Forward to Glory

by Brian Paul Bach

  Her voice grew, gently. Butterbugs stood still.

  It was almost possible, in this pause, to imagine, in the strangely bright sky, seeing huge Pacific Title lettering, spelling out ‘Intermission’. Such was the gravity of the moment, that any interruption, be it ever so tasteful, might be welcome, in order to put the imminent progress of the world on hold, if only for an interval of fifteen minutes or so. But, no, not yet awhile. No pause would be adequate to give the issue of loss a respite. Not even the tragic passing of superstar Vonda had this impact, for love had fully emerged into the picture, and no guiding words in the sky were going to point him in any direction of resolve. The vastness of clearly-defined infinity was before him, and his choice in engaging it was voluntarily pressing in.

  Yet, there was Heatherette, apparition or no, appearing at a key point in whatever act this happened to be in his life. If it was the final reel, the film dwindling as it runs at 24 frames per second, then this was an elegant and attractive finale – quiet and sorrowful, but with a beauty all its own.

  She approached him, very slowly, and her right hand rose, until it reached forward like a mild projectile of cosmic dust, which came to form an upraised palm, symbolic of peace.

  Facing each other, but with enough distance between them to require pan-and-scan for any full-screen version of view, Heatherette saw his anxiety and sadness writ truly on his face. Instinctively, her own face reflected not an antidote, but a neutralizing expression of compassion. By this she absorbed some of his woe, alleviating it wordlessly.

  Then, she spake.

  ‘Here we are, standing…’ Her peaceful hand gestured out toward the abyss. ‘At the end of the world! You are home, but it seems you are a long way from anywhere. I can remind you, as someone who cares, that I want to talk to you as one who does not know you, but from afar. From a distance I myself have maintained, and that you have allowed. Therefore, you can of course take what I suggest, or leave what I say. But I feel I should say it. Before you decide what you want to do. In the immediate future, that is.’

  This sort of on-the-ground address gave Butterbugs a different kind of pause.

  ‘I am listening,’ he said, in a tone less stretched than when he’d uttered ‘Muse’, earlier.

  ‘Because you chose to do so, it shows you are not ready to take your leap of no-faith, yet.’

  ‘How do you know about that?’

  ‘I had a sensation. An automatic sensation. It came to me in my solitude, and it brought me to this place. Do you mind?’

  ‘Why are you asking me this question?’

  ‘I can leave, and you can be about your business.’

  ‘I thought you were going to tell me… something.’

  ‘I will. And I have not reached my real question for you yet. It is really a question with many facets, because one will lead to another, all in no order, or one that really matters. So, I have to ask, do you wish to live? Don’t answer me yet. Do you wish to work? Do you wish to admit that, now that you are on the edge, as it were, you have the freedom to start anew? Do you wish to admit it? Are you well and truly heartbroken? Is the pain worth the consequences that you now have the option of pursuing?’

  Her voice grew more emotional. She moved forward, and stopped within arm’s length of him. Her eyes closed, her full lips were parted, her voluptuousness was so apparent that, indeed, Butterbugs examined it and her, in totality. Many details were indeed discernible. A spark somehow brightened his alertness.

  Pleasure, a personal feeling he had not truly experienced since gazing at the Smith-Kem Range back when, now wriggled again into his consciousness when he noticed that she actually wore high heels. Poised for some sort of romantic contact, she remained in ‘kiss me’ mode long enough for him to realize that, indeed, life was still a feast, despite his shorted-out expectations.

  Sensing his closeness, and the receptive vibes that did not yet empower for physical contact, Heatherette felt confident that she had at least secured him from slaying himself this night.

  ‘And so, Butterbugs, I know you to be on the side of life now, whatever the loss was that you have experienced, of late.’

  He could only agree, but could not yet put it into words.

  ‘I am glad. We are all glad.’

  She opened her eyes and gestured with both arms, to make a global point.

  His eyes began to well up.

  ‘Heatherette! I am all alone in this.’

  ‘I am here.’

  ‘I know! I am so grateful.’

  He took her hands and kissed each with utter humility, then knelt on one knee before her.

  She felt the appreciation. But that wasn’t why she was here, exactly.

