Butterbugs made a clown face. ‘Git back to work, Mel, or I’ll sic the IATSE bug on you!’
‘Ha ha. Ha ha ha.’
Mel took his hammer to where it was needed.
Butterbugs re-read the brief article. He knew perfectly well why some piss-ant publicity department was trying to introduce her as a bran-new wonder: his betrayal.
‘Hmm. Little ProwlerCat!’ He sighed. How could the Hollywood publicity machine be improved? Or was he just a successful dodo?
‘And it was she who gave me milk, not the reverse…’
Butterbugs was hip to publicity, and certainly did his part in exploiting himself. More as duty than pleasure, though. In fact, if he wasn’t quite in the mood, the media could occasionally find him a bit on the sensitive side. Not waspish or touchy or snotty, but easily hurt.
‘My hide is not necessarily walrus-deep today,’ he quipped to radio chat show maven Parmalee Kitton, just before mike-time.
‘Oh, pish!’ she replied dismissively. ‘Even if it’s thin as a weasel’s, you’ll be just fine.’
Today her show was coming from the Cloth Hall & Clancy’s Creamery Combination of Commercial Concerns on Genn-Gunn Blvd, not exactly Butterbugs’ favorite place to hang. But Sonny convinced him a little sexing-up was needed, to expose himself on live media for a bit.
After all, he was just closing a week’s run of Latch Masters’ ‘To Do: Some Explaining’, at the Hit Box Dinner Thiertre. Probably the most private, the most exclusive showplace in the Americas, up at the Puppingdon Levels, located over the hump from the Hollywood Sign. Hardly anyone even knew how to get there. Sonny didn’t, no matter how many times Butterbugs led him. It was his beloved getaway when a bit of the legit stage was his desire. The house seated twenty for Sunday Roast Matinees, and a mere fifteen otherwise. The star always insisted that whenever he played there, most of the audience would be imported from Russel Arms-type dwellings, to give the deprived a dose of Limited Edition Drama. The stage was about as big as a tract house’s dining room. After strings of epics, no matter how glorious, the intimacy of the Hit Box was always the place for him to recover.
At any rate, that was it for the Hit this season. For those who missed his gig there, which was virtually everybody, a slug of live radio would get the public Butterbugsified again.
Back at Cloth Hall/Clancy’s Creamery et al, a red-pointed Edison bulb, the oldest in the biz, started to glow with On Air delineation.
PARMALEE KITTON: ‘Well-hell-OHHHH! This is Parmalee Kitton, in person, for Parmalee Kitton’s Call-In Splendour, your chance at big thisses and thats, to tell me, and the world!’
She rattled off the p-numbers, F-bookings and hashtaggings, then made the big pitch:
PK: An’ you know what? Today, it’s dream-time. An’ I have, really, a dream guest. Probably the dreamiest of them all…!
After the usual starbursts of love, and supernovas of praise, Parmalee and Butterbugs settled down for some good, old-fashioned call-ins.
PK: Our theme today is: callers-in who’ve had Butterbugs in their dreams. So, callers? Call in an’ tell us your dream with Butterbugs in it. An’ if you dream about Butterbugs every night, call in and tell us about your favorite Butterbugs dream, OK?
BUTTERBUGS: OK…
PK: Here’s our first caller, from Witchgrove, Manitoba. Go ahead, Witchgrover! Manito-bo-bian! You’re talking to our world.
MUNIE: Hi! I’m Munie! Munie Dlindcup! Love yer shows. I dream about a lot of stuff! Kinda like cotton candy! Pink puffs, lots of gumdrops! Elephant-sized cream-mm-mm-good-pastry! Stuff like that! Does your guest dream like that?
PK: Butterbugs?
Bb: No. No, I don’t.
PK: Next we have… Coming in now… uh, from the Southern Africa: Opastus LuCombo, Bludletter Lane, Melmoth, Natal. Go ahead, you Natalian, you! You’re talking to our world.
OPASTUS: Hello there. Let me tell you my dream. Butterbugs was in it. Four ideal Bengali girls, with perfect cheekbones, are working in a restaurant, but none of them are related! Butterbugs was in it.
