5 The Boy Who Never Grew Up

by David Handler

  “I really love this place,” Matthew said wistfully, gazing out over the town green to the old white church. Its steeple was still brightly lit by the sun. The rest of it was in shadow. “A lot of good times here, Meat. Good memories.”

  I glanced over at him. There was something creepy about the way he’d said it. As if this were an actual town, not a collection of false fronts.

  “I’m gonna use it again in my new movie,” he said. “As what it really is—the place where Badger filmed his last hit, before it all went sour for him. He returns here, searching for answers—like Dana Andrews in the bomber junkyard scene in The Best Years of Our Lives. I always loved that scene.” He turned and looked at me. “You really grew up in a town like this?”

  “I grew older. I wouldn’t say I grew up.”

  He held a freckled hand out to Lulu. She quickly scampered up the steps to him and let him scratch her ears. Me she snubbed. I wasn’t a big-time director. Hell, I didn’t even do screenplays.

  “And you?” I asked.

  “It wasn’t at all like this.” He shook his semibald head. “Not my old neighborhood. I’ve never been back there, y’know. Not since the day we moved away. That was after Dad died. I’d started working at Panorama. Twenty years. That’s how long it’s been. Not too many good memories of that place. Not any, in fact.”

  “Well, that settles that,” I said.

  “Settles what, Meat?”

  “What we’re doing tomorrow morning, first thing.”

  “Do we have to?” he blurted out, like a scared, spoiled kid. “I mean, I’d really rather not.”

  “All the more reason to do it.”

  His eyes searched my face. “It’s important?”

  “It is. Trust me.”

  He hesitated, then sighed with resignation. “Okay, Meat. If you say so. We can drive out there. Sure.” He started tearing nervously at his forelock. Abruptly, he stopped himself. “Would you like to read my new script?”

  “Yes, I would.”

  “Great,” he said, pleased. “I’m curious to hear what you think.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’ll tell me the truth. Shelley, Sarge and the others—they just tell me what I want to hear. On account of they work for me.”

  “So do I,” I pointed out.

  “No, you don’t. Not like they do. They depend on me. They’d be lost without me.” He paused, groping for the right words. “It can be a real pain sometimes, having so much say over people’s lives. Nobody’s ever completely straight with me. Not ever.” He looked at me pleadingly. “Will you be, Meat? Please?”

  “It will be a pleasure,” I assured him. I wondered if he really wanted the truth, or if he just wanted me to think he did. I didn’t know. I only knew that it would not be a pleasure.

  A roar invaded Homewood now. The roar of a motorcycle—a big one, heading our way. It came hard around the corner of Elm, a shiny new Harley Fat Boy, hog of hogs, practically a house on two wheels. A kid with a wild mop of hair was on it. Matthew grinned and waved to him.

  The kid grinned back, and pulled up before us with a screech. “Like it?” he called out, revving it.

  Matthew gave him two thumbs up.

  He revved it again, then shut it off. And then Johnny Forget, Matthew Wax’s troubled young star, climbed off and came over to us. Matthew got up and hugged him. He seemed genuinely glad to see him.

  “How are you, Johnny?” he asked. He seemed genuinely concerned, too.

  “I’m okay,” Johnny replied in his soft, little boy’s whisper of a voice. “I’m doing okay.”

  Johnny Forget wasn’t a little boy anymore. He was twenty-four. But he still came off like one. He was small, about five feet six, and his body and features still seemed softened by baby fat. His angelic good looks remained. The big, soft brown eyes, the full red lips, the shy innocence that made teenaged girls positively melt. He was the same little Johnny, the Johnny who was, for a couple of years, the most photographed celebrity in America, eclipsing even Johnny Depp, Madonna, and Bart Simpson. Clearly, he didn’t want this to be so. He was doing his best to deface himself. His gleaming, matinee idol’s blue-black hair was now a wild mop of Rastafarian dreadlocks, dyed to a garish shade of canary yellow. He wore a nose stud in one nostril, an earring in one earlobe, and a two-day growth of beard. Also blue and purple bruises around his throat, as if someone had tried to throttle him. He had on a black leather motorcycle jacket with all sorts of zippers and buckles, no shirt, torn, faded jeans, and black biker boots. But he was still little Johnny, reeking of Patchouli, the old hippie cologne that smells like a cross between marijuana and spoiled pork.

