Forward to Glory

by Brian Paul Bach

  At some length, Pepper stirred and spoke.

  ‘Butterbugs, would you care to –’

  Suddenly, there was a double-knock at the great lodge door.

  Butterbugs immediately stiffened. He knew who it was.

  Without delay, Pepper strode to the entrance. Oh gosh, she had on these really neat work pants, and they were so dear, and –

  ‘Is Butterbugs in there?’

  The voice was in the vanguard, even before the image broadcasting it was established in Pepper’s mind.

  It was Jana herself, the director of a multi-million dollar production, come all this way.

  Apparently, this Butterbugs was worth bothering about.

  It was just that, well, everyone concerned should be glad that Sarnia, the producer, a snaggletooth tiger in her own right, wasn’t out here on location. What would she think? Everybody’d be fired, for sure.

  Both women smiled courteously at each other, Pepper facing Jana straight on, in tight medium shot.

  It is a shame to digress into feminine rivalry that two women might share over a man, only because, at least for the observer of either sex, it is painful to see intelligent and upright types resort to primeval emotions in settling a score involving a single male. However, that was not to transpire here. The terms were writ in scores to be discovered, not settled.

  It was a case of one person sensing trouble because an asset was being diverted, while the other person sensed an undesirable interruption in discovering a person who was not only promising, but perhaps extraordinarily significant in the grand scheme of things. Things were as simple as that. No cat-fights, no scratching, no mud-wrestling.

  Jana, the director, possessive, in lust, perhaps in love, in huntress mode, after a sequence of lessening intimacy with her star, pursuant of threads. But if those led nowhere, an attempt must be made to at least pull what was left of them all at once, so that a reining-in might occur. If no passion remained, then at least, for the sake of an advanced-quality picture, it might be completed for the benefit of all. And for the returns to flow in. But also for the glory of the one, the one who enabled it to happen at all – the director – to achieve greatness, perchance at the expense of love, of attention, of happiness… But nevertheless, for the director to possess a coup, and probably an OscarTM to cap it off. Thus, passion did remain. That of personal glory, if not personal gain.

  Pepper, the receiver, the opener of doors, could only respond instinctively. Littler Prairie might invite strangers, but bigger Pepper must discern. Not invited, this new guest at the door must still be discerned. She was a director, but Pepper couldn’t know and wasn’t concerned. All she knew was that a troubling interruption had occurred.

  Now, just why?

  ‘Butterbugs?’ Pepper replied. (How new the name was, and how strange to say it to someone besides the person himself.) ‘Butterbugs. Yes. Yes he is, in fact. May I ask who calls him?’

  ‘You may. Tell him, simply if you will, Jana Share is here.’

  Naturally, Jana expected this, this Pepper, to snap to – Nice hair; trim bod; eyebrows a bit unruly; fine bones in a noble face; cute outfit – didn’t know outback hicks could hook onto individual style out here; chic rawhide boots, I suppose she makes them herself; what gives her the right to have such fresh-looking skin way out here?; a rival-bitch to hate?; well, wait a while – Yes, this, this Pepper: she expected her to snap-to, upon hearing such household names.

  But Pepper’s noble face remained impassive and neutrally acceptant of the message, as if air itself might have a brand name, but upon hearing it, its value restored to the banal commodity it was, owned by no one.

  ‘Jana Share,’ recited Pepper. ‘I shall ask.’

  ‘What do you mean, ask?’ Jana snapped, anxious, it seemed, to lose her cool. After all, she had a whole crew, six Super Technirama 70 cameras with ice-cooled magazines, and a sked that just didn’t allow for dipsy-dallying, or honky-tonkin’, or whatever this was – let alone love – on the side.

  Pepper was steady as the coteau-stone that provided the basement and foundation under all this land for miles around.

  ‘I shall ask,’ she repeated, and decided it was appropriate to ease the great door discreetly shut as an interval of obvious concretion, without the etiquette of asking permission. She knew a guest without portfolio when she saw one.

  Sure enough, Jana waited on the nether side, though the door remained ajar. But she strained her ear, encircled by sexy wisps (adjusted since her star had stormed off set), and hoped that the wood-encased hallway would yield some echoey results she wasn’t meant to hear.

