“I don’t know,” Ralph says. “It just was. Everything was my fault. Anyway, I suffered a nervous breakdown because of all that, and they put me in the hospital. It took me a while to recover. My mom died while I was in there, and I didn’t find out about it until much later.”
“I’m so sorry, Jimmy.” Clyde strokes Ralph’s arm. “My mother was put in one of those places too when I was a little girl. That’s how I ended up in a bunch of foster homes. I wrote about it in my book My Story.”
Ralph cuts his eyes at Clyde.
“Sorry, back to you.”
“When I finally recovered, the doctors considered me unfit for active military service.” He takes a long, drawn-out breath, then looks at Clyde out of the corner of his eye. “Especially since I’d started hearing his voice in my head.”
“Whose voice?”
“James Dean’s voice, of course.”
Clyde narrows his eyes at Ralph. “Seriously?”
“Yes, seriously.”
“Why didn’t you say anything about that before?”
“I did! I told you I thought I might be the reincarnation of James Dean.”
“Yes, and then I asked you what evidence you had. But you never mentioned you heard his voice.”
“I must have.”
“You didn’t. Which means either that you’re a major loony or that you’re making it all up.”
“Trust me, I’m not making it up. Anyway, since they wouldn’t let me serve, I got a discharge and went to university in Tel Aviv instead and studied photography. After graduation, I came back here to earn an MFA in film. Then I met you and added accomplice to murder to my list of achievements.”
“Gee, thanks. Is that it?”
“No. This morning I seriously thought about turning myself in to the police. But when I was on my way downtown, I swung by my father’s place and found my cousin Yossi there. It’s ten years since I last laid eyes on him. At first, he didn’t even want to look at me. Finally, he told me he doesn’t want to have anything to do with me. That killed me.”
“You were going to turn yourself in without telling me, you motherfucker?”
“Hang on a sec. I was planning on taking the blame and putting it all down to a dispute gone wrong, which would have cleared you. But the whole Yossi thing upset me so much that I didn’t have the stomach to go through with it. End of story.”
“That’s it?”
“Yep.”
“That’s what you were boo-hoo-hooing about?”
“Yes, goddamn it; that’s what it’s about.”
“Well, I’ll be a baboon’s shiny red ass. You should write all that down. Because that would make a hell of a movie.” Clyde grabs a bottle of mineral water resting on the front seat and takes a sip.
“My life’s not a movie. It’s private. I’m only telling you this because now we’re in big shit together.”
Clyde holds up both hands and shows Ralph crossed fingers. “Can’t get any worse, right?”
Ralph shrugs.
“That’s the spirit,” Clyde says with a smirk. “So, let’s break the impasse and push this baby to the limit.” He points at Ralph’s keys in the ignition. “Drive.”
Ralph starts the engine, presses on the gas pedal and makes it roar. Then he peels out of the driveway and heads back to the freeway. “Where are we going?”
“Just drive, Jimmy. Now, it’s my turn.”
“Your turn for what?” Ralph says as he takes the on-ramp and heads west.
“I was watching TV and got an idea.”
“Don’t tell me, another field trip, right?”
“Did you ever see a movie called Dog Day Afternoon?”
Ralph shoots a glance at Clyde and looks back at the road. “Uh… Al Pacino tries to rob a bank. He gets caught. Yeah, what about it?”
“Why did he want to rob the bank, Jimmy?”
“I don’t know. I guess because he wanted the money.”
“No, that’s not it. Think, Jimmy. Why did Al Pacino rob the bank? Why did he need the money?”
“Let’s see…” Ralph glances in his rear-view mirror and makes an abrupt lane change, roaring into the fast lane on the extreme left.
“He… oh yeah, it’s all coming back. He needed the money for… a sex change operation, right? Yeah, a sex change operation for his lover—”
Clyde nods his head slowly, a broad smile on his face, and Ralph’s eyes go wide.
“That’s your idea?”
“Uh huh…”
“But he gets caught.”
“But you won’t. You’re an excellent thief.”
“That’s a crazy idea. I’ve only ever stolen small stuff. Banks are way out of my league.”
