“Unbeknown to Robert Jordan, I was in attendance and observed the screening that you have just seen a video record of, and I can attest to, indeed could swear to in a court of law, that that video is a true and accurate record of Robert Jordan’s reaction to the film, War of the Wimps. Robert, no one has been more dismayed over the recent diminishing of standards in broadcast journalism as I have, but, my god man, when that lack of standards filters down to film criticism, you can only ask one question, Where goeth the world? And that’s the way it is.”
“Thank you Walter,” I said as the monitors went blank. “It’s always good to hear from the most trusted man in America.” I turned to Jordan. “Robert?” Jordan was in a state of shock. He seemed unable to talk. Lapham happily filled the vacuum.
“How many of my other films that you gave rotten reviews to did you really like, Bobby?”
Jordan came back to us, realization having slapped him in the face.
“Yes,” Lapham said. “College. Same dorm. You wanted to be my best friend, and because I didn’t let you, you’ve been carrying this grudge ever since.”
Live television pressed on Jordan from all sides, sapping one kind of strength; giving him another. “Litigators.” Jordan finally said.
“What?”
“Your film, Litigators, I really didn’t like that one.”
“Yes, well, I didn’t like it much either, to be honest with you,” Lapham admitted.
“But all the others—all the others I have adored. Each one fulfilled the promise I knew you had back then in college. Me. Not any of those others, whose friendship you desired so passionately.”
“Well, then, for Christ’s sake—!” There was a little emotional stumble here by Lapham. You could see it in his eyes, in the false start of angry words, and the successful quiet stating of a pleading one, “Why?”
“It’s my right as a human being to hate. It’s my right to be petty. Sometimes it’s the only way to feel that we have control over some little corner of the world. You know that now yourself, don’t you? Your hate has ruined me. You have destroyed my career.”
“I have done no such thing. This is the wages of your sins, not mine.”
“And on that melodramatic turn of phrase,” I said, turning to the camera that stood in for 3 million people, “I think it’s finally time to go to a commercial.”
The red light on the camera going off was, to Jordan, like a gong being struck. He leaped out of his chair and sprung onto the still sitting Lapham, knocking him and his chair over. He started beating at Lapham with his fists, screaming incoherently—although it is logical to presume that profanity was involved. Lapham, who is a good six or seven inches taller than Jordan, kept a defensive posture throughout, deflecting blows while trying to talk Jordan into stopping.
I got up and Roee came over and we stood over the two flailing bodies. I was amused by an analogy Roee struck between the two beneath us and the mating practices of a certain species of squid that fornicate in a frenzy of violent movement.
After the drawing of some of Lapham’s blood, we decided to break it up.
“Now why don’t you both just sit down and catch your breath,” I suggested.
Jordan, the broadcast professional, looked around at the smiling, interested, yet idle crew. “Don’t—don’t you have to go back on the air.”
“I don’t see why. We never were on the air.” Some of the crew couldn’t help but laugh.
“What?” Lapham blinked with confusion.
Ignoring him, I continued. “Therefore, Robert, your career has not been ruined. Not that I couldn’t arrange that if I wanted to.” I pulled off the “Charlie Wise” makeup, hair, face, the whole illusion, shocking not just Jordan, but Lapham, who had had no idea.
“Fixxer?! What the fuck…?”
“I don’t answer questions!” I shouted, using my own voice. “Now both of you sit!” They did so. “You are not in the broadcast center of the This Day show. You are in a perfect replication in a warehouse three blocks from that center. The people you see around you are my employees, loyal to me. They can be trusted. Not a word of what has gone on this morning will ever get out—if you both cooperate.”
“But I want it to get out!” Lapham’s anger was tactile and hot. “That’s what the fuck I’m paying you for!”
“Well, sometimes I don’t always deliver what I’m paid for.”
“Then I’m not going to pay you.”
“I deliver something better.”
