by Bruce Wagner
The medico was in his late forties, with closely cropped white hair.
“A migraine cocktail,” he said. “Demerol and Vistaril.”
Clea cooed her tiresome When Harry Met Sally “I’ll have what he’s having” number—sleazy and overobvious. I was never a fan of the exhibitionist side of her that thought it hip to advertise addictions; to me, it vulgarly telegraphed relapse.
“V is for Vistaril,” Thad uttered, on the way to feeling no pain. “V is for vomit. V is for Vorbalid.”
“Will he sleep?” asked Miriam, conversationally. I imagined she’d been through this before.
“Like a patient eulogized upon a table,” said Thad, droopy-lidded. It was somehow reassuring that even in his current state he still liked a pun.
“He’ll sleep,” said the doctor. “We like to say the medicine won’t necessarily make the headache go away—it just won’t bother him anymore.”
“Wait,” said Thad, suddenly queasy. White-faced, he shakily stood. Clea braced him, as did Miriam from the other side.
“Do you want to go to the bathroom?”
He winced, his face relaxing as the vertigo receded. He took a deep breath before settling back on a pillow.
“That fucking starship bouillabaisse . . .”
“If you need to throw up, go right ahead,” said the doctor, folksily.
“Don’t be facile,” said Thad, soft targets refocusing.
“A horrible patient,” said Miriam, apologetically.
“Oh, he’s not so bad. But I should wait a while. He may need another shot.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? What are they? Two hundred a pop?”
“Thad!” scolded Clea. “Give the man a break. He came all the way at rush hour.”
“Dr. Chaldorer would never be so venal.”
“Is that your regular physician?” said the doc, affably.
“Not just my physician,” Thad rejoined. “He’s responsible for the entire crew.”
“The film crew?”
“He’s a character in our show,” informed Clea, with a slight roll of the eyes.
“You’re an actor,” said the doc. He was a little square—I mean, not only could you see Thad’s Pan-Cake, but here we were at the Chateau. Hello.
“He’s doing Starwatch: The Navigators,” Miriam offered.
I thought it strange the otherwise savvy, intuitive Miriam could grow situationally clunky, cheaply broadcasting the most negligible details of Thad’s identity or career—like an old-fashioned flack, she didn’t seem to have a clue about when to withhold or divulge. (I flashed on her painful chatter with Klotcher on the Vineyard.) At such moments, she seemed perversely inspired to blurt out whatever insipid, useless thing was most likely to wound or set him off.
“Now you do look familiar,” said the doc, warming to his subject. “Were you in that Don Quixote movie?”
“Yes, he was,” said the proud Miriam.
“I saw it on a plane. It was great!” Everything fell into place. “Your father’s the writer?” No one responded. “Jack Michelet? The novelist?”
Shockingly enough, Miriam skillfully aborted exploration of the topic by thanking him for his services.
Turning to Thad, he said, “I want you to try the Zomig.” The doctor gathered his things. “If he feels a headache coming on, he’s to take a pill. They’re two and a half milligrams. He can have up to four, but no more than ten milligrams—total—per day. That, plus the Vicodin. If the headache’s still there, I want you to call.”
“Careful with those Darian showgirls, Doc,” said Thad, good humor briefly returning. “Remember: alien ‘pelvics’ can be a bit pesky. Better to triple-glove.”
“Will he be able to work tomorrow?” asked Miriam.
That was another annoying trait—her tendency to ask a mindless question for which she already knew the answer. But why was I subjecting the girl to such brittle scrutiny? Simple: too much time had elapsed since we’d shagged.
“I don’t see why not. He might be a little unsteady on his feet, but he’s an old hand. The show must go on, no?” He gave Miriam his card. “Call my office or pager. And I can always be reached through the hotel.”
“Do you make housecalls? I mean set calls?” asked Thad, in earnest.
“It’s been known to happen. Yes. That can be arranged.”
“Do you feel it yet?” asked Miriam of the drugs.
“Hasn’t quite kicked in.”
“Oh bullshit,” said Clea, our resident expert. “It’s been at least half an hour.”
“I’m a woman on the verge—the mere knowledge the stoned Pony Express is galloping through the bloodstream with those leathery ol’ saddlebags of painkiller molecules brings me exorbitant comfort.”