Bb: Well, now there’s a thing… I played Melmoth once…
PK: My next light-blinker on the phone set-up is… Got it right here… It’s Condelina, from 13000 Kaybub Layover, in Mixterio, Kansas. I’ve never been to Mixterio, but I suppose it’s all right… Go ahead, Kansas gal! You’re talking to our world.
CONDELINA: Been waiting for this a long time. I’m going to college now. OK. Butterbugs has a big part in this. He’s a hero, and for no reason, he’s, you know, whacked by a t-square, wielded by an uncaring, androgynous girl of vague Asian/Pacific Islander mien. I’m kind of nervous telling this, but… OK. This hero guy sits on a bench and faces the girl, who is impassive. OK? The hero guy looks down and to his horror, sees that his bowel – (can I say that?)
PK: Yeah, you can say that, yeah! Shoor! Please do!
COND: OK! So the hero guy looks down and sees that his bowel has been pierced. And, and, because he had some of that Thai-food dipping sauce for lunch? It’s oozing out! So you know what? He has a complete breakdown!
PK: Thank you for your call. Butterbugs? Ewww!
Bb: (wincing)!
PK: Now, what’s up?
Bb: Everybody’s kind of… just… talking about themselves, aren’t they?
PK: Well let’s see now… Here she is now, see what you think of her, Miss Purd, from, well, everything’s withheld. Oh no, here it is. Kind of incomplete, which we don’t like very much, because, how can we send her our ‘Hey! I’ve Been On Parmalee Kitton’s Call-In Splendour Show’ kit? But anyway, she’s from Blustercam Alleys, Moldwhich Township. Maybe we can figure out the rest… Go ahead, naughty Miss! You’re talking to our world. What amusements shall you tell us, huh?
MISS PURD: I dreamt that Butterbugs raped me.
PK: Oh. Miss Purd. Well. I don’t think that, you know, if you’re serious or something. I don’t think Butterbugs really has to answer –
Bb: No, Parmalee, I’d be happy to. It’s OK, because I didn’t rape Miss Purd…
MP: I said I dreamt you raped me.
Bb: I’m terribly sorry –
MP: Butterbugs, are you a feminist?
Bb: Yes.
MP: Why?
Bb: Because I am personally in favor of feminist issues. My performance shows it.
MP: Performance?? You mean –
Bb: I mean, my personal performance in those kinda things…
MP: Oh, you weary me, Butterbugs!
Bb: I’m sorry. Any particular reason why?
MP: Many reasons. I’ve been mighty sick of you since you did that stupid movie where you said, ‘I’ve always felt that sex is for having power over women.’
Bb: I remember the line well. From ‘Out Of Badger Mountain Road’ (Tuckerbib).
MP: Well, that’s the mindset of a rapist!
Bb: It is indeed.
MP: Then why was it not taken to task in the movie?
Bb: Why? Did it have to be taken to task?
MP: It was a terrible thing to say.
Bb: Absolutely. And it was spoken to Denzil Washington’s character. I was supposed to be showing off to him.
MP: Why were you so awful to Lerrie Pfumonah, who played your rape victim?
Bb: Because that’s what the part called for.
MP: You were awful to Lerrie!
Bb: Lerrie is a fine, strong-willed young actress. Her character was her character. And mine was mine.
MP: You think you’re so high and mighty!
Bb: I do as the script commands. Oh, and the director.
MP: You are a wimp-cum-copout.
PK: Now Miss Purd, you just simmer down now…
Bb: I don’t think you understand, friend. The cinema is a powerful medium. But it cannot do all things at all times.
MP: Still, you weary me – because you’re – you’re – not perfect! (hangs up)
PK: We should be having a conversation about this subject, Butterbugs.
; Bb: Go ahead.
PK: Oh, OK. Well, uh, what didja think?
Bb: The frequency of audience members unable to differentiate reality from fictional films, however realistic, is quite rare today.
PK: OK, why?
Bb: Because audiences are intelligent.
PK: You mean, this person wasn’t?
Bb: She was… emotional…
PK: Careful Butterbugs – careful…
Bb: This is… regressive… all of a sudden.
PK: Regres –? Well, dreams can sometimes turn into… nightmares.
Butterbugs clasped his hands and looked up to the ceiling, in desperation.
PK: Butterbugs, what’s wrong?
Bb: The labels – the pigeonholing – based on the pictures I’ve made! I never!