  ‘Arise, Butterbugs, and hear me now. Since you will return to life after this purposeful but completed interval, I make the following proposal to you. It is of a highly personal nature, but you will find it attractive, I know. Will you consider it?’

  ‘I will!’

  He could almost detect an inkling of enthusiasm returning to his increasing grasp on the reality, and the significance of the moment.

  ‘I cannot make you happy in the world of your lost love, but I can perhaps show you another, perhaps more austere, way unto fulfillment. It is really very simple, because you have been practicing its method for some time now.’

  ‘I think I might know of which you speak. I mean, of what you speak.’

  ‘I expect you do. It is only natural. It is what you are here on this plane of reality to do. It is to work. To work. To do your work. And it is what you do: your destiny as a photoplay artiste. It has already been partly enacted. But a strolling player moves forward. You are now, shall we say, in a sort of hiatus. It must come to a close presently, and your progress must be taken up once more. You know this to be true.’

  ‘I do! I tell you, I do!’

  He was waking up. The appeal of the reading of the script, the flow of ideas for interpretation, the excitement of life on the set, the interactions with cast and crew (dammit, how he missed Old Atrocity!), the magic of a picture coming together, even the post-shooting over-dubbing and retake sequences raised relish in his recollections. And then the premieres, and the interviews and the nights out and the wrap parties! And, perhaps most magnificently, the looking forward to the next great production, when the strolling player’s progress would be embellished anew, and refined, and enlarged. Oh yes, there was life’s glory to be had, and it was his duty to enact it with zest and zing. Any other option would be a disgrace too ignoble to bear!

  ‘I believe you,’ Heatherette replied, for she could see the actor’s integrity reactivated, his real self gradually liberated from the shackles of longing.

  ‘Oh, Heatherette! Greatly do I thank you for having the will to appear here at this hour! You saved my life. You did. I cannot thank you enough.’

  That was sufficient to convince her of his fitness of recovery. That was all she wanted at this time. Therefore, she felt obliged to offer the following concretion for him to act upon.

  ‘I am grateful for your return, Butterbugs. I sensed you would. Thus, I request that you appear at my residence tomorrow night at 8:00PM, when I will offer you a script proposal that your agent and his associates will no doubt embrace, because it is perfect for you, especially at this point in your artistic quest.’

  ‘Sweet and handsome girl! I am refreshed by your help and by your sexy appearance here this night. I pledge that I will undertake your request, with vigor!’

  She smiled fulsomely. If she could not have his love, she could at least merit his agreeable admiration. That was enough to have accomplished tonight, and thus, it was all right for her to retire.

  ‘Good night, Butterbugs. I know you to be secure. And now, as I withdraw for the moment, and you take your sauna, know that I am with you in my anticipatory spirit, as you have linked with my person in that way.’

  ‘Oh yes, Heatherette! You are so wise, and such a comfort. I will follow your plan, and I will
see you on the morrow, as it is my pleasure, as well as my high purpose!’

  She reversed her course, which she had displayed before him with deliberation. And, re-robed enough for the modesty required for her return journey, she exited stage right, and safely off the great plain of his terrace.

  ‘Would it be æsthetically uncool of me,’ Butterbugs wondered aloud as he headed inside to a cold platter and bottle-beer, ‘if I were to have a bit of railing attached to the great, bold edge of my… ‘runway’? Just to give the more timid of our race a bit of comfort, perhaps…?’

  He made a note to contact the Case Study people, after this Heatherette business, tomorrow.

  So, he chose to bounce back as fast as he could.

  Solution: work!

  If a sense of consolation was required, this was it. But at least it added up to something substantial. By his ongoing screen appearances, he was gifting many whom he would never know, and that was at least an excuse to go on living.

  Actually, it was much more than that. Acting took time. Time passed. The sting would fade. New ideas would surface. New faces. It was worth pursuing.

  A new picture. A whole new direction. It didn’t take long to find one. That was because he gravitated toward his formerly distant, but familiar, source.

  She was Heatherette, again. And not surprisingly, she was naked.