“Are you really going to feel like eating?” said Miriam.
“It’s probably not a great idea to load up on food,” I said, supportively.
Clea came and sat beside him. “Why don’t you let me put you to bed?”
“Because I want a shrimp cocktail, OK?” said Thad, imperious. “Don’t worry—I won’t aspirate. And french fries and a fucking cheeseburger. Everyone has to order, is that understood? Mister Karp? Call room service immediately or I’ll kick you where the six Darian suns don’t shine! As acting captain of the good starship Demerol, I command you!”
Thad’s stamina was pretty amazing. We played half-assed duets on the piano, messily eating our food while Clea and Miriam sat on the terrace, smoking and murmuring girl-things. I knew it was neurotic but ever since we met I’d worried he thought of me as just another inane, rich lummox from Clea’s childhood, or—far worse—that I was boring. Sitting side by side on the lacquered bench of the Kawai, I began to loosen up and be myself; maybe it was a contact high. I fantasized we could really be friends. The truth was, I did feel boring next to this man—I didn’t necessarily want to feel his pain but coveted his cadence and complexity. I understood why Clea was so drawn. I actually wanted to please him, and decided that was all right. So we laughed and pounded the keys and I did those impressions I used to haul out at parties years and years ago. At some point, I coined the phrase “endorsement rush” (what athletes feel when they sign a big product deal) and Thad laughed so hard the girls wandered in to see about the commotion.
The three of us had early-morning set calls. Miriam and I left, so Clea could tuck him in. (To our relief, she was staying over.) I walked her downstairs just before midnight and, happily, she asked me in. My curiosity piqued because whatever Miriam had in mind wasn’t amorous; she’d made that clear enough by saying she had “overdosed” (tonight’s theme) on Motrin, due to “Godzilla cramping.” Too bad—if she thought I was going to reject her polite invitation, the hint fell on hard-on ears.
Because the rules of engagement (or against it) were already set, the lovely suite took on a kind of formal, faintly clinical cast. For one of the few times in my life, I regretted following my dick—suddenly it felt like we were in the sitting room of a mortuary. Miriam poured herself a drink, fetched me a Diet Coke from the perfectly restored fifties fridge, then plunked herself down on the floor with great cross-legged intent. There was something she needed my advice about.
Thad was in trouble with the IRS. He had a lifelong gambling problem and Morgana perennially bailed him out—but no more. (I was shocked his mum had done as much.) The government forced a lien against his Manhattan apartment and he was struggling to make payments that with penalties and interest approached $35,000 a month. Miriam said he was drinking and drugging more than usual since Jack’s death, and enduring extreme writer’s block with the new book as well; whenever he was really bad off, he phoned at all hours to go on about Dostoevsky’s gaming woes. The end result of these agonies was frequent headaches that necessitated “the ingestion of analgesics.” Ironically, the pills caused a rebound effect (actual medical term), which began the vicious cycle of migraines all over again. It was excruciating for her to watch him self-destruct becaus
e she held the guy in such high esteem and truly cared so much. She wanted him in good shape for “all the wonderful things coming his way.” “This is his time,” said Miriam—and she really meant it. She had planned a meeting with Mordecai Klotcher because it was her opinion there was a good chance the producer would option one of Thad’s books. Aside from that, she was keen on pursuing the potential game-show franchise William Morris was pushing. She wanted a flurry of meetings and auditions, not just with indie folk but high-power directors who also happened to be long-term fans (Joel Schumacher, Cameron Crowe, and Tim Burton came to mind). Most of all, she wanted Thad Michelet, whose life had been filled with torment, to be happy. In that regard, she was of the tenuous, desperate, wistful opinion that Clea Fremantle was a short-term, stabilizing influence, even though the two “had some history.”
I sat down on the floor opposite her. “You said you needed my advice.”
She was a little drunk. I was tired, my attention still held by the unlikely prospect of sex.