“Don’t worry about it, Jimmy. I’ve got it all figured out.”
“Oh, have you?”
“Yes, I have. We’ll rob a bank in San Diego, then we’ll cross the border into Tijuana and lie low for a while. Like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Queen. We’ll be the talk of the town. Then, with the money, and with your knowledge of Spanish, we’ll find a doctor to perform the operation. And you can film it all for your project.”
“And how are we supposed to rob a bank? What’s your plan for that?”
“I don’t know, Jimmy. That’s your department. We’ll wear masks or something.”
“I told you that I like you the way you are. You don’t have to get a sex change operation.”
“But I want one, damn it. I need your help with this, Jimmy.”
“OK, fine, you want a sex change operation. But we don’t need to rob a bank. I can get the money for you.”
“What kind of a thief are you? I thought you’d like the idea. I thought you’d jump at the challenge of robbing a bank. No more stealing ashtrays or pocketing tips off tables in restaurants. No more shoplifting. No more simple residential cat burglaries. That’s all kid’s stuff, Jimmy. You’re a man now. It’s time to leave your mark. Besides, we’re already in a shit storm. Don’t you think it’s better if we do something unforgettable rather than hide for the rest of our lives, always looking over our shoulders, afraid of our own shadows, never knowing if and when we’re going to be found out. We’ll be taking back control.”
“I thought you didn’t approve of stealing.”
“I don’t. But this would only be temporary. We’d pay them back. You can arrange for that beforehand. This is about PR, Jimmy. Think about all the publicity we’d get. Everyone would finally know about us. Plus, to ensure nobody gets hurt, we wouldn’t use real guns.”
Ralph exits the freeway at Santa Monica and takes the Pacific Coast Highway north toward Malibu.
“Aren’t you even tempted?”
“I want to think about it, Marilyn.” Ralph turns into the parking lot of a seafood restaurant and parks the car. “It’s a big step.”
“We’re both empowered now, Jimmy. I can feel it. It’s time to manifest our destiny.”
Ralph glances at the restaurant and back at Clyde.
“I said I want to think about it. Right now I really need to get some food in me and clear my head. Let’s just please stop talking about robbing banks.”
Clyde kisses Ralph on the cheek.
“I know you’ll make the right decision.”
The two of them stroll to the restaurant and take a table facing the Pacific. They order lunch and sit quietly looking out past the empty beach at the waves pounding the shore. When the food arrives, Ralph immediately attacks his plate of mahi-mahi with a ferocity that surprises Clyde, who picks at a sizzling skillet of shrimp fajitas. Clyde stabs a piece of shrimp with his fork and holds it out to Ralph.
“Want some?”
Ralph shakes his head. “I don’t eat shellfish, thanks.”
“Why not? It’s yummy.” Clyde puts the piece of shrimp in his mouth and chews it.
“I’m sure it is. But I’m fine with this, thanks.”
“Is it because you’re Jewish?”
“Something like that.”
�
��I thought you weren’t religious anymore.”
“I’m not. But some things die hard.”
Clyde nods and looks out at the ocean. He watches a lone seagull hovering above the churning water.
* * *
Media input appears to jar the subject’s sense of reality. For example, his insistence that I aid him in robbing a bank seems to have sprung entirely from a film he saw on television. His request puts the research for my project in a precarious position.
Ralph picks up his steno pad and rereads the notes for his film treatment. He glances over his shoulder at Clyde, who is snoring softly on the bed. Then he turns back to his pad and continues writing.
I fear that if I continue to refuse, he may become suspicious. Or worse, I may lose the subject altogether. At this point, I feel I have no other option but to act as if I will go through with the robbery. This may afford me more insight into his obsession with Monroe, which can only benefit the documentary.
As an aside, I have to admit that the idea of robbing a bank does hold some attraction for me.
* * *
The next morning Clyde finds a note on Ralph’s desk that reads:
I’ll be back before noon. Get yourself ready. (Don’t touch anything!)
