Bruce Wagner - Dead Stars

Bud’s gut tightened as the boy flew up to hover over the building — all the shitty AC units, litter and sandwich wrappers left by slobby workmen — then up they went, hundreds of miles above the earth, back to the caves of Vietnam.

“Can you find your way out?”

Bud was so engrossed in his tech-triggered reveries that for a moment, he thought the boy was saying something about the cave or the script or the process.

“Yes! Right. Sure.” Biggie was already cursor-deep in his spelunking dance. “I guess I’ll call you after I read it.”

“Or come by. Just email that you want to come by.”

Bud shook his hand again; this time there was even less of the boy behind it than before. Then he left the room.

Biggie called out:

“You’re not listed on Wikipedia. Why don’t you have an entry?”

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Mr.

Wiggins drove home from Yogurtland, tweaking the satellite radio. He had the 60s on 6 channel on, without sound. It said THE TURTLES, Happy Together (1965). Almost fifty years ago — the music of his youth. The aged screenwriter remembered being 13. At 13, fifty years ago meant Charlie Chaplin and the vague beginnings of forever-vague World War 1, the general mist of what may as well have been pre-history. Now, fifty years ago meant Manson and “The 59th Street Bridge Song (Feelin’ Groovy).” So it fucking goes.

He sorted through the mail as he walked from the lobby down the hallway to Apt #4—the usual Bed, Bath & Beyond coupons, junk flyers and come-ons printed on shit paper, take-out menus for a local Chinese, a local pizza, a not so local Thai.

He fished a stately little card from the pile:

Dear Dolly,

For a variety of reasons, more and more people are choosing cremation over traditional funeral arrangements. As they plan their final wishes and needs, almost 50 % of Californians have selected cremation as their preference! The numbers are increasing every year!

Bud already did the legwork. A downtown mortuary called Armstrong would pick the body up, haul it to Orange County for burning then tote the ashes back for a loved one to pick up, all for just a bit over 600 bucks. Urns started at $200, hardly worth it since Dolly had always expressed an interest in being buried at sea. If you weren’t a big urner , they’d throw in a plastic box, gratis. His research extended to hospices as well. Veritas had a lot of good online feedback. The minute Dolly’s doctor called to say the old gal didn’t have more than six months, RNs would descend upon the apartment to make sure she was pain-free and comfortable as possible. Bud liked hospices’ general approach — doping patients to make them comfortable, which invariably hastened death. No one likes a long, drawn-out demise.

Her bank statement (Wells Fargo) was hidden between the coupons and throwaways. Bud waited until he was in the foyer to open the envelope. His mother’s balance was $1,384,411.08, even more than he recalled. Boy, that interest really mounts up. He wondered what it would be like to have interest work for you and not against you. What a concept.

Bud wanted to go to bed early. He climbed the stairs to say goodnight. He couldn’t wait to tell her that she could suspend his allowance because he just got a job, a real job, a writing job, but now wasn’t the time. She’d probably say something withering anyway. Still, nothing could change the fact that a hot production company commissioned him to write a feature. His world had been stood on end; he could even tell people he was with CAA and not be lying.

Marta was at her “station” in the dining room, studying a bible. She was a robust, cheerful Salvadoran mother of five and grandmother of 12 who praised god and suffered no fools. She was an ardent churchgoer and as far as Bud was concerned, a living saint. Marta actually slept in bed with her employer during the week — Bud guessed that was a cultural mother-veneration thing, but it still blew his mind — worrying that if Big Baby needed her in the middle of the night, the monitor might not be loud enough to wake her. Marta took off weekends to spend time with her family, which was tough because Dolly hated the other caregivers. If she gave the fill-ins too hard a time, Bud would have to call Marta, who’d drop what she was doing and rush over to admonish, soothe and sweet-talk. By the time she left, Big Baby was so docile that she practically goo-goo ’d.

He poked his head in. Dolly was asleep in a chair in front of the TV. Her mouth was open and Bud softened; the face looked like a death mask. Poor Dolly — solitary, snobbish, sadistic, rancorous Dolly. Bud still marveled at how she hadn’t cultivated a single friend in half-a-century. A true misanthrope. Her parents never showed affection of any kind so it was no wonder she was clueless. As one therapist after another had inculcated Bud, she’d done the best that she could . She’d worked like a dog in retail for more than half a century, squeezing out every dollar she could, accruing bonus upon bonus, bending, twisting and torturing the percentages in her favor, scrimping and saving and going without just as her own mother had during the Depression. One of her most striking memories as a little girl was getting scarlet fever; the health department taped the doors and windows, quarantining her family inside. She never forgot the shame of being forced to accept charity — baskets of food left on the doorstep by neighbors in the early morning. And oh how they hated the Jews in Urbana-Champaign. How they hated us!

He was touched that the Universe saw fit to provide Dolly with her first real mother — Marta Morales — at the tail end of her life. She called her Big Baby, and Dolly called her Mama, for real. They had a secret language and laughed at a thousand private things. Better late than never. Bud would be lucky to find his own Marta toward the end.

He was about to back out of the room when she stirred, as if sensing his presence.

“Bud?”

“Hi Mom.”

“Hi! What time is it?”

“Only seven. I’m going to sleep early.”

“That sounds like a wonderful idea.” Her head remained fixed but her eyes lasciviously raked him over. “You’re handsome, and you know it. That beautiful jaw —those lips . You really kind of turn me on.”

He was determined not to tell her about the gig until they cut him a check.

“Last night I woke up with tears in my eyes. I teared up over your father. Can you imagine? I didn’t think I had it in me. I think it was because I was watching America’s Most Talented , & the ventriloquist was singing with the frog. They were singing that song, ‘Crying Over You.’ Do you know it?”

Dolly was focused on the television. Michael Douglas was being interviewed about The Treasure of Sierra Leone .

“Bud…” He recognized it as her dark conspiracy voice. “Do you think he’s not telling the truth? ”

“Who?”

“Michael Douglas .”

That familiar inflection of groundless contempt.

“About what?”

“I just think he’s… got it. I think it came back .”

“Why would he lie?”

“Who knows . And that nut he’s married to — he can sure pick em. I think she wants him to have it — the cancer. Because then she’ll get all the money. She’s no dummy. He’s an old man, Bud! She’s still young . You can’t fault her for that. Do you know what old men smell like? In bed? The farts and the breath ? Well I can tell you. Because that was my thing after I divorced your father. The old men were my thing . I was looking for money .”