“Well—it’s something I did. I did something, Bertie . . . and it’s just that now I’m not so sure it was such a great idea. The thing is, I’m not so sure William Morris is the place for him to be. I mean, now. At this juncture. They haven’t gotten him anything for a while—any features, I mean. And that’s his bread and butter! I think they’re a little disorganized. I still do lots of business there so don’t get me wrong. They want him to do commercials. And that’s OK. But he loves doing movies. I mean, if he has to act—which most of the time he’d rather not!—he’d rather be writing but that doesn’t pay the bills. And you know how he likes the obscure theater stuff, but—they’re not exactly lining up around the block to finance a two-act adaptation of I. B. Singer’s short story ‘The Slaughterer’! And the really good indie stuff doesn’t come along that often . . . and if you wind up doing a little movie and it sucks, it sucks. You know? Suddenly, you’re the person in the little thing that sucked. Whatever. The person who tried to do the hip indie thing and failed failed failed. Not that failing’s a bad thing. But I just don’t think our little guy needs any more practice at this point in time. But in the right feature—a studio feature—oh, Bertie, that’s where he shines. The La Jolla thing was canceled—you knew?—the Beckett. The money fell out. Which wasn’t shocking—to me. And it’s OK because it gives him . . . he likes to do a big movie because he’s in and out—Bertie, he can do four a year and make a serious chunk o’ change! Which is what he really needs—now. Boy, does he need it! Then he can go write. Or try to. Or do whatever. He can check into Canyon Ranch—that’s what he likes—and write and lose weight and hike. Pilates and all that good stuff. Fact is, he got this job cause of your dad. Your father loved Jack Michelet, loves his work. And that’s fine. But you knew that. Everybody loves Jack Michelet. Isn’t that always how it is? They love the monster? Well, they don’t know Jack. Didn’t. ‘You don’t know Jack.’ Isn’t that how that goes? I mean the name, there’s a game called that? Perry thought it’d be fun, God love ’im—I mean, he loves Thad too, in his way, and that’s fine—fun to have him on the show. Which it would be. Which it is. Right? Class it up. What else is new. Thad’s used to that. The ‘class clown.’ Clown with Class. And that’s OK. As long as he’s getting his goodies. You know, William Morris wasn’t even involved. I mean, they made a nice deal for him, with my help. But . . . they would have fucked it up. They would have fucked it up if I—”
“Miriam,” I said impatiently. “What was it you—”
“Bertie, Thad is completely on his ass.” She was getting drunker. I began to kiss her neck but she warded me off with a smile and a coy twist of the head. “I mean, financially.” I put a hand on the inside of her thigh and she let me; easier now to pay attention to her tangled speech. “So I had this amazing idea. I called your dad and talked to him.”
“You called my father?”
Now I was intrigued.
“Bertie, I know this is going to sound completely insane. I called your dad and told him—of course I introduced myself and we talked about Jack and how Perry’s a big collector and he told me how he optioned one of Jack’s books, yadda yadda—I told him you and I had met but I swear I didn’t use your name in vain,” she said, with a sexy lift of her brow. “And I asked if he knew Thad was a novelist too. He had no idea! Or maybe he did, but forgot—whatever. But I think he was actually kind of tripped out when I told him. Anyway, I said I was at Barnes and Noble and saw the Starwatch books—the series, right? Starwatch: The Navigators. You know about that, right? There’s like, sixty of ’em. Sixty episodes novelized from however many seasons. And I wanted to know if Perry might be interested—I haven’t even talked to Thad, and I was very clear about that when I spoke to your dad—I asked if he thought anyone—meaning Perry—hel-lo!—might be interested in Thad potentially adapting the episode he was currently shooting. ‘Prodigal Son.’ I mean, into a novel. For the book series. It’s a no-brainer, right? It’s genius! Because maybe that might be fun. And this was a bit of a shot in the dark, OK? Because his agents aren’t thinking about him in those terms. His agents aren’t thinking about him in any terms except, like, doing a Verizon voice-over. I mean, nobody knows what kind of trouble the man’s in, Bertie! Nobody knows the trouble he’s seen!’—she sang the latter in old negro basso, making me hornier—“and even if they did, nobody even fucking cares. So I called your daddy, OK? Because I love Thad and someone has to help him. And I know they probably don’t pay all that much but it could be one of those ‘event’ things. We could turn it into that. A little harmless spin. I mean, Thad’s getting top dollar for ‘Prodigal Son’ and I’m sure I could get him a nice paycheck for adapting it as some stupid fucking paperback they’re probably going to adapt anyway. But that’s not even really the point . . . I thought if I could at least get him writing again, for money, even if it’s not some fortune, at least if someone’d pay him to write, which he does better than like ninety-eight percent of anyone out there, then maybe the creative juices would start flowing, OK? Right? For his new book. You know? No? Does that not make sense, Bertie, or does that not make sense. Anyway—there ya have it. So I guess what I wanted to know is, well . . . what do you think? Did I fuck up or did I fuck up?”
