Only now, it was an address that came up as a geographical evil, an undesirable locale that nevertheless had to be maneuvered. But, no matter. The mission was the important thing. And the mission was, to publicize, to put PR pushiness into his new status, so that those who should know did know, and respect would result.
Respect.
Respect was desirable, so that those who weren’t in on the game might regard he who was, and forgive him of any bad publicity they may have heard, simply because of his new magnificence. For it was simple reality that would suffice. For if the magnificence was a known face – and Butterbugs was definitely known in this particular residence – then all would be understood. His new lofty status would thus be accepted, even admired, clearing the path for the legitimacy of sociopathic behavior as his lifestyle, from now on.
And hell, why not show off a little? What was wrong with that?
He trotted blithely up to the memorable door and rang the gong. He knew he would have to wait for a time, so he strolled the course of the porch one and a half times before the tarnished doorknob turned. In the interval, he had to jog his memory.
Quite frankly, he wasn’t quite sure who Heatherette actually was, but he remembered her with familiarity and even kindness. Because, he was pretty sure she had shown him some kindness sometime or another. And that she had an appealing figure. Vague stuff, but something to fill the executive hours.
Heatherette!
She answered. True to form, she wore a filmy bedroom cape, hastily donned to veil her more prominent breasts and hips. Indeed, she had added a few pounds, but they only amplified her rare wasp-waist, and Butterbugs was reminded that the pile she inhabited was her own exclusive domain, full of mists and sighs and the stuff of legendary innuendo. Sort of like a few movies he’d been in…
There she was.
She put up a stylish finger to her lower lip, not to say shush-em, but to remove a biscuit crumb that she’d detected. Once that was taken care of, she let in the foreign but recollected gentleman.
‘Butterbugs,’ she said calmly.
‘Heatherette! It’s remarkable to see you.’
‘Indeed. How have you been keeping?’
‘Well! Well indeed. Very well. I thought that, uh, it was a golden opportunity to look you up. It’s been a while.’
‘It has. I don’t know how long, exactly.’
‘Me neither!’
He laughed, but the laugh was brief.
She did a minimal hospitality trip, inviting him into the periphery of the mansion, but only into the ambulatory that formed the inner porch, as a matter of fact. She did not sit, so he did not sit.
‘You are busy?’ she asked discreetly.
She of course knew of his progress into greatness, but was reticent to acknowledge the fact. Coy wasn’t at all her style, and neither was contrariness, but she wasn’t sure what this erstwhile object of her attentions had lately added up to, especially in regard to her self-aborted efforts on his behalf.
He was fittingly courtly.
‘I have arrived at a definable point in my standing as a player in picture shows, my lady.’
He even made to bow in obeisance.
She found this to be conciliatory and appealing, though not in terms of overt language. Nevertheless, she softened, which was her preference anyway.
She almost surged.
‘Oh, Butterbugs!’ then put on the brakes, ‘That is fine enough. You are solvent, then.’
What a boring, somber and parochial thing to say!
‘I am.’
‘And, having done the dramatic thing, and enacted photoplays according to your desires, and those of others, is this, then, what you wanted?’
‘Oh, Heatherette, yes. Yes. It is what I wanted. I thought you would… care.’
‘That is an acceptable notion. It is also a considerable achievement in this town. And you have done it.’
‘I tell you, Heatherette, I have to say, I did it all myself! I climbed, I entreated, I aspired, I ascended! Can you believe it?’
Privately, she couldn’t, but publicly she had to make a statement. She had indeed seen ‘True Heart Susie’ (Artcraft, 1919) long ago, but that parable of unsung love and devotion did not occur to her right now.
‘Certainly!’
‘Well, you know, it’s also due to the work of the many. Probably. Maybe.’
‘The ‘little people’?’
‘Is that what they used to say?’
‘They used to say that, yes.’
‘I also preside over other things now.’
‘I must say, despite our long… ‘sabbatical’, you seem different somehow. As if you were not… acting.’
