Whether Ethan was making more out of it than it deserved, the fact remained he was broke and needed money. Like it or not, Robbie was a means to a paying job. The last thing in the world Ethan wanted to do was wire his father for money. It would be his ultimate failure, admitting that he couldn’t take care of himself. Dad, could you send some money to your useless son? It simply was out of the question. He’d sleep on the street before taking that route. There had to be another way.
That was when that obnoxious voice returned.
There is a way, my friend, and you know how …
Ethan shut it down before it finished. He knew what was coming.
Well, where’s it going to come from then, buddy boy?
Ethan forced the thought out of his mind.
The cab was getting close to the address. He lifted his arm to check the time that was still a habit after weeks without his watch. A clock on the dashboard showed he was early. It was a good start. He checked the meter. The twenty Christa had given him would cover it, but he wondered why he hadn’t asked her to drive him. Strange, really. Things had to go well tonight. He calculated if the show started on Friday, their first pay would come in a week. He could borrow a little from Christa to tide him over. It was tight but workable.
Why not make it easy on yourself? The voice slipped in again. Just once—it would give you some room.
Ethan closed his eyes and switched to silently reciting his first lines of the play. “We can’t go on like this, you and me; it hardly seems worth it. Something has to change.” Soon his lines were flowing. The words appeared before his eyes as if someone was holding the pages in front of him. He felt the words as if he was the person they represented. He was ready. This would be a great night.
“This is it, chief,” said the butch woman cabbie, turning to look back at him for the first time. “Seventeen-fifty.”
His hand was in motion with the twenty, but he was looking elsewhere. The place looked deserted. He was really early.
The building he approached was dark and unoccupied. Things looked different when he was the first to arrive. The front door opened into a darkened foyer, where his hand searched for a light switch. He had to hold the outside door open to see anything in the small space. The door to the lower entrance of the small converted theater was closed. As his eyes adjusted, he noticed a white sheet of paper stuck to the door. The left side of the page indicated it had been ripped from a binder—Edwin’s binder?
There was just enough light to read the note, but Ethan didn’t need to read it to know what it conveyed:
Thanks to all of you who participated over the past weeks in A Baker Makes Three. You’ve helped fulfill a dream held for fifty years. Unfortunately, my partner pulled out. We’ve decided to close the show.
Best of luck,
Edwin
Ethan’s heart sank as the air in his lungs expired, and he stood on legs that didn’t seem his own. He tried the door. Locked. His hand gripped the doorknob tighter and turned. It rotated fractionally. He shook the doorknob. He then tugged at it, a little at first and then harder. With suddenness he didn’t expect, he slammed his fist into the door, breaking a panel and splitting the skin on his knuckles.
“You can’t fucking lock me out!” he screamed, breaking the silence of the quiet night around him. “No fucking way! You just can’t!” He hammered the door with the sides of his fists, again and again. He turned and kicked a hole through the drywall of the foyer. He continued to kick and hit the walls and door, his self-control gone. He slammed his open palm against the wall, not seeing a protruding nail. He couldn’t see what he’d done, but the pain was staggering. He couldn’t pull his hand off the wall. In sudden madness, he jerked it back like he was yanking a stubborn branch from a tree, pulling the head of the nail back through his hand. The instant agony dropped him to his knees.
“Shit!” he screamed, his hand engulfed in searing pain as blood pumped out of the wound like oil. “Fuck me!” he cried. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”
Adrenaline pumped through him like a speeding locomotive as he stumbled up the steps and outside. A mixture of pain, shock, and madness descended on him. He slipped and fell to the sidewalk, his energy dissipating as shock took over. Deep sobs wracked his body as he held his face in his bloodied hands, ignorant of his surroundings.
Warm liquid trickled down his forearm and brought him back. He knew it was blood and scrambled for something to wrap around his hand. He pulled off a shoe and removed his sock and wrapped his hand. He stayed on the ground—five minutes, ten minutes. He didn’t know for how long. He didn’t hear anything, and no one came.