Jordan watched this exchange, confused. Which was understandable. His world had gone from something warm, familiar, cozy, supportive, and solid, to the slippery deck of a ship lost at sea, tossed by waves and threaten by the monsters that Be Here. He must have had a million questions, but he was drawn to and asked only two, which he addressed to Lapham: “You paid to ruin my career? How much?”
Lapham looked at him, irritated, as if Jordan had suddenly become an annoying child. “A million dollars!”
“Plus expenses,” Roee felt compelled to remind.
“Plus expenses,” Lapham confirmed. “Which,” he took a quick glance around, “is obviously going to come to a lot.”
“Oh, maybe another million,” I informed.
“Another million!”
“You’re paying two million dollars to ruin my career?” There was an element of the impressed in Jordan’s voice. “I’m—I’m touched.”
“Touched?”
“To think you—you thought that much of me.”
“I thought you were a damn, fucking schmuck!”
“Yeah, but one worth two million dollars to ruin.”
“It’s true, Mr. Jordan, does think a lot of you,” I said, taking over the conversation. “He told me himself he thinks you’re the finest film critic in America.” Lapham cringed a schoolboy cringe. I guess I wasn’t supposed to say anything. “It’s bothered him for years that you, a man whose critical acumen he so admires, did not like his films. So you now have what you’ve always wanted: Larry Lapham to desire you as much as you once desired Larry Lapham.”
“And it’s only going to cost me two million dollars!”
“Lapham, shut up or I will have my associate here crush your windpipe.”
Roee smiled and walked forward. Lapham shut his mouth.
“Here’s what you’re getting for your two million dollars.” I turned to Jordan. “Although we were not on the air, we did videotape. The tape will be placed in my archives. If you don’t follow my instructions to the letter, I will release the tape to various news agencies with the wonderful story of how Robert Jordan got ‘stung.’ It will ruin your career. To avoid this, you will go home now and rewrite the text of your show that airs tonight, into a reconsideration of the films of Larry Lapham. You will tell your audience how, in viewing the brilliance of War of the Wimps, you were forced to reassess all of Lapham’s previous films. You will make a public apology for the pans you gave those films in the past, stating that now, with far more mature eyes, you realize that Larry Lapham is the premier comedy master of film in our era. You may, of course, exclude Litigators from your reassessment. We wouldn’t want you to be anything but honest. You will follow up tonight’s broadcast with your actual scheduled appearance on tomorrow’s This Day, during which you will give War of the Wimps the rave you truly think it deserves. Thus, you will set things right by Mr. Lapham, making him both a current success and rediscovered genius. As a residual benefit to yourself, you will enhance your reputation as a critic who is not only willing to reassess, but has the depth of thinking to look beyond considerations of good and bad box office to see the true value of a body of film work. For once, an American critic will have been there before the French.
“As a residual benefit for you,” I said turning to Lapham, “I’m going to give you a private viewing of this tape so you can see yourself as victimizer; as a man so consumed with self-righteous outrage you would stoop to this repulsive method of embarrassing and ruining a fellow huma
n being. Vengeance—” Lapham’s eyes began to wander. “Listen to me!” I said it quite loud, snapping him back to me. “Hear me,” I said quite softly, “for I speak truth born from experience. Vengeance is only attractive in the conception—never in the execution.”
Lapham and Jordan stood there thinking, slowly moving their eyes to each other, looking for the tie that now bound their fates together.
“So,” I said, “don’t you think it’s about time for the two of you to kiss and make up?”
Chapter Five
The Great White Pause
Robert Jordan left to go home and write what was to become an Emmy-winning episode of his syndicated film review program, Meet Me at the Movies. Roee attended to the under-the-table payment of the staff in the cold hard cash of lore, soon, I’m afraid, to be completely replaced by digital denominations—more death of romance. I personally thanked Andrea, a lovely girl becoming woman. Without sacrificing the ominous, I tried to give her the proper positive reinforcement for a job well done. She may prove valuable in the future. Lapham hung around—like the nerd he once was, he seemed reluctant to leave the party. I had no choice but to come up to him, and say, “You know, these fine people are going to have to move very rapidly while striking the set, and you will be in the way.”
