by Bruce Wagner
Dolly was half-blind and half-deaf but enjoyed her TV golf. She would sit in her chair in front of the set—a $1,300 lazyboy with a motor allowing it to tilt on a 45° angle that made sitting down & getting up fun—and rip into the physical traits of the linksmen. Though if a handsome one was playing, her voice turned creepy & horny.
He sat on the carpet holding her hand. In the last few years, Bud learned something strange & poignantly sad about his mother—she literally didn’t know how to hold a hand, or how to let someone hold hers (like a girl who never learned how to kiss). She would dig with her thumb into his flesh until Bud nearly yelped in pain. Most of the time he endured it, simply by using the mantra the money the money the money is coming but often he was compelled to give brief tutorials on the art of handholding. For a few minutes she’d listen, with a proper sort of acquiescence, before suddenly digging into his flesh again with a cartoon villain’s gleeful. Dolly’s senses may have been dulled but her acuity ferociously lived on. The moment Bud entered her room, she scanned his body, his grooming, his clothes. Are you going to grow a beard? Are those boots or are those high heels that you’re wearing? They’re ugly! Ugly! Ugly! When she wasn’t being critical, she leered, and told him how thin and gorgeous he was. He cringed.
How did it happen that after 60 years, this rancorous crone, this snapping turtle, this weird, decaying dominatrix, this virago still dominated his life?
Bud had been on a daily “maintenance dose” of opiates since the dawn of time. There were five or six doctors he could count on for refills—they’d been treating him for “migraines” for so many years that Bud believed he actually had the malady. He did have migraines but they were what are called “rebound headaches,” caused by the pills. He bought Rx off the Internet once and wished he hadn’t because twice a day he got emails from the “fulfillment department”: Bud, your prescription is ready!
Opiates were constipating, to say the least—a friend of his with AIDS was prescribed liquid opium because it was the only thing that effectively stopped the diarrhea—so Bud had always been rather fussy about his prematurely geriatric toilet. He took 1000 mg of magnesium a day and never traveled too far from his stash of stool softeners and MOM (milk of magnesia). Impaction was a ring of hell to be avoided at all cost. In his day, he’d been forced to go to the emergency room more than once; one visit ended in provoking an attractive young RN to announce, post-enema, “You’ve just given birth!” Bud got chills when he read about the obese woman who died writhing & obstructed on the floor of an ER waiting room. A zeppelin of shit had accreted in her gut for days but the Hugh Laurie at King-Harbor said it was probably gallstones and gave her Vicodin. Her husband begged them to treat her but it must have been a busy night, everyone knows how the triage thing goes. The guy was so frustrated he actually called 911. When they asked for the address, the poor schmuck told them they were in the waiting room of the King-Harbor ER. Bud heard the tape on a website; the dispatcher couldn’t wrap her head around him calling from a hospital, you know, it was like, what a dorkus! Somebody call America’s Funniest 911s! Of course, she said there was no way they could send paramedics to an ER . . . a security camera captured everything, she falls off her seat half-conscious, puking feces, and the janitor comes and just mops up around her like in a silent film! Meanwhile, the zeppelin’s exploding through the sluice (“O, the humanity!”), a razored bowling ball of rockhard shit slipping the surly bonds of bowel to touch the face of God and waxed linoleum. The hour-long footage got leaked—another soupçon offering to the webgods, to the daily unquenchable fatal reality show planet. The woman had three kids, and mischievous hackerh8trs spammed their emails with mash-ups of Mom seizing on the floor, adding Blair Witch screams & Howard Stern farts.
. . .
It took a few days for Bud to connect with his agent. He had called right after listening to the message at the end of the Steve Martin event—it was already 9:30. Sometimes the assistants were still working late, but not that late; he left word. It felt good to say, “Bud Wiggins, returning.”