  Pepper returned to the dining zone and saw that Butterbugs and Prairie had been enjoying themselves by making goony faces at each other. She was touched by their easy rapport.

  ‘Butterbugs?’ she gently inquired. ‘A woman to see you. Her name is… Jana Share. It’s most unexpected, but –’

  ‘I’m terribly sorry, Miss Pepper!’ Prairie grabbed Butterbugs’ line before he could open his mouth. ‘Yes, ma’am, I’m sorry, but I’ve just been in an important meeting here. We’re making faces, and we don’t wish to be disturbed!’

  The three laughed and saw no reason to doubt the importance of Prairie’s ingenious statement. The two grimacers continued their activity, while Pepper, approving, nevertheless bent down to Butterbugs’ ear, touched him (for the very first time in earnest) with her long sensual hand on his broad shoulder, and whispered.

  ‘Jana Share. That is the name she gives. She waits without. I think it is in your interest.’

  Her breath whooshing ever so softly into his trained ear, like a zephyr at purple dusk (which reigned outside), caused his dong to go – bong! And he indeed snapped to – not because of Jana’s name, but because of Pepper’s touch.

  Leaving Prairie with a particularly complex matrix of a face (introduced to him by Ralph Richardson), Butterbugs rose and responded to Pepper’s intimate comforts by holding her elbow whilst proceeding slowly down the hallway, and return-whispering:

  ‘Then I must answer the inquiry. I’m terribly sorry to have caused this interplay. I’ll do my best to manage it, anon.’

  Pepper held his holding, fast. She saw no reason not to be yummy to him. She too was naturally, organically, fundamentally aroused. There was an automatic trust which now came on, like gangbusters. Not exactly like General Gordon approaching the stairs where he appeared before getting thrust with a spear… But the vibes between the new friends were certainly edgy, due to the tension that radiated through the great door. Yet their confidence was spreading faster than an aurora borealis, flapping its drapery of wonder in front of a goggle-eyed audience.

  Because of this, as the two steadily approached the door, still ajar, with Jana discreetly beyond it, crouched down, with her wispy ear cocked in the small yard of draft between hardware and hasp, Butterbugs gave pause. Gently firming his grasp of Pepper’s hand, he held it up, theatrically lighted by the sunset’s last magenta glow, and pressed it to his lips in complete and utter fullness of faith-based devotion, so overcome was he by the significance of the moment.

  Which was: was she, Pepper, whose hand he kissed right now, at this juncture in time, the one?

  Pepper, for her part, completely enjoined with Butterbugs’ non-verbal but gestural dialogue. Seeing his face in the velvety aspect of the sun’s lengthy descent, she took up the signal and went one step further. With discreet urgency, bolstered by being on her own turf, she stopped him from further movement and aimed a magnificent kiss directly upon his lips, where they remained in silent silhouette against the widescreen picture window to the west.

  Their bodies were engaged, their hearts were in unison, their minds knowing the only possible course ahead.

  Jana did not hear much on the other side of the door, due to the others’ whisper-jet moves and cuddles, but she did detect the dusky shadows of movement passing. Such imagery was akin to choicely-minted noir elements contained in a director’s-eye shot, per
fect for a drama of intimacy (and indelicacy). Across this threshold was real-life action for her to interpret, as either credible material for a particularly stylish moment of cinema, or an indication of suspicion-worthy behavior to get personally riled about. Or was it simply a moment of beauty – which it in fact was – to be taken for its own sake, without buying into any strategy or tactic of reaction? A moment to appreciate, respect, and perhaps with some sadness, enjoy.

  Indeed, she almost retreated then and there, thinking it decent to leave the moment of precious portent well enough alone, so that the two lovers, upon opening the door with good intent and good will, might happen upon a surprise. That being, no one there.

  And pleasant dialogue would result, such as, ‘I thought there was someone here, but they are gone…’

  Leading to:

  ‘It must have been a dream; all is but a dream right now, especially with you in my arms…’

  And then to: ‘Love me tonight…!’

  No! Jana, director, in charge, could not let that be! Never! What idyll was this?