  I hadn’t realized it before—or cared, frankly—but he was also quite obviously a major league boy toy.

  “What happened to your throat?” Matthew wondered, as he looked him over.

  Johnny stared at him blankly. He seemed a little slow on the uptake, semiglazed, semi-not all there. That’ll happen if you go through a lot of drugs and don’t have a lot of extra brains to begin with. “My what?” he finally said, silently mouthing the words a split second before he said them, as if his voicebox were one beat late clicking in.

  “You didn’t crack up your new bike already, did you?” pressed Matthew.

  Johnny fingered the bruises on his throat. “Uh … no. Things just got a little rough the other night, y’know?”

  “Rough?” Matthew didn’t comprehend.

  “At a party,” Johnny explained, giggling dumbly. “With friends, man.”

  “Oh, I see,” Matthew said, though I don’t believe he did. Boys didn’t have rough sex with each other in Homewood. Or any other kind of sex with each other. “Say hey to Hoagy. He’s working with me on my book.”

  “I’m Johnny, man,” he said, sticking out his hand. “Glad to know you.”

  “Likewise.” His hand was soft and plump, like a girl’s. “The vamp over there is Lulu.”

  She had moved a safe twenty feet away, from where she eyed Johnny witheringly. She has this thing about colognes. She is intensely allergic to Calvin Klein’s Obsession, for instance. Patchouli she just flat out hates.

  “I’ve been leaving messages all over for you,” Matthew said to him. “Where’ve you been?”

  Johnny shrugged. “Around,” he replied vaguely. “I didn’t want to hassle you. You got so many hassles.”

  “You’re not a hassle, Johnny,” Matthew said, placing his hands on his shoulders. “Stay for dinner, okay? Ma’d love to see you. We can go to Malibu Grand Prix later.”

  “Can’t, man.” Johnny glanced back at his bike. “Just wanted you to see it. You really like it?”

  It was loaded down with every manner of fender, trim, and ornament there was. A truly gaudy machine. “I really do,” Matthew exclaimed, admiring it.

  “Go on and take it for a spin,” Johnny urged him.

  Matthew hopped right on, delighted, and started it up. He revved it a few times, enjoying the roar, then went tearing off down Main Street.

  Johnny watched him ride off. Then he fished an unfiltered Camel from his jacket pocket, stuck it between his teeth, and lit it with a Bic lighter. He let the smoke out of his nostrils and tossed his brightly colored mop of hair. “It all seems so stupid,” he said, dreamily.

  “What does, Johnny?” I asked.

  “Life, man. It all seems too stupid.”

  “Only because it is.”

  He smiled at me. He liked me now—I understood him. Of course, that wasn’t so hard. “Matthew’s the only one.”

  “The only one, Johnny?”

  “The only person in this world who cares whether I live or die.”

  “Your mother doesn’t?” I asked gently.

  “I got no mother, man,” he snarled. “The wicked witch is dead.”

  I nodded, though I knew this wasn’t strictly accurate. He’d only wounded her in the arm when he shot her. She had dropped the charges in exchange for a cash settlement. “What about your
friends?”

  That got only a short, derisive snort out of him.

  “And your fans? Don’t they care?”

  “Fuck them,” he snapped petulantly. He looked down Main. The sound of the Harley was very faint now. “Do you ride?” he asked me.

  “Occasionally.”

  “A few friends and me, we all ride up into Topanga Canyon. Do some beers and smokes and shooting.”

  “Shooting?”

  “Semiautomatics, man. I got this AK47 assault rifle that’s major. Totally. I got all kinds of shit—a Colt Sporter, a Tec-9. … They’re like this real power trip, y’know? Watermelons make the best targets.” He imitated the sound of an exploding melon. It wasn’t pretty. “Gore, man. Totally.”

  “Keeping semiautomatics is somewhat frowned upon by the law, isn’t it?” Certainly they would frown in the case of this particular puppy.

  “Name one fun thing that isn’t,” he dared me, defiantly.

  I let him have that one. “I’d like to interview you for Matthew’s book, Johnny. Where do I get in touch with you?”

