Clyde sits up and smiles. “You recognise me?” He lightly touches his blouse.
“Yeah, sure I do.” Popeye crawls up to Clyde, close enough for Clyde to smell raw onions on his breath, and Clyde brings a hand to his nose.
“You’re… wait, don’t tell me.” Popeye snaps his fingers. “You’re—”
“Marilyn…” Clyde whispers.
“That’s it,” Popeye says. “Marilyn, yeah.” He reaches out to Clyde. “Nice to meet you, Marilyn.”
Clyde straightens up and smiles, then hands Popeye half the cash.
The derelict gasps and fans out the notes in his hand like a deck of playing cards; then he looks up at Clyde and beams a gummy smile. “Gee, thanks, lady.”
“Thank you.” Clyde stands. “You’re very kind.”
He brushes himself off and strides out of the alley, emerging onto Hollywood Boulevard, which is jammed with traffic as cholos cruise the boulevard in their lowriders.
A tired and more subdued Clyde wanders along the pavement, jostled by groups of tourists and teenagers out for the night. Every so often, pairs of mounted police approach, forcing Clyde to step into the gutter to make way for them. Seeing the Chinese Theatre looming in the distance, Clyde crosses the street at the next intersection and heads toward it.
Outside the iconic façade, he sees a half-dozen Japanese tourists gleefully snapping pictures of each other next to a life-size cutout of Marilyn Monroe. Clyde stands in front of the cutout and strikes a pose, kicking up one leg and puckering his lips at the tourists who complain among themselves and move on, shaking their heads. Clyde frowns and trudges away, glancing at the celebrity handprints pressed into the cement before crossing the boulevard and heading east, occasionally stopping to read the inscribed terrazzo and brass stars embedded in the pavement along Hollywood’s Walk of Fame.
A block away from the Chinese Theatre, he sees a round-the-block queue of bored leather-clad patrons waiting outside a rock club. Loud music pours out the open doors of the club. Catcalls erupt from the crowd as Clyde struts past in time to the beat of the music. One of the patrons sticks out his foot, and Clyde pulls up short in time to avoid tripping. He snaps his fingers at the patron, who laughs and bows to Clyde as if to royalty, and the others cheer and applaud. A smile breaks out on Clyde’s lips, and he saunters away hugging his purse to his chest.
As he reaches Marilyn’s star, Clyde sees a small group of fans kneeling around it in a semi-circle. They reverently light memorial candles set in shot glasses, placing them on and around the star. Clyde strikes a pose at the head of the star, but they ignore him. He walks up to a young, barefoot woman in a plain white granny dress and asks her for a candle. She lights one and hands it to him. Clyde carries it a few blocks away to Vine, kneels in front of Clark Gable’s star, and places the candle in the centre. Then he kisses the star and chants Namu Myōhō Renge Kyō ten times before returning to Hollywood Boulevard and resuming his sojourn.
He reaches a building at the southeast corner of Hollywood and Wilcox on which someone has painted a colourful mural of an audience seated inside a darkened, old-time movie theatre staring out at the street. In the audience are dozens of film legends from Hollywood’s Golden Age, including Charlie Chaplin, James Dean, Marilyn Monroe, and Clarke Gable. Clyde smiles and waves at the mural.
“Marilyn, dear,” calls Charlie Chaplin from the mural, “What are you doing down there?” He points at an empty seat where Marilyn was sitting a moment before.
“Hello, Charles.” Clyde curtsies. “I’m simply taking an evening stroll.”
“Come join us,” calls Oliver Hardy from the back row. “The show’s about to begin.”
The others nod in agreement.
“Oh, thank you. Thank you all so much.” Clyde giggles and fans himself with his purse. “But, I’m afraid I have a prior engagement.”
A passing group of predatory teenagers dressed in chinos, wife beaters, and hairnets spot Clyde talking to the mural.
“Look at that one,” one of the predators says. He spits in Clyde’s direction.
The group crosses over to Clyde’s side of the road, and Clyde snaps out of his daydream as they swagger toward him. One of them breaks from the group and steps up to Clyde.
“Hey, you,” he says, forcefully tapping Clyde on the chest.