Bud had made a study of his rise and fall in the Business, by virtue of the way the assistants addressed him. When he was at his hottest as a Hollywood screenwriter, he’d call and get, “O hi, Bud! He’s just finishing a call but I know he really wants to talk to you. Can you hold? Oh—wait, he’s just wrapping up!” (Which meant the agent was physically gesturing to the assistant not to lose Bud.) “Okay! I’m putting you through . . .” It wasn’t unusual—back then—for the excited agent to hop on before the assistant even finished talking. But as the workless months dropped from the calendar like dead leaves falling, the assistants stopped using his name. It became “Hi” or “Oh hi,” the personal touch gone. The agent would invariably be on a conference call (the quaint, pre-wired era when conference calls denoted power and status) and they’d put Bud on hold for long fucking minutes. Then, “It looks like it’s going to be a while, can I have him return?” In the years that followed, they’d put Bud on hold and wouldn’t come back to check with him at all . . . after a few minutes of holding the Void to his ear, they’d pierce the silence with an angry, clinical slap: He’ll have to call you back. The days of unquiet desperation had begun. Somewhere near the fin de siècle, a new idiom was born—Bud found himself awash in a sea of “I don’t have hims.” Depending on one’s status or the assistant’s disposition, he or she might choose to customize and embellish, such as, “You know right now I actually don’t have him . . . can he return?” (If you had some heat, they had a wink in their voice one could translate as seductive.) As time went on & Bud got colder (if a frozen corpse possibly could), the “actually” became a curt I don’t have him until one day, all that was left was the lightspeed He’s not available—no flirty apologies, only barely suppressed, deadened annoyance: end of the line.
Agents were usually in early, and when Bud hadn’t heard back by 10 A.M., he decided to call in. Who knew, maybe the voicemail wasn’t working or whatever.
“Bud Wiggins, returning.”
The assistant was cheerful enough. The new hires gave you the least amount of shit. They didn’t know who the losers were.
“Bud, I’m putting you through to Chris.”
His gut flipped.
“Hey, Bud! How are you?”
“I’m good, Chris. How are they treating you?”
“Well. Very well. Life is good. I’m gonna have to jump, but here’s why I’m calling. I got a call from Rod Fulbright, at CAA. David Simon’s doing a new series about Hollywood and wants to meet with you.”
“Who’s David Simon?”
“The Wire. And Treme. He’s a very talented guy, but not our client. So call him—call Rod—tell him that we spoke, and he’ll give you the information.”
“Why does David Simon want to talk to me?”
“It’s probably about the Hollywood show. Maybe he wants you to work on it. I really have to jump.”
“Chris, it doesn’t make sense—I mean, it’s great, but——”
“Oh—do you know Michael Tolkin?”
“Sure I know Michael.”
“That’s it then, I forgot, sorry about that. David got your name through Michael. Michael’s executive producing.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“Call Rod.”
. . .
He knew Tolkin from gradeschool.
Thirty years ago, when Bud self-published his book of short stories about wash-ups in the Business, for a brief moment he was the toast of the town. He remembered Tolkin coming up to him at a party and saying, “I really think you’re onto something there.” Over the months that followed, there was a lot of interest in Bud writing the screenplay: Oliver Stone, Barry Levinson, Bob Altman. Altman had supposedly considered adapting the book himself but decided to make The Player instead.
Bud called Rod, but only spoke to his assistant. Xochilt said the meeting with David Simon was set for next week, a Thursday, at one o’clock, at the Polo Lounge.
�
�Rod asked me to pass this along,” she said. “When David talks about The Wire, he refers to it as a novel.”
“You mean it’s based on a novel?”
“I’m actually not sure. I can get back to you on that. But apparently when David discusses it, he prefers to call it a novel instead of a series. You should do the same. OK?”
“Perfect.”
He thought he should probably call Tolkin. They’d been out of touch; he could get his number through the agency. He watched the pilot of The Wire on his computer then lay down to ponder the plot of his own work-in-progress. Though maybe I should call my novel a cable series, he thought, almost cracking himself up.
