Still Holding

by Bruce Wagner

  • • •

  THE WRAP PARTY was on the roof of the Standard. There were so many stars, it seemed more like a premiere. Being downtown and high up like that was such a different perspective, skyscape-wise. Becca and Cassandra were stoned and kept pretending they were in Toronto or Vancouver, places they’d never even been. When her mom came, Becca for sure wanted to bring her there for cocktails.

  The costume ladies and makeup girls and all the funky women that Becca saw hauling equipment during the shoot were dressed to the nines, showing lots of skin. Wrap parties were like that—they were all about sex, and majorly blowing out the pipes. Celebrities were wraparound because Spike and Sofia knew everyone and everyone wanted to know them too.

  The look-alikes showed up in full force: her friend the Barbra, the Cameron and a Cher, the Billy Bob, the Pope and a James Gandolfini, a Mike Myers, a Reese, the Benicio and the Cusack, and of course Becca and Rusty. Whenever an official shutterbug flashed a photo of him Rusty knew (even though he was hands-down the best “specialty” actor, and had the biggest role) that attention was being paid because of his look-alike status, and not his own merit. She saw that he was ashamed. He said to her that being a look-alike was like being a porn star. You could never escape your caste: Untouchable.

  Becca disagreed, though not to his face. She didn’t mind having her picture taken at all. After a few drinks, she got the courage to say hello to Spike and Sofia. They were always so courtly, especially Sofia—just folks. Mrs. Coppola-Jonze immediately said, in her sweet, disingenuous way, “Oh, Drew’s in Turkey,” as if Becca and Drew were officially linked. Sofia asked how things were going with her boss. Becca said fine, and Sofia asked if Viv was coming to the party. Becca got a shiver because that was something she hadn’t thought of—that Viv had been invited and would probably show. (Suddenly, it seemed superlikely.) Becca didn’t want to run into her, fearing that a whole petty cycle of hassles would be set in motion. Even if Viv acted nice, she knew there’d be hell to pay during the workweek.

  Sofia introduced her to Charlie Kaufman. (They had already met, once at the Chateau, and a few times on the set.) The writer was with a woman he said had done the novelization of the Ethan Hawke–Gwyneth Paltrow movie Great Expectations. Charlie kept saying how great it was that his friend had “novelized Dickens,” but Becca felt kind of bad because she didn’t get it. Sofia kept smiling in that mysterious way; you could never figure out what she was thinking, or, for that matter, Spike either, and Becca was always on guard because as far as she was concerned being around either one of them was like an audition for one of their future films.

  She ran into the second A.D., and they made out in one of the crazily decorated hotel guest rooms (in addition to the roof, a whole floor had been consigned). The second said that Drew was vacationing in Turkey before returning to work on A Confederacy of Dunces. Becca said Sofia already told her that, then went back to the roof to find Rusty. That was when she saw Cassandra in midconversation, wildly gesticulating before Viv Wembley and Alf Lanier. Becca’s heart went straight to her throat. That was another thing she stupidly hadn’t considered—that the Dunsmores, knowing she worked for Viv, would of course approach the television star and act like the shameless freaks that they were.

  I am fucked, she said to herself with a carefree shrug.

  Reentry

  ROSLYNN BABY-SAT her at the Fairmont while the others went to the Star Ball. There had been urgings among the group that she be hospital-assessed—her behavior after landing continued to be worrisome—but Lisanne always emerged from cloaked silences to resist deftly and cogently, against their better judgment. Mattie and Phil were from San Mateo, so a doctor they knew dropped by the suite to give Lisanne something to settle her. He told Philip and the Loewensteins that he wasn’t sure what was going on but that some sort of “abreaction” should probably be ruled out. Not really his area.

  On Monday, they sent her home in a Town Car. She asked the driver to take the coastal route. She loved Carmel and Big Sur. They stopped at coffee shops, and ate club sandwiches and fries.

  From her backseat nest, Lisanne caught up on newspapers and magazines. One of the ads featured a gorgeous, buff young black girl.

  Shanté puts all kinds of heat on the world’s torturers. And then she hits the gym. Shanté is a member of Amnesty International. Every month, Shanté sends e-mails to world leaders, urging them to stop torturing and killing the prisoners in their jails.

