Blood is Pretty

by Steven Paul Leiva

“Well… ”

  “Give me lessons, will ya?”

  “The only real lesson to learn is to just be yourself. ”

  “No, that’s never worked!”

  “Then I suggest you keep yourself available for the odd job from me so you can afford the likes of Tracy. ”

  “Yeah! That sounds practical! Thanks for the hint! Now sit down and let’s review your mumbo jumbo. ”

  We worked for several hours, and then broke for lunch. I then suggested Petey go catch a matinee, preferably a G rated one, then rested in the library to several symphonies by Walter Piston, nice jaunty, romantic, heroic stuff.

  Around three PM a call came in through Norton from John Walker, a man who had assisted me once on a job. He’s a DP, a director of photography. He told me he was on the current Bobby Lifton film, shooting in Texas. I congratulated him. Lifton was hot, the current bright boy of film comedy who had had an amazing string of four box office hits in one year. The previous year he had been best known as the least of ten regulars on a TV sketch comedy show. Before that he was a stand-up who worked a lot and a comedy actor who did pilots during pilot season, none of which sold. He was a hard knocks kind of guy. Then he does one low-budget, breakout independent comedy and suddenly the world can’t remember when he wasn’t a star.

  “Congratulations are not in order, I’m afraid,” John said, then went on to explain that Lifton had been a complete mad man on the set, making life a living hell for the first time director on the film, and, in a case of reflected gory, for John as well. Now the director was being fired, possibly deservedly so, but it looked like John’s head would roll as well. Of course, it wasn’t fair. His job, as DP, is to support the director, not the star. He appealed to the studio, but that did no good. A DP is a DP is a DP. But a Star is money. “I don’t know. I thought of you. I can’t afford to lose this picture. Not just because of the money. But it’s my first big studio picture. Shit, I lose this, I’ll be pushed back to shooting low budgets for foreign and direct-to-video, and they don’t even make many of those anymore. I—I don’t know what you charge, but—. ”

  “One half of one per cent of your earnings for the next ten years. ”

  “Oh. Ah, okay. Do you think you can do something?”

  “I’ll give it a try. ”

  We hung up. I turned to my computer and opened Lifton’s file. I scanned through it. I found what I needed and put in a call through Norton to Lifton in Texas.

  “Who the fuck is this!” Lifton said, obviously not happy that he was taking a call from someone who would not give a name.

  “We want you to know, Mr. Lifton, that we are perfectly understanding of your position. ”

  “My position?”

  “In regards to the director you are having fired. But we believe you go to far in asking John Walker to leave. ”

  “What fuckin’ business is this of yours? What are you, the union?”

  “Now, we know what a long, hard climb you’ve had. And how every step of the way you were abused, browbeaten, cheated and just plain pissed on by one no-talent asshole after another. Never once was it fair or right or proper. Never once did you deserve it. ”

  “Look—. ”

  “Remember that time the network would not make a payment to you, claiming some concern that the payment would trigger other payments they were not yet willing to pay? They knew damn well that wasn’t true. They did it just because they could, didn’t they; just because it made somebody at the network feel power—no matter how insignificant—throb through their veins. ”

  “How do you—?”

  “The fucking assholes, right, the goddamn fucking assholes! But now it’s your turn, isn’t it? It’s your turn to be the fucking asshole. Why? Because you can, right? Well, more power to you, Mr. Lifton. But train your guns at those who deserve it. Not innocent bystanders like John Walker. ”

  “How about I train them at you, you… ”

  “I am well aware of your involvement in the shutting out of certain comedians from the LaughWerks clubs in 1987. If you didn’t work at LaughWerks then, you couldn’t really make a living on the road, could you? You did it through rumors and innuendo. You just thought of it as pruning, to make more room for the likes of you. But, of course, it hurt a few people. Harry King killed himself, didn’t he?”

