Bruce Wagner - Dead Stars

“We’ve only been around two years and we’ve done very well for ourselves. Turndown Service made six hundred and fifty million worldwide, before DVDs, before anything . We’re going into television, we’re going into game design, we’re going into web content. We might even produce a Broadway show. So now we’re sophomores. And people hate us. They hate our money, they hate that we’re outsiders, right behind the smile , you can hear them saying Please God let him fail! Now we’re sophomores and those same haters who wanted us to crash and burn are praying we’re just a one-hit wonder. Funny, huh. Really? They want to see you in that sophomore slump —permanently . Really? Sorry, guys. Afraid we’re going to disappoint you. We have twelve movies in development and we’re about to start shooting The Treasure of Sierra Leone . You know what we’re calling our TV divisions, Bud? ‘Hard To Get By’ and ‘Just Upon A Smile.’”

“Hard to get by—”

“Hard To Get By Television is for limited cable, like Game of Thrones ; Just Upon A Smile is for network — sitcoms and reality shows.”

“I love that.”

“Because you get it. And if people don’t get it, fuck em! Here’s the deal, Bud. Wanna know who came up with the idea for Turndown Service ? And the title? Which is genius? My little brother Biggie. He’s 12 years-old. I shit you not. Wanna know who came up with the idea for The Treasure of Sierra Leone ? And the title? Which is genius? Ditto. My little brother Biggie. Roger that. Do you know anything about savants? Mind you I didn’t say idiot savant because my little brother is far from an idiot, he’s fuckin genius . He’s king. King Baby. There are all kinds of savants. Musical ones, mathematical ones — you know that woman Claire Danes played in the movie she got an Emmy for? Temple Grandin? I just saw it because we want to put Claire into something. Amazing performance. People don’t know what Claire’s capable of, Homeland just scratches the surface. So when they saw her in that movie, they were, like, Really? People say Temple Grandin’s some kind of autistic, or Asperger, but I just think she’s a savant. Her thing is that she can get into the heads of animals , she knows what they’re thinking , what they’re feeling . My brother Biggie happens to be a savant of stories , not any stories, but Hollywood stories, stories that lend themselves to the big or small screen. We just sold one to CBS called You Rule , about a slacker who finds out he’s king of an island in the South Pacific. We actually have 14 projects in the TV hopper — I shit you not! — 80 % of which come directly from ‘MSW.’ My Secret Weapon!

“You know, I don’t usually do the Biggie rap. Cause if I do, people are like Really? I guess I’m telling you because I have a feeling you could identify. With the underdog. Right? And that’s a total compliment. Biggie’s always been kind of an underdog, in a developmental sense. He has a tough time in social environments. He can have a tough time. Which doesn’t mean he never comes out of his shell. I can get him to, but it takes a little work . I don’t do it for me, I do it for him, because I’d like him to have relationships with people . He’s all up in his head, which is an amazing place to be. But he’s fine.

“So here’s the deal. Biggie’s given us a lot of comedy ideas but he has an idea for a drama. This one I don’t get 100 % but I’m not the genius either. What I’d like you to do — if you have the time, cause I know Michael said you’re working on a novel, which I have total respect for by the way, I don’t know how you guys do it — what I’d like you to do is maybe meet with him so you can get more of a flavor.”

“Wow. Fantastic.”

Bud had been down this road before. They always want you to do the monkey jig. So you do — but never get the job.

“I read those short stories you wrote in the 80s.”

“Wow. Did Michael give them to you?”

Bud was thinking that pretty soon he would have to make a statue of Michael and put it in the living room, for easy access to prayer.

“eBay. But that’s because Michael told me about it. What I liked about the stories was they were funny — but dramatic . Right?”

“That’s sort of what I was trying to do.”

“Well you succeeded, in spades . Like until James Perse I could never find a decent t-shirt or hoodie. I was like, Really? The universe senses shit, the need for certain shit, and poof , one day there’s a guy named James Perse who steps up to fill the whatever need. Anyway, here’s the deal: my little brother has an idea for a drama , it’s a little morbid , I don’t understand it, but that wouldn’t be the 1st time I didn’t understand something Biggie came up with, nor will it be the last. I don’t ever want to bet against my brother. So what I’d like, is for you two to meet. It can be one time or you could meet ten times, doesn’t matter, hell, if you get along, we’ll just move you in! Then after you meet with my brother and you’ve got it all in your head, I’d like you to write up a little story for a screenplay based on the idea. Right? See I don’t mean to keep repeating myself but just because I don’t get this particular idea doesn’t mean shit . In fact, it almost makes me think more highly of it. All I know is I have a duty to honor my little brother, honor his genius. I need to follow through on anything he presents. Right?”