  The wooden cupola above the false dome over the shrouded ballroom was one of her favorite gamboling venues. Frosted skylights let in silent film studio-toned light, and by it, her often classical postures and movements looked especially Academic against the fusty taupe background. Even though she had the whole mansion to herself, she ensured that this sanctum zone was even more limited to her most independent frames of mind. In its unexpectedly inventive spaces, she had come face to face with remarkableness many times. These were benchmarks within her own mind’s progressive movements, and had little to do with conventional thought processes, as understood by the wide world without. Suffice it to say, this was where Heatherette could think.

  Then, the expected gong.

  Butterbugs! He had come through. She sensed he might. She never would have departed last night if she’d had the slightest doubt as to his vulnerability.

  She pondered though, on the object of his… love. Was that the right term? A sizable list of comparative factors added up during her contemplation. For example, her meaningfulness to him. Did it actually exist, or not? If it did – and she thought it might – it had to do with where she, Heatherette, fit in, and how she added up. Location and timing were everything. Style was fine, but what about substance? Final equation: no gloating over Butterbugs’ peppery loss out there on the prairie. Whatever it was, if only but a lover’s skewed reckoning, the actor was essentially non-committed to any soul now on Earth.

  Innocently, and lacking any overt intention or ulterior motive, she donned the sheerest of shortie bedroom ‘jackets’ and went down to answer the door. Butterbugs was indeed there, looking for all the world as fresh and friendly as that first day he appeared at the foot of her long noir staircase.

  More smiles than words ensued, and Butterbugs merely followed the young lady upstairs, not regarding her bottom so much as following its guidance. Automatically playing was a built-in comfort factor. He didn’t have to prove himself or listen or give sweet-talk in order to be validated. She wasn’t required to explain anything at all. It was a state of affairs that allowed for both to trek a considerable ways within the vast house with nothing but grins on their non-facing faces.

  They were in the west division, on the Sleeping Porch. The blackened stone of the main wall of the house ran along, and thrust from it, a daring space, screened-in on both flanks, with a heavy pediment above. A gallery, really. Views of the grey gardens on one side, a western prospect on the other. Butterbugs wondered about the earthquake capability of this structure, but with Heatherette here, there was very little to worry him. Why, she could be a caryatid if she needed to be – albeit more lavish and graceful even than those in London and Athens, and here draped more daringly.

  Truly, it was ‘Heatherette time’, a long dusk without benefit of sunset. Occluded, purply, leading to navy black.

  Butterbugs could sometimes be privately amused, albeit with the utmost affection, by her procedural and mannered hospitality. The thimbleful of inky arcane liqueur, the esoteric paraphernalia employed, the antique customs of establishing a social intercourse. All this and more, in the midst of a palpable sensuality and even sexy state of reality and honesty. But today, with business to attend to, he did not rise to the occasion of noting these otherworldly effects. Instead, he was distracted, ponderous, still somewhat given to brooding.

  There was never much evidence that Heatherette was given to premonishment, but she did possess great insight, which could be gained from another person without even looking at them. So, all the time she was enacting her hospitality trip before they settled down on Pompeii-style furnitures – relics from ‘Ben-Hur’ (MGM, 1925) – she was absorbing his vibes, assessing them, and preparing responses.

  They sat in silence. He, regarding his liqueur, she, gazing into the west.

  Suddenly she spake.

  ‘And it was you who told me at one time that you were a ‘simple seeker of truth’. Now, what are you to think? You are today in the midst of doing what you always wanted. This is certainly what you wanted. You have achieved things in the art of cinema. You have made a great noise in the world, and all who have heard it are glad. But are you glad again? Or are you still troubled? Too little time has passed, but a great gulf has been traversed. If you are still conflicted, you are as common as life itself is cheap. But I do not think you are troubled so much as distracted with ancillary matters.’

  He was listening intently now, as her high-level observations actively dissolved the haze of his self-absorbed fantasy into Athenian clarity. But he could not bring himself to say anything in response, quite yet.

  ‘As we both intimated last night, you need a change of scene. A change of tone. A change of challenges, Butterbugs.’

  ‘What specifically can I do?’ he asked at length.

  ‘Here.’

  She went over to a shadowy credenza and retrieved a folio covered with mealy sea-green paper.