  “Look—. ”

  “Wasn’t really a crime, I suppose, and who could really peg you as doing anything more that expressing an opinion, passing on things you’d heard. Except for the fact that you actually planned all this out, and confided, in a conspiratorial way, to two other comedians, one of whom just happen to have his tape recorder on, the one he used to rehearse with. I know where that tape is, Mr. Lifton. It’s mine for the asking. ”

  “What—what do you want?”

  “I think I’ve made that clear. ”

  “Just keep Walker on?”

  “That’s it. ”

  “Well, fine. I never really thought of letting him go. ”

  “Of course not. ”

  “Now that tape?”

  “What tape?”

  “Well, the tape—. ”

  “I know of no tape. ”

  “Look, I’ve got to have that tape. ”

  “I don’t know what you are talking about. ”

  “Who the fuck is this anyway?”

  “People I allow, call me the Fixxer. ”

  “Oh, shit—. ”

  I hung up.

  There was, of course, no tape. But the details of what I had said, told to me by a drunken comedian I once had to rescue from a drug charge, obviously were, judging from Lifton’s reaction, perfectly true.

  *

  About 6 PM, just before I was going to dress for the evening, Petey burst into the library.

  “Hey, Fixxer, you know, it’s time to put on the homing device!”

  “Yes, I suppose it is. ”

  “Do you want me to put it on you!?”

  “No, I think I would prefer to put it on myself. ”

  “You know, I’m assuming you were circumcised when you were an infant!”

  “A safe assumption. ”

  “So you really have no idea exactly the placement of this fake foreskin!” He held it in his hand, its floppy nature a wonder to behold. “I mean exactly how far it should extend from the tip of the penis!”

  “I’ll try to figure it out. ”

  “That’s funny! You know almost everybody says that! But it’s not like a man knows his penis like the back of his hand! So I prepared this little diagram which shows exactly where to attach the foreskin!”

  Handing me the fake foreskin, he held up the diagram, which, in and white line drawings, showed two penises. One was an uncircumcised penis with a dotted line encircling it about three quarters down from the tip. There was an arrow pointing to the dotted line and which extended from a legend that read: ATTACH FORESKIN HERE. The other penis was obviously an example of what the situation should look like once the attachment was on.

  “You can use this!” He held up a little silver tube, the same kind that Formula 12-72 came in. “It’s my special adhesive glue! It spreads on easily, so you should have no problem!”

  “Thank you, Petey. ”

  “See, the beauty of this thing is, if you have to go through a strip search, they may look up your rectum, but nine times out of ten, they won’t play with your penis!”

  “I’ll count on those odds. ”

  “Take the little tube of adhesive glue with you, ‘cause it sometimes comes undone! Which is also why you should wear briefs and not boxers!”

  “I’ll be sure to pack it. ”

  “And remember: No baths! Here!” He handed me a little plastic bag.

  “What’s this?”

  “Skin tight plastic briefs. Wear them during showers. Then sponge bathe the—. ”

  “Yes, I—I think I’ll know what to do. ”

  “Well, if you’ve never lived with a foreskin, you may not know proper—.
”

  “Petey, please. Can I forego the instructions and just use common sense on this?”

  “All right! All right! It’s your penis. ” He started to walk out, then stopped and turned with one more point. “Oh yeah! You can only put the foreskin on when you are fully erect! Do you think you can handle that!?”

  “Well… “ I wasn’t sure Petey was aware of his double entendre. I decided it was best to assume he wasn’t. “I’ll have to, won’t I?”

  “Okay! Well, have a good time tonight!”

  “I’ll do my best. ”

  “Wish I was going with you!” There was now a hint of charming sadness in Petey’s voice. “I’ve never been to a fancy ball before. ”

  “Well, Petey, that was once the case with Cinderella. And look what happened to her. ”

  Petey brightened up. “Yeah! Yeah! I suppose there is always hope! Well, thanks, Fixxer, for those kind words. ”

  And out he went. A hopeful individual newly enamored with the Idea of

  Manhood and prepared to believe that his Fairy Godmother—or at least some kind madam with a quality list—was just around the corner.