“Sure. You said write up a story, do you mean an outline?”

Outlines were always freebies, another way the writer got grinded. You worked your ass off giving away your best ideas, because they knew you weren’t in the position to say no.

“I can do that.”

“I don’t need an outline. That’s not what I meant. Look, Michael spoke very highly of you, & Michael’s a genius. I don’t need you to audition . Who’s your agent again?”

Bud blurted out “CAA.”

“O right — Rod Fulbright. I’ll have business affairs call. Contact Biggie directly and set up a time to get together. Shelby’ll give you his email. He’s a very special kid. I think the two of you might hit it off.”

. .

He picked up a frantic caregiver message on his way home. Dolly had fallen and was at the Cedars ER. He turned the car around.

Bud noted how calm and steady he was. So this is it. He played out the scenario in his head. He would park in one of the spots reserved for ambulances, the scofflaw act of an anguished family member. He would walk into the waiting room with a loping, dignified gait. The first person he’d see would be the distraught caregiver kneading her hands and gnashing her teeth. “Ine sorry, Meester Bud! Ine sorry!”—because as much as old people fear falling, caregivers fear being blamed for allowing it to happen. In the low, calm tone of a minister, Bud would tell her it was OK, it couldn’t be helped, it would have happened sooner or later, there was nothing to be done. It isn’t your fault. He would approach the maitre d’ER and ask to speak with a nurse. When the RN came, he would say that he was the son of the old woman the paramedics brought in, the woman who fell. An inscrutable flicker would cross the nurse’s face. She would tell Bud to wait a moment, and vanish — then reappear, saying, “Dr. Weymouth wants to talk to you.” The security guard would allow Bud passage to the ER and the same nurse would lead him into a small lounge just off from the general commotion. The doctor would say, “I’m afraid that your mother didn’t make it. She took a very nasty fall. When she fractured the hip — it was broken on both sides by the way — I think what happened was just a very small amount of fat wiggled loose from the bone marrow, formed an embolus and entered the bloodstream, traveling to the lung. Which was ultimately what killed her.”* Bud would thank the doctor, who himself was relieved to be dealing with a sane and sensible relative rather than a hysteric. “How old was she, 90?” “92,” Bud would say. “That’s a pretty great run. I’ve seen folks her age try to mend from something like this. It isn’t pretty. I hate to use cliché but she’s in a better place now, that’s for sure.” Bud’s rejoinder would be “Let’s hope so,” and the doctor would smile, appreciating the hint of dark humor. Maybe the doctor had even read his book of short stories way back when. He would ask Bud if he’d like to spend some time with her alone and Bud would say yes. The doctor would disappear for a moment before returning to tell him it would be just a few minutes, the nurses were “cleaning her up, getting rid of all those tubes” and Bud should have a seat in the waiting room. Not wanting to encounter the caregivers — not having the energy to tell them of Dolly’s demise and endure further histrionics — he would quietly step outside. There’d be a smoker there and Bud would ask for a cigarette. He hadn’t smoked in 30 years. The smoke would feel good in his lungs. He would thank him, then stroll into the perfect Santa Ana-ruffled night air, toward Jerry’s Deli. May as well have a sandwich before seeing the body. The paramedics were putting a gurney back into their truck. Bud would overhear one of them say “Jesus, could that old bitch scream .” “You’d scream too if two inches of bone was sticking out of your skin.” “It sounded like an animal being slaughtered… incorrectly .” “You’d think the Dilaudid would have chilled her out.” “O shit ,” one would say. “I never pushed it! Fuck! She started gurgling blood & I had to deal with it — so I never fucking pushed the Dilaudid!” Bud had already ducked into shadow. “Whoa!” “You have got to keep that between you and me.” “Don’t worry about it. I did that same shit 3 weeks ago. I literally hadn’t slept in 48 hours.” “Fuck. How long did it take to get her from the house to here?” His partner punched a few numbers into his phone. “53 minutes! Cause she wouldn’t stabilize? Then we had to bounce her down those stairs. . 53 minutes, with nothing for pain!” The paramedics would devolve into laughter and grannyfuck jokes and Bud would snuff the cig. On his way back inside he would think about calling his mother’s attorney. He would want to get the ball rolling on the inheritance but didn’t want to come off as mercenary. He would decide that the way to handle it was to call in the morning to inform of Dolly’s passing under the pretext of inviting him to the small service to be held at her interment. Bud actually hadn’t even thought about a service, and would probably only end up having one if the attorney said he could make it. Back in the ER, an orderly would lead him to her draped enclosure, then make a hasty, respectful exit. There she would lie with a bluish tinge, a large patch covering where the bone broke thru. Her muff would be partially displayed — that old woman concentration camp corpse-muff, a dead bush still compelling him to look.