Clyde squeals with delight and spends the next couple of hours showering, doing his hair, making up his face, picking out something to wear, having breakfast, picking up the apartment, and looking out the window at the car park every so often to see if Ralph has returned. Then he grabs his purse and sits on the sofa and waits, hopping up every now and again to pace the room.
When the wall clock shows noon, Clyde runs to the window and looks out at the car park but doesn’t see anything. Pitching his purse across the room in frustration, he plods to the kitchen to rummage through the refrigerator.
An hour later Ralph explodes into the apartment with his video camera on record and finds Clyde sprawled on the sofa asleep, a lipstick-smeared, half-eaten banana in his hand.
“Ready?”
Clyde opens his eyes and sits up on the sofa tossing aside the banana.
“What took you so long?” He looks up at the wall clock, blinking away the stupor of a heavy nap. “Your note said before noon. It’s already past one.” He cuts his eyes at the camera, which Ralph has brought close to his face.
“I have a surprise. Go out the door and down the back stairs.” He plants a lingering kiss on Clyde’s cheek. “You look fantastic, by the way. Like a real star.”
Clyde’s face lights up, and he blows Ralph a kiss, then he sashays out the front door, and Ralph follows with the camera. When they reach the back stairs, Ralph rushes ahead and down the steps and tapes Clyde’s descent to the ground floor.
“I’ve got you on close-up now, baby. Don’t look at the camera. Just react naturally.”
Clyde pauses in the stairwell. “What am I supposed to be thinking?”
Ralph pauses the camera. “What do you mean?”
“If I’m reacting naturally, there must be something on my mind, right? Like I’ve either come from doing something, or I’m about to do something.”
“Obviously, you’ve been waiting for me. I’ve just arrived home and asked you to go outside for a surprise. This is our story, Marilyn. Just react naturally.”
Clyde collects himself for a moment, then pastes a bland expression on his face. “OK, fine. This is me acting naturally—and a teensy bit annoyed if I’m honest.”
“Got it. Sorry. I promise I’ll make it up to you.” Ralph points at the emergency exit. “Now… I’m going outside. You wait here. Count to thirty, then come out this door and look to your left. Got that?”
“Count to thirty, then come out?”
“And look left.”
“OK, I look left. What’s out there?”
“It’ll ruin the surprise if I tell you.”
Clyde frowns at Ralph. “Real actors are able to act surprised even when we know what we’re about to see. Films are scripted, you know. They’re not just impromptu free-for-alls. We’ve been over this already.”
“This is scripted.” Ralph touches his finger to his forehead. “In here. Trust me.”
Clyde rolls his eyes. “Famous last words.”
Moments later Clyde bursts out of the building into a small side car park. He shields his eyes with his purse against the brilliant summer afternoon sun. Looking left, he sees a tarp-covered automobile. Ralph encourages him forward with a sweep of his hand.
“What’s this?” Clyde says, giving the back tyre a little kick.
Ralph hands Clyde the camera, then pulls off the tarp and reveals the silver Porsche Spyder convertible from the vintage car lot. He touches his finger to the words Little Bastard. “Now, we’re fucking empowered,” he says, smiling broadly into the camera. Clyde switches it off and throws his arms around Ralph.
* * *
Ralph and Clyde speed down the Santa Ana Freeway toward San Diego weaving in and out of traffic with Queen’s “Brighton Rock” blaring from the stereo system. Clyde closes his eyes and relishes the rush of wind through his hair. He wedges his hand between Ralph’s thigh and the seat to feel the delicious weight of his body, and remains like that until they hit parking lot-dense traffic at San Juan Capistrano, which slows them way down until they break free of it at San Clemente with a roar of the engine.
“You should be recording this,” Ralph says, nodding at the camera nestled at Clyde’s feet.
“Can we please not?” Clyde says. “I’m enjoying everything as it is. Holding a camera will just get in the way.”
“But what about the movie?”
“Jimmy, please. We are the movie. We’re living it now. If everything goes according to plan, other people will write about us; they’ll make movies about us, Jimmy. The way they do about other people, like Butch and the Kid, and Leopold and Loeb—”
“And Ahab and Jezebel.”
“Who?”
“Never mind. Fine, no more camera.”