Clyde drops back, noticing an angry red scar running from the young tough’s ear to the side of his mouth.
“Who you talking to, princess?”
Clyde looks past him at the others jostling in the background. He puffs up his chest and lunges forward, closing the gap between them. “The name’s Marilyn, wise ass.”
Momentarily startled, Scarface retreats a couple of steps, and the others erupt into peals of laughter, slapping each other on their backs and pointing at him. Scarface reddens and draws his fist at Clyde. Suddenly, from out of the shadows, an athletic-looking man in his mid-twenties wearing black jeans and a black T-shirt swoops in between Scarface and Clyde and flicks open a switchblade.
“Now, you’re not going to hit a lady, are you?” He waves the sharp end of the switchblade at Scarface and raises his head at him.
Scarface pulls back. “Hit her?” He glowers at the knife. “I’m gonna kick that bitch’s ass.”
The young man in black jumps forward and takes a swipe at the air with the knife. “You’ll have to kick mine first, gever.”
Scarface stumbles back, angrily eyeing the knife. One of his friends breaks away from the group and takes him by the arm. “Come on, homes, let’s go. They’re just a couple of sick fags.”
Scarface shakes off his friend and spits on the ground. “They’ve probably got AIDS anyway.” He swaggers back to the group with his friend. They walk back toward the boulevard screaming insults as they go. As they round the corner, Scarface stoops to pick up a beer bottle and hurls it at Clyde’s champion. It smashes into the pavement a metre away from him. The young man turns to see Clyde walking away, already halfway down the block to Selma. He grabs his backpack off the pavement and chases after him.
“Hey, don’t I even get a thank you?” he shouts.
“For what?” Clyde says over his shoulder as the young man pulls up alongside him.
“Are you kidding me? Those guys would have torn you up.”
Clyde lets out a short laugh and picks up his pace. “What are you, my personal Superman?”
“Wait up! I—”
Clyde halts and whips around.
“Beat it, buster. This girl can take care of herself.”
The young man frowns and rakes his fingers through his short black hair. “You don’t remember me, do you?”
“Should I?”
“You’re Marilyn.”
Clyde flips open his hand and passes it from his head to his knee. “Obviously.”
The young man grins. “You really don’t remember me, do you?”
Clyde takes a step back and peers at him, his head cocked to one side. He extends his forefinger at him and twirls it in the air. “Turn around for a second.”
The young man shrugs and turns.
“There, stop,” Clyde says once the young man’s back is facing him. He sizes him up carefully, feeling a sudden flutter inside at the sight of his broad shoulders, shapely backside, and strong legs.
“No,” Clyde says after a moment. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“We have.”
“No, we haven’t.” Clyde slinks toward him and taps his thigh. “I could never forget an ass like that.”
The young man turns around slowly, a smile breaking out on his face.
“Thanks.”
Clyde flashes his teeth. “Don’t mention it.”
They stroll south together in the direction of Sunset Boulevard.
“We really have met, you know,” the young man says as they reach Sunset. “You don’t remember because you were too busy looking at someone else.”
Clyde stops and shakes his head. “And who was that?”
“Yourself.” A twisted half-smile breaks out on the young man’s face.
Clyde glances sidelong at the young man. “Where exactly did we meet?”
“At the movie theatre this afternoon. The one up the road there.” He jerks his thumb toward Hollywood Boulevard. “My name’s Ralph, remember?” He extends his hand toward Clyde.
Clyde glares at Ralph. “You’re the flirty guy with the hairy arms? Goodbye.” He spins on his heels and storms away.
“No, wait.” Ralph follows close behind.
“Get away from me,” Clyde shouts, weaving in and out of groups of people buzzing up and down the pavement bordering Sunset Boulevard.
Once they break free of the crowd, Ralph catches up to Clyde and takes him by the arm.
“Stop grabbing me.” Clyde shakes him off. “Who the hell do you think you are?”
“Sorry!” Ralph holds up his hands. “I did ask you to wait.”
“Wait for what?”
“I’m the guy who just saved your life, remember?”
“You’re the guy who sells tickets at a flea-bitten movie house. Marilyn doesn’t do the help, sorry.”
