by Bruce Wagner
So Bernie got the name of a law firm specializing in lemons. He paid a small fee and completed a form relating the lengthy, redundant history of repairs. After a week or so, a paralegal called to say they didn’t think he had a case just yet—the legal hitch being, none of the recurring problems were deemed dangerous. Bernie’s inventory described a minor, exasperating potpourri; alarm-system shorts, freon glitches and frozen ignitions—a nuisance, to be sure, yet a far cry from your chassis dropping out on the four-oh-five like the surgeon’s wife’s a month before (Jag) or the realtor doing sixty on Fountain when the brakes spontaneously seized (Land Rover). The would-be litigant was encouraged to document future repairs.
Maybe he’d just sell it and take the loss—around thirty K. He could drive around in Donny’s Impala, who the fuck cared? Life was too short. Even now, after all he knew, he combed the Recycler for Jags. Sell the Rover for thirty, buy something old for fifteen. Ride around in stone class with pocket change to boot. Bernie had that “classic” feeling again, always the same: the “blow-job Bentley” Serena hated, the little MG that knocked out his teeth, the murderous Mini—the Jensen, crapped-out at Cyrano’s, overheated at Romanoff’s—the XKE, puttering from Perino’s, stalled-out at Schwab’s…
That’s the way it was in this English life.
Zev Turtletaub
“Hey, cunt.”
“I’m sorry?”
That was Taj, the relatively new Assistant.
“What happened to the Dead Souls coverage?”
“What did you call me?”
Shortish hair in tight curls. The kind of preppie skin that mottled pink when he blushed or got cold or evinced outrage. Fear quickly soured his breath.
“A gaping, shit-contaminated hole.”
“I am leaving here!”
Ellen Wiedlin, a Microsoft attorney from the Bay Area, enjoyed hearing brother Taj’s colorful stories of that alluringly neurotic industry, the Movies.
“You’re not going anywhere!”
“Let me out—”
“Give me my coverage!”
Taj hadn’t yet told her about office hijinks. He wanted to give it a little more time before he asked if she thought…
“You’re crazy! Get out of my—”
“I thought you went to Harvard.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“I thought you could take it. Oh! Gonna fold up your cards? Pick up your jacks and go home?”
“I did not come here to be ridiculed and abused.”
“Really! Listen, Princess Tiny Meat, that’s what Hollywood’s about—abuse. So don’t give me your bullshit dignity speeches, because you sound very Ridiculous Theater. You want to learn? You want to be a producer? I asked you a question!”
“I—I don’t know!”
“Please don’t cry. Here’s a Kleenex, like we’re on Ricki Lake. If you don’t want to be a producer, then what the fuck are you doing here?”
“I thought that—I thought that—”
“Why are you wasting my time?”
“I’m not—I—I do want to…”
“You do want to what…”
“To be—a producer!”
“Goal! He scores! He whores! Three points! Okay. Now that we’ve established what you’re gonna wish for when you rub the lamp, let us negotiate the amount of genie shit you will suck through your pretty little mouth to get there. You’re upset. Why? Because you have an ego. A good producer has no ego. A great producer pretends to have one, a very big one. You are not a good producer—you are not an anything. All you are today is an assistant manqué. Do you know what ‘manqué’ is, Mr. Hah-vehd?”
“Yes, I know what manqué is.” Defiant.
“That’s a good Hah-vehd boy. You’re an assistant manqué because of your fucked up ego. But I’m going to give you a chance because I don’t care about you. If I cared, you’d stay a shitty assistant except eventually—maybe—you might drop the manqué. I’d make you into a great assistant. Is that what you went to Harvard for?”
“The reason I—”
“Shut up. Donny Ribkin called and pitched you—that’s the fucking reason. Donny Ribkin is a great agent and he’s also a good friend. I owe Donny Ribkin. Donny Ribkin had a very bright assistant who didn’t seem to know his own mind. This very bright and wonderful assistant thought he wanted to be an agent. But one day Very Bright and Wonderful changes his mind.”