  She had a picture to get out, not some reverie on behalf of lovers. She wasn’t going to subsidize any cow-eyed puppy-loving of her star with some drop-dead gorgeous fan-fucking-tasta-beautiful weepingly-maddeningly outrageous earth-muffin in her little corduroy vest and cute kerchief round her neck! Hell, her panties are probably of buckskin! She just has to be a green-toed rival horrorshow bitchy bitch-BITCH!!! NO!!! Never!!!

  ‘Oh! Well, hello Butterbugs! Bon soir. I’m so sorry to intervene on this fine evening, to barge in like this. And so brashly, too!’

  Jana was all smiles and oily grace when the door finally opened and the verandah’s gas lamp was turned up.

  ‘Why Jana. So good to see you,’ Butterbugs was equally up to the acting requirements.

  With the two women once again facing each other at the portal, this time with Butterbugs looking on, it was necessary to bring structure, even though he was not the host.

  ‘Jana? May I present Pepper. Pepper? May I present Jana.’

  There, the propriety was fulfilled.

  The two women’s hands met in an agreeable but stiffly formal shake, as if to please the presenter, if no one else. Between them, sensations of a certain kind were palpable, but not necessarily hostile or even wary. It was plain they admired each other superficially, and because of this mutual ‘approval’, the stage was set for a respectable challenge.

  What sort of challenge, anyway? In the shorthand employed to address the situation of exactly where Butterbugs should be positioned right now, Jana and Pepper had sensibly reduced it to…

  JANA: My movie star is mine (right now). He should return to me. Strike that. With me. He has a scene to complete. He is under contract. He eats out well.

  PEPPER: He seems to want to be here. We’re just getting to know each other. It’s the chance of a lifetime. I don’t know who or what he is, nor does he know the same things about me. But our instincts are pointing in the right directions. We’ve just kissed for the first time. I’m very excited. But this is too ironic. I sense a threat. Not as a rival, so much as the revoking of a situation that seems promising.

  Butterbugs, of course, was not party to any of this note-making. Their perceptions were way beyond his ken in surveying the awkwardness now at hand. All he could do was stand in the politician’s death-pose: both hands joined over his crotch – protective, and hiding something.

  It was Pepper who broke the stalemate (which, truth to tell, had lasted only about six seconds so far).

  ‘We are about to have a cordial. Would you care to join us?’

  Jana looked behind her and noted the presence of her associates, gathered beyond the eerie greenish halo of the gas lamp’s coverage. Assistant Producers Bakyan Keb and Kirby Bashkog (of BashBakKebKirb Productions), bit player Cotter Smith, plus location security, and others. They bowed, and were at her service.

  ‘What the hell,’ she answered. ‘Shooting’s blown for the day –’ (plain annoyance in her voice) ‘– And I’m not in the mood to snuggle up to dailies that don’t exist, and other things that aren’t there, so why not?’

  Pepper assumed Jana was a huntress, though not kitted out accordingly. She was, however, wearing her trademark vinyl mini-skirt, tied-up tank top of tablecloth pattern, which told the tale of her proud rack unabashedly, with shaggy straw cowgirl hat, fashionably distressed by Bev Hills specialists, and knee-high lace-up boots, coincidentally suede, to knock Pepper’s little shufflers right off the catwalk…

  And since this entire estate and its vast surroundings were positioned smack dab in the middle of one of the nation’s newest and most daring nature preserves, Pepper thought this Diana even more off target than original impressions indicated.

  ‘Come on through,’ was Pepper’s gentle invitation.

  Jana gave a pert but smarmy smile, and it was a good thing the lighting was so dim, or else she would have betrayed a sardonicism that might have upset one applecart too many.

  As Pepper skillfully managed to prepare a portable oil lamp with a swoopy shade to guide them within the electricity-free lodge, Jana decided to go the good-as-gold route, not for any other reason than to protect her own honor in the face of the goody-goody temptress who’d hooked her star with such obvious success. Honey would flow from her premium pores and dewy lips, and not just from further on down. She knew how to do all these things just fine, thank you very much.

  ‘A delightful getaway you have here!’ exclaimed best-behavior Jana. ‘I didn’t know there were destination resorts out this way.’

  ‘There aren’t,’ replied Pepper. ‘This isn’t a resort. It’s a home.’