“I wanted….”
“Yes…?”
“I wanted to ask you some questions, but…?”
“The job is over. I believe I can agree to a few questions.”
“Was that really Walter Cronkite? Because, you know….” He pointed to the remains of “Charlie Wise’s” face that I still held in my hand.
“Does it matter?”
“I’m curious.”
“Ye—if that satisfies.”
“What? My curiosity, or—”
“Something deeper and darker?” He had no answer—and neither did I. “Anything else?”
Lapham looked around him at our very reasonable facsimile as it began to dissipate. “I can see all of this has been expensive, but a million dollars?”
“Do you ask this question when the studio is paying the bill?”
“Yes, I do,” he asserted.
“Do you have any idea what it costs to arrange a blizzard?”
“You arranged the blizzard?”
“How else was I going to camouflage the city to get Jordan here instead of the actual studio without him noticing?”
“Yes, well, but arranging a blizzard?”
I just smiled as Roee walked over.
Lapham shook his head. “You do like adding to your legend don’t you?”
Another smile. The most innocent one I could manage.
“How Hollywood of you,” Lapham stated.
Was it a curse or a compliment? I decided not to ask.
“I suppose you’ll send me an itemized bill?”
Roee answered, “I suppose you’ll just forward two million dollars to Norton Macbeth within three days. He’ll find the proper way to account for it in your tax return.”
“And if I decide that a million in expenses is not justified and I refuse to pay the full amount, you’ll— ”
“Arrange for you to have the legal right to use handicap parking spaces,” I stated it as a mundane point. “Right?” I asked Roee.
“Oh, absolutely. Debilitating physical damage. At least that’s what we’ve always done in the past.”
“It always seems to have worked.”
“Yes, no reason to innovate now that I can see.”
Lapham looked at us. I could tell he really wanted to laugh, but whether it was at us, with us, or existentially, I hadn’t a clue.
*
Getting back to the hotel was a major task, but then, of course, that was my own damn fault. Nonetheless we made it, got into our suite, sat by the fire, I with a vodka tonic, Roee with what he considered to be an adequate Merlot, and allowed ourselves to toast (in two ways) and feel satisfied.
“I enjoyed that,” I said.
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
“What particular aspect about it did you enjoy the most?”
“Sometimes we are but a circus of clowns.”
“Indeed?”
“To be the ringmaster in a circus of clowns.”
“You find that enjoyable?”
“I find it amusing. I enjoy being amused.”
“You don’t miss the blood of lions?”
I looked at Roee. He is often so damn perceptive. “Well—I don’t miss the lions. They are not amusing.”
“And the blood?”
“Say, that reminds me, I’m hungry.”
We ordered lunch—Roee was only slightly critical of it—and watched the blizzard slowly die away. Petey had promised a clear day for tomorrow, and I was hoping he would deliver.
*
The next morning was bright and clear and I decided to move Petey from minor to major divinity. The view I had of Central Park from my bedroom window was stunning in the Winter Wonderland aspect of it all. The sky was a blue beyond human comprehension. The deep-in-the-center feeling of joy at being alive was overpowering. It made me very hungry. For many things.
*
Roee was off to meet with Tom, a stunningly handsome young man I had met but once, but had immediately liked. A Midwestern boy charmed by that which was exotic in Roee. Hearts, I’m afraid, were going to be broken here.
As for me, I was determined to find Gilgamesh Paul.
*
As I walked out of the hotel I stopped for a moment to appreciate the grand gift I had given Manhattan. Quiet. It was so very quiet—wonderfully so; eerily so; wonderfully, eerily so. There was very little if any traffic, and what there was moved to a muted soundtrack. I took a step out from under the awning of the hotel and the crunch of snow my footfall caused seemed like a celebratory cheer. Then I noticed various other crunches at various other volumes around me caused by other hearty souls out to see their city in its great white pause. A short pause, it would only last for a matter of hours before dirt would demand its due; dogs would, in olfactory panic, begin to remark their territories, and slush would laughingly settle in, waiting to freeze up overnight to cause someone bodily harm the next morning, as is its purpose in existence.
