Memorial

by Bruce Wagner

  Laxmi peered over at the page.

  “Wilmer Valderrama, look out!”

  “Wilma who?”

  “He’s, like, everybody’s boyfriend—”

  “Fred and Wilma?”

  “—from That 70s Show?”

  “Hey, Laxmi…you better be glad you’re doing FNF and not print ads for Ron McDon. This shit is low.”

  “But their Dollar Menu is hot.”

  They were already near the end of Zoo Drive. Their high-frequency stoner jag petered out but Chess still scanned the paper, looking for residual laughs. He read aloud a small item about how some pharmaceutical company admitted harvesting pituitary glands from dead kids in Ireland without their parents’ consent. There’s a horror film for ya. Used em to make human growth hormone; the hospitals got “just a few dollars for each.”

  “The luck o’ the Irish!” he said, with a demented leprechaun accent. Laxmi lost it again. “Gland of the free! Johnny, we hardly knew ye—or ye pituitaries.”

  Some of the cadavers had been “hollowed out”—any and every organ that was market-redeemable had been removed.

  Laxmi shook her head. “That is so totally surreal.”

  “I just saw a movie on Sundance,” said Chess. “What a fucked-up channel—they’ll, like, put anything on. I mean, this fuckin car ride would be better than Tarnation. Anyway, it’s about this Jewish guy from New York—Maurie Levin!—who flies to Austria after hearing about some old doctor on trial for experimenting with disabled kids back in the 40s. Killed em and took out their brains. His name was Dr Gross.”

  “Of course.”

  “The guy gets there—”

  “Dr Levin!”

  “Right. Dr Levin the documentarymaker gets there just in time for this public ceremony called the Burial of the Brains…”

  “Of course.”

  “Laxmi, I shit you not. It was so lame. I thought it was a Chris Guest movie—you know, the guy who did Best in Show?”

  “I loved that! Isn’t he married to—”

  “The chick from Psycho’s daughter.”

  “She died, right?”

  “The mother. The one from the shower.”

  “So creepy. I heard that guy Hitchcock really hated women.”

  “He’s like a duke or a lord or something.”

  “Hitchcock.”

  “No, the guy who’s married to—the Guest guy.”

  “Sir Maurie! Lord Levin!”

  “I think he’s a duke. Duke Guest. Guest Host. Patty Duke. Whatever. I read it in People.”

  “People…people who read People…are the loneliest people in the—”

  They passed the kiddie train you could ride on, and it triggered a meditation on his dad. Maybe my father is rich—a rich man. Maybe my father is a public figure and knows who and where I am but is hesitant to contact me. Maybe my father has been in touch with Joan and Marj all along. Maybe it was actually my father who loaned me the 10K through her auspices. Maybe my father is a CEO or COO or CFO of a major media corp. Maybe my father is the key shareholder of the parent company that produces Friday Night Frights…she saw him zone out and let him be. According to Laxmi her father was rich but Chess wondered if she had some fantasy-exaggeration element goin on. Maybe my father is her father, he thought. Seeing it for the still-stoned musing that it was, he shook his head and laughed. He’d keep that one to himself.

  LAXMI said they should rent go-carts because they had a lot of ground to cover before getting to the elephants, some of it uphill, and she didn’t want Chess to be uncomfortable. Much better than the tram. He was surprised at how easy it was; for 20 bucks, anyone could trip around on a handicapper scooter. Even a fucking terrorist. There wasn’t paperwork to deal with (all they needed was your John Hancock) because evidently the San Diego Zoo had already been sued by some pioneering class-action gimps who said it was demeaning for them to sit there signing full-on legal disclaimers before being allowed to ride. That’s what the person who gave them the single-page form said, anyway. Still, it was refreshing that you didn’t need a doctor’s note. They could only go so fast but were actually pretty smooth and efficient. And Laxmi was right—no way would he have made it walking.

  Once they got going, Chess looked at her as if to telepath, This shit is getting weird. She vanished in a puff of hippiegiggle.

