by Byron Lane
“I thought you were fucking dead.”
“Dead? That would have been a travesty of a travesty of a blap.”
“I’m not kidding.”
“I’m not dead, I’m jet-lagged.”
“This seems like more than jet lag.”
“It’s rich-people jet lag. It’s worse for us.”
“I give you an F,” I say.
“For what?”
“You know what!”
“Then I give you a C for giving me an F!” she yells.
“That’s fine, because I already know I’m an A and the C is just because you’re mad at me!”
“I’m not mad, I’m sleepy!” Kathi tries to sit up again, but she’s wobbly. She coughs. She tries to move the covers off her legs, but her movements look mired in molasses. She hovers on the edge of the bed. She steadies herself on the nightstand.
“I don’t think I can film the show today,” she says.
“They’ll be pissed.”
Kathi glares at me, our nonverbal communication. I concede. “What do you want me to tell them?”
“I’m sick. I’ll do it tomorrow,” she says. “Or this afternoon maybe.”
“I’m not sure that’s how it works.”
“Then fucking cancel it, Cockring. Get us a flight home. Fuck it.”
I nod okay but don’t move, my feet locking my body in a stare-off with her.
“What now?” Kathi asks, noticing my gawking.
“What if you had been dead? In this shitty hotel room, at this shitty hour, far from home, on a stupid weekday morning, about to shoot a stupid TV show. Is this really where and how you want your life to end? You want this on your IMDB page? Am I supposed to update all this on your Wikipedia?”
Kathi sits still for a moment. Then, “What’s a Wikipedia?”
“You can’t die this way.”
“Why not?” she asks.
“Because you’re too interesting and special. You need a quirky death when you’re, like, a hundred. And don’t do it in a way where I’ll be blamed.”
“You’ll be with me when I’m one hundred?” she asks.
“Maybe.”
“You’ll be my Roger?”
“Roger? Jeez,” I say.
“What’s wrong with Roger?”
“Nothing. He just seems, I don’t know, defeated. He’s lost in Miss Gracie’s life. Why do I have to be him? Can’t I just stay Cockring?”
“Maybe.”
“The point is, you have to die alone somehow, in some capacity in which I could not save you or have even known you were in danger—like you choke on your Weight Busters alone in your room at three in the morning. Or you fall asleep with a cigarette and burn to death.”
“Jesus Christ, Cockring,” she says.
“You know what I mean. Sorry. This was a scary start to our morning.”
Weirdos.
We sit quietly in that room for a few minutes. The moment has transformed the space from a generic place to sleep to a tomb, a hallowed place, the place where perhaps she could have died. I know in my bones, to my core, that this room is not worthy of her death—it’s barely worthy of her life.
“God,” Kathi says, hauling herself out of bed, steadying herself against the sick-colored wall, then staggering into the bathroom. Roy perks his head up and then plops it back down for critical continued rest, unfazed by this monotony of human minutiae.
Kathi Kannon. A moment ago she seemed dead, and now she walks around in a nightgown, nearly lifeless and completely exhausted. I wonder if I would be this comfortable around someone else. Comfortable enough to wear my pajamas, to be seen so vulnerable. Kathi seems resigned to it, accepting of it. Perhaps it’s show business. Performers change clothes in front of one another. Performers share bathrooms and have diarrhea before shows. Maybe this is all a show. Her show. I’m in the cast. Do I get a credit at the end? Is there an end? For her? For me? How long is this episode? Will it end one day with me finding her dead for real?
Hey, Siri, I hope I survive her.
Hey, Siri, am I her Roger?
As Kathi closes the bathroom door, she turns back to me. “Cockring,” she says. “Maybe it’s time for me to get a little help.”
“Okay,” I say.
Immediately, while she’s in the bathroom, I start my search for a sober coach for Kathi Kannon, film icon. Google turns up some random results, but I’m looking for the real thing. My next step is to search Google News, to see if “sober coach” or “sobriety coaches” turns up anything recent—maybe some other celebrity used someone, or a news station interviewed some expert, someone vetted and verified. No luck. I turn to my trusty Assistants Club. I find our last email, reply all, and put out the call. These guys know the best bars, the best yacht captains, the best place for anal bleaching. Surely they can refer me to a sober coach. West comes through for me, sending me referrals for not one or two sober coaches but a list of seventeen.
