Bruce Wagner - Memorial

CHESS was mostly looking forward to Varanasi — Benares? — the holy city where Indians went to die. That’s where Siddhartha hung; the Bodhi Tree was just a few hundred miles away. There were these places called the Deer Park and the Forest of Bliss that he wanted to check out. Laxmi said that after Shakyamuni Buddha became enlightened, he met up with some ol compadres, just like Jesus did with his dissipes. The Deer Park is where the Buddha did his satsang and told everyone to chill, and not be so extreme. Laxmi said the Brits built an opium factory nearby, back in the 1800s. It was supposedly still in operation. Fuck it. He’d do without.

He would wear a Muslim skullcap and coat his body in powdered vