by Bruce Wagner
When she spoke, her measured tone made it sound as if she were someone else. “That picture is incredibly confidential, Pieter. I cannot believe you did that. Those people gave me their trust! What if it shows up on the fucking Internet?”
“It’s not going to happen. Look, all I’m asking is for you to give me what those people gave you: trust. Give me your trust, Jacquie. I’m not gaming you, I love you, you’ve been mucking about far too long, & now you’re onto something very special. Jacquie, I want you to have a career. You deserve one. I want to see you come barreling back. Something in me just knows.”
Pause.
“That this is your time.”
CLEAN
[Tom-Tom]
An Indecent Proposal
“Bitch
move out of her room? Are you in her room yet?”
“Yeah. She left some shit of hers there it’s cool.”
“Like left what.”
“Just some clothes, whatever.”
“Where’d she leave it.”
“Mostly in the closet.”
“So now I’m free storage too.”
“Tommie (Bolt called her that, she let him call her that), an opportunity has come your way.”
“Is that right.”
“To make some bread.”
“Is it legal?”
“Absolutely. You know the crew that’s coming next week? Seth, the D.P.? That’s Seth’s crew. Anyway I been knowing Seth since we were in high school, he’s my bro. & they do—he shoots porn—his crew, they do porn shoots to pick up xxxtra change.”
“They want to shoot a porno up here? Ha! Is that what you’re saying? Hahahahahaha——”
“5K. That’s what they’re offering. They fuckin love the house—I sent em a few pics of the interiors & shit. Seth said it’s like a 9 to 5 deal, then wham they’re out. They only want to use the living room & pool area, you can rope everything else off. Seth said they even put runners down on the carpets to protect them.”
“From like the spunk and shit. The pussy run-off. Teehee.”
“They have the shit down to a science.”
“When do they want to do this?”
“Sunday.”
“So this is like before they’re gunna do Believers.”
“It’s kind of a cool way for you to meet him—Seth—see how he works. If you already have a relationship things will go smoother & faster for the Daydream shoot, right?”
“Hahahahahahahahah! Betty White—porn queen! I could probably sell this shit to TMZ.”
“Should I tell em you want to do it? Or you can think about it—”
“Can they do 5 thou in cash?”
“They probably do cash a lot.”
“You’ve done porn, right?”
“Little bit. I’ve directed porn.”
“No shit.”
“That’s my passion. I’ve probably directed more porn than I’ve participated in.”
“OK yeah. Far out. OK. I guess you’re gunna be coming around for your finder’s fee————”
“I’m not like that.”
“I know you aren’t, baby. I know you aren’t. (Strokes his head, seeing his feelings got a little bruised by her comment) Baby? I love you. Baby? See if they’ll come up when you talk to em, K? See if they’ll come up to seventy-five hundred.”
CLEAN
[mashup]
Miracle at the Hilton
3
modest one-bedroom suites on the 3rd floor of the Beverly Hilton reserved (donated by the hotel) for talent/rest/makeup/rehearsal lite lounges. One for Beyoncé, one for Steve Martin, one for the performing children—Telma & Aleisha. (When Biggie told his brother that Telma invited him, Brando promptly bought a $100,000 table.) A Courage Ball talent liaison told Gwen & Aleisha’s mom that Michael Douglas and his wife were going to try to come up to the room to say hi but that never happened.
En suite: Telma and Gwen and Phoebe, Aleisha and her mom Melanie. Telma basically acts like Aleisha isn’t there. Aleisha stares at Telma wide-eyed, as if in the presence of a . 5-year-old Aleisha is hopelessly devoted to Telma. Aleisha doesn’t feel ignored; how can you be ignored by the sun? How do you feel snubbed by rainbows, tigers and thunder? How can you be dissed & dumped on by beauty and magic? Gwen knows how delicate things are at this moment, how near the edge her daughter loiters. Every once in a while, she tries to get Telma to engage Aleisha in the smallest ways—Phoebe does the same—to no avail. The terrible thing for Gwen is, she’d be handling her daughter quite differently if not for the uncancerous sword of Damocles that was sharpening itself just over the girl’s head. If not for that, she’d warrant a bitchslap. Aleisha’s obsequiousness toward her role model, who after all had/has the very same cancer she had/has, had pioneered & vanquished it, that awed virginal slavishness happens to be the only mitigating factor allowing Telma to be kind, if kindness may be defined as the covert omission of flagrant cruelties, and the why & wherefore Telma justified even bothering to share the same airspace with the dwarfy interloper. Aleisha’s utter worshipfulness is so pure, if not exactly endearing (to Telma), then appealing; precisely what staved off full evisceration by her fellow Kansurvivor non-Kanadian Hero. For the moment anyway.