Thursday, 1PM, the Polo Lounge . . . back in the game.
He treated himself to 6 Norcos and 6 klonopins, in celebration. He was in his bedroom, but heard his mother singing a childhood song. Her voice carried over the baby monitors her caregivers had placed in the living room and kitchen.
Bud pictured himself in one of the storied booths of the fabled pink palace, & said a recently youtubed Gleason line outloud:
Howwwwwwwww sweet it is!
EXPLICIT
[Jacquie]
Seared
She
got lucky with the Sears job because it wasn’t a slamdunk, not even close, especially not at her age. But there she was, amidst the dolorous big box retail funk—the perfect storm of 3 (count em) just-fired employees + a gay manager who was way into her from the presentation/gate . . . during the interview she charmed by reminiscing about those adolescent darkroom days plus very carefully alluding to perhaps being a bit overqualified, not of course summoning googleable glory days but rather pulling a few savvy foto technique remarks out of the hat, simple but effective enough (she hoped) to seal the deal. She was mindful to keep her comments modest and leave her ego out of it, which was hard, is hard, & kept reminding herself she was on a down-low mission from the muses. To offset any potential Brahmin vibe/takeaway, Jacquie humbly stressed that she was super-trainable (knowing that training was always management’s bane), even tho probably just an hour’s tutelage on the machines would do—i.e. the girl was camera-ready. And she flirted a little the way fag hags do: those superheated moments in the early stages of any wild, drama-strewn romance between a gay man and hetero woman. All’s fair in art and war, & the art of war too.
She just wanted to get hired.
. . .
Moms brought their babies—lots of baby portraits. (Everything was called portraits and portraiture.) Family pets even. On Saturdays, families came in for their formal sittings. On Sundays, they came after church, & Jacquie got that feeling of real Americana. She thought, in 100 years, her work would be featured at flea markets & yard sales, anon family portraits, circa early 21st-century. Young couples sauntered in, cholos & cholitas, fewer though than Jacquie would have thought. They were almost always at the store shopping for something else. They’d pass the photo studio & the girl would get the idea and not let it go until her boyfriend caved.
The manager was one of those dream homos—shockingly ascerbic, hilariously brilliant, borderline heartbreaking homely. Shaved head, big butt, tender heart. (“I cry at the drop of a pillbox hat,” he told her. “Make that an Isabella Blow hat.”) They began to lunch together in the mall, telling stories from their lives, stock shards & bravura fragments typically kept on reserve for a crush, or a simpatico new acquaintance; the broken pieces soon conflating into the unwashed picture windows & stained glass one risks sharing with a veritable new friend. Such as: before coming to Sears, Albie worked for an online company that turned photo submissions of pets/family into large, hangable prints in the style of Warhol & Lichtenstein. Such as, he spoke reasonably fluent Japanese, courtesy of an older man who took Albie as a lover when he was just 14. (They were together 10 years.) He was 38 now, & a widower. His husband Francesco recently died of AIDS, & Francesco’s grandmother was a famous black panther, which Albie thought ironic, in that Francesco was an albino. (Albie honed and exploited the albino-Black Panther routine through the years to great comic effect.) Albie was HIV-positive himself, coming up on 23 years . . .
Fragments & shards.
Jacquie came clean, telling him the whole certiwikifiable truth & nothing but, ending with the confession that once upon a time she was a celestial body (but no more), one of those shooting stars fated to arc across diurnal skies, consigned to perpetual underexposure. Albie surprised her by saying that he already knew, because he was required to websearch all job applicants. “There was something about you,” he added. “You remind me of Anne Sexton! But I’d have looked you up anyway. I look everyone up.”
Of course he does. Because that’s what people do—they look you up. Everyone looks everyone up, that’s what she should start doing.
No—too late.
Suddenly, Jacquie felt old, uncertain, unsophisticated.
Undernourished, underwater, underexposed.