Roaring past the engorged tits of the San Onofre nuclear facility, Ralph reaches under his seat, pulls out a green plastic bag, and drops it in Clyde’s lap, never taking his eyes off the road, fighting to maintain control of the car on the curves, which come one after another. Clyde peeks inside the bag and pulls out two rubber masks, one of Marilyn Monroe and one of James Dean. At the bottom of the bag, he finds two black plastic toy guns and grins at Ralph just at the radar detector screeches.
Ralph reduces his speed and exits the freeway. He drives along the slip road running parallel to the freeway and pulls into the shade of an underpass. Just then, a CHP squad car races overhead, sirens blaring and red lights flashing, in pursuit of another vehicle.
“We’ll stick to the highway from here on out.” Ralph manoeuvres the Porsche back onto the slip road. “We’re kind of conspicuous in this.”
Clyde stuffs the masks back into the bag as Ralph takes the coastal highway and they speed along next to the ocean. He stretches out in the bucket seat and smiles, imagining their new life in Mexico, the two of them toast-of-the-town celebrities living a life of glamour, holding court in a mansion overlooking the Pacific, like Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton in Puerto Vallarta in the ’60s, a cute Mexican houseboy serving them mojitos on the veranda.
Ralph puts his arm around Clyde and drives with one hand, and Clyde scoots close to him, resting his head on Ralph’s shoulder. He lets his hand drop in Ralph’s lap and rubs it against the growing bulge in his jeans. Checking his rear-view mirror to confirm that they are a safe distance from the car behind, Ralph switches the station from rock to classical and lifts himself a bit off his seat to help Clyde lower his jeans to his knees. Then he pulls off the road into a strawberry field and drives down a dirt track to the cliff’s edge facing the Pacific, where they make love. Afterwards, they lay back and catch their breaths to the sounds of Handel’s Water Music as the sun starts its late-afternoon descent into the ocean.
“You know, Jimmy, I wish we could
stay like this forever; just snap our fingers and stop time.”
Ralph stares at the expanse of the ocean and nods. “Me too. It’s perfect.”
Clyde draws up his knees and wraps his arms around them. “Can I ask you something, Jimmy? Something that might seem a weensy bit silly?”
“Sure.”
“Do you love me? Wait, don’t answer yet. I mean, I know we haven’t known each other that long and all that. But we’ve already gone through a lot together. More than most people. And there’s a lot more ahead. And I wouldn’t do any of this with just anyone.”
Ralph looks sidelong at Clyde.
“What I mean to say is that I love you.” Clyde takes Ralph’s hand and kisses it tenderly. “I was hoping you might love me too.”
Ralph kisses Clyde’s hand in return. “Of course, I love you. Very much. That’s what this is all about, isn’t it?”
“Thank you, Jimmy.” Clyde pulls a handkerchief out of his purse and dabs at his moist eyes. “I feel happy. For the first time in my life, I feel really happy.”
* * *
Ralph watches through the window of a San Diego hair salon as the stylist applies the finishing touches to Clyde’s new Marilyn hairdo. Clyde whips off the pink apron and primps in front of a mirror, then blows a kiss at the stylist and walks with her to the cash register. Ralph steps inside and hands the stylist a credit card.
“She’s quite a looker, this one,” the stylist says to Ralph as she processes the payment. “You’re a lucky guy.”
Ralph reddens a bit and smiles at the stylist.
“I’m happy to give you my autograph.” Clyde points at a notepad next to the till.
The stylist glances at the notebook and back up at Clyde, who snatches a random pen out of a bottle and scribbles the name Marilyn Monroe into it.
“Save this, dear,” he says. “This is going to be worth a fortune very soon.”
Ralph and Clyde drive down the road and park in front of a large costume shop. They hop out of the car and sweep into the shop. Clyde tries on a red, satin evening gown, which hangs off his shoulders, a pair of long white gloves, and some expensive-looking costume jewellery. A gasp escapes his mouth as he steps up to a full-size, three-panel mirror. The transformation is complete. He is Marilyn Monroe.
The Death of Baseball Page 37