  Chapter 15

  Nations Have Borders, People Don’t

  The charitable impulse in humans is always suspect. I have never seen an instance of charity that was unconditional, even if the condition was as seemingly harmless as, “Here, take this charity, this money, this helping hand, this leg up, and in return give me nothing more than the right to count myself among the humane. ” Humane as opposed to human, I suppose. To be human is to lie, cheat, harm, steal, rape, pillage, and murder. To be humane is to feel bad about it. The most popular charities are the safe charities. Contributing to the recovery from a natural disaster is a perfect example. For, unless one is very Old Testament in aspect, there is not one chance in a million trillion that the victims of a natural disaster deserved their fate. Animals are also good. Animals never offend us with wild opinions of their own. The unborn have been very popular of late for this very same reason. But the poor, the hungry, the homeless, the war-torn, the disadvantaged—is there not in all of us a sneaking suspicion that they may just be deserving of their fate? And certainly, many seem to be offended by them. But still, even they have their charities and certain people do contribute. And feel good about it.

  So the impulse may not be pure, so what? The outcome is the same—a helping hand is extended. The person grabbing that hand probably doesn’t really care what the motivation of the person extending it is. Although it’s no stretch to imagine that the person grabbing would like to believe that they have suddenly become the object of a pure love.

  How did Andy Rand’s EarthPeople stack up as a charity? Well, it was actually more a cause than a charity, but Rand always portrayed his theory of World Citizenship as a way towards solutions to those problems of poverty, hunger, even disease, that commanded, on occasion, the short attention span of overnight charities where slews of celebrates and powerful Hollywood executives band together to get something “done about it. ”

  NATIONS HAVE BORDERS, PEOPLE DON’T was the bumper sticker slogan of EarthPeople. An absurdly naive idea, of course, for it is the borders within people that shape the geographical borders surrounding them. Still, even an absurdly naive idea is an idea, and this made EarthPeople a risky charity, for there is always much that can offend in an idea. Hollywood prefers its charities to be—as Hollywood prefers so many things to be—what has become known in the trade as: No Brainers.

  Despite this, EarthPeople was popular because Andy Rand was powerful. And the EarthPeople Ball was always one of the top charity events of the year.

  *

  I picked Anne up in a gaudy lavender stretch limousine.

  “Oh my god!” She said as she opened the door. “You do kind of look like my dad. This is freaky. Your hair!”

  “It will grow back, I’m sure. ”

  “I hope so. Otherwise, you’re one-third less the man I love. ”

  She, of course, was radiant. She stood in the Galliano, the special diamond pin we had sent over pinned on, her evening make-up glowingly applied, her hair put up in a formal yet soft way. She smiled. If I was not a man who had been trained to have control, I could have become light-headed.

  “Do you have your luggage?”

  “Yes, right here. ”

  In the entrance way was a suitcase and an overnight case. I called for the driver and had him take the bags and place them in the trunk next to the two pieces of old American Tourister that Roee had found for “Tom. ” That done, we headed for the Century Plaza Hotel where the ball was taking place. Anne was following her instructions completely, playing the role of my sister from the moment she got into the limo, which was one of a fleet from a commercial service that Anne, as part of her instructions, had ordered. The driver was probably an aspiring actor, writer, director, or any combination thereof. Roee had booked a room for me at the Miramar in Santa Monica and we had the limo pick me up there. We talked bother/sister stuff. She asked me how things were going at MIT. Had I talked to Mom and Dad lately? I thanked her for the gift of a place to stay at the beach. She said she was happy to. She said every land-locked native Dakotan needed to stay at the beach on their first trip to the coast.

  We arrived in Century City to join a long line of other limos, as well as

  Rolls-Royces, Mercedes, Bentleys, Porsches, and the odd Lamborghini, that stretched along the curved driveway in front of the Century Plaza and spilled out onto Avenue of the Stars. The parking valets were working furiously to move the cars along and get the guests into the hotel. It’s but a few short steps from your car to the entrance itself, and I knew exactly where to go from there—an immediate right to the narrow escalator that would take you down one level where you would make another immediate right to jump onto another narrow escalator down to a basement of three ballrooms below—but I acted as if I had not only never been here before, but was being overwhelmed by the glamour of it all.