  I got the vacant stare. “He wants me to talk to you?” he finally asked.

  “He does.”

  “It’s okay then. If Matthew says so.”

  I could hear the motorcycle again. Matthew was on his way back.

  “Where do I get in touch with you, Johnny?” I repeated.

  He tossed his cigarette aside. “I really don’t like being tied down to any schedule or place, man.”

  “I see.” He was starting to get on my nerves. Bright, he wasn’t. He made Matt Dillon look like John Kenneth Galbraith. Not that he wasn’t trying. He was trying real hard—to be tough and nasty and bad. But it was all pose. He was a rebel without a clue, a child star, and if there’s a more fucked-up brand of creature on earth, I’ve yet to come across it. True, he had played Badger convincingly as a wide-eyed kid. But now Matthew was expecting him to play him as an adult—as a famous director who’s going through a serious life crisis, no less. Was Johnny capable of this? I wondered. “How do I contact you, Johnny?” I said, trying it a little louder and a lot slower.

  He went bratty on me. “Through my agency, man,” he sneered. “How do you think?”

  “Not as well as I once did,” I confessed. “But I try not to let it get me down.”

  He tossed his hair and stared at me. “Huh?”

  “Forget it.”

  Matthew came roaring back up Main Street. Pulled up in front of us, revved the Fat Boy a couple of times, and shut it off. “I want one,” he declared, patting it.

  “Take it,” Johnny offered. “It’s yours.”

  “I don’t want yours, doofus.” Matthew laughed. “I’ll get my own.”

  Johnny swiped at his nose with the back of his hand. “Could I maybe talk to you a second, Matthew?”

  “Sure, Johnny.” Matthew climbed off of the bike. “What’s up?”

  Johnny glanced over at me uneasily.

  “I’ll disappear,” I suggested.

  “No, don’t,” Matthew said quickly. “C’mon, Johnny. We’ll take a walk. Just the two of us.” He put his arm around him, and they started off together down the sidewalk. “Something bothering you?”

  “I’m going through some weird shit,” Johnny said, “and I’m not sure what my attitude’s supposed to be …”

  They were out of earshot after that. I sat back down on the steps and looked at Lulu and patted the step next to me. It was time for our own little heart-to-heart. Sullenly, she ambled over to me and sat with a grunt.

  “Now look,” I said firmly. “Just because Matthew said you have star potential doesn’t mean you do. That’s just the way people talk out here. Movie babble. Acting happens to be a horrible life. You’ll spend most of your time dragging your tired bones from one audition to the next, getting rejection after rejection. There’s thousands of other dogs out there, all of them trying to paw their way to the top. And even if you do make it, it doesn’t last. Where is Mike the Dog now, huh? Where is Benji?”

  She wasn’t listening to me. She had the bug. There’s no getting through to them when they do. I wished I could consult her mommy on this. Merilee was a pro. Lulu would listen to her. But I was on my own now. Alone. All I could do was hope she soon returned to her senses, such as they are.

  Matthew and Johnny came strolling back. Johnny climbed onto his Fat Boy and started it up.

  “Stay in touch, okay?” Matthew urged him. “You always have a home here, Johnny. You know that, don’t you?”

  “I know that,” Johnny said, nodding his canary yellow head. “Thanks, man.” Then he sped off.

  Matthew watched him go. “Problems with his love life,” he volunteered. “He’s been seriously involved with somebody lately, and he just found out the guy’s seeing somebody else on the side. He doesn’t know what to do now. I thought he should confront him. Get it out in the open.”

  I nodded. Badger’s dad would have advised just that.

  We got back on our own machines and rode on, Lulu trotting alongside.

  “Does he often come to you with his personal problems?” I asked.

  “Always has,” Matthew replied. “I’ve been directing Johnny since he was seven years old. He got so used to asking me what his character’s attitude should be that he kept right on asking me, even when the cameras weren’t rolling. I guess I’m kind of like a father to him. He’s pretty messed up, but he’s a good kid, really. And he had a terrible time of it when he was little. That mother of his is a horrible, greedy bitch. She never let him be a kid. When he first came in to read for The Boy Who Cried Wolf he didn’t even know how to throw a baseball or ride a bike. He’d never been to a regular school, never had any pals. He was the family breadwinner, and she drove him beyond belief. Screamed at him, beat him with a hairbrush if he muffed his lines. Got him so upset he’d vomit between takes. It was awful for the poor kid. She’s back in Canada now, thank God.”