  ‘Ah! Time-share…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oh, it’s not. I just assumed.’

  ‘My family’s been living here since 1899.’

  Jana quickly shaped up.

  ‘Now there’s a thing! My goodness, that’s a real heritage! You should be right proud.’

  ‘It’s just a natural…’

  Pepper led them into a salon which overlooked a wide valley through very un-1899 picture windows, just as the land’s lightless features were revealed by the spectacular warm beams of a full moon rising.

  ‘But I don’t regard it as a natural occurrence so much as a privilege,’ she continued, proceeding to ignite a series of indirect lighting fixtures that soon made the room a cozy space to easily navigate, without sacrificing visual access to what was going on, moonwise, out the windows.

  ‘Living here, that is.’

  Jana was silent, so impressed was she at the stage now set. As a director, she filed the lighting plot for future use, perhaps even in her current picture. If art imitates life, here was a cardinal example of naïve production design by a virtual illiterate, in perfect harmony with a lighting cameraperson’s and a director’s wishes. Respect suddenly took first place in front of jealousy and envy, both of which waited impatiently to be unleashed in her mind. Oh, but if this Pepper was not only a perfect madonna/whore, but possessing a brilliant mind also, respect could expect to be brushed aside at any moment.

  ‘Living here!’ said Jana, as they all sat down, ‘Full time? In such a place! No signs of life, wherever you look out there. So remote, really. But a fine room in every way. What do you do, anyway?’

  The last line was a throwaway, which was a good thing, because Pepper had quietly stolen out in order to get the cordial equipment. So it went unanswered.

  While she was gone, Butterbugs attempted eye contact with Jana, but she deliberately evaded him, looking about the rich chamber as if he was not there at all. There was no possibility of verbal or any other exchange between them right now.

  Pepper soon returned with a drinks trolley – a veritable antique, but unrestored in its non-stop service, which figured nicely into the genuine surroundings.

  ‘Fantastic trolley!’ remarked Jana.

  ‘Like everything else here, I guess it’s 1899…’

&nbs
p; Pleasantries that were clearly somewhat clumsy on all sides, ensued.

  Suddenly Prairie Browne slipped into the room.

  ‘Hey lady! What’re you doing here? It’s guest day! So I guess it’s OK, huh?’

  Jana laughed and responded with:

  ‘Well hi-there, little missy!’

  ‘Little what?’ coughed Prairie, taken aback, teen-style.

  Jana was cool. So, the plot thickens. A dependent thrown into the mix, is it? All right, then. Daughter? Kid sister? Cousin? Adoptee? Foundling? Captive? Aunt? … Lover? Cradle robbery? You never knew these days.

  ‘Well, we haven’t really been properly introduced, you know.’

  Jana knew when to play the prim card.

  ‘Prairie, this is Jana. Jana, meet Prairie,’ said Pepper patiently.

  ‘Are you two an item?’ Prairie gestured to Butterbugs, pixily.

  ‘Prairie! For heaven’s sake!’ chided Pepper.

  ‘That’s OK. Let’s just say, Prairie, that I’m just passing through.’

  Jana was real helpful-like.

  ‘OK, OK, good!’

  ‘Prairie, time to climb the stairs now.’

  ‘Oh, you! All right. I’ll cooperate. I’m going. Have fun, you three. I’m glad this is guest day.’ She regarded Jana close up. ‘See you next time you pass through, huh?’

  ‘My God,’ thought Jana. ‘This child has presence.’

  They all bade her goodnight, except Butterbugs, who didn’t want her to leave.

  ‘So, can I pour you all some weed-liqueur? It’s Old Grain Race.’ Pepper glanced at Jana, knowing her now as a detailed-oriented type. ‘No, it’s not 1899 vintage. It’s not even from around here.’

  Jana made no move.

  Pepper was expectant of some sort of, oh, she didn’t know, a potentially smartass comment. It was all based on Jana’s current body language, for she sat in the great leather station with legs characteristically spread wide – probably unconsciously.

  After serving the thimble glasses, Pepper sat down on the same long settee as Butterbugs, though significantly distant from him; there was that much room. Upon settling down, she crossed her legs.