Even in the dim light of the evening, one look at his sock-wrapped hand let him know he was hurt. He got to his knees unsteadily. Blood had soaked through the white sock wrapped around his hand. Numbness and shock masked the injury and the pain.
Ethan wiped away the tears that ran down his cheeks with the back of his injured hand, smearing blood across his face. Edwin had given up and left them all hanging.
He needed a drink and to think. How could he put so much effort into something and see so little come of it—and still keep going? He thought of a joke he’d heard once that now seemed more real than comic: Those who never quit, win, but those who never win and never quit … are stupid.
The nagging voice piped up again. There is a way, my friend. Why are you fighting it? You can solve all this nonsense by making one phone call.
His fight was gone. He found the nearest phone booth and called Christa to come and pick him up.
She was freaked out by his hand, pleading with him to go to the hospital. He’d need a tetanus shot and stitches. He said it just needed to be cleaned and would go tomorrow, if need be. He just wanted to go back to the apartment and sleep. On seeing his distress, Christa acquiesced. He didn’t want to talk about it; she complied. Once back in the apartment, she helped him clean the wound and bandage it. It wasn’t long before she crashed. Despite trying, Ethan couldn’t sleep. Instead, he searched for the card. He was like a drunk, rummaging around for hidden liquor bottles. He found the dreaded business card at the bottom of his closet.
The voice was right there with him—Just make the call, Eth, old buddy—as benign as a lover’s.
Unmindful of the time, he left Christa in the bedroom and punched the numbers from the card into the keypad on the cordless. His hands shook as he held the receiver to his ear. Whether it was from what he was about to do or the injury, he didn’t know. It didn’t matter. Beads of sweat broke out across his forehead. The phrase “You’ll be back” repeated itself in his head as he listened to the ring of the telephone at the other end.
What the hell are you doing? he asked himself, drumming his fingers on the arm of the couch. I’m paying my dues, he answered as the phone rang for the third time. It was too late. The tightness in his stomach began to relax. He’d try again tomorrow.
“Hello,” answered a gruff voice, the accent unmistakable. Sven was out of breath. Ethan imagined he’d interrupted a session with Jacqueline or some other honey from his harem of hard bodies.
“Sven?” Ethan asked, knowing full well who it was. He didn’t want to sound too familiar.
“You’ve got him. Who iz ziz?” Sven replied sharply, impatient with the interruption.
“Ethan Jones. I would like to meet with you tomorrow.”
There was a slight hesitation at the other end of the line, and his words seemed to hang in the air.
Then Sven became all business. “Ezan Jonez,” he repeated, as if savoring the name like he might a fine cigar. “Iz been a vile. Great to hear from you.”
Yes, I’m sure it is, asshole, Ethan thought. He was sure he could hear victory in Sven’s voice. His stomach tightened in his act of subservience. He had to concentrate to hold back his true feelings. “Sven, I’d like to reconsider your offer for work,” he said, hating hi
mself as the words passed his lips.
“I zee,” Sven said. Ethan was sure Sven had a big Joker-like grin on his face, already savoring his victory over another naïve actor. “You’d like to meet tomorrow?”
“Yes, so we can reach a kind of mutual agreement.”
“Zo you’ve run out of money, Ezan. Dezided old Zven’s ovver vazn’t zo bad.”
Ethan cringed as he listened to the man exploiting his power over the phone. He refused to acknowledge any of it. “Can we meet tomorrow or not?” Ethan interrupted. All he wanted was work and an agreed-upon amount of money for the work. “Two thirty at your office?” Ethan said, trying to take control of the conversation.
“Make it zree,” Sven said, regaining control. “And don’t be late.”
Ethan hung up. Sven was still interested. Ethan knew he could use that to his advantage. If he agreed to the work, he wanted to get paid for it.