The next few days of shooting went well.
Thad was footloose and headache-free. The meds, whether contraband or prescribed, didn’t interfere with his work. He was a pro as always, bringing wildly interesting touches to his work when he might easily have slipped into rote. Clea was definitely getting loaded again, something she couldn’t hide—not from me, anyway. The first sign that a reformed addict has lost her sobriety is when she starts dropping clues about the amazingly powerful effect an over-the-counter anti-itch pill had just the night before on her “virgin system.” An even stronger indication of a slip is when said addict volunteers how the synergistic combo of, say, Robitussin—for that nagging, three-week-long cough—with Wellbutrin (Clea and I were of the non-Nazi sobriety school that didn’t consider drugs for depression or OCD to be taboo) managed to produce actual stumbling and slurring of words. Incredible but True! AA’s Believe It or Not . . . By making such faux-naïf observations public, the dope fiend craftily seeds the ground—or clouds, if you will—to justify the coming shitstorm.1 So it was with extreme skepticism that I greeted Clea’s casual announcement that she’d tripped on a rug and fallen down the night before (hence, the subtle limp) due to the totally bizarre and unexpected effect of mixing Zoloft, Benadryl gel caps, and Allegra-D. She caught my glance—really more of a grimace—my palpable displeasure giving her enough of a reason to cease and desist our get-togethers at the Sepulveda gym. Brunch at Hugo’s was out as well.
I took a deep breath and told myself to stop the judgy, codependent nonsense. I could barely manage my own life and had no right or reason to micromanage hers. What was all this about, in the last analysis? Residual jealousies vis-à-vis Thad? Or maybe I was the one who wanted to get loaded—and resented her ea
sy, guilt-free indulgence. Maybe I was the one with the death wish.
Then I told myself that was bullshit. She was fucking up big-time and I wasn’t going to be there to pick up the pieces.
* * *
1 I always find it amusing when actors maintain they got hooked on painkillers because of bone breaks, neuralgia, and herniated discs, or began using speed to cope with the punishing hours of film shoots. Why is it that no one ever comes out and says, “I love the way it makes me feel! Stronger and prettier, smarter, sexier, luxuriantly numb! I hate myself less! I’m not afraid of terrorists! I can even love you, and the whole god-abandoned world!”
WARDROBE WENT ALL OUT: CLEA wore a diaphanous tunic, a madcap yet demure rip-off of a widely publicized haute couture design which had appeared on Parisian runways just two weeks before. How strange, seeing Thad and Clea stand together with transformed, angular faces that, while not exactly gruesome (perhaps I’d grown accustomed), were still within shout-out of an atavistic nightmare. It was as if I had donned special glasses, affording a view of the ordinarily imperceptible “alien” dynamic that lay just beneath the surface of any chemically complex, long-term, passionately erotic alliance. I wondered how Miriam and I would look, through the same magic spectacles. Probably nowhere near as interesting.
We were pondering whether to have the strawberry shortcake or peach cobbler à la mode when Nick Sultan, our properly English director, arrived with a tray of meat and potatoes. He diffidently asked if he might join us (directors always seem to begin their meals just as everyone else is finishing). Not wanting to be rude, we obliged.
“That was such a great scene,” he said.
He referred, of course, to the moment in which it was revealed that our own Ensign Rattweil was none other than a Vorbalidian prince in exile. See, Thad’s father, the king, was near death; hijacking the Demeter was the family’s way of bringing the runaway royal home to take care of unfinished business—i.e., the sticky wicket of succession to the throne involving his nasty twin, Prince Morloch.