‘Funny you should say that. It’s true! I have taken my own sort of sabbatical – from acting! Isn’t that wild?’
‘Oh?’
‘But let me tell you. Get ready! I am in fact, at this point in time, not an actor, but Chief Operating Officer-cum-Director-General of Isaac Davis Heavy Industries International (now becoming Merrette, plc)! Isn’t that incredible?’
Reserved was the word for Heatherette.
‘Oh, really? I knew I detected a change.’
‘I can tell you all about it!’
‘So, are you… with anybody?’
‘Right now?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Uh, no. Not right now. The duties of the office preclude…’
‘Did you ever think that I… Well, did you ever remember what we had, what we talked about those times past?’
‘I thought I’d drop by so you could see how far I’ve come.’
‘From where?’
‘You know, that first time I broke-and-entered this fine residence.’
‘Where are you living now?’
‘The Æyrie. Up on past the Mulholland heights. Of course, I spend most of my time in my office-cum-apartment. It’s ritzy and convenient.’
‘All well?’
‘Yes, very. You should… come up. Or, down.’
‘Butterbugs, what did you come here for?’
‘To show you!’
‘I have seen, now.’
‘You want me to… go?’
‘I’m not sure what to say.’
‘There is a loneliness…’
‘I’m sure there is. I’ll bet that it comes with the… the… Well, anyway… Now, if you would excuse me, my old friend Malcolm Bert is coming over soon.’
‘The, uh, art director, is it?’
‘Yes. It is.’
‘How splendid. Might I – Er, please give him my best regards.’
‘I will.’
‘You know, Heatherette, pictures seem so distant to me now. Maybe that’s why we’re not very…’
‘And, acting…?’
‘Oh, for cornbread-heck, maybe I’m done with all that.’
‘You have other matters to attend to.’
‘But there’s something missing. I can’t seem to find an outlet for…’
‘Well, I’m sorry, Butterbugs, but…’
‘But things are great. Just great.’
‘That’s perfectly wonderful to hear. It’s just that, right now I –’
‘I’ll go. I have a Board meeting. But not till seven.’
‘You won’t want to be late. Due to traffic, and all.’
‘No. Of course not. I’ve got six hours.’
‘Yes, you do.’
Heatherette escorted him part of the way to the great Arts & Crafts door, but left off in order to ascend the stairs. She merely nodded, then turned to go up.
‘Please give Malcolm my greetings.’
She smiled briefly, then continued upward. Then etiquette intervened, and she uttered an adequate goodbye.
‘Good… bye.’
Closing the portal, Butterbugs paused on the massive porch and ruminated. Try as he might, he wasn’t quite sure what was missing, as the awareness of missing items was acute, but unresolved.
Indeed, he was dumbed-
down. Maybe even retarded. It was sad, but mostly pathetic.
Reduction to a lower common denominator is one of the easiest things in life to achieve.
After the week’s quota of meetings and briefings had been breezily completed, Butterbugs found he had the whole weekend open. It was nearing the end of his as yet proscribed reign and he had little to do. Except that, because he had been infected with the commercial germ of self-perpetuation at all cost, there was nothing for it but to repair to his executive suite in order to plan just how he might retain this magisterial position in Corporateria esto perpetua. It was an issue that had become practically obsessive.
Passing strange. For this actor, formerly of such depth and understanding, to have mutated so. The banality of meaningless privilege was entirely his.
The COO had been tooling around nether Downtown for some hours in his dark limo. He fell asleep and when he awakened, loyal Girish was still at the wheel, doing what he was told: prowl-driving as means of covering ground to fill time. No restrictions and no revisions.
It was almost dawn.
Awakening in a crumple upon the Potomac Grey upholstery, his mind had been going like mad. For a moment it skidded to a stop. He thought of the studio life. Shamroy behind his camera with Danish and coffee, glancing at the trades. Makeup in its usual uproar. Morning wake-up knocks already running their routes amongst the bungalows, and stars rising, no matter how hung-over or high. Prop trolleys scooting from soundstage to soundstage. Old Atrocity getting his tool belt on. The hammers of night-shift carpenters stilled on the hour. The magical atmosphere of expectation thickening. The old team assembling. The librarian placing fresh scores on music stands. The stairs to second floor rat-cages populating with disgruntled writers. Keyboards starting to be tapped.
