Bad Idea

by Damon Suede

  “No, moron. I’m gonna wreck it for me.”

  His former editor sat stock-still, apparently straining every cell of his body to appear sincere and casual even though the telltale pulse jumped under his jaw. “Goddamn Goolsby. And that stupid demon dick book. Some buttfuck bubba wanted you to himself and turned you against—”

  “You and your noble intentions? Zzzzt. Wrong tactic, bro.” Trip stared into the golden retriever eyes without smiling. He wiped his damp hands on his pants. He wanted to take a shower, to scrub himself. He spoke in a near-whisper. “What in my life was so bad that”—scowl—“you might be the better choice?”

  If Silas could see me now….

  Trip grabbed his portfolio so quickly it swung wide and narrowly missed clipping Cliff. “Scratch is better than anything you’ll ever look at. Silas Goolsby is more of a man than you’ll ever blow to get ahead.” Trip might as well have spoken Assyrian. “I’ve been a moron.”

  Cliff held out the pen. “So be smart.” He slid the contract over the desk.

  “I think that’s a superb idea.” Trip stood and yanked his jacket off the back of the chair so hard it flipped and fell. “You know the best way to predict the future? Invent it.”

  “Spector.” The Unboyfriend begged, naked in his panic. He’d pulled his tie loose and his mouth broke. “Please don’t do this to me.” He glanced at the door that led to the bowels of Fox.

  “You—” Trip slung his backpack over his shoulder, absurdly gratified when it slammed against his back a little too hard. “—can shove Hero High—” If only a hundred Mighty Mite backpacks could fall from the sky and crush the bullshit out of him. “—up your uptight Unboyfriend ass!”

  He let the lethal smile die, turned, and walked away. He threw the door open so hard it shook the sheetrock. All the cubicle drones watched him go, twitchy as schizophrenic rabbits.

  Too claustrophobic for the elevator, he went to the staircase, wished the alarm would scream so he could sing along. No such luck. All the way from the twenty-eighth floor, he took the stairs two at a time, almost wishing he could throw himself down them and end up in a mangled pile so his outsides would match his insides.

  He emerged through titanic glass doors onto Avenue of the Americas. “A nation of bullshitters.”

  He’d misread everything, misjudged everyone, most of all himself.

  At least the midtown sidewalk was semiempty, even if the streets weren’t. Night had fallen, thank fuck.

  Rina was at some huge romance conference in Kansas City. Ben and Jillian had taken Max to a wedding. He tried to think of anyone to call he hadn’t treated like feces. For one whole block, he considered going to Midtown Comics to cool off but didn’t think he could keep his shit together if the staff recognized him. There was only one person he needed to tell, but Trip had sent him straight to hell.

  Walking against the traffic, Trip let himself cry; the slow tears felt hot on his stupid, stubborn face and smeared the headlights into crosses. He bowed his head and trudged downtown into the graveyard glare rolling past him.

  23

  FUCK Queens. Fuck Showtime. Fuck me.

  “Second skin!”

  Silas plucked at the heavy mold, roughly tearing chunks out with his hands and cursing under his breath. Air pockets had formed under the surface on this shoulder plate. Either he hadn’t cleaned the molds properly or he’d rushed the fill yesterday in the muggy air. Amateur hour bullshit. But they’d shoot the actor in close-up, and the damage was past salvaging.

  Third one today. Never so off his game. Better to pack it in and start tomorrow. Hell, maybe it’d rain and the humidity would finally break. He’d cross his fingers for a June storm and run a new appliance in polyfoam in the morning. The producers would never know, but he hated procrastinating till the day of. Besides, painting at last-looks made for crapass footage.

  Nothing like being sweaty and pissed off at nothing in particular.

  Undercover Lovers wrapped in six days, so he’d stressed and sweated all week at Silvercup. Suits started dropping in to watch dailies, and the whole writing staff churned out last-minute pages to clean up continuity glitches.

  He took a swig of lukewarm water out of a bottle and wished he was back in Manhattan, on the air-conditioned couch, watching cartoons in his boxers. He didn’t even want to go out. A year ago, he’d have dragged his ass to some bar with Kurt and fucked someone in the john just to clear his head, but somehow he couldn’t work up the interest.

  Pathetic.