“Donny always knew I—”
“Shut up. Very Bright and Wonderful thought he wanted to be an agent but as it turned out, fickle feckless Princess Tiny Meat announced he’d rather be a producer. Mommy, I want to be a producer! Lots of time wasted on both sides. Because this is not the Hahvehd Romper Room but the real world. So be it. These things sometimes happen. Youth is wasted on the young—and the hung. Because Donny Ribkin is the sweet and thoughtful and gracious guy he is, he calls friend Zev. And, because friend Zev owes him, he takes on your very smart and wonderful, very hairy ass—stop crying now, fucked up cunt! Real producers don’t cry, understand? I am going to take a giant shit on your head! Did you think the world was a Ron Howard movie? What is your fantasy of apprenticeship to a ‘successful’ producer?”
“I d-d-d-didn’t have a fan—”
“Freaky stupid bitch. Liar. Everyone has a fantasy. Did you think you’d be at DreamWorks sipping cappuccinos with Steven, ‘shepherding’ pet projects? Associate Producer: Taj ‘Cunt’ Wiedlin! Executive Producer: Taj ‘Wet Hole’ Wiedl—”
“Stop it! Please…stop—”
“This is your wake-up call, you cunt fart.”
Zev brings Perrier to the trembling assistant. The smallest of small bottles. Taj takes it but doesn’t drink, futzing with the cap instead.
“What is your fantasy?”
“I would like—I…I-I would like to produce a major film…”
“Well, thank you for sharing.” Pause. “I can help you make it real.” Pause. “You know, you’re just like my sister—you think you’re hot shit cause you’ve read Dante.” Zev swigs from his own little bottle and stares. “Do you want to call Donny and tell him what a bad man I am?” Holding the receiver in the air. “Do you want to call Mommy and cry?”
“I—I don’t—…”
“I’ll puke in that Harvard mouth.”
“Oh God.”
“Fuck that ass so wide they’ll call it the Harvard Yard.”
“Pl-pl-plea—”
Time to get back to the business at hand. “What happened with Dustin?”
Taj tries to shift gears. “He…he—his office said he w-w-wasn’t able to—”
“W-w-w-w wasn’t able to w-w-w-what?”
“He he’s w-with his children. For…for uh for the next two weeks.”
“Shit. Find out where—unless of course, you’re quitting on me.”
Screwing up all his courage and dignity now. “I’m going to stay! Goddammit—”
“Oh who cares. Did you read Dead Souls?”
“I-I-I did…my Powerbook was, uh, something isn’t—”
“Your Powerbook’s broke. There’s a metaphor.”
“I—I took it. It’s fixed now.”
“I want coverage in the morning.”
“I’ll do it—I will. I’ll I’ll—I’m sorry. I didn’t—it’s just—no one ever talked to me that…”
Completely bored with this. Looks in the mirror, sideways. Bald pate; fluff and flex the swollen quads. Liking the way he looks today. Svelte. “Well, good. Why don’t you order some food in from the Mandarin.” On his way out now. “Smile,” he says to the blud-geoned Ivy Leaguer.
“I—I-I-I can’t.”
“Come on…”—Taj manages a trembly grin—“there it is. And there it is again!” A bigger one this time, Elvis twitch receding, face splotched pink. “You’re cute when you smile, like the Northern Exposure kid. God, those eyebrows. Who has eyebrows like that?”
“My m-mother.”
“Scary.” Taj st
arts to laugh, too hard. Zev is charmed. “Why are you laughing?”
“It’s just so…absurd.”
“Yes, it is. Absurd you were going to throw away the only fucking mentor you will ever have in this town. You were going to throw out your life—and trust me, you will have one, a major one, if you watch and listen—you were going to throw all that away because someone called you a cunt. That is absurd.”
“Sorry to interrupt,” says another nervous helper, popping head through door, “but Alfred is here.”
“That would be the nigger steward. Hmmmmm—fly the friendly guys of United. Mimsy helped me score.”
“You met him on the plane?” Shyly conversational.
“You know, you’re a real dumbo. I said steward, didn’t I? United, as in Airlines? God, you’re dumb.” Taj downcast again, Zev cheery. “He’s got a great ass. I call it the black box. Get it, Dumbo? It’s the only thing that survives his affairs.”