‘Butterbugs! Good morning! Your presence is required on set in fifteen minutes…!’
For a moment, he almost burst into tears.
Then he recalled his COO mindset, with its all-consuming raison d’être.
‘I must plan!’
He grabbed the speaker-tube.
‘Girish! To HQ.’
Wide was the approach to the eighteen blocks that Isaac Davis had commandeered in order to sink his intercontinental headquarters beneath the mundane streets of plain-vanilla LA. All had been accomplished in order to create his own empire of Davisian truth. Old corners like Crocker & 9th, Wilde & Central, Produce & Alameda, Wholesale & Molino were distant memories only found on LA County Library websites now. In their place was Isaac’s moody pile of cryptic setbacks and cover-up gardens, the considerable mass that served to cap the deep crustscraper below. The effect was creepy and baleful.
Because of the funereal plantings, the batted walling, and the pristine but depopulated lawns that covered who knows how many concrete caissons and plant machinery rooms, the whole landscape took on a new guise: as Isaac’s cenotaph. Pylons hid massive vents, above which was a constant funneling of rejected air, causing the ambient temperature to be at least five degrees higher than the greater surroundings at most hours of the day. Ducting for air intake had been one of the biggest tasks of the whole scheme. Tunnels were dug so that more attractive and breathable atmosphere might be pumped from the higher elevations of the San Rafael Hills, some four miles to the north. (Never mind that the intakes were closer to the smog belt above, thus inflicting far more demands on the air handling systems than they were designed to manage…)
Perhaps the spookiest thing of all was the gigantic Central Well. Like a dry and perverse Crater Lake without Wizard Island, the center of the mass was open to the air, and indeed, its shaft went down some 300 feet, in order to bring light and some semblance of Earth-life to a fancy-schmantzy presentation solarium, fully planted with surprising Linnæan care. Two-inch thick skylights, several acres in size, protected both plants and people below from possible bullet attack, thanks to humble Aero Wax. They were lighted at night by over 129,600 xenon candles – one for each intersection of each degree of the Earth’s latitude and longitude. Isaac thought for sure these ‘organic’ touches would win the Pritzker Prize, but no one touched the thing with a ten-meter pole. It was as if the consulting architect had been Albert Speer.
Below I.D.’s Jungle, as wags called it (or ‘the Jungle of Id’), the matrix of the building went down, and down, and down. Profoundly down.
Back on top, Butterbugs hadn’t really taken the time to critique the VIP driveway’s approach in its entirety. He nevertheless felt its power, which was always one of mixed exaltation and trepidation, perhaps akin to some installation like Hoover Dam, which possesses the power either to kill or to instill wonder. When a structure rises into the sky, it is definable and accessible. When the opposite is the case, a certain anxiety can be present, as the unknown dimensions of boring, plumbing, and other issues of bathos present uncertain concern to the visitor. Like deep water. Of course, that was Isaac’s point: to defeat any who would aspire, besiege or attack. When your only possible adversary is someone out of such cinematic musings as ‘The Mole People’ (Universal, 1956), you tend to relax in the surrounding fastness. The symbolism was hardly a case of male obviousness versus female mystery. It was all about brute force.
[In one of the screen’s greatest moments in geographic vagary, the location for ‘Mole People’ is brilliantly and generically stated (after a ‘legitimizing’ prologue by the renowned egghead, Dr. Frank C. Baxter) as ‘ASIA’ (which should have been in vaguely Chinese-influenced script), over baleful scoring; a safely non-committal label culturally, but perfect for cheap production values, and plenty far from LA, so as to provide exotic thoughts for matinee kids to fuss over.]