  Laxmi zigged and zagged and had a grand ol time but Chester was self-conscious as he steered, feeling a touch of the paraplegic, wishing he had a military outfit so it would at least look like he’d survived some roadside blast in Fuckistan, but the hiking pedestrians that they slowly overtook didn’t seem to give a shit. The pair was invisible as they navigated sundry paths and This Way To The Reptile House tributaries. He took more pills. He wanted to make sure to have a little something in his stomach so they stopped at one of the multicultural shacks for some Mex (triggering another series of McBurro riffs). The nascent panicky mindset that the pain might never end was almost as bad as the pain itself, that he was now one of those people—or at least in the process of getting his membership approved—on the torture rack till the end of their days.

  The Inderal lasted 24 hours and was used primarily to quell the fear of public speaking; another shriven skull the witch doctors said to throw in the cauldron. One of the brainiac medicos Chess saw at UCLA told him there were lots of new “management stratagems.” He rattled off a bunch of meds and the eager patient went home and did his search engine thing. Scared the shit out of him. There was something called Pamidronate, for sucky bone cancers like Paget’s disease, but you had to inject it. That really freaked him—that the guy’d even mention it, unless he was showboating. Is that where he saw Chess heading? Shooting up some exotic cancer drug in the bathroom at JAR (for brunch)? Who knew: maybe these types of injuries did eventually lead to the Big C—what used to be laughable, myth and folk wisdom, had hardened with Sweeps Week logic into unassailable doctrine in the clinics’ hallowed halls. Made perfect sense. People weren’t enrolling in medical school because of DeBakey or Albert Schweitzer—they were being recruited by House, Grey’s Anatomy, and CSI. There were antiseizure drugs for stumpers and something called gabapentin for the neuropathy that went with renal failure or diabetes. The whitecoated putz looked at Chess like he was a fool for not having already gotten his epidurals; the needles they used were Tommy Lee–gauge. The “epi” delivered morphine or bupivaicaine directly to the spinal cord, so you didn’t have to do that zombified painsoaked stiffwalk anymore, but all Chess thought about was a 1st-year student hitting a nerve and infecting him, botching the very procedure little old ladies sailed through. He saw himself on a zoo scooter 10 years hence, his own motorized pushcart, covered with KEEP IT GREEN stickers and cannabis logos, diapered, wheeling through Whole Foods for fish oil and Centrum—

  Not gonna happen…

  THEY found their way to the enclosure. He used to come with Joan and his mom. Laxmi thought it so cool that Marjorie was “into Ganesha.” She said there was no way elephants should not be in the wild, and Chess concurred, after mulling over the double negative (his brain wasn’t working too well), realizing she meant they shouldn’t be caged. They stared in silence at a family of pachyderms (that Fleetwood Mac song “Tusk” went idiotically through his head), cute and anciently weird and even spooky to apprehend, before disgust at their voyeurism washed over. The couple was still high, seized by intense reefer outrage re captivity that quickly segued to melancholia.

  Laxmi said there were a thousand myths about how Ganesha was created. While her husband Siva was away, Parvati created a boy from her “scurf”—the flakes and scales of her skin—so he’d keep away nettlesome visitors and guard her bedroom door. When Siva came home, Ganesha didn’t know who he was and wouldn’t let him in. Siva cut off his head. Those gods don’t fuck around, huh. When he realized it was his own son he had decapitated, Siva freaked and restored the kid to life by giving him the head of the creature closest by: a white elephant.

  Soon my
body will be a white elephant—scurf’s up!

  They stared at the hairy beasts, tripping from the vantage of their go-carts. Laxmi giggled that Ganesha was the guardian of the anus—she actually read that in some Bodhi Tree book—and a man’s cock represented his trunk. Jesus, thought Chess, the motherfucker guards everything. Was Laxmi trying to tell him something? He flashed on his Viagra stash. She said the reason she loved Ganesha more than any other god was because he’d transcribed a famous poem by breaking off a tusk (fuckin Fleetwood Mac again and those dumb drums and horny USC cheerleaders; Jesus, that was 30 years ago) and dipping it in ink. Chess told her he thought that was far out. I’m really starting to talk like her. Soon I’ll be a vegetarian. A Viagratarian. That’s why she kept a statue of the elephant on her desk or in her purse, wherever she did her journaling. She said Ganesha gave her “writing ch’i.”

  THEY turned in their scooters and smoked more weed in the car. Poor little Dumbos. Ratty, dusty, and dry. On display. They were gods and people didn’t have a clue.