Hi! We’ve met with and hired all of them at one point or another. But Orion Towers (he’s Greek!) has been the best for us. Kind, firm, doesn’t mind watching the client pee.
—Good luck,
“West”
I email Orion Towers about his availability.
16
Wednesdays are the worst, less like a midweek hump and more a hand grenade—problems always popping up at the halfway mark and threatening to ruin the rest of it. Not to mention, today is a travel Wednesday.
We left Seattle in a daze, landed in Los Angeles, and are now riding home in a limo. Kathi wants a cola with ice, but the cup of ice in the car’s bar has melted a little. So she picks it up, pours the melted water onto the floor of the limo, and then pours her soda onto the remaining ice.
She notices me staring at her in disbelief, as the puddle on the carpeted floor of the car starts to grow, grow, grow.
“How can you do that?” I ask.
“I was raised by wolves!” she yells.
When we arrive home, lined up in Kathi’s driveway is a row of people, greeters, like we’re at the front door of Downton Abbey. Roy whimpers with excitement at the sight of it—he’s the only one in the car who appreciates a receiving line.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Kathi says.
It’s Agnes, Benny, Roger, Miss Gracie with Uta Hagen in her arms, and Orion Towers, even more handsome than the headshot on his website or the selfies on his Instagram. He’s got midnight-black hair, bright blue eyes, and tan skin that has clearly known luxury lifestyles poolside, oceanfront, and sun-kissed. He’s dressed modestly, his muscles only slightly visible under his loose clothing. He has a tight chest and thick arms that have experienced the pleasures of personal trainers, nutritionists, cosmetologists. I’m thinking, Is he gay? I’m thinking, I hope he’s gay.
The car stops and Kathi opens her door. Roy leaps out and begins a happy jog around the friends, family, employees there to welcome us. Kathi gets out next, hugs her mother.
“Welcome home, dear,” Miss Gracie says. “This is him. He’s costing me a lot of money.” She points to Orion and gestures to his physique. “And this is his body.”
Orion says through a chuckle, shaking Kathi’s hand, “Nice to meet you.”
“We’ll see about that,” Kathi says. “You already know Cockring, I guess?”
I walk up to Orion carrying Kathi’s suitcase. “We emailed some,” I say, shaking his hand. I blush at the sight of him; his grip is warm and firm and swallows mine. He’s got charming eyes, which dart briefly to my open shirt collar, and I’m thinking, Yup, he’s gay.
“Shall we?” Kathi asks, and she and Orion walk up to the house together, to the backyard, to chat about goals and plans and sobriety. Benny helps Agnes back up to the house, and Miss Gracie leads Uta Hagen down to their home. Roger follows, offering me a wave goodbye.
I unpack Kathi and check that her bedroom is in order. In the room is a rollaway cot Agnes and Benny put together with crisp white sheets. It’s the same cot they’ve used du
ring past attempts at Kathi’s sobriety, one perpetually packed in the basement, kept on hand, just in case it didn’t stick back then, or then, or then.
Soon, Orion Towers will take up residence on that trusty old cot, beginning his 24/7 time with Kathi, for as long as necessary. For the coming weeks I’ll cancel her appointments, intercept her calls, try to keep her life as peaceful as possible. I’m not going to be out of touch, but I’ll be coming here less, taking a little time off for myself while Kathi gets herself sorted.
I see them chatting in the backyard, Kathi and Orion. I’m thrilled to see her smiling and laughing with him, the two of them looking like they’re shooting a movie scene together, yard ornaments twirling around them, the garbage fountain reflecting sunlight in its droplets, a small plastic cow on a hill presiding over the whole proceeding, this occasion, this mastering of desires, this tempering of tenets of her addiction. I’m thinking, I’m leaving her in good hands. I’m thinking, I’m leaving her in good, hot hands.
* * *
I walk down Kathi’s brick walkway to my car, parked dutifully outside of her garage, and I see Roger milling around inside, looking at the books.