As he rode the Exec Lift down to Jungle Level, then commuted over to the Deep Shaft Cluster-Boardroom Vein, Butterbugs noted how few people were about. Early Saturday mornings were lonely here, though the pianist was tinkling the Pramberger Platinum with waterfall ditties in the solarium, the rumba band were just playing their last set of the night over in the Spelunkers’ Lounge, and the ten-man Isaac’s Glee Club were still harmonizing barbershop quartet-ish tunes in the deserted Parsnip Room. It was a place all dressed up, to which no one was coming. At least not at this hour.
It was also a place that Butterbugs, as he traversed through it and down into it, thought:
‘I control this. This land is mine.’
His descent today was more eventful than usual. Perhaps because the finiteness of it all so occupied his mind. He had had a good run here. Easy work, plush environment, great perquisites, addicting lifestyle. Who would have guessed that the Loftier Executive Avenue was so rewarding, and so enlightening, and provided this simple fact: that everyone below him was a loser in the human experience?
Even though he was going down, down, down in his private lift, the sensation of living on the heights overrode everything he had learned or had been taught in every second of his previous existence. Real power meant that one could be detached from specific responsibility, essential accountability, and burdensome caring. This was the life!
It was a rarefied environment that even obvious jokers such as Kritchurd Puerile could not step up into. Those guys were still stuck one level below, trying to expand their power without end. Too much dabbling in dangerous realms such as politics, the Military-Industrial-Congressional-Security Complex, and even more fussy pursuits. They were the diseased ones, who would never know the serenity of the top because they weren’t seeking it, or they didn’t value it.
Perhaps it was the artist still within Butterbugs that could recognize the need to stop and smell the hogvine blossoms. That was the Flower of the Week that adorned the baskets under the push button dashboard in the lift car.
‘How sweet and healthy they look,’ he thought, as he reached out and touched a sticky stamen that was flourishing under the mini grow-light bars that gave these weeds what they needed so far underground.
‘Maybe I can secure the world rights on hogvine, and control its commodification in all of human
ity’s nations!’ He almost started drooling at the thought. ‘By such a scheme I could build an empire to make K.P.’s look like a gopher hole! It would win me great praise from the Weokas of the world. From there I would leave them in the dust of lost empires and vanished civilizations!’
The descent was over in no time. How scheming ate up one’s hours!
‘I have never been so robust, myself.’
The doors opened onto his solo pad in Gallery Six of the pent-up-house complex, at or near the bottom of the Master Shaft.
As he stripped to his codpiece-pouch underwear in preparation for a session in the Steam Hall, he thought he could use an early morning blowjob to relieve the obviousness of his high responsibility as a potentate. As many past encounters had proven, babes were only a short phone call away, but after the steam had done its simmerdown effect, a great laziness overcame him, and he sashayed into his Philippe Starck quarters and docked with a milk-pop on the settee, content to think about strategy for the moment.
That is, to get what he wanted, what he coveted, what he would plainly secure, so that this sort of thing could go on. And on. If he could become the hottest star in filmdom all by himself, then there was nothing he could not achieve!
‘I… feel,’ he thought. ‘No longer as an actor playing a role feels, but as an executive within the sphere of life itself! Is that not bigger, more important, infinitely more virile, than strolling in front of an image-capturing machine, taking orders and reciting lines written by others? This is no act!’
Well, no matter. The taste of the new was piquant and domineering. He had grown quite accustomed to the lifestyle that now surrounded him, taken up sensibly like a well-deserved gift for one who wisely chose to look after the one thing that really mattered, the one reliable: oneself.
‘I have come up the hard way,’ he reflected. ‘And I must say, I deserve this!’
And he found that he would support any doctrine or movement, any policy or mandate, any organization or candidate, that would ensure his right of continuance in his current state. At all cost, and with total conviction. Because if there was one shred of insecurity to be addressed at this point, it was the recognition that power, once achieved, must be maintained. Plus, if said power was given instead of earned, why, it should be about a thousand times easier to keep it – all to himself.
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