Chet Stoddard
The dentist’s wife was an exception. Not too many people recognized him anymore and that was a blessing.
He used to look like his letterman homeboy from Wayne State, Chad Everett. Chet ‘n’ Chad, gridiron buds. People thought they were brothers. They came to Hollywood and got jobs parking cars at the Luau on Rodeo Drive. Those were prehistoric days, when the street had a leafy small-town charm—nineteen sixty-two. A twenty-four-hour coffee shop at the corner of the Beverly Wilshire was always good for star-gazing: Broderick “Ten-Four” Crawford and Phil Silvers, Nick Adams and Frank Sutton (Sarge from Gomer Pyle). One night after work Chet smoked some reefer, walked to the hotel and plunked himself down in a big booth where Tony Curtis was holding court. No one seemed to care. He chatted up a redhead, the roommate of Curtis’s girl. Her name was Lavinia Welch and she was a secretary at the Morris Agency around the corner. Her father, a writer for Bob Hope, was a client there. She was nineteen years old.
They started dating and Lavinia pushed him to go on auditions. He won bit parts in The Sons of Katie Elder and Follow Me, Boys! and a recurring role on Rawhide. Lavinia wanted to marry, but Chet was still sowing wild oats. When she caught him in bed with her roommate, they split up. He spent days and nights drinking and playing pool at Barney’s Beanery, back when the place still had a FAGGOTS STAY OUT sign nailed above the door. The barflies, especially showbiz fringers, knew Chet from his television work and accorded him real-actor status. He moved nearby so he wouldn’t have to drive—he’d been busted twice for DUI. That was okay too, because all the sluts and fine ladies liked driving him home.
He found his way back to Lavinia. His career foundered—cut from The Wild Bunch, Chet never worked as a film actor again. After they married, the father-in-law helped buy them a house in a new development called Mount Olympus. That was fitting because Lavinia—new husband and new digs, high above the glittering city—really did feel like a God in Heaven.
Severin Welch was eccentric and charming and rolling in TV money. His wife, Diantha, a frustrated ballerina, had hard, elegant bones. (Chet never saw her eat anything but little red potatoes.) Having in-laws was easy because his parents were dead, and he missed that presence. Severin lived in the old Beachwood Canyon house to this day, a prisoner self-imposed—gone off his nut long ago. Maybe Chet would call and visit. He could get the number from Lavinia, if he dared; she was nuttier than her father. Talking to his ex had a way of throwing a person into toxic shock. While Chet was at it, he’d get their daughter’s number too—Jabba, she called herself now—another call he’d never make.
He remembered a time long ago, the first day of summer. Diantha threw Severin a surprise party on his birthday. Chet felt free and easy; out from under. Things hadn’t turned out the way he’d expected—they never did, not for anyone. From the backyard, the HOLLYWOOD sign looked impossibly, hilariously near. Jack Cassidy and Shirley Jones were there and the TV producer Saul Frake. At dusk, Chet and Jack smoked a roach by the pool and everyone played charades. The new son-in-law was a hit. When the game was over, he launched into a Tonight Show improv, sitting on the diving board introducing Jack as his first guest. The actor had just finished shooting Bunny O’Hare and Chet asked if there was any truth to his “reputed long-term affair with Ernie Borgnine.” Saul Frake laughed so hard he broke a blood vessel in his eye.
Two weeks later, Frake called. He wanted to know if Chet would be interested in hosting a talk show. Chet thought it was one of Cassidy’s pranks, but Saul paid for a test and Jack was gracious enough to replay their expurgated poolside shenanigans for the camera. Saul convinced the network boys they had something special and they bit: four months later, The Chet Stoddard Show debuted. In the first week, guests included Bobby Rydell and Judy Carne, the cast of Don’t Bother Me I Can’t Cope, Dionne Warwick and Karen Valentine, the ubiquitous Joey Bishop, dancer Larry Kert, a Lloyd’s of London man who insured anything, the Ace Trucking Company comedy troupe and Eartha Kitt. Medical Center’s Chad Everett dropped by and they cut up old times with clubby, rollicking pregonzo repartee, a Rat Pack of two. Chet was quick and telegenic, but after eighteen months the show fizzled. By then, he’d already bought a Cobra for the hooker who supplied him with coke. At the final taping, he announced Molly’s birth, then flew to Vegas and lost sixty thousand dollars in forty minutes. When Lavinia came to get him, he fractured her skull with a chair during a blackout.
