Jim Gavin - Middle Men - Stories

At one point that night I lay down on a stone bench in a park. I remember waking up cold, but happy to see light coming through the trees. Suddenly I was looking forward to being back in Los Angeles, telling my roommates about my night sleeping outside like a bum in fucking Bermuda! Karen was already becoming an afterthought.

I did end up seeing her, but she had already disappeared.

I splurged on an egg sandwich and waited outside the school until it finally opened at nine o’clock. The secretary told me that Karen wasn’t working today. I asked if she knew the family she was house-sitting for.

“The Cavanaughs,” she said, her eyes wide with excitement. “She’s actually mansion -sitting!”

It was a cloudy day. I fell asleep on the bus out to Warwick and went too far. When I woke up the bus was stopped outside an old fort. Tourists walked along the stone ramparts, looking out across the Atlantic. I found an information kiosk that gave a history of the island. In 1503, a Spanish ship had discovered Bermuda, by accident, when it shattered on a reef. I imagined one of these filthy Spaniards, standing alone on the beach, holding a spyglass and dagger.

Back in Warwick, I walked up a street that curled into green hills. I passed a horse stable and, farther along, a golf course. The secretary had given me the Cavanaughs’ address, but I didn’t need it. Next to the black iron gates their name was embossed in stone. Through the bars I saw a peach-colored mansion. I couldn’t knock. Instead, I pushed a red button on the intercom.

“Brian,” she said, with that note of resignation in her voice.

I looked around. There was a camera on the fence. I waved.

“Can I come in?”

“I don’t really have a choice, do I?”

“My plane ticket cost seven hundred dollars.”

The gate slowly opened. At the front door Karen took my bag. Walking down the hall a ghost passed over us and we started to kiss, but it didn’t last long. She put me in a nice, comfortable guest room with a giant queen bed. From my window I could see white sailboats anchored in the sound. She worked the next few days, while I slept and hung around the house. We had sex once. Her Vespa was broken, but I asked her to take a picture of me sitting on it, so I could show the guys. On my last night there was a full moon and we walked on the beach. I have never been, nor will I ever be, in a more romantic setting. It was complete hell. Back at home she played piano for a few hours, working up a sweat in the humid air, and later we both fell asleep on the couch watching TV. In the morning it was raining and all the buses were running late. After I asked her a few times, she finally loaned me cab fare to the airport. We never talked again and I never paid her back.

On tape days, before his escort to the soundstage, Max Lavoy liked to entertain his writing staff with anecdotes from Belgian history. One morning in late spring, with the game scripts spread before him and a can of Diet Rite in his hand, he said:

“Godfrey de Bouillon, the leader of the First Crusade, was, of course, a Walloon.”

Adam Cullen, the new production assistant, thought this might be the end, but from there Max did five solid minutes on the royal patronyms of Lower Lorraine. The writers offered up practiced smiles of delight and gratitude, while trying, in subtle ways, to signal Adam, who was circling the table with a box of donuts.

“Last summer in Namur I bought a tapestry with de Bouillon’s coat of arms. Argent, a cross potent between four crosslets…”

Adam listened in awe. The content of Max’s speech meant nothing to him, absolutely nothing, but he envied the man’s chops, his ability to just go on and on, with total conviction that his audience cared.

One of the head writers, Doug Holliday, risked a glance away from Max and caught Adam’s eye.

“Sprinkles,” he whispered.

Aurora borealis, George Washington, the Magna Carta… Doug had spent fifteen years down here in the research library, writing questions for the longest-running quiz show in television history. Like the rest of the staff, his dark eyes and sallow skin testified to a ghoulish mastery of the banal.

Adam reached into the box, looking for a sprinkled donut, but then he heard Max break off.

“What’s that, Doug?”

It was quiet. The air became prickly and hot, and though he had only been an official member of the staff for a week, Adam felt a sudden urge to genuflect and apologize for his part in the disturbance. But he wouldn’t have to, as Doug took it upon himself to handle the situation.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, Max,” he said. “But is Namur part of the Brabant?”

“No, it’s not,” said Max. “That’s a common mistake. Both are part of Wallonia, but Namur is a separate province. Namur — the city itself — is a beautiful place. It’s one of those quiet little towns that’s been invaded by everybody. The Hapsburgs. Napoleon. And the Germans, of course. Twice!”

There was laughter. As the laughter continued, Max rose from the table. Everybody stood up; they were still laughing. Adam heard himself laugh, though he wasn’t quite sure why. Several writers, walking back to their offices, exchanged a furtive salute with Doug.

Melanie Martin, the senior producer, waved to Adam and he ran to her side. A long time ago, with a feathery blond mane, she had played a sickly ingénue on three episodes of Falcon Crest . When her character died of pneumonia — or was it murder? — she decided to give up acting and learn the black arts of production. Eventually she landed in game shows and climbed the ranks. She told all this to Adam the day he was officially hired, as a sort of pep talk. Her story was totally canned, but so was everybody’s, and Adam didn’t mind hearing it. He looked forward to the day when he could regale somebody with his own tale of professional triumph. At fifty, Melanie was beautiful and intimidating, and now she was grabbing Adam by the elbow and introducing him, finally, to Max Lavoy.

“This is Adam Cullen, our new production assistant.”

“Is it still raining?” Max asked.

“I think so,” said Melanie. She cleared her throat. “Adam temped upstairs for a while. He did a great job handling our last ticket promotion.”

“I stuffed envelopes for six months,” said Adam, with a winning note of self-deprecation.

“Somebody give me an umbrella,” said Max.

“I don’t think you’ll need one. Adam will drive you over when you’re ready.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Lavoy,” said Adam, reaching out his hand. He was shocked by the strength of Max’s grip. The man had gray hair and a slight stoop in his shoulders, but he was naturally tanned and there was a tautness in his neck that suggested a daily regimen of vigorous activity.

“Tell me your name again,” said Max.

“Adam Cullen.”

“Cullen. That’s Irish.”

“It’s Gaelic for ‘drunk.’”

Nothing. Max just stared at him. Adam instantly regretted the foray into humor. Max finished his soda and handed the empty can to Adam. “Well, I’m ready.”

Adam’s new badge was blue and gave him access all over the studio lot. He swiped it and opened the door for Max. On his way out he glanced back at Melanie, who put a finger to her lips like a librarian, gently demanding silence.

After so many years of success, raking in millions for the studio, the show had the authority to budget certain outrageous luxuries, like a golf cart made up to look like a black Mercedes-Benz. Adam now had access to the Benz and he used it to ferry his precious cargo through a light drizzle. Other golf carts, less deluxe, buzzed up and down the narrow lanes between soundstages. He received honks of recognition from studio messengers, production assistants, and other members of the squire class. Then he passed one guy who was on foot. Adam had once temped with this guy at another production company on the lot. Adam couldn’t remember his name, but he saw that he still wore a red temp badge. Hence the walking — temps, for insurance reasons, couldn’t drive the golf carts. The guy waved, but Adam pretended not to see him.