  “Did you know,” said Laxmi, “that elephants communicate? I mean, they talk, but it’s subsonic. They can die of heartbreak. And they go crazy in captivity, they always say it’s this thing called ‘musth’? You know, this male hormone thing? And that’s true, but it’s triggered. Musth is like this testosterone secretion that makes them very aggressive. It’s stinky and drips into their eyes and mouth.”

  “I can relate.”

  “It has something to do with ketones? My dad used to tell me about all this. He’s really very knowledgeable about certain things—I mean, he’s not a complete pig. Like if you blow into their trunks, they’ll remember your scent for life. Did you know that when they die, the whole herd lingers over the carcass? My dad didn’t tell me that, I already knew it. Chester, it is so sad and so sweet. They mourn. And the heads of the tribe are female. It’s a matriarchy! There’s like this 70 year old female who’s running the show! I love that! That’s why it’s so sad to see them in cages…and they mate for life? You knew that, right? They are so special. They can feel the whole world through the bottom of their feet—that’s how they wound up saving all those people in the tsunami. They could feel the waves coming—”

  Chess felt a wave, and leaned over to kiss her.

  She kissed back.

  XLVIII.

  Marjorie

  LUCAS phoned.

  He was glad Bonita came to visit. Surprised, but glad. He hoped it was all right that he gave out Marj’s address. Of course it was. He said Bonita was a good lady, didn’t have many friends, and wanted to “share the joy.” Implicit in his words, to Marj anyway, was that Bonita was lonesome. Lucas had performed a small, cogent act of kindness. The Blind Sisters—and Lucas—were family.

  Soon he’d be on his way to Texas to inform a new batch of shadow winners (“Oh yes, the Lone Star State is a major participant in the drawings”) and asked if she wanted to have a bite before he left. “That’s what one vampire said to another,” he joked. “Let’s go have a bite.” He told her not to primp, that he liked the natural look. They had a laugh and he added, “I’ve never been an aficionado of too much makeup.” “Well, I won’t primp if you won’t primp,” said Marj, coyly. They laughed again and set a time. He wanted to eat somewhere at the Grove. He said he liked the Grove.

  SHE went next door to check on Cora and Pahrump.

  The dog looked weak. Cora said he was sick from the chemo. Marj tried to distract her.

  “How ’bout I pick up a lottery ticket for you and Mr P?”

  “You’re still buying tickets? From that place?”

  “Oh! My yes. It’s very important. The son had to leave school to help out—they’re not going to sell. They’re marvelous people. I spoke with the widow. She will not let this destroy them. God knows it would have destroyed me. Something like that happening to my Ham? She said she still believes in the goodness of people. Isn’t that marvelous? Perhaps it’s cultural. We Americans tend to be so cynical. We used to have more of the rugged spirit.”

  “Well, I think they should string them up. Have they caught them yet, the blacks?”

  “I don’t think so. There weren’t any witnesses, so no one knows if—”

  “The schvartzuhs, always a schvartzuh. Why don’t they just kill their own? That’s what they do, you know. Steinie told me. Whites don’t kill them: the blacks do a very good job of it themselves.”

  Marj stroked Pahrump. The animal growled unconvincingly.

  “Now you just stop, Rump. Don’t you dare—that’s Marj Herlihy, my dear friend and your guardian angel. She’s going to take away your trust fund if you don’t stop misbehaving! We’re going to take it away, aren’t we, Marj? You really should have seen that hospital. It’s on Sepulveda, just behind where Steinie goes to the gym. And the people who came in! They should make one of those TV shows about it. Someone brought a lovebird they’d left in the sun—it got dehydrated. Oh Marj, the care that is lavished! You could probably bring in a cockroach and they’d know what to do. But it costs a fortune. I met a couple who had a dog the police shot by mistake.”

  “Oh Lord,” said the old woman, flinching.

  “The police are out shooting dogs when they should be shooting”—she paused, voice lowering to a susurrus of contempt—“blacks.”

  LUCAS’S driver dropped them off at a Chinese restaurant in the Grove, across from the dancing fountains.

  They spoke of this and that, how glad and lucky he was to have found a vocation which had allowed him to make so many people happy. He said most of the time he felt like the star of “an amazing reality show.” She wasn’t exactly sure what that meant, but he was such a sweet young man, just the kind of boy she wished Chester had turned out to be. Though it pained her to even be thinking that way.

