Chuck Palahniuk - Tell All

In the reverse angle, we see Terrence Terryand myself seated at the rear of thehouse, surrounded by an assortment of garment bags, hatboxes andunwanted infants. The house seats are otherwise empty. Terry speculatesthat Miss Kathie keeps botching the grenade throw intentionally. Herprevious hand grenade slammed into Barbara Bel Geddes.The throw before that bounced off the thick skull of HumeCronyn. If Webster plans to kill her at the peak of a new stagesuccess, Terry explains, it hardly makes sense for Miss Kathie to defeatthe evil Emperor Showa. Rave opening-nightnotices will only increase her danger.

Onstage, Lilly Hellman executes a perfect pasde bourée step, at the same time putting a pistol shot between the eyesof Buddy Ebsen.

Handing the pistol to Miss Kathie, Hellmansays, “Now, you try it.…”

The pistol misfires, killing Jack Elam. Another shot ricochets off of the USS New Jersey andwounds Cyd Charisse.

In my lap, I scribble into a notebook. Myhead bowed over my work. Tucked beneath the notebook I conceal thelatest revision to Love Slave ,a fourth draft of the final chapter. A scenario beyond the omnibuscrash, the grizzly bear pit, the bubble-bath electrocution.

Onstage, Lilly Hellman performs a series ofjetés while leveling a flamethrower on the FlyingEscalantes.

Across an aisle from Terry, I sit writing,the notebook pages open across my lap in the dim light. The nib of myfountain pen scratching, looping, dotting lines and sentences acrosseach page, I say that no memory is anything more than a personal choice.A very deliberate choice. When we recall someone—a parent, a spouse, afriend—as better than they perhaps were, we do so to create an ideal,something to which we, ourselves, can aspire. But when we remembersomeone as a drunk, a liar, a bully, we’re only creating an excuse forour own poor behavior.

Still writing, I say how the same can be saidfor the people who read such books. The best people look for lofty rolemodels such as the Katherine KentonI’vegiven my life to create. Other readers will seek out the tawdry strumpetdepicted in Webster Carlton Westward III’sbook, for comfort and license in their own tawdry, disordered lives.

All human beings search for either reasons tobe good, or excuses to be bad. Call me an elitist, but I’m no patch on Mary Pickford.

Onstage, Lilly claps her hands together twiceand says, “Okay, let’s take it from the point where shards of bombcasing shred Captain Mervyn Bennion.”

In silence, everyone present, from Ricardo Cortezto Hope Lange,says fervent prayers to live beyond Miss Hellman, and thus to avoidbeing posthumously absorbed into her hideous self- mythology. Hername-dropping Tourette’s syndrome, set tomusic by Otto Harbach. In the presence of MissHellman, there are no atheists.

Lilly Hellman screams, “Katherine!” Miss Kathie screams, “Hazie!”

Hiss, bray, bark … Jesus Christ.

We all have some proper noun to blame.

The truth about Miss Kathie’s poorperformance is that she’s always looking for the stray mortar shell orrifle round intended to end her life. She can’t concentrate for fearshe’s missed reading any new draft of Love Slave and might be killed at any moment.An exploding battleship. A stage light plummeting from the flies. Anyprop collapsible stage knife might be replaced with an actual dagger,wielded by some unknowing Japanese soldier or AllanDwan. As we sit here, Webster Carlton WestwardIIIcould be planting a bomb or pumping poison gas into MissKathie’s backstage dressing room. Under such circumstances, of courseshe can’t manage an adequate pas de deux.

Terry says, “Why do you stay with her?” Heasks me, “Why have you stayed with her for all these years?”

Because, I say, the life of Katherine Kentonis my work-in-progress. Mrs. Lord Byron, Mrs. Pope Innocent VIand Mrs. Kaiser von Hindenburgmight be Miss Kathie’sbest work, but she is mine. Still writing, still scribbling away, I saythat Miss Katie is my unfinished masterpiece, and an artist does notabandon the work when it becomes difficult. Or when the artwork choosesto become involved with inappropriate men. My job title is not that ofnanny or guardian angel, but I

perform duties of both. My full-timeprofession is what Walter Winchellcalls a“star sitter.” A “celebrity curator,” according to ElsaMaxwell.

I retrieve the most recent draft of Webster’storrid tell-all and offer it across the aisle to Terry. From his seat, Terry asks, “How come she’snot electrocuted?”

Miss Kathie hasn’t taken a bath in days, Itell him. She reeks of what Louella Parsonswould call “aroma d’amore.”

Terry reaches across, taking the pages frommy outstretched hand. Scanning the top sheet, he reads, “ ‘No onecould’ve anticipated that by the end of this day my most belovedKatherine would shatter every single, solitary bone in her alluringbody, and her glamorous Hollywood blood would be spattered over half ofMidtown Manhattan …’ ”

The voice of TerrenceTerrycontinues as an audio bridge from the previous scene,reading, “ ‘… my most beloved Katherine would shatter every single,solitary bone in her alluring body, and her glamorous Hollywood bloodwould be spattered over half of Midtown Manhattan …’ ” as we dissolveonce more into a fantasy sequence. Here, the lithe, idealized Websterand Miss Kathie cavort about the open-air observation deck on theeighty-sixth floor of the Empire State Building.

In voice-over Terry reads, “ ‘In celebrationof the six-month anniversary of our first introduction, I’d rented theloftiest aerie on the fabled isle of Manahatta.’ ” He reads aloud, “‘There, I’d staged a romantic dinner for two catered from three thousandmiles away by Perino’s.’ ”

The mise-en-scène includes a table set fortwo, draped with a white cloth, and crowded with crystal stemware,silver and china. Julian Eltingetinkles theivories of a grand piano which has been winched up for the evening. Judy Hollidaysings a program of MarcBlitzsteinand Marc Connellysongs,backed by the Royal Ballet Sinfoniaand Myrna Loy. In every direction, the spires of New York Cityblaze with lights.

The voice of TerrenceTerryreads, “ ‘Only the crème de la crème of waiters andentertainers were present, all of them snugly blindfolded as in the Erich von Stroheimmasterpiece TheWedding March , so Katherine and I would not feel self-consciousas we indulged our carnal assaults upon each other.’ ”

To highlight the fact that this constitutestheir umpteenth sex scene, the willowy, soft-focus Miss Kathie andWebster copulate perfunctorily, as if robots, not looking at oneanother. With their eyes rolled back within their heads, their tongueshanging out the corners of their mouths, panting like beasts, the pairchange position without speaking, the wet slap of their collidinggenitals threatening to drown out the live music.

“ ‘We made love beneath a billion stars andabove a sea of ten million electric lights. There, between heaven andearth, blindfolded waiters tipped bottles of Moëtchampagnedirectly into our greedy, guzzling mouths, splashingbubbly upon Katherine’s savory bosoms, even as I continued to pleasureher insatiable loins and oblivious waiters slid a succession of chilled,raw oysters down the slippery chute of her regal throat.…’ ”