  Now, at least, he had definitive proof that he sucked at this relationship shit. He’d lived like a zombie for the past month, lurched between home and work, and he hadn’t seen much at either. Nothing from Trip since Chicago, and he hadn’t risked reaching out for fear of another beatdown.

  A sharp knock on the outside of the makeup trailer.

  “Goolsby, I am done, son.” Francesca leaned in the little doorframe. “Over and out the catflap.”

  “Already?”

  She stepped inside and pulled the door shut. “Listen….” She leaned to see if they were alone in the trailer. “You gotta sec?”

  “Paul and Tiffany are doing the prison fight.” Normally, Silas would have done it so he could sneak in a little extra detail, but somehow, he hadn’t worked up the mojo. “I’m cleaning up. Long-ass day. I’ll see you in the morning.” He scratched at a dollop of Cine-Wax on the counter.

  She closed the distance between them. “Nah, man. I mean I’m done-done. “Today’s my last.” She smiled and blinked.

  “What the fuck-owitz?” Silas sat down in the makeup chair and swiveled to face her. On a long season, people came and went, but not a rock like Francesca. Hugs and shrugs. Weariness chewed at his joints. “It’s the sixth of June, show wraps on the fifteenth! They’re fucking idiots.”

  “No. It’s good.” She sat in the makeup chair opposite him. “I got offered a show of my own. It’s a low-budget pilot, and who fucking knows if it’ll go anywhere, but I’m getting paid and I love the ladies doing it.”

  “Congratulations.” Silas carefully balanced the grin on his face and didn’t elaborate. TV production was like sticking your arm in a garbage disposal and daring your enemies to flip the switch.

  She laughed. “You don’t have to soft soap me, man. It’s a terrible fucking idea, I know. Makes no sense, but my gut tells me it’s the right thing. Y’know?”

  “Okay. Lord, but we’re gonna miss you. I figured they’d give you a producing credit, at least, next season.”

  “That’s as may be. But I’m a chick at a table fulla dicks, and you know how that goes.” Francesca shrugged. “I don’t wanna write, anyways. This is a good shot.”

  Silas sighed. He almost remembered being that brave back at the beginning. When had he gotten so damn old? “You like your team?”

  “Sh’yeah. I handpicked ’em. That’s the thing. Dawn wrote this kinky script she wants to direct and scrounged up about a mil-two in funding and a commitment from Netflix for distribution.” She seemed so sharp and full of optimism.

  Silas tried to hide the rush of pity. Hundreds of off-network pilots got made every year, and a handful got distribution. Homegrown TV pilots were for crazies only.

  “Kind of a ladies-night-out thing. I mean, not like Lena Dunham, but no-budge sexy thriller.”

  “I’m really happy for you.” He swallowed around the lump of sympathy in this throat.

  “Leigh Ann and Benita are gonna do the pilot for scale. Benita’s starting to get a name. Plus Leigh Ann started dating that Joe Manganiello guy, and he’s agreed to play the hustler in a three-way if we can work around his True Blood schedule. With ass even, because well, because.”

  That was better. A thick, hick, werewolf dick would give them leverage, at least. Silas could see the logic. “By any means necessary.”

  “Shooting in Louisiana this summer.” She spoke with the singsongy optimism of a travel agent who’s never left home. “Would you ever….?”

>   Oh shit.

  “I mean….” She paused at the door again. “I’d love a chance to work with you again. If you’d ever be willing to, y’know, come play in the mud.”

  “Duh!” He’d help out if he could, but no way was he gonna move to Louisiana for the summer for some crazy shoot on a shoestring. Part of him hated the thought of leaving New York, because then he knew that would shut the door on Trip forever. And the rational side thought he’d be crazy not to cut bait. Fuck it. “Actually, I’d love to help y’all out.”

  Francesca’s double take almost made him laugh. “F’real? Wow. Okay.”

  “Pinky swear.” Silas held his up and she took it. “You cover my meals and my travel, and I can sleep on whatever floor you find.”

  She laughed. “Bitch, I’ve leased a whole plantation for about a buck, with one wing for housing. It was a hotel in the sixties. Air-conditioned, no less, and a honky-tonk on the property. I scored tax breaks out the pooter.” She gave him a side-eye. “Shoot’s twenty-four days. I’m bringing a caterer in from New Orleans for meals and crafty. Plus y’got a budget for a crew of four.”