  “So: are we going to see you at Spago?”

  She looked at him inquisitively, then remembered the lady from Ojai’s words. Marj needed her memory jogged.

  “We’re having a gala for the Blind Sisters—well, half the winners are men, but they don’t seem to mind the appellation. In fact, they get a kick out of it! Shall I RSVP for you?”

  “Your friend said—”

  “Bonita has called me 10 times about what she’s going to wear. What am I, Isaac Mizrahi? Hello! I know someone who needs a Xanax! One day it’s Chanel, the next it’s Oscar—de la Renta. Bonita is a hoot and a half. Did she tell you the State is putting everyone up? At the Four Seasons?”

  “Yes! But I wasn’t sure—”

  “Pardon the 3rd degree,” he said, in whimsical self-reprimand. “I’m the one who’s supposed to be minister of information! All right, Marjorie Morningstar (her father used to call her that), here’s the skinny: dinner at Spago, on Saturday night in Beverly Hills. Lots of luminaries and friends of the mayor are going to join us: Phyllis George, Merv Griffin, Joan Collins. RJ Wagner and his wife…you will love Jill and RJ. Chief Bratton might even stop by—his wife’s a pistol. We have the top 2 floors of the hotel reserved, all penthouse suites. Nothing but the best for my Sisters! If we’re a little tipsy, into the elevator we go. I don’t think the cops are making arrests for riding elevators under the influence—not yet! The next morning, it’s breakfast in bed before everyone boards Mr Bloomberg’s GV. Then, straight to JFK, smooth as silk! Fasten your seatbelt, Marj, it’s going to be an unbumpy night.” She was having a little trouble following. “Oh! And then”—he made the sound of a trumpet fanfare—“off to Gracie Mansion for the triannual Blind Sisters luncheon, with all the trims! Want your picture taken with Hillary Clinton? Your wish is my command. And you will love Mr Bloomberg. And Mr Trump. Personally, when I meet a billionaire I think: What’s not to love?” He laughed, and it was absolutely infectious. “You know,” said Lucas, growing serious, “the whole ‘Sisters’ program is actually Michael’s baby. So: are you with us, Marjorie Morningstar?”

  “Why yes, I would love to be able to come.”

  “Your presence is required. I
will need that check from you.”

  She searched her mind.

  “I gave you the money order…”

  “You certainly did, as a marker that lawfully secured your spot as a Shadow Drawing fundwinner. But the New York trip is only for those in the EAP—the Expedited Award Program. Marjorie Morningstar, I am remiss, and for that I apologize. I’m not sure what got into me. The New York trip certainly isn’t compulsory, by law. This award comes with no strings. And I didn’t bother explaining it because you seemed so comfortable here in Beverlywood, and to be honest, I wasn’t sure you’d be interested. Didn’t think you’d want to hop on a plane and go all the way to New York, which is a bit cold right now. I should never have assumed—”

  “But I am, Lucas! I really would like to go.”

  “Well, that is great. Because I for one would miss having you. Bonita’s coming, as you know, and it’s a pretty big and wonderful bunch—we’re gonna have ourselves a world class blast. Top o’ the world, Ma! Now, here’s precisely what it all means: those who’ve elected to participate in the EAP are entitled, again, by federal law, to receive their monies early, i.e., technically, at the exact moment wheels touch down on the runway in the great state of New York. By charter, those monies—ceremonially—must be given to you once we hit the tarmac. Because then, as our lawyers love to say, you’ve reached ‘sovereign soil,’ triggering what is called an ‘enrichment’—oh, they love having names for everything!—and all kinds of penalties accrue to the state if they do not make you ‘whole.’ I like to call it the Carpetbagger Clause! It’s actually a good thing, not just for the taxpayers of the State of New York but for the Blind Sisters as well. The tax implications are complex but I assure you favorable. The bottom line is that it’s contingent upon everyone who elects to enter the EAP to give the Superfund a check, pro forma, for a % of their windfall. It’s literally called a Windfall Pretax. Didn’t Bonita say—I’ll bet she did! she was about to burst!—didn’t she say that she was suddenly a million bucks or so richer?”