Washed up & washed down.
That most pitiable thing:
A performance artist without a concept.
. . . menopausal Sears employee.
A familiar fog rolled in & clung to her coast.
. . .
–I got your note. And I’m sorry that I haven’t been more present.
–That’s OK.
–No, it isn’t. Because we have a lot to talk about. First of all, how are you?
–Fine.
–Are you really?
–Yeah—why . . .
–You’re going through changes in your body. Any changes in your head?
–Like what?
–I don’t know. It’s not my head.
–Sometimes I feel really sad. Then sometimes like I am so happy. That I’m going to have this baby. & being a mother scares me? But I think it’s something I’ll be really good at?
–(Smiles) Is that a question?
–(Smiles) No. It’s a statement? (They laugh) It’s a statement.
–I got a call from—is it Eliza? Hirschorn?
–The social worker.
–Is she the one who works with all the parents? Of the girls who are expecting?
–Uh huh. She’s really nice. I mean really nice.
–Good, good, that’s great. How many girls over there are expecting?
–Just Marisol. She’s six months . . . last year there was I think three. No! Four. Yeah there were four. Remember Toleda?
–From Salvador? Those big green eyes? What happened to her?
–She had a little girl, I think. No! A little boy. She went back. To Salvador.
–I talked to Rikki’s dad.
–You did?
–We’ve had several conversations. I’m off tomorrow, and we’re having lunch.
–Cool. Is his mom going?
–I don’t know. I don’t think so.
–How’s Rikki.
–He’s good.
–Can you bring him by this weekend? For lunch? Because now he is definitely in my life! I want to know him. We’ve hardly had a conversation. Is he smart? His father’s smart.
–O my god, Rikki is so smart.
–Not that it’s a prerequisite . . . it’s all about the heart. Does he have a good heart? Is he a good man?
–He’s got a really big heart. O my god, he is so generous.
–Terrific.
–So how’s it going? I mean work.
–Fine. Work is fine. Your note said you wanted to talk.
–Okay. I—yeah. I wanted—
–Sorry to interrupt but are you going to tell your father?
–I guess. Maybe. You mean, now?
–Yes, I mean now. Have you thought about it?
–Kind of. It’s not like he—I haven’t talked to him in like, 3 months.
–You do what you need to do. I’m not advocating either way, but that’s his grandchild. If I talk to him, I certainly won’t discuss it without your permission.
–Oh my god, please don’t!
–OK
, I’m done.
–Mama, I wanted to ask you . . . it’s just something—you know, we can talk about it another time.
–What is it? (Reeyonna looks down at carpet/stressed out) Jerilynn? What’s going on?
–Well I’ve been thinking. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, &—I’ve been thinking about how we’re going to live, Rikki and I, when, when the baby’s born. You know, where we’re going to live———
–(Doesn’t know where this is going) Okay?
–& I thought we could get an apartment, we could get an apartment that’s like really close, or not too far away . . . . . . . .
–You’re going to need a lot of help, Jerilynn, I don’t think you realize———
– . . . . . . . . because if I just keep living here & Rikki keeps staying at his house, I totally know what’s going to happen from watching all those Teen Mom shows————
–You’re you, Jerilynn, you’re not a TV show.
–They’re reality shows. They show what—what happens—what can happen. In reality. And it’s because they stay at home and are dependant on their moms. There’s, like, no consequences.
–Well, I think it’s good you’re having these thoughts, but—
–I just think it will be so much better if we live in an apartment.
–And how do you expect to pay for that? Is Rikki working? Are his parents going to give you money?
–I don’t think so.
–And I don’t have it, Jerilynn, I just don’t have it. I’m working at Sears! I think it’s a sweet—it’s a good idea, I mean it’s sound, but there’s—the baby is already going to be a big expense. The baby is a hardship. You really need to start to realize. There are diapers, there—
–I know! And I don’t—I wasn’t going to ask you for any money. I want to use my own money.