Ralph narrows his eyes at Clyde. “Sure she does.”
“What?”
“Marilyn does everyone.”
“Why, you rude bastard!” Clyde steps forward and raises his hand at Ralph.
Ralph smirks and lifts his cheek at Clyde. “Go ahead, slap me hard. Then let me buy you a drink.”
Clyde lowers his hand and shakes his head. “What kind of crazy sicko are you?”
“The kind that believes you’re who you claim to be,” Ralph says.
Clyde stares at Ralph, opens his mouth to say something, then rolls his eyes and looks away.
“Admit it,” Ralph says, “It’s not easy for people to accept you for who you are. Am I right?”
“One day they will,” Clyde says.
“But they don’t now. Right?”
“So what?”
“So you shouldn’t alienate someone who’s ready to accept you now.”
Clyde blinks at Ralph.
Ralph touches his arm. “At least accept my friendship, Marilyn. That’s a start.”
Clyde glances at Ralph’s hand.
“It’s not easy finding a friend in this insane town.” Ralph squeezes Clyde’s arm and smiles at him. “Let me be your friend.”
Clyde searches Ralph’s face, slowly lowering his guard as he takes in the intense gaze of the young man’s dark blue eyes. “And what, in your playbook, do friends do?”
“Well, let’s see…” Ralph looks around the boulevard. “I think new friends should seal their relationship over a cold beer or three.” He points at a nearby club flying a rainbow flag with a lineup of Harley Davidsons parked outside and jogs toward it. “This place looks promising.”
Clyde releases a breath and runs after him.
* * *
Clyde sits squeezed against a wall in a corner of the dimly lit, smoke-choked bar, which is jammed elbow-to-elbow with lesbian bikers dressed in leather and bristling with chains. He fidgets nervously and glances around at the crowd as it roils and undulates in time to deafening disco music.
A freckled, muscular woman with a pair of reflective aviator sunglasses pushed up onto her slicked-back auburn hair emerges from the jam and squeezes her way toward Clyde. She hops on a suddenly free stool opposite him and hungrily eyes him, reaching down to unbutton the top of her cut-off blue jean shirt to expose the cleavage of her enormous breasts. Clyde rolls his eyes and scans the crowd.
Ralph approaches with two sloshing mugs of beer in one hand and two brimming shot glasses in the other. He comes around to Clyde’s side of the table, shoves away a pair of women engaged in a lip wrestling contest to make room for himself, and drops a mug in front of Clyde. The two women hardly notice the interruption and carry on tonguing each other. Ralph empties one of the shot glasses into Clyde’s beer mug. Clyde sniffs at the concoction and pulls a face.
“Isn’t this place great?” Ralph shouts over the music.
Clyde arches an eyebrow and glances around, unintentionally making eye contact with the muscular woman from earlier who winks at him. Clyde smiles weakly and winks back. He pulls a hand-painted silk fan out of his purse.
“It’s got loads of atmosphere.” Ralph knocks back a shot of tequila and chases it with some beer.
“Must be the second-hand smoke.” Clyde fans himself vigorously.
“Maybe so.” Ralph pulls a pack of Marlboros out of his backpack and taps out a cigarette. He lights it with what looks to Clyde like a diamond-encrusted silver lighter.
“So anyway”—Clyde stares at the lighter as Ralph snaps it shut and puts it back in his pocket—“what’s a graduate film student doing working at a cheap little movie theatre anyway?”
Ralph grins and blows tiny smoke rings through big smoke rings. “Are you seriously asking me that?” He places his cigarette in an ashtray.
Clyde narrows his eyes at Ralph. “It’s a fair question. Graduate school’s expensive; poor people can’t afford that. Punching tickets at some no-name movie theatre is a kid’s job that probably doesn’t pay much—and you’re obviously not a young kid—or a seventy-something retiree with nothing to do, for that matter.”
“I’m a sucker for old films. What can I say?”
“So am I. But I’d never work in a place like that.” Clyde takes a sip from his mug and processes the heady mix of beer and tequila, trying to decide whether he likes it or not. “Besides, I would think you’d be too busy with working on film projects and stuff to be wasting your time with some stupid, mindless job.”