Colorful little Kate Spade “I’m courageous!” bags in the 3 suites filled with donated stuff: Geo-Girls anti-aging makeup (Walmart) (ages 8-12), push-up bras (Target), James Perse/Free City tee’s, Pirates of the Caribbean/Harry Potter/Alice In Wonderland DVDs, Avril Lavigne&Katy Perry best-ofs, VTech KidiZoom digital cams (!!!), Justin Bieber’s One Less Lonely Girl Collection nail polish. Aleisha watches transfixed as Telma assiduously applies “I’m a Belieber” on the tapered big-girl fingers of her left hand, “Give Me the First Dance” on the right. When Telma waves her nails to dry, Aleisha is tranced out by the sustained fanning/twitchy/hi-oscillating movements. (Entranced by everything about her.) Gwen says you know it might be nice, Telm, if you could do one of Aleisha’s nails, just to get her started. Her daughter abstains, not by saying no but by pointedly ignoring the request. Why should I? She says it all in a sharp look to her mother, a look that says, Don’t make me say this outloud! Don’t make me say she’s technically not even a survivor! Don’t make me say you’re not supposed to even call yourself a survivor unless it doesn’t come back after THREE YEARS (Telma keeps changing the kancerules)——the one thing Gwen, Phoebe & Melanie don’t understand (tho Melanie’s being so understanding in so many ways) is that Aleisha does not, cannot feel h8ted on, she’s baby sister-enthralled & can’t register Telma’s rage, Telma’s wish that she’d never been born, Telma’s night prayers to God please make her cancer come back, with speedy, fatal fury. Aleisha’s mom never says a word, just sits grinning like there’s a language problem, which there sort of is, to put it mildly. Melanie’s smile conveys that all’s rosy with her world, My baby girl’s alive, what’s not to be joyous about. Maybe that’s Canadian or Christian, but whatever it is, Gwen’s grateful for Zen Mom of the North. Gwen’s embarrassed enough by her daughter’s mean girl prima donna stylings and relieved she doesn’t have to deal with a parent’s legitimate beef on top of it. Let her think she’s a bitch. If only she knew—if only everyone knew, we’d start an Arab spring right here, we’d topple those doctors & shut down that fucking hospital forever! And tonight’s shindig would be for TELMA, forever the world’s youngest mutilated-through-misdiagnosis survivor, they couldn’t take that away from her . . . . . . . . . . .
At her mom’s prodding, Aleisha haltingly begins to rehearse Smile. Telma makes sure to trample over the 1st few maudlin lyrics by announcing, “I’m going exploring!” then stomping out the door. Phoebe and Gwen exchange looks, then Phoebe goes after her. Gwen stays in the room, shrugging her shoulders, flashing Melanie a contrite Sorry, what can I do it’s hormones smile. When the truth is, that Gwen’s (really) the only one forcing a smile while her heart is breaking.
. . .
Rikki and Jerzy got to the hotel early.
> Being it’s a fundraiser for kids with cancer, he counted on a lot of underage lets showing up—Jerzy was there exclusively for private reserve honeyshot!s. All day long he nonsensically sang Some people call me the spaced cowboy/Some people call me the gangbang of Love———Rikki asked Jerzy why he didn’t use a videocamera because like Tom-Tom said he could just shoot & isolate whatever frames had the beavercleaver. Jerzy said, cause I’m oldschool, my friend. Matter of pride. Better to set the beaver trap by hand harharhar then 2 in the bush harharhar . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . you’re the cutest thing I ever did see I really love your peaches want to shake your tree . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
While Jerzy does his spiderazzi thing at the hotel entrance w/all the other papps—as ordinary-unknown richfolk filler/VIPs/celebs are just beginning to arrive—Rikki sits in the Hilton lobby with a stolen Kindlefire, pretending he’s, uhm, like a hotel guest yeah right. They smoked crack in the parking garage, toked some Don King & gummy bear too, he’s blazed. Rikki contemplates the rumor he heard that current management was renting out the Whitney suite to billionaire Macao gambling-type Japs and sand niggers for a million a night, the tub she took a shit in and drowned was still there, everything laid out like a museum, crack pipe and personal effexors they got back from the LAPD evidence room, wallet pics of her little girl, all her stained lingerie, you could