  ‘Take this script. My grandsire was at one time considering filming it as a silent classic. But it would never have passed the tollgate of censorship.’

  ‘Controversially sexual?’

  ‘Nein. Subject matter!’

  Butterbugs opened the cover.

  ‘I think you should do it.’

  He read the first page.

  ‘I will,’ he then said quietly. ‘I tell you, I will.’

  ‘The Aghori’, a picture-show script by Bampfylde Fuller (from his ‘Studies of Indian Life and Sentiment’ of 1910). Aghori are non-caste people in India who, because of their impossibly low status, eat human flesh…

  It led to nearly instant action. Butterbugs wanted to film in May, the hottest time of the year on the Indian plains. Porter Parker, who exec produced (Herbie Churchman and Sidney Harmon produced), actually lashed out at Butterbugs.

  ‘You want to do everything the hard way! Everything difficult!’

  Butterbugs lost it.

  ‘Now you looka here.’

  He grabbed Porter’s shirt with uncharacteristic gruffness. Aggression became his role of the moment. But he was compelled to enact it!

  ‘I tell you, Producer, I’m not after difficulty of any kind! I’m after Truth, and if you can’t face the Truth I seek, then our partial-partnership is at an end! I want this picture to be filmed with the Truth and Daring that it deserves! In the realms of all that it entails, including climate. I could never utter a line from this brilliant script without being utterly faithful to it, in spirit as well as from down there in the mud! If you are not down there with me, Porter, down in the mud, I shall go elsewhere for the exec duties on this picture!’

  ‘Oh yeah? WHERE
would you ‘go’, huh?’ Porter asked haughtily.

  ‘Everywhere! To Bob Wise! To G.P. Sippy! To Sam Bronston! To Hazel Snyder! To Selig J. Seligman! To Hyman Goth! To DFZ himself! Anyone, but you!’

  Butterbugs let go. Porter straightened his chequerboard bow tie.

  ‘But your subject, Butterbugs! It makes me –’

  Porter became distressed. Bucking and farting, he finally vomited, but very little came up, and unfortunately it gathered on the Saturnatunazzini daveno’s fake LesterHyde.

  Butterbugs glared at him from on high.

  ‘One people’s sad tale, and you cannot stomach it! I pity you, Porter Parker, as I have never pitied anyone. You, with your blond crewcut and Butch Wax. Your black plastic young executive glasses. Your thick neck and flabby gut! You are already of the mud, and cannot see past your very own self-polluted puddle! I tell you, let these people’s story be told! It will be one of the greatest pictures ever. I saw you as you licked your puffy lips at the end of our late-night viewing of ‘The Cook, the Thief, His Wife and Her Lover’ (Miramax, 1990) that time!’

  Porter, seeing Butterbugs’ power, and his truth, and his quest for it, passed out – although he avoided reclining into his own discharge.

  They eventually patched things up after a fizzy beverage, but ever after, Butterbugs kept a close watch on the visage of Porter Parker, and wondered if it were prudent to trust him. He would confer with Sonny, after this picture was wrapped.

  Yes, the Aghori people were driven to consume human flesh.

  British India. United Provinces, 1861. Butterbugs’ character lives on a sandbank next the Gunga, and arrests corpses that float downstream, fugitive from the burning ghats. Those that have not been entirely combusted, and those of humans not yet grown to full form. His humble cooking utensils and his fire. Without warning, he appears in the town bazaar, carrying a human skull, and threatens to heave it upon the stalls or into the shops of merchants, thus polluting their wares and persons irrevocably. Thus, he blackmails them into surrendering alms, if not coins of pice and annas. He then chooses to rise in the world, so he decamps to a neighboring district and becomes a cook for a British officer in Bungalowpore. The other staff in the household try to have him sacked when they accuse him of visiting cemeteries nocturnally and digging up freshly buried children. Evidence has been planted in his quarters, in a box of unnamable stench, supposedly his cannibalistic larder. Indeed, he is summarily dismissed. Still, the officer’s household is haunted with thoughts of the rather tasty curries that came from his kitchen… The last shot is of him wandering out into the airless night.