  Torturers worldwide wish they never heard of Shanté Smalls.

  She read an article in The New York Times about people who have recurrent infections acquired in hospitals, mostly from health-care workers who neglected to wash their hands. The infections were of the type that could no longer be cured by antibiotics. One of the sick persons was an older woman whose sternum had been eaten away by bacteria, and now whenever she went for a drive she had to wear a bulletproof vest because if she got in an accident her chest would be crushed by the air bag. Another article was about a little Jewish girl who was snatched from her crib and killed by a black bear in the Catskills. On the next page was a financial ad with the head of a big black bear staring out. “Are you managing the bear?” read the copy. “Or is the bear managing you?”

  • • •

  LISANNE VISITED THE Bel-Air home office of Dr. Calliope Krohn-Markowitz, Holocaust survivor and legendary shrink to the stars. Roslynn Loewenstein, a client for years, had arranged it.

  “Did you ever lose control like that before?”

  “You mean,” said Lisanne, embarrassed, “on the plane?”

  “Yes.”

  She shook her head.

  “Were you a bed wetter, Lisanne?”

  Again, a modest shake of the head.

  “You know, all kinds of things happen—to our bodies—when we fear for our lives. When that fear is genuine. Right now, there’s a disconnect. Have you heard of a ‘false positive’? When a test comes back positive but it’s actually negative? Well, right now I think you’re dealing with lots of false positives. You’ve got to replace the faulty wiring, so to speak. I can certainly help you with that.”

  “How?” She hadn’t understood a word of what the woman had said.

  “There are a number of ways,” said Calliope, assuredly.

  “Drugs?”

  “Medication is one avenue. In that regard, I’d like you to see a friend of mine, a very talented psychopharmacologist.”

  “Can’t you give me something?”

  “I don’t prescribe.” She paused. “We can also try hypnosis. I’ve had phenomenal results. I like a multidirectional approach. We can do things on a practical plane, no pun intended! There’s a wonderful class—I think they have one right here at LAX, we’ll check the Internet—to overcome flying phobias. I’ve known many, many people who’ve taken that course and now fly like banshees.”

  “I know one way to get over my fear.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Not fly,” said Lisanne, smiling.

  “That is a solution,” said Calliope, pleased that her patient had lightened up. “I won’t even say it’s not valid. We all make choices; that is our prerogative. We do what is best for us. To survive. But I think, Lisanne, that with you there are some other issues. What we call a constellation. Your crisis on the plane might be an indicator that it’s time you faced some of those issues, head-on. I want you to visit my friend—and think about what we spoke of today. If you decide you’d like to come back, then we can do some exploring.”

  Cadillac Escapade

  TULA PULLED THE Escalade out of the drive. To the casual observer, he was alone.

  “OK, keep hide now!” he said.

  “This is too goddamn weird!” said Kit excitedly from the back.

  They were under a Mexican blanket; he smelled Cela’s warm, giggly exhalations. It brought him all the way back to their preteen make-out sessions.

  “Kit, it was your idea!” she said.

  “Yeah,”
he said, cockily. “You’re fuckin right. Time to go to the fuckin mall! Get E! channel more shit for their documental!”

  “You are such a wack job,” she said, tweaking his rib cage. “You are such a wacky goofball.”

  He squirmed and spasmed at the tickle, then put a thumb in her side, sending her into contortions. Tula gravely shushed as they approached the guard at the barricade. Then Cela shushed Kit, clenching his fingers to neutralize him. It was all so sexy. As the car slowed they grew seriously still and hot-breathed, like children during the critical part of a game.

  The rent-a-cop waved Tula through. They rolled past the crowd of fans, photogs, and media trucks.

  Once they were in the clear, Kit started singing, “Tommy, can you hear me?” He replaced Tommy with Tula, and Cela had a fresh conniption.