They divorced. He stayed in town to be close to his daughter. Somewhere around nineteen seventy-nine, he free-based himself into a heart attack. When Chet recovered, he returned to Michigan—those were the go-go years of detox, and he found his niche, becoming a paid counselor and proselytizer for the cause.
Now he had returned to the city that once held so much promise—and, somehow, still did—to pre-sell the bones of the dead.
Troy Capra
He took Kiv to a production of Ghosts on Santa Monica Boulevard. It was a while since he’d been to a play and Troy was flooded by memories of his own “life in the theater.”
The drama teacher at Beverly Hills High was an occasional character actor in films, and when Troy enrolled as a freshman, some of the students already had agents—everyone felt more or less poised for stardom. It seemed like a birthright. Alumnus Richard Dreyfuss was a beacon. Troy was still in elementary school when word spread through the district like a flash fire that one of their own would soon appear on Bonanza. Like a distant cousin, he rooted him on through the years: The Graduate, The Young Runaways, Two for the Money, then American Graffiti and Duddy Kravitz, Jaws and Close Encounters and The Big Fix, an Oscar for The Goodbye Girl…and, of course, the quirky Inserts, where Richard portrayed a faded director, reduced to shooting porn. There was irony for you.
Troy acted in college but his real joy was directing. The first thing he did professionally was three Feiffer sketches at a tiny stage on Wilcox. Then, Kopit and krapp’s Last Tape, The Sandbox and Oh Dad, Poor Dad, Murray Schisgal and Small Craft Warnings. Did that almost ten years. While Troy churned them out in Hollywood’s Little Theater ghetto, Richard was busy making a comeback in Down and Out in Beverly Hills.
It was nineteen eighty-eight and Troy was getting bupkus for a community-funded production of Guys and Dolls. Toward the end of the run, one of the male dancers told him a “film” he was acting in on the weekend had lost its director—would he be interested? What kind of film? A student thing? Not exactly. There was nudity. Oh. I see. Troy knew a bit about cameras—and there was a thousand dollars in it. He needed the money. But more than that, Troy reasoned, he needed experience, to know what it felt like to “carve up space” with a camera. What difference did it make what he was shooting? He’d been trying to break into film directing for years; if this was how it was going to be, he’d just let it ride. Everyone had different points of entry, pardon the pun—that Troy Capra’s was X-rated would become a famous factoid, a talk show anecdote and nothing more.
At curtain, they went backstage to find the producer, an old friend. Troy used a pseudon
ym in the adult world; none of his former colleagues really knew what he’d been up to all these years. When he did run into them, he painted a vague, glamorous portrait of himself as diehard vanguardist, peripatetic artist-in-and-out-of-residence, the kind who directed Uncle Vanya in a Bronx crack house or accompanied Susan Sontag to Bosnia to “put on a show.” Kiv drew in excited drafts of backstage musk, at home with the gypsies. As the couple rubbed past players from tonight’s drama, Troy nodded to each like a priest to his flock. The actors—needy, optimistic children that they were—could only hope he truly was a Higher Power.
Familiar laughter emanated from one of the dressing rooms. Poking a head in, Troy discovered his old acquaintance—and the paroxysmal Richard Dreyfuss himself, gulping with psychotic hilarity. The visitor was embraced, and introductions, including the radiant Kiv Giraux’s, made all around. Richard had an open, vibrant charm, unlike other celebrities Troy had met. He was very much there, genuine and unguarded, charismatically earnest; one got the sense he’d bare his soul to a stranger, particularly one met in the homey ministry of Theater. He made eye contact with everyone—maybe that was a seduction, a trick of largesse learned long ago—but Troy chose not to be cynical. At least part of Richard was “performing” for Kiv, and that was only natural since she was the only woman in the room, and stunning. Even so, the actor always struck him as the sort who needed to seduce the men and win them over before polishing off assorted wives and lovers.