get loaded and fuck a loved one right in the tub. That’s some morbid shit. He goes on www.lobsterporn.com, already super spackled-m’gackled & superhard from the meth&roxies, bolus of beef jerky in his cheek like chewing tobacco . . . CATEGORIES A-Z: innocent teen/saggy tits/asian schoolgirl/doctor molest/daughter destruction/upskirt tampon/squirt/small tits/extreme taboo/by force/granny mature/dildoes insertions/small tits/farmyard/outside/voyeur/daughter sleeping/massage/schoolgirl med exam/monster cocks/tittyfuck/hentai/mother daughter incest (simulated). He clicked on Jewish then Turkish but his heart wasn’t in it. Suddenly the volume went CRAZY LOUD, he must have unmuted by accident, it’s making all these cum sounds, a lady hears as she walks by & frowns Rikki still fumbling trying to MUTE which he finally does. (He’d have to remember to tell T2, she would crack the fuck up.) Now there’s a little pop-up onscreen from bi_the_way432. Probably some automated drone shit tracking his location, he didn’t know how to turn that shit off on this device, fuck the Navy seals, dude, they should’ve used the porn guys to go after Osama woulda nailed him right away shoulda sicced em on Kaddafi too. The female drone wrote: OMG are you in beverly hills? 5 seconds later: im a mile away. 10 secs later: innertube.com is the best site for free porn fyi! 30 secs: you realize im talking to you right? 1 whole fucking minute later: it’s not polite to ignore a lady. Last (automated) gasp—Age: 18. Sexual pref: bi. Zodiac: scorpio. ethnicity: American Indian. Pubic hair: bald——Rikki said motherFUCK that surveillance shit. Oops. Now a banner’s crawling across the top
MEET SOMEONE TO FUCK NOW!
Turns it off.
Rikki just sits there, spackle/staring into the borrowed lobby of a place he doesn’t (even temporarily) belong. People coming & going, with glam lives, lives that aren’t fucked. He’s still freaking about the baby, about being a dad, but really now just mostly freaking about the $$$ more, even Jerzy can’t get Tom-Tom to chill on the rent shit, he won’t front his sis any money either, you’d think J could at least get Tom-Tom to chill until Ree has the kid, then they’ll be out in a flash, straight from the hospital to his fosterfolks, she’ll be too wasted giving birth to put up a fight. She’s like due in like five weeks, dude, the minute she goes to the hosp that’ll be the fucking last Tom-Tom sees or hears of her . . . . . . . . . . . . . . spackle m’gackled———————
———————maybe robbery? Thinking about that again, mostly because he watched The Town for the 6th time, loved that fuckin movie, never got a chance—made the time though—to speak with Tom-Tom about the whole crew-heist deal . . . his thoughts now becoming fantasies as Rikki tries to squelch all the bad vudu in his head, he starts to trip but in a good way about Jim and Dawn, about finally being their real son before God & the law, thinks his dad would maybe convert the garage into a guesthouse for them and the baby, maybe one of those Extreme Makeover Home Edition dillios like ReeRee joked about Betty White’s, you know where a couple of trucks show up with a 50-man crew—now that’s a fuckin righteous crew—& they build a whole house, with towel-warmers like Ree told him once that she wanted, & ambient heated bathroom tiles like he heard Tom-Tom say she was gonna have, Tom-Tom said Bill Gates had a heated driveway so the snow would melt. Rikki trips on hanging out in his new home—their new home—right there on Jim and Dawn’s property. Jim & Dawn could babysit & shit if him and Ree wanted to go clubbin & candyflipin.
But ReeRee won’t, EVER . . .
You’re way too stubborn, dude.
. . .
Jerzy knows he’s strung out way beyond the point he usually puts down, hearing voices of race war/rap though sometimes the voices lead him to breakthrus too, like how L.A. Reid’s hard lacquered bodyshell sleeps in the sensuous recesses of Randy Jackson’s arthropod flesh, so the voices cannot be discounted nor dismissed out of hand. Miasma & background Muzak of the Uncivil War between hummingbirds & mantises. Trying to formulate a grand theory to explain the rôle that hummingbirds & mantises will play, a overarching theory of General Relativity that explains and describes the exact connect between what historians one day will surely come to call The Puppetmathers/Iovine Wars—& the pact or formal agreement secured by the demiurge between mantis and hummingbird.