“Hiding?” I ask.
“You betcha,” Roger says. “Actually, Miss Gracie asks me to step outside whenever she goes to the bathroom, so…”
“Hope she’s quick.”
“Tell me about it.”
“I’ve been thinking of you. Kathi is calling me ‘her Roger.’”
“Yikes, sorry.”
“I should be so lucky to be considered as loyal and efficient as you are.”
Roger sits on an old tattered bench tucked away to be repainted, recirculated, used up. “Wanna join?” he asks.
“Maybe,” I say playfully.
Roger scoots over at great cost—risking snagging his lovely Ralph Lauren cardigan, perhaps another of the many bribes from this family—and I sit beside him.
“How’s it hanging?” Roger asks.
“Drama,” I say.
Roger laughs, a chuckle with a hint of sadness, regret. He looks down at the ground. “Their drama reminds me of my youth.”
“Were your parents a lot like them when you were a kid?” I ask.
“Oh, no,” he says. “Kathi and Miss Gracie don’t remind me of my childhood. They remind me of my youth. My fucking youth: my twenties, when I first started this job for them. They’ve been dramatic, fighting, at odds with each other like this since I’ve been here. It always upsets Miss Gracie. I tell her, don’t think of it as a fight or as hate, think of it as passion, which is love. I don’t know if it helps her feel better. It certainly hasn’t helped reduce the fighting. But there’s love behind it. I know it.”
“What a way to spend your youth,” I say.
“What a way to spend yours.”
“Did you ever think about leaving?”
“Nah,” Roger says. “What am I gonna do? Work at Walmart? Drive an Uber for drunk kids? No, thank you. I’ll never find another job with all this fame and wealth and comfort. Plus, I do kinda really love Miss Gracie. Always have. I just think it’s hard to change, and it’s easy to stay. The problem is, like Kathi, I never bottomed out, never had a glaring reason to quit all this, and so my addiction lives—addiction to them, I guess. And how could I leave all this?” He motions toward Miss Gracie’s house, the property, the three-car-garage library, the yard of oak trees and ornaments, the city of Beverly Hills, the universe, his universe. He says, “What else is there?”
“There’s having it all.”
“All?”
“Can’t you do this job and also have a rich personal life?”
“No,” he says.
I say, “I think maybe I can.”
“Pfft. There is no way to have both, my sweet friend. Being a celebrity assistant is like working for the Hollywood mob. No one comes before the family, there is only the family, you can’t leave the family. If you do, the townies will kill you—not with bullets, you’ll just die of longing.”
We sit for a moment, the hum of Miss Gracie’s bathtub filter system drowning out any sounds of nature. But that’s not why we’re out here. We’re escaping other forces of nature. I stand. “See you later?” I ask.
“Unfortunately,” he says. “Same time, same channel.”
“Bye, Roger.”
“Bye, Roger,” he says.
* * *
I lay blankets on my apartment floor for Ben and me to fool around and watch Netflix.
I shamefully move some of Mom’s unopened boxes into my laundry hamper and stuff a few behind the sofa. I’m ashamed of all this mess and clutter, untouched and unexamined for all this time. Perhaps regretfully, I am my father’s son.
I have ice cream ready in the freezer. And I have a gift for him: the photo taken of us by the political-survey people outside of Intelligentsia Coffee. Our first meeting—captured forever—framed and wrapped in blue paper with a gold bow, hidden under a throw pillow. When we have our fifty-year wedding anniversary, it’ll be fun to have this souvenir.
Ben is on his way. He’s bringing wine, he’s bringing snacks, he’s bringing bad news.
Ben shows up for our date wearing jeans and flannel and puffy eyes.
“I’m so sorry…” he says, starting to crack. I’m lying naked and ready for him, tucked in the nest of blankets I made for us, and he’s standing in the doorway, his coat still on, his guard still up. I know what’s coming.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say.
I die inside, but I smile sweetly to calm him, to be kind, to service his emotions. I’m good at service.
Assistant Bible Verse 142: Your needs must wait.
“My dad has been sick,” he says, “and it’s so hard to deal with that plus my job and the travel for my job and travel for your job, and you’re amazing, but I’m just not in a place right now for this.”