  A rogue paparazzo grew suspicious. He ducked under the everpresent WE LOVE YOU GET WELL SOON banner and broke away, discreetly slipping into a Corolla. He accelerated and drew closer. When Kit lifted his head to take a peek at the world, the freelancer saw him and gave spirited chase. Tula muttered Fijian expletives then upshifted into Bad Boys movie maneuvers. The bodyguard, extracautious because his charges were unsecured, reveled in finally being able to do what he was paid for.

  Rubber was peeled; corners sharply taken; horns honked; accidents barely averted. Kit and Cela went gleefully bonkers, cheering Tula on. The driver was proficient, hyperconcentrated and adrenalized, his sweaty, scarily resolute, block-headed, thick-necked countenance thrilling them to no end. Then it was over as unexpectedly as it had begun—the paparazzo’s car flipping onto its back like a bug.

  “Oh my God,” said Cela, aghast, looking back. “Do you think he’s hurt?”

  Tula slowed, and peered in the rearview. The Corolla had toppled again in slo-mo, absurdly righting itself. Its owner stared ahead in a daze.

  “No,” he assessed. “Just shook up.”

  “Good job!” said Kit. “Good job, Odd Job!”

  “Should we go back?” asked Cela.

  “No!” said Tula. “No go back! Not our fault!”

  “Girl,” said Kit, jokily somber. “You can’t go home again.”

  “He just shook up,” said Tula, with a parting glance before motoring on. A pedestrian helped the pursuer from his car; he was already walking under his own power.

  Kit put on an Elvis-sneer, singing, “All shook up! Ooh hoo hoo. Ooh hoo. Ay yeah!”

  Everyone—even Tula—cracked up.

  • • •

  THROUGH THE COLD bright Riverside Galleria, wide-eyed.

  Holding hands—delirious fugitives.

  Kit, unchained. Mall, uncrowded.

  The occasional look of stunned recognition from passersby cum well-wishers.

  “Wow wow wow!” yelps Kit.

  The freedom of it. The old feelings of it.

  The spatial newness. Nowness. Wowness.

  “Oh my God, that chase,” says Cela. “That was so amazing.”

  “Like Steve McQueen!” says Kit. “What that movie? Bullitt.”

  “Burke is gonna have a flying shitfit,” she says, slightly paranoid. “He’s gonna kick our ass.”

  “I will motherfucking kick his fucking ass!” shouts Kit.

  Cela shushes his too public swagger. “Can you please, like, lower the volume?”

  “Oh shit, man! I am fucking hungry.”

  “OK, Bullitt, what do you want to eat?”

  Pause. Then: “Everybody!”

  They laugh. A gawking schoolgirl approaches.

  “Excuse me, but are you Kit Lightfoot?”

  “Steve McQueen!” says Kit.

  She turns to Cela while her friends hover nearby.

  Awkwardly: “Is he Kit Lightfoot?”

  “Yeah,” offers Kit as Cela nods. “The one and only.”

  “Oh my God!” says the girl, taking a few steps back. “It is him, it’s him . . .”

  The clique rushes over in pleated parochial school uniforms, waists turned faddishly down to show hipbone. Tula puffs up, bodyguardlike. Needless but endearing—still in hero mode.

  “Can we get an autograph?”

  “Do you have a pen?” asks Cela.

  They dip into North Face–Powerpuff backpacks.

  “He can sign my arm,” says the girl, proffering a Sharpie.

  “He can sign my leg!” says another.

  “Is he retarded?” asks one of Cela.

  “Girls,” Cela cautions. “Be nice.”

  Kit signs an arm while saying, “Not retarded. Just a little . . . fucked up.”

  “He sounds retarded,” says a girl, not quite sotto.

  Her friend examines the signature like it’s a rash and says, “Oh my God, what does it say?”

  The other takes a look and says: “It’s like a scrawl—”

  “I said, Be fuckin nice,” says Cela. “You’re being rude.”

  The girls say reprimanded thank-yous, then dash off. When they’re far enough away, they break into laughter.

  “Little cunts,” says Cela.

  “It’s OK,” says Kit thoughtfully. Then, with a nasty-assed grin: “They make me horny.”

  • • •

  INSIDE BLOCKBUSTER NOW.

