experienced success in all endeavors. Became a force for custodians everywhere. Noticed Butterbugs.

  An African-American torch, Shonnaleen was the most powerful woman in Hollywood (and number 8 in the Most Powerful People list in Hollywood, according to ‘Vanity Fair’). Her presence was foundational, fundamental, and fulsome. She tipped the scales at a comparatively sleek c. 280 lb. Backpacks of flesh and panels of hide still quivered all around her, showing, no matter how ingenious the muu muu or tent dress (custom made by Gaultier, a personal friend, and subsequently styled by herself) just what a big beautiful woman was made of. The really important thing was that she was one of the most beloved figures in Tinseltown. A wonder-legend in action. When her booty shook, thunder ensued, as did deals, success, and more success, and all of it without the intrinsic bullshit, the forked-tongue speech, the broken treaties, the trails of tears, the wounded knees, none of which she would ever allow. Never, ever.

  Everyone loved her style, whether it was her erudite speech, her luxurious voice, or her rip
ping fashion sense. More and more, she wore stretch-elastic pants, tank tops, and exposé articles of clothing, from her own lines, naturally. They had a wonderful way of reducing (to meaningless powder) the formerly rampant tendency in the Industry to rely on ancient standards of superficiality, so as to serve as judgment standards in human-to-human relations. Beauty could be found anywhere now. So could wisdom. And decency. She was enough of a showperson to know that, once the initial shock of an arresting sight had been established in her business encounters, any subsequent perception of the human form could and would tame the anxieties of appearance inherent in your average movie mogul. (Shonnaleen wearing little more than a Jan-Gub jambalaya playsuit with a Codex jipijapa hat was, shall we say, incumbent on sheriffs to muster up the courage to take the observer into a custody of enlightenment.)