  “Who manages him now?” I asked.

  “He’s with the Harmon Wright Agency,” Matthew replied.

  I flinched at the name. Inwardly, apparently. He took no note of it.

  “Joey Bam Bam is the guy who handles him,” he added.

  “Joey Bam Bam?”

  “Johnny’s very happy with him.”

  We pedaled our way out of Homewood. An alley took us by some prop warehouses and then to a big garage, where Matthew stopped and got off his bike.

  “This is what I wanted to show you,” he said. “Come on in.”

  The sliding garage doors were locked. He used a key to unlock them, then slid one open and went in and flicked on a light. I followed him in.

  A dozen or so cars were stored in there. The first one he led me to was a long, low drag racer with chrome pipes. Its body was fashioned out of a coffin, complete with purple velvet upholstery.

  “Recognize it?” he asked, grinning at me eagerly.

  I shook my head. “Should I?”

  “It’s Grandpa Munster’s Dragula, Meat,” he exclaimed. “You know, from The Munsters—the TV series. George Barris designed it. He was the customizer of the sixties. I bought it at an auction. I’ve got a bunch of his. Here, here, this one’s my pride and joy …” He whipped the cover off a low-slung black convertible with tail fins. It looked somewhat like a 1955 Lincoln Futura dream car. “The Batmobile, Meat,” he proclaimed with great pride. “Not the fake one from that awful movie, either. This is the one from the TV show. The real Batmobile. Cost me plenty,” he confided, patting it lovingly. “But how can you put a price tag on something like this?”

  “You can’t.”

  “Most of these I got at auctions.” He pointed them out, one by one. “That ’28 Porter over there’s the talking car from My Mother the Car. Totally authentic, right down to the license plate: PZR 317.”

  “Does it—?”

  “No, it doesn’t talk. And believe me, you’re not the first person who’s asked that. There’s Maxwell Smart’s Sunbeam
Alpine from Get Smart. The motorcycle and sidecar are Colonel Klink’s from Hogan’s Heroes …” He stopped, frowning at me. “What are you looking around for, Meat?”

  “Mister Ed. I thought perhaps he’d been stuffed and auctioned off as well.”

  He reddened. “You think I’m silly, don’t you? You think I’m totally silly.”

  “No, not at all.”

  “I guess it does seem a little bizarre,” he admitted. “But, see, I grew up on these shows, Meat. This is my whole childhood, right here. These cars. And now they’re actually mine. I can’t believe it. It makes my heart pound. Can you understand that?”

  “I can, Matthew. Do they run?”

  “I have a mechanic who does nothing but keep them running. These aren’t museum pieces. They’re my cars for getting around town. What are you driving while you’re here?”

  “I was going to rent something when I got to the hotel.”

  “What for? Take one of these. Whichever one you want.”

  “That’s extremely generous of you, Matthew, but I really can’t see myself zipping around Los Angeles in the Batmobile.”

  “Why not? C’mon, Meat. Have some fun, will ya?” He froze, a dark shadow crossing his face. “Gee,” he said softly. “That’s just what Penny used to say to me.” He swallowed, his eyes shining. No, he wasn’t over her. Not even maybe. He shook himself and mustered a smile. “Please, Meat. Take one.”

  “Matthew, I’ll be fine. I’ll rent myself something.”

  “You sure I can’t talk you into it?” He really wanted to, it seemed.

  “Positive.”

  He shrugged, disappointed, and we started back outside. As we did my eye caught sight of one car in the back row that I hadn’t noticed before. I stood there, staring. Then, slowly, I went over to it.

  “Aha!” cried Matthew triumphantly. “I knew one of ’em would get to you. I should have guessed it would be this one. You’re into machines, not gimmicks.”

  I was certainly into this machine. How old was I then? Ten? I’d wanted it desperately. It and everything it stood for. And here it was, thirty years later. Factory fresh. “It’s the real one?” I asked.