I must still have my assistant hat on, because despite my anger and hurt and nakedness, I turn to comfort, to calm, to de-escalation. My insides are burning, but my face stays stoic; my mind says not to make a scene. “It’s okay, I understand,” I say, the words coming out robotically.
I feel frustrated that he didn’t break up with me sooner, differently. I’d prefer to know immediately when things aren’t working out. In fact, I’d prefer these guys not tell me at all! I’d prefer they text. Or at least call, instead of a face-to-face humiliation, awkward hugs, boner killers. But Ben is sweet, he’s got integrity. He does it in person. He leaves me, and then he leaves me, walking out of my apartment, taking all the slices of our relationship pie with him, none left for me.
I take the photo of us I had framed, still in its blue paper, still in its gold bow, and throw it in the trash. I hear the glass crack. Another waste.
I’m thinking, There go more blue dots from my calendar, and I want to throw my fucking phone across the room, have a fit of fury and rage. But I remain still, keeping the war inside, my phone tight in my grip. I’m realizing it’s not Ben I want to hurt; it’s the phone, it’s the job, it’s the inevitable loss of me in my life. As I open the calendar app and start deleting my future plans with Ben—the dinners, the movie nights—the blue dots vanish, prompting the pink dots to spread like a virus, filling in all the gaps. It’s not their fault. They’re just a program. They’re my newest teacher: This life is my program. I’m deleting myself.
I walk around the corner to a little café to sit at the bar alone and order a glass of wine while I log in to OkCupid to look for the next one.
I’m thinking, Ben. Ben. Ben.
The wine arrives, the glass of liquid gold swishing, sashaying before me. I’m scrolling through dating profiles, annoyed with everyone, including myself, that I’m back on the hunt. Scrolling, scrolling, drinking. And the first glass is gone. I tip it back, try to get every last drop out, and I’m hyperaware that I want another, another pour, more wine, more medicine. I hunger, like Kathi hungers for more out of her life. I want more, more, more, like th
e primal beast in me that Therapista called passively suicidal.
Greed knows no end.
The bartender asks if I want another.
I’m thinking, Yes.
But I say, “No, thanks.”
I’m the new me in this moment. I’m feeling like nothing, but now I have a scale to measure it by, because unlike my childhood, when I only knew one feeling—submission—or my twenties, when I only knew one feeling—depression—now having met and experienced Kathi Kannon, I have a reference for how it feels to be alive, to feel like I have a life worth living. I do a reality check. I’m making money. I’m banking self-esteem. I don’t need Ben. I want him, but I don’t need him. I can find someone else. And anyway, in the meantime I have her, and as long as I have her, I’ll find another boyfriend, because Kathi Kannon, no matter her complications, makes me a catch.
Hello, HotJock.
Hello, PalmSpringsWeekend.
Hello, WendellAcrobat.
17
With my boss tucked away in the care of Orion Towers, I’m thinking, This seems like a good time to replace Ben. I have to branch out and I have the time. I’ve handled the short list of people who had to be notified that Kathi is taking a mental health break: agent, attorney, accountant. I notice that Kathi’s circle of close contacts is small, just like mine. The absence of blue dots on my calendar is alarming, sad. Am I as isolated as she is? Am I Roger?
I log in to OkCupid to see how many dates I can get before work beckons again.
This guy: smoker.
That guy: long fingernails.
There’s the guy who’s a devout Satanist, the guy who’s a misogynist, the guy who’s a nudist “on nights and weekends.” The guy who has five foster dogs seems entertaining, and although I’m not really interested, we meet. I can tell he’s also not that interested in me by how he’s eating a salad so comfortably in front of me. He has the confidence I have when I don’t care if there’s kale in my teeth because I know there won’t be a good-night kiss.
These dates, they always ask the same questions I do; all of these inquiries are gentle ways to skirt asking what we do for a living. “What keeps you busy?” I ask. Sometimes they answer, “You mean what do I do for work?” And I play coy: “Sure.” Ultimately, I just want them to ask about me, so I can talk about Kathi, my superhero superpower.