  “Jeez.” He sighed in relief. “Easy favor.”

  “You thought I was gonna drag your ass down there to sleep in some tent?” She puckered skeptically. “Goolsby, you got self-esteem issues.”

  “I got worse than that.” He crossed his arms, slimy in the tepid air. “But, my daddy used to say, ‘Kill all your demons and your angels might fly off.’”

  “And bring your boyfriend if he wants to come. Hell, call him your assistant. We’ll find something for him to do.” A big fresh-baked grinning invitation. “Betcha.”

  “We….” He swallowed, though his mouth was gummy. “He called it quits.”

  “Oh shit.” The smile mildewed into grimace. Her eyes shifted right to left on his, unsettled as a housefly.

  “So….” He shrugged. “Yeah. Naw.”

  Francesca blinked in sympathy. “Sorry. Agh. My bad. I shoulda known that.”

  Silas shrugged. “How could you? I didn’t exactly hang a neon sign out front.”

  “Well, maybe it’ll be good to get away. I hear Cajun boys are mighty friendly. Gator baiters.”

  “I know all about ’em. I grew up down that way. Gravy is a beverage and butter is a condiment.” He giggled with her. “All I need’s a lip fulla tobacco and a spoon of Crisco to get things going.”

  “Gross!” She cackled and shoved him. “You could show us the back roads.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I could, at that.” A real smile snuck onto his face. See? Not so bad. He’d sublet his apartment and hide in the bayou for a spell, pigging out on gumbo and fried bread. Maybe a vacation hookup with a hot redneck who thought six-packs were something you drank. Just what the doctor ordered. He’d spend a month boasting and coasting, come back tough as nails and twice as sharp.

  Excellent plan. Repeat it enough, maybe he’d start to believe it.

  “Well, I gotta turn in my receipts. I just wanted to—” She hugged him impulsively. “Thank you, Silas. I didn’t… expect that. We’re gonna have a blast.”

  Fingers crossed.

  She knocked on the doorframe, and then she dropped down to the concrete outside, thumped the door shut behind her, and was gone.

  He should feel relieved. He hadn’t bothered to line up a gig, and his savings looked patchy. He’d spent too much of the spring worrying about Trip and not enough hustling for work. Nearly June, and the only lead he had was a haunted house gig that wouldn’t start until August at the earliest and wouldn’t pay reasonable money until September.

  A rush of gratitude coursed through his veins. Without knowing it, these ladies might get him back on the rails with none the wiser.

  His stomach growled and he foraged for a granola bar in his kit. Nope. He’d skipped lunch too. He’d have to run down to crafty to snag whatever scraps the extras had left in their wake.

  He paused to wash his hands and splash his face with water, and ignored the circles under his eyes. He needed a break, was all. Some time outside and real food cooked by humans. Maybe one weekend, he’d rent a car and go visit his mama’s family. Alabama was only a couple of hours away, and he hadn’t swung down in a long-ass time.

  Silas sauntered to the craft services tent they’d set up next to the parking lot that stood in for the prison lot. The B-unit was shooting coverage and inserts off to one side. A couple of bored PAs paced outside the active jailhouse set.

  The tent was open, and though the food had been whittled down, he spotted a lone banana tucked under a pile of sandwich bread.

  “Fuck a duck, you stealing my banana?”

  Silas spun and found a lanky college kid considering him with a loose, soft mouth: cute, dreads, all of twenty years old and a hundred and forty pounds. This twink was one of the stunt doubles. Larry? Harry? Who fucking knew?

  “Gary,” the kid offered and pointed at himself, his limbs smeared with perspiration. He wore a pair of Lycra bicycle shorts, his veiny snake stuffed down the right leg almost to the hem. When he lowered his hand again, he stroked the bulge lightly.

  Silas gulped. Involuntarily, his pecker woke up and rolled in its cotton cradle. Even now, when he felt uglier than a lard bucket fulla armpits.

  Gary’s bulge shifted. He ambled toward Silas, all the time in the world. The snout of his salami was trapped right behind the seam, firming up as he petted it. “Need a snack?”

  How long was that thing?

  The tent was hot, and though the table shielded them from two sides, they were visible from most directions. The stuntman’s cockiness left him powerless, and his appetite sloshed over the edges of his common sense.