PK: But – but – but – Butterbugs, didn’t you know that before you became a star?
Bb: No! But Chuck Heston told me, just the other day, ‘When the public gets you pegged, you can’t escape.’ Well, if you’ll pardon me, I have to escape now! (takes off headphones and leaves studio)
PK: Folks! Butterbugs has just left the building!! OK then. Stay tuned for Dayv Kupp, on The Dayv Kupp Show! Dayv will be broadcasting live from Bryan Hall, the famous home for the befuddled, in Tacoma, America’s Most Stressed-Out City…!
It was the first time Butterbugs had run away from anything, let alone stardom.
Most of the ensuing hubbub was caused not by the rape issue, but listeners who were electrified by the implication that Butterbugs was dead. As the hysteria went viral, there was mass panic – for about fifteen minutes – before the inaccuracy was scotched.
Enough.
It was true: Butterbugs had indeed left the Cloth Hall & Clancy’s Creamery Combination of Commercial Concerns, patched up, but intact.
73.
Busier Than A Cranberry Merchant at Thanksgiving, Or Busier Than A Pup In A Room Full Of Rubber Balls? Which Is It To Be?
It was a brilliant season.
Butterbugs’ sked was coagulating into a solid bar of rich red corpuscles, each resembling a picture deal of tremendous value. His regard as a Valuable Property was universally acknowledged by the Industry, in Hollywood, and the world at large.
Mega|Goth had had a mammoth blockbuster with ‘Auris in Midgon’. In fact, it simply blew people away. The all-nude, full-frontal marathon sex scene with Butterbugs and Vizbulite curled audience’s eyeteeth with awe and wonder. Despite its forty minute duration, audiences reported that it ‘just whizzed by’. It was because the inherent realism of the scene was totally engaging. Its drama and passion added up to much more than just a nudie frolic. Elmer Bernstein scored. Prissy Starspangled was an amazing champion and spokesperson for the picture. Everything she did added to its prestige and understanding. Of the actual filming, she commented in ‘Photoplaying’:
‘I was just glad to be there at all. I was there, privileged to capture such golden moments on film. Vizbulite was transformed, I tell you. Butterbugs? He was already transformed.’
‘Into what?’ the interviewer asked.
‘Into what?’ Prissy repeated, then answered, ‘Into the next phase of humankind’s evolution, I should think.’
There. Prissy Starspangled was the first to say it.
Truth to tell, despite his cruisings in the stratosphere of cinematic prestige, Butterbugs didn’t really have a ‘life’, as they say.
Should he?
Wasn’t this what he wanted, to do nothing but perform in front of the camera? Well, he had a busy social swirl, that was for sure. Dates, drinks, appearances, all well controlled and choreographed. Nothing outrageous. He did guest slots in elementary school plays, ladled watery spudado soup at skid row missions, and chaired Motion Picture Relief Fund galas. His many foundations and improvement trusts were progressing swimmingly, while an able staff administrated and coordinated his ‘secular’ affairs. His attentiveness to detail was reliable and conscientious without descending into micromanagement or fussiness. He remained in touch with the world on the ground, despite doing so much globetrotting that his already extended-version passport needed a second volume of stamp space.
Yet!
Yet, in this life, what was missing? He had a home life, all right. The Vinejuice community of Justy and Saskia continued to provide stability and love. His other residences were peopled by attractive and helpful types, who behaved themselves and always recycled any party waste and beverage tins. There just wasn’t that much, if anything, that was wrong.
‘And the way he goes through girlfriends!’ howled the admiring but breathless Barbara Walters on ‘The View’ (ABC).
That was about as bad as things got.
No one really attacked Butterbugs on life issues. All anybody could do was make observations. Actually, in this arena, the actor was one of the more restrained, sustained, and even conservative players, as far as his affairs of the heart were concerned. Compared with Con Kentman, Errol Flynn, and Babs Kurrumba, he was a twiddle-thumbed, doily-mending Kaspaar Mhilcktöhschtt. He had a solid home life, an understandable set of alliances with attractive co-stars and associates, and not one woman who had had intimacy with him had one discouraging word to say. Not that he had ascended to sacredness on account of his incandescence and starry status. It was just that he did not know how to burn bridges of that particular fiber. Also, he was, quite frankly, an excellent lover. Transcendent. Incandescent, even. In short, he was talented. And for some reason, his talents did not inculcate negative responses such as jealousy, possessiveness, or vindictiveness that often result upon the breakup of a relationship. Or, as in the case of Butterbugs’ progress through his affairs, his embarkation and disembarkation at ports of call along the way were invariably peaceable.