Ralph shrugs and downs some beer. “We wouldn’t have met if it weren’t for that stupid, mindless job.”
As the beer and tequila work their way to Clyde’s head, he finds himself discreetly admiring Ralph’s athletic build, his broad shoulders and muscular arms, the way his powerful-looking legs fill out his tight black jeans, how his straight white teeth flash in the black light. Sensing a mellowing of Clyde’s mood, Ralph rests his thigh against Clyde’s, and Clyde scoots into the warm pressure of the contact.
“Anyway, speaking of film projects”—Ralph lowers his head to Clyde’s shoulder and speaks in a confidential tone—“I have an idea for one.”
Clyde looks at him. “Do you really?”
“Can I pitch it to you?”
“You want to pitch a film project to me?” Clyde says.
“If that’s OK.”
“Knock yourself out.”
“What if you were to meet another someone from back in the day, only now in 1982.”
“Who, me?
“Yes, you—Marilyn Monroe.”
“What do you mean ‘another someone’?”
“Another film star.”
“Like who?”
“Like anyone, a guy. But someone dead.”
“How can I meet someone dead?”
“Back from the dead, I mean. Like you.”
Clyde shakes his head and takes a sip of his beer. “Sounds silly to me.”
Ralph frowns and takes a drag on his cigarette. “Stay with me on this. Let’s say that you and someone else really iconic—someone who died young, like Sal Mineo or James Dean or Valentino—what if you were to meet each other now in 1982.”
“You mean like someone reincarnated?”
“Yeah, something like that. Personally, my vote would be for James Dean. But you can pick whomever you want.”
“I like James Dean, too.”
“Great! So, imagine it: Marilyn Monroe and James Dean meet in this life, and together they work out how to convince the world of who they really are.”
“OK…” Clyde says. “Then what happens?”
“I have no idea.” Ralph grins and blows a long stream of smoke at the ceiling. “That would be the fun bit of making the film, playing it out and seeing how people react, like a kind of semi-scripted documentary. You’d play yourself, of cou
rse, and I’d play the part of the guy who thinks he’s James Dean come back from the dead. And I’d write, direct, and film it all.”
“Only I wouldn’t be acting, of course. Because I am Marilyn. I don’t just think I am.”
“Of course.”
Clyde looks around at the crowd for a moment and looks back at Ralph. “I’d have to talk about it with my people.”
“Fine. But the way I see it, Marilyn, it’s a win-win,” Ralph says. “It would give you a chance to convince the world of who you really are—we’ll have to work that bit out—and I’ll have a fascinating film project for my master’s thesis.”
Clyde stares at Ralph for a moment, then looks at his watch. “I’ll think about it and let you know. Right now, though, I’ve got to get going. It’s getting late.”
“Rushing off again, eh?” Ralph sucks the last few drops of beer from his mug, then turns it upside down and flashes an exaggerated pout at Clyde. “All gone.”
They exit the bar and stand next to the long row of Harleys. The air is full of dust from the hot Santa Ana winds that have kicked up in the time they’ve been inside. Rubbish tumbles across the now-deserted pavement.
Clyde stares out at the boulevard. “Well, anyway… thanks.” He shoulders his purse and smiles at Ralph. “I had a nice time, after all.”
“No, thank you. I’m sure it was a great sacrifice for a celebrity of your standing.”
“It was. But I had fun. Anyway… Bye, Jimmy.” He runs a finger through the hairs on Ralph’s arm. “I may call you Jimmy, right?”
“Why ‘Jimmy’?”
“You know, James Dean… Jimmy Dean. It’s nicer than that other name.”
Ralph smiles. “Sure, why not?”
“Bye, Jimmy.” Clyde kisses Ralph’s cheek and moves away.
“Marilyn,” Ralph says.
Clyde turns around.
“Where are you going?”
Clyde looks past Ralph for a moment and absently watches a new flow of patrons entering and exiting the club, then he looks back at Ralph and shrugs, feeling a lump rising in his throat. “I don’t know.”
Ralph approaches him. “Do you live around here?”
“I, uh… No, I don’t.” He looks around. “I guess I’m sort of…”
The Death of Baseball Page 30