The thought crossed his mind to bring Cushman with him but decided otherwise. Steve, he was certain, would advise him against it.
The voice from earlier returned. Wake up! You’ve got it made in the shade. Most men would die for the opportunity.
He shut down the voice. He wanted to do serious movie work. Taking his clothes off and fucking unknown women in front of the world was not part of it.
Chapter 33
Ethan’s Timeline
August 1991
“Camera’s ready!” cried the red-headed director wearing a Grateful Dead T-shirt. “Jacqueline—position.”
Jacqueline did as directed and bent down, stumbling slightly in her shiny patent-leather cherry-red stilettos. She caught herself on an unknown woman’s thigh.
“You’re in zee next zcene,” Sven whispered in Ethan’s ear, touching his arm and motioning him toward another door. “Zay’ll get you ready.”
“Sure,” Ethan replied, not quite knowing what to expect.
A woman led him to the side of the room. He’d had fantasies of being with naked women but the reality was a mixture of vulnerability, revulsion, and inhibition. He was unprepared for what would happen next.
“Shower’s through that door. Get undressed and come back,” the woman said as if asking for the time.
He followed her instructions, removed his clothes, showered quickly, and with his hair still wet returned with a towel around his waist.
“This your first movie?” she asked as she brushed something on his cheek.
“Yes,” he replied, thinking of the three hundred bucks he’d agreed to.
“Ezan, relax,” Sven said, staring at him through his reflection in the mirror. “You are a natural. Nozing to vorry about.”
Ethan, still shaky on his decision to be there, watched as the woman worked on his face. It was all about survival. “Ah,” he uttered as the woman brushed against his injured hand.
“Sorry,” she replied and kept working.
He stared at his reflection as she parted his hair opposite to the way he did and brushed it back. The makeup sharpened his nose, chin, and cheekbones.
She massaged his neck and shoulders and then asked him to stand up and remove the towel.
“Why?” he asked, but her hands were squeezing his flaccid penis and testicles before he could move. “Hey!”
“It’s okay,” she whispered, her hands surprisingly warm and gentle after massaging his neck. “Just part of the job. You have to be erect. Your dick’s got to be picture-perfect.”
After a few minutes of vigorous motion, he still had not responded; his penis was limp. She pulled out a tube of cream. “We need a little help,” she said, squeezing some white gel into her hand. “This’ll do the trick.”
The cream tingled but after a minute or so, a strange sensation came over him as his penis stiffened without being sexually excited. He didn’t know whether to fall down and cry or simply scream. He wasn’t where he wanted to be and felt like the victim of a cruel joke, with his dream crumbling before his eyes.
They returned to the room where they were shooting. Jacqueline was with the woman he’d watched earlier. The two women, lying on the large bed, detached themselves from each other like they were removing costumes.
The director approached Ethan with her hand extended. “Joyce,” she introduced herself. “You must be Ethan.”
Ethan shook her hand while trying to keep his white robe closed. His penis stuck out like a steel rod between his legs. “Yes,” Ethan replied, feeling uncomfortable.
“Relax and let things happen,” she said. “Let the girls lead. We’ll see how it goes.” She turned and shouted instructions to one of the technicians. Turning back to Ethan, without missing a beat, she started directing. “The scene starts by you interrupting the girls,” she told him, placing her hand on his shoulder and pointing with her other hand. “They giggle as you approach the bed. Let Jacqueline—Jack, come here for a minute,” she called to Jacqueline.
Jacqueline hurried over to where they were standing, wearing only the cherry-red stilettos. Ethan felt himself get excited in Jacqueline’s presence. Her body was perfect. Her closeness made everything real.
“You lead Ethan onto the bed, and then you and Silk do your stuff. Ethan, just do what they tell you.” Joyce turned and called to nobody in particular, “Can I get a coffee—black?” She turned back to them. “Okay, kids, let’s go. Get rid of the robe.”