  Silas trembled a little, and his mouth got wet at the risk and rudeness of it. Everything he loved, on a plate. Normally he’d have crooked his head and taken this kid to the honeywagon for a quick BJ. What did it matter? His nuts ached, snugged tight by celibacy. He hadn’t had sex, even jerked off, in a month-plus.

  Gary’s tool had gotten fully rigid, stretching the blue Lycra away from his body as he advanced. A wet blotch marked the fabric over the swollen mushroom cap. He kneaded his schlong in invitation. “C’mon, guy.”

  Silas’s brow clouded in confusion. What was wrong with him? Friendly, no-strings hookup, and he couldn’t even muster a smile. Some internal switch had been thrown. Hell, five years ago, this coulda been him on location, flogging his hog in a pair of bike shorts and lobbing come-ons to get attention. Ten minutes from now and it’d be a fun memory… a goofy escapade he’d confess to Kurt over a beer.

  Here, this gangly punk waggled relief in his face: lean, hard, and horned up. At the end of the day, it’d just be a blowjob or butt rutting or whatever they ended up doing. And who would know or care or remember anyways?

  I would.

  As if scalded, Silas dropped the banana on the table. It tottered onto the floor, but he didn’t bend to pick it up.

  The leggy stuntman’s smile faltered, as if he knew he’d misread the pinball but hoped to tilt the machine. He tucked his fingers in his waistband and tipped his hips. His branch of meat was a fat J from crotch to inner thigh. “You need some help?”

  “Naw.” Silas stared him in the eye and nodded firmly. “I’m good.” Whatever he needed did not involve hanging around on a film set trying to bag sweaty strangers out of boredom.

  That was it: all of this strutting and prowling… bored him.

  I know better.

  He nodded again. Nothing was the same. He’d get through the next four days, put Undercover Lovers to bed, and then haul his ass to Louisiana if he had to ride a raft all the way there. Fuckleberry Finn.

  The easy smile lingered on Gary’s pleasant face. This one wasn’t used to rejection. He shrugged but didn’t drop his shoulders fully. “You sure?”

  Silas frowned. “I’m not good at being sure of anything.”

  Except he was sure, sure of one thing, and that was gone for good.

  TRIP
finally left his pigsty because he was too embarrassed to face the maid while she scaled the grim Himalayas of wrappers and cans.

  He spent the afternoon sitting at the Westside piers, drawing and arguing with himself. The wind churning off the Hudson whipped the trees hard. Finally, hunger and a lingering sense of his own insanity drove him home for lunch and sunblock.

  “Trip Spector? I’m Kurt.” A small dapper man with salt and pepper hair stood on the bar’s stoop right in front of Trip’s front door. “Silas’s friend.”

  “Bogusz?” Trip shifted his weight on the sidewalk. What was he doing here? My archnemesis.

  “You’re taller than I expected.” Kurt sported a herringbone suit, but no tie.

  “I don’t have time for any bullshit.” Everything had burned down and this cocky schtoonk came by to kick the ashes? “We already broke up. You win.”

  Kurt raised a cup of Starbucks. “He said you were obtuse, but fuck’s sake.”

  “I’m not interested.”

  He raised one dark eyebrow. “Duh. I’m not here for kicks.”

  “Yeah.” Trip didn’t need any more proof he’d fucked up. “I’m saying no thanks.”

  “I’m not here about your pitiful sex life. Or Silas, even. That’s between you two and your big diddler.” Kurt scowled, but he didn’t move out of the way. The strong gusts made his jacket flap around him.

  Trip snatched his keys out with a blang-jangle. “I think that will do for my thankless crap ration today. Thanks.”

  “Right.” Kurt took a guzzle of coffee and made a sour face. “Gotta get upstairs and sit on your scrawny ass some more? Better yet: why don’t you head to Port Authority and watch a junkie pick a fight with the wind?”

  Trip jerked his head to the side. “Excuse me?”

  “You don’t have a job. You blew the Fox deal. You don’t even have a project to piddle around with. You’ve sent a single résumé out since you shit-canned yourself—to the New York Times art department. I checked. You won’t return calls. Or e-mail.”

  For two blinks, Trip weighed the wisdom of scuttling back to the piers or hiding out at Ben and Jillian’s. The uncanny wind scoured the street, pushing at both of them and pasting his clothes against his body. Tattered newspaper flags flapped around a streetlight.