  “Wow, look at that!” I prodded Anne, then pointed past the huge marble columns to the Lobby Court pit bar directly ahead, filled with celebrity watchers and paparazzi, all being held back by security people, who also directed us to the escalators. I acted somewhat giddy about the popping flash bulbs. “Oh, oh, look, Anne, jeez it’s David Hasselhoff!”

  Anne leaned into me and whispered. “Do you really think an MIT physicist would be excited to see David Hasselhoff?”

  “You’d be surprised, the depth of his fandom. ”

  “Watch your step,” another security person said as we were herded onto the escalator, some of the women fearing for their full, long evening gowns on the tight squeeze. Down one more escalator to the grand foyer that served all three of the basement ballrooms: The Santa Monica Room, the Los Angeles Room and the Beverly Hills Room. Tonight the movable walls between them would be gone making for one huge “L. A. Basin” ballroom that would, nonetheless, be crowded to the point of claustrophobia. We were ushered by security to a table sitting under the middle one of three quasi Arabic golden domes that were the main feature of the foyer’s ceiling, and which gave a golden glow to the room. Two very pleasant young women sat at the table and gathered our tickets and checked them against the guest list. They were in Anne’s name. One of the women smiled broadly at her and said, “I loved Cobblestone Bay. You were wonderful in it. It broke my heart when they took it off the air. ”

  “Well, thank you very much. That’s very nice of you to say,” Anne said with grace as the woman handed us two slips of paper that noted the table we were to sit at.

  We entered the expanded ballroom to the sounds of Bobby Baker’s Roaring

  Rhythm Rascals, a band put together by an ex-child star of the 60’s that played upbeat, yet off-beat, what they were calling, “New Wavy Wave Dixieland. ” The five piece retro hot band also included an ex-member of a 70’s Disco group, who performed here as the lead vocalist, and a man who had spent just a little over two years in jail f
or masterminding a famous Wall Street insider trade in the late 80’s. The other two members were just musicians. But three out of five kitsch celebrities weren’t bad. The band was performing up on a stage and in front of a huge banner featuring the

  EarthPeople slogan—NATIONS HAVE BORDERS, PEOPLE DON’T—and a giant painting of the big blue marble view of Earth from space. That motif, in fact, filled the ballroom: Space views of the earth plastered all the walls and hung, like flags, from the ceiling; flora big blue marble earths sat as centerpieces at each table, and, placed at their seats, there was a little gift for each women of a small round blue bottle, perfect for their favorite perfumes, created and hand blown by craftsmen in Venice especially for this occasion and donated by Silvio Ramassa, an Italian media mogul who has always been suspected of Mafia leanings, which, of course, he has always denied.

  There was the standard buzz of the beginning of such a night, and a crowd in front of the bar. Anne took the lead as I made a credible show of gawking as we looked for and found our table. Sara Hemmings was already there with her husband, a director—luckily for them—of approximately the same stature as Sara.

  “Hello, Sara Hemmings,” she introduced herself as if we didn’t know. Then her husband introduced himself. Then Anne introduced herself and then me, who stumbled a little over my statement of how much a fan I was of both of their work.

  “‘Einstein, uh?” Sara said, being charming. “With a name like that I hope you’re a scientist. ”

  “Uh, yes, actually I am. ”

  “No! Really? I suppose it was your name that gave you your interest. ”

  “Thank goodness it wasn’t Curie,” the husband said with an equal amount of charm. “Or we might have lost Anne to science. ” There was a bit of flirt in how he said it.

  Others soon joined the table—Sara’s agent; Sara’s manager; Sara’s sister, and all of their dates—to give us a full compliment of ten. I went to the bar and got us drinks, a white wine for Anne, beer for “Tom,” noticing many people I had dealt with at one time or another, including Torvald Engstrand. No one recognized me. Not so much because my disguise or my act was that good, but because at such affairs only the highly recognizable were recognized. All others float by like flotsam.