I had planned to take the subway, but this was no time to be subterranean. It was going to be a long walk, but it was going to be one in a benign and fresh alternate universe. The subway would do for the trip back.
I made my way to the corner of Central Parks West and South and turned down Broadway. Before me was an inviting corridor. I took the first step and never looked back.
Sometime later I entered a small shop on Broadway close to Twelfth Street, which I was relieved to find open. At about three quarters of the way I had the sudden fear that no one would be there, prevented by the conditions from getting in. That would have been ironic. The door opened with the old fashion tinkling of a bell, though, and an ancient face looked up and greeted me.
“Good morning,” the man behind the counter said.
“Good morning. Glad to see you’re open.”
“Why shouldn’t I be?”
“A blizzard is a good excuse to take some time off.”
“Dying is taking some time off. Until then, I’ll work.”
“I’m interested in finding the whereabouts of a Gilgamesh Paul. I was given to understand that you might—”
“Gilgamesh Paul,” he said with some awe. “That is a name I have not heard in many years.”
“So…?”
“Haven’t a clue. Not here. Not for years. No one’s interested.”
“I’m interested.”
“Make’s you odd, then, doesn’t it? Have you ever—”
“Never.”
“Not surprising.”
“But he sounds like—”
“Yes, so others have told me. I only remember one thing he said. He was at a summerhouse in the Hamptons and was asked if he wanted to go for a swim, and he answered—le
t’s see if I can remember this—he answered, ‘The act of swimming should only be committed if one happens, by accident, never by design, to be in water of sufficient depth to reach from the bottom of your big toe whilst en Pointe, to the bridge of your nose at its highest possible elevation.’” The old man laughed. “I always liked that.” He laughed some more. “You see—I don’t swim.”
“You don’t swim?”
“Don’t swim.”
“You live on an island.”
“A meaningless point if you never leave it—and I never have.”
*
Disappointed, I left the shop looking for the nearest subway entrance, when I suddenly noticed that directly across the street was the New York offices of Olympic Pictures, housed in a violently Art Deco building. It had been their New York offices since the founding of the company in the early Twenties. Of course, the Olympic Pictures of then is not the Olympic Pictures of today. The Olympic Pictures of then was founded by George Pangalos a Greek fishmonger who had developed a passion for the nickelodeon and photographing shorthaired flappers in short skirts, whereas the Olympic Pictures of today is owned by Sveriges Riksbank, the central bank of Sweden. Of course, the Sveriges Riksbank did not particularly want to own Olympic Pictures, it did so by default. Specifically the default on a billion dollar loan they had given to one of their least moral and least sane countrymen, Per Hjalmar, who had developed some of the same interests that had inspired George Pangalos, thereby creating, with the bank’s money, a continuity of a sort after Olympic had been gutted in the Eighties by a fat financier from Atlantic City who sold off most of Olympic’s film library and all of its Hollywood studio facilities, leaving behind nothing but the husk of its logo, a bright burning torch grasped in a strong hand. That is what Per Hjalmar convinced the Sveriges Riksbank to bank on, as he knew that Hollywood was becoming very brand name conscious. It was pure sleight-of-hand. A certain officer of the bank—no longer with the bank, of course—was charmed by Hjalmar into keeping his eye on the hand with the logo in it, rather than Hjalmar’s other hand, the empty one, the one that was supposed to be holding collateral.
The rumors had it that, after several years of new management headed up by Sara Hutton, the Sveriges Riksbank was ready to sell, hoping to recoup at least the billion dollars of the original loan, if not the near billion they had had to pay to keep Olympic up, running and producing pictures to make it marketable enough to—
Hollywood is an All Volunteer Army Page 6