Ethan opened his robe.
“Just as I thought,” Joyce said, looking down at Ethan’s drooping penis.
Ethan felt his face flush, not knowing quite what to do.
“Fluffer!” Joyce cried. “Need a fluffer—now!”
Before Ethan could move, another female was on him. First her tongue was running up and down his neck as her hands worked his penis. She whispered dirty things about fucking. His penis hardened. As quickly as she’d appeared, she disappeared.
“Positions!” Joyce shouted. “Ready!”
Everyone hustled into place. Ethan stood beside the bed. Joyce moved him slightly to the right and stepped away. Jacqueline returned to the center of the bed, wrapping her arms around the other woman.
“Three, two, one, action!” counted Joyce.
The women rolled into action with each other. Ethan watched, his eyes wide at being so close to such beautiful women caressing each other.
Moments later, he heard Joyce calling from a distance. “Cut, cut, cut!” she shouted. “Ethan, glad you’re enjoyin’ the fuck show, but you’re supposed to be in it! Watch my cues.”
“Sorry,” Ethan replied, refocusing. “Won’t happen again.”
“Okay, everyone, positions,” Joyce called, pausing momentarily as everyone prepared. “Action!”
Again, the women embraced. This time, however, Ethan turned and watched Joyce. Fifteen seconds later, she gave him the thumbs-up sign.
Ethan spoke his first words in film. “May I interrupt?”
When Ethan arrived back at the apartment, the clock on the nightstand read 3:15 a.m.
He’d been disillusioned before but not to the degree he was now. He’d participated in an act of which he was not proud and recorded it in front of a camera for the whole world to see—forever. Three hundred dollars or not, he was disgusted with himself and his actions. Still, he’d done what he had to do; he had to survive.
Exhausted, his clothes fell to the floor beside the bed. In the shadows, he could see Christa lying on her side. Her long, bare leg was pulled up over the top of the blankets on his side of the bed. Her hand was on his empty pillow. His heart was in his throat. Bless her golden heart. She deserved better.
As quietly as he could, he started to lie down beside her but couldn’t. He backed out of the room and went to the couch. Slightly off balance due to his exhaustion, he leaned against the arm of the sofa for support and slipped, his injured hand taking his full weight. Excruciating pain shot throug
h his hand and up his arm. He nearly blacked out and did all he could to suppress a cry of agony. Finally, with his entire body soaked in sweat, the pain eased. He lay exhausted.
Tylenol would take the edge off the ache, but he didn’t have the energy or any inclination to get up. He expected sleep to take him down. He’d refused it several times throughout the evening but now was ready for it to take him away. He thought of Jacqueline and the other woman, Silk. Their images were indelibly stamped on his brain—their bodies so full and perfect, as if shaped by a master sculptor. God help him—so much confusion, temptation, and mixed desire. What had he done?
He forced the confusion away, thinking of Christa. The last thing in the world he wanted to do was hurt her. The deed is done, my friend. Stop it and grow up.
A paying job was the only answer. He’d been given a temporary reprieve for his cash-flow problems, but now he had to find an income. His tired, scratchy eyes closed. Sleep would come.
What seemed like moments later, he heard Christa’s hoarse whisper. “Ethan?”
It can’t possibly be time to get up, he thought. His eyes opened to stare directly into Christa’s face.
“You were gone for a long time today,” she whispered. She seemed barely awake as she placed her hand on his chest. “You never phoned.”
“I’m sorry, honey, so sorry,” he repeated, hardly conscious but already asking for a forgiveness unknown to her.
“It’s okay, Ethan,” she murmured, kissing his face tenderly with her soft, moist lips. She leaned in closer, her breast pressing against his chest. “Randy called,” she said, her voice crackling in the whisper. “Said something about a guy on a plane … wanted to meet you?” She paused and pulled in closer, her warm cheek touching his. “He left a number. Said to call.”
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