The insidious thing is Jerzy realizes he’s in the nightbloom of amphetamine psychosis but powerless to stop its militancy; trapped inside an acrostic gnostic boardgame. He laughs, glad to at least be able to watch himself laugh cackle! Cackle! m’gackle! when the epiphany flashes there are messages written on each Chloë/Elle/Hailee pantyshield, it’s up to him to capture the images, no other way but a captcha to string the codewords together . . . & flashes too that Harry around the Middleburg is a CAA operative close to breaking the code stitched or drawn by persons unknown & made visible only by virtue of the honeyshot!s, that Harry’s website is a brilliant distraction, a throwing off of scent. And yet what does this have to do with mantises & hummingbirds, what does this have to do with Suge, what does this have to do with I-Veen & the Puppetmathers it must have something there must be something
Animal Planet had showed him so many things, other beings locked in civil war. Like that show Hillbilly Handfishin the men hold their breaths underwater reach into hollow logs wait for thirtypound catfish to bite down they surface with it just stuck on their hand like that then club it into the boat, the gators are cannibals a 600 lb one on Swamp People accidentally hanged itself on one of the gator hunter’s lines damnedest thing if such a thing can be called an accident the hook wasn’t even in it, there was a baby gator still in its mouth, that was cosmic retribution.
Tonight an award is being given to Young Hollywood Stands Up for Cancer! & Jerzy’s targets stand out whilst he clocks the arriving guests: Minka, Whitney, Pia Toscano&McPhee HAILEE FUCKTASTIC STEINFELD Nicole Richie, Tom&Rita Hanks, Vince & Kyla Vaughn (their infant daughter Locklyn: a honeyshot! of the future), KYLIE FREAKIN JENNER Cher Lloyd, Matt&Luciana Damon, Ethan&Ryan Hawke, ABBY FRIGGIN BRESLIN Khloé Kardash, Kathryn Bigelow, Kate Hudson/Matt Bellamy, Diane Kruger ELLE EFFING FANNING Meghan McCain, Rob/Sheryl Berkoff-Lowe, JORDANA BITCHIN BEATTY Nina Dobrev, Sandra Bullo————
Goes back to the car for a blunt & a booty-bump. Meditates on why he likes to shove crack up his ass of late. As Harry likes to say, the Devlin (Janet) made me do it. Jerzy sends an email of all images just taken to his NY agency, in the morning the tabloids will negotiate a price on what they like. Doesn’t matter if there’s honeyshot!s among em cause they’d never use em, never even think of it. Tonight he’ll print the hi-rez honeyshot!s himself, he’ll nurse & conjure & cull, Harry didn’t like to have any ol batch just thrown at him, reason being he was slowly losing
his sight, irony of eye disease for the beholder of beauty, there could be no correction thru surgery/lenses & the fatfuck bless his heart was vain, who’da thunk it. So Jerzy distilled & uncorked only the finest of ripened honeyvintages————
He smokes the pipe, half-looking around for the dumbass security guard. Cheesy ugly fuckin garage. Offends his aesthetics. Where the fuck is Rikki. Still tripping on the Wars. Eminem, the demiurge, the Demi Moorge, the Demineminurge, the whole vexing mantis-hummingbird problemo. But an answer was coming, he could feel it, like a tsunami still 1000s of miles from land, before it top ramens whole cities.
Someone from Deathrow really needs to call me back. He looks at himself in the rearview, and says:
“They do, right?
. . .
Once inside the hotel, packs-o-publicists waited with simpering smiles (years of cowering & nearly being slapped/struck by stressed-out celeb junkies on junkets), tho as ja rule, s were usually fairly well-behaved at cancer gigs, even moreso pediatric ones—said publicists waiting w/nervous hi-beam smiles to sweettalk and o so very carefully shepherd VIPs to the inside red carpet getting them to stand there with the backdrops sporting COURAGE BALL plus a stamped smattering of slogans, Take Courage/Pledge to Wear Yellow Livestrong Day/Take the Pink Ribbon Challenge/Give Today, Cure Tomorrow + all the usual suspect logos of all the compassionate usual suspect corps, TOYOTA HUFFPOST TWITTER BEN&JERRY’S PANDORA INSTAGRAM GROUPON FLKR&tc. On said backdropped inside red carpet they of course would be shot by a 2nd group of parasiterazzi, these being of the less loose-cannoned more inner circlish variety, in bed with the pubbers, each prosecuted to take useable glamshots not those sometimes peskily problematic step from limo tableaux, certainly no reason of course for Jerzy to be taking pics on the inside red carpet because one could not procure a honeyshot! on the inside of the hotel, at least not unless a fear-stricken flak was given the unenviable task of persuading this or that ½-¼ let to have a seat in the Fisker Karma that sat over there on a revolving lazy susan just beyond the ballroom doors on its own red carpet’d muff. (To be auctioned off later in the eve.) There was no way any of the old pros—translation: lets over 30—would jump in the Fisker anyway because it would look like they were endorsing, most had never even heard of a Fisker, they’d have to be told that fucking Leonardo had one before it would get their attention, because hey I don’t do shit like that for free. Jerzy already considered being on hand for such a contingency but wound up musing if Emma or Hailee or whomever did climb in, a Fisker “get” would be one tough panties get.