  Rushing down aisles, exhilarated, nature boy in the video forest. (A very strange enchanted boy.) Touching the hard, hollow, garish boxes, wide-eyed, tactile, inhaling collective memory of film. The store is huge and empty, except for clerks, discursively restocking.

  “I was a movie star!” he shouts, thumping his chest like Tarzan.

  “You still are,” says Cela. “You’re still the biggest star on the planet, OK?”

  He ponders then says, matter-of-fact, “OK.” The effect is unintendedly droll. “We should get popcorn.” They walk past the new releases wall. (Like a 99 cent store display.) He asks, “What movies was I in?”

  Before she can answer, a Norman Rockwell geek with chin acne enters their frame.

  “Excuse me—are you Kit Lightfoot?”

  (Cela braces herself. Tula puffs up.)

  “Yes, I am!”

  “I knew it! I put on World”—there, suddenly, it is, on all hanging monitors, World Without End, the famous scene at Children’s Hospital where Kit and Cameron Diaz erupt in dance, the crippled kids following suit, to Supertramp’s “Logical Song”—“and I just wanted to tell you what a great—how amazing I think you are as an actor and as a person.”

  (Cela sighs with audible relief.)

  “Thank you.”

  “And what an honor it is to have you in our store.”

  “Thank you.” A daub of Elvis again: “Thankyouverymuch.”

  A little daub’ll do ya—

  “I just want you to know that everyone in Riverside, everyone in the world is pulling for you.”

  (Cela, nearly in tears. On her period. Quick to cry.)

  “Thankyouverymuch.”

  “May I show you the Kit Lightfoot section?” he asks, as if coaxing a girl at cotillion to dance. (Includes the others in what he says next.)

  “We have a whole Kit Lightfoot section—I organized it myself.”

  “I would like some popcorn.”

  “You can have all the popcorn you like, sir!”

  By now, a few other employees curiously make their way toward the little group.

  The clerk turns to Cela.

  “Think he’d mind signing a a few posters?”

  “Ask him,” says Cela, proudly. Feeling like the missus.

  True Confessions

  MOTHER AND CHILD dropped in unannounced to the Sunset Boulevard penthouse suite.

  Lisanne felt bad because she never thanked her old boss for his kindnesses in those first few months she and Siddhama were home alone. (He had continued to pay her salary.) In fact, she’d never thanked him at all—through the years, he’d been stand-up and generous to a fault. It was true she had made herself indispensable, but it was Reggie, with his sunny, contagious confidence, who, long ago, had so ge
nerously opened the door, helping Lisanne to overcome her initial insecurities. He was startled by the hidden pregnancy but, like a true gentleman, withheld judgment. She would have been lost without his emotional support after her baby came into the world.

  They hadn’t spoken since she moved to Rustic Canyon, and the fact that the life-saving arrangement with Philip came about under the auspices of Tiff, Reggie’s client, made it even worse. She felt so ungrateful, but nothing could have been further from the truth—now was the time to face him, to reveal all. Reggie Marck, if anyone, should be privy to the certain details of the child’s parentage.

  He held the baby in his arms.

  She said: “I wanted to tell you that this is the son of Kit Lightfoot.”

  “OK,” he said, smiling. Waiting for the punch line.

  “And I wanted to give you the supramundane Secret Thatness offerings.” She knelt upon the ground and opened her blouse. He stood there holding the child, looking down at her. “Here is my mustard seed, my scoops of barley and clarified buttered bread, here are my nipples large as the purplebruised toes of homeless children. I, Vajrayogini, generate the celestial mansion with this wide and brazen cunt. Look! at the cervical fire of my stink-necklace, looped through 700 dew-fresh skulls. O, I am asking you to disarm! For these are the weapons of mass instruction. I am the blue dakini, door of membranes and remembrance, the green PHA HA. Let us kneel on the carpet of the cathedral like pilgrims humbled by disaster—O Reggie, join me now! Offer and observe the materials to be burned in bodhi-wood! OM OM OM SARVA PHA PHA PHA SWAHA—Reggie, please—OM NAMO BHAGAWATI VAJRAVARAHI—Reggie!—BAM HU HU—why oh why Reggie is everything so wrong?—PHA OM NAMO ARYA APARAJITE HU HU PHA—”