He was no shark (always feeding, always searching), but there was an identifiable restlessness in his character that was certainly a factor. Perhaps it was the episodic, film-of-the-moment aspect of his busy life, in which a pattern or perimeter of limitation was self-fulfilling. Or maybe it was simply his youngness, his sense of wonder, his tripping along an automatic path to self-actualization through unbridled experience which could serve as explanation for his lifestyle at present. Naturally, there were those who were noting it and analyzing it. But the man himself, though he hadn’t a truly steady babe or wifey, was nevertheless getting massive doses of super-high-quality sex along the way. That, it must be said, was not, in any way, shape or form, an aspect of his life that was missing. Nor was love. His Vinejuice team made him shed tears, so much love had they to offer.
Never mind about not having a ‘life’. It was a silly notion, anyway.
Speaking of affairs, Butterbugs was about to embark on his most challenging liaison so far. His first with a di-rec-tor.
Much to the ecstasy of fans worldwide, Butterbugs and Vizbulite would be coupled in another film, this time on location in her native Latvia, ‘He Wandered The Land’ (20th-Fox). They had a hot director: Jana Share.
Jana Share! She was so cool. Very premium quality, in looks, ambience, and cracking intellect. She had very long legs, and sitting in the director’s chair, whether in miniskirt or bib overalls, those legs would be wide apart every time, a body language of authority and control, a method her Mama done didn’t teach her, no doubt. She liked to wear a variety of funky cowboy hats while directing, though her personality was infinitely urbane. Her vanity – her vanity knew no bounds. Her insights were remarkable, and her directorial instinct was on a very high level. Other biggies like Willy Wyler, Otto Preminger and Plain Florence Martin backed her up, but tended not to hang with her.
It was on location in Liepaja that tensions arose, and for no other reason than there was no reason. Filming was going well. ‘He Wandered the Land’ had been enthusiastically picked up by 20th. It was an appealing premise: an ‘on the road’ saga, something out of the lectures of Vykamus Kurlieucionus, the peripatetic Soviet lecturer, now domiciled in Tilsit, in ‘pause’ mode. While in this state, he reviews
his life and philosophy. Nevertheless, he pounds the rural lanes and sweeping fields of the Baltic tracts, still urgent in his message, and still finding audiences within the growing disaffected of the world.
Scene: day, interior. The doom-laden Martin-Luther-in-Jaunliepaja church on the outskirts of town; location for the searing Realization Scene, in which Vykamus (Butterbugs) must chart his course into the future, in light of post-Soviet reforms and the revised tenor of the people. In other words, what now?
It was during a lull between setups. The wet church, the overcast sky, the vampire ambience, the unexpected shock at this building, a heaped-up assemblage, uncertain of its standing, after so many decades of being moribund.
He entered by the chancel door, unnoticed, as the place was deserted. He paused in the vestry, suddenly ill, due to the panels of orange-and-blue-stained light that settled like slabs of iced-up gelatin-scum, spread on this floor of performance. He would have to perform upon it, where his blockings were marked out. The strangeness of the interior made the moment into a foreign, disquieting demand on his concentration and time.
She startled him. Jana was sitting in the deep shadows of a Lutheran hymn-box, obviously waiting for him.
He, in costume of Stalinist configuration, she in Al Capp/Dogpatch wear. They might now confer, for the crew was at lunch, and the cast was dining in their trailers.
‘Lo,’ she uttered in a muffled voice, directorially-skillful in its implication and authority, ‘I see you enter this house. Care to steer aside, to attend to non-production matters?’
Face rendered in pumpkin tones and hair in blueberry-tinted light from above, his air was more Cub Scout than incandescent. He fell right into be-prepared line though, based on obeying the scripted guides she depended on in order to get a terrific picture in the can. Being the contracted one, he saw no reason not to adhere to the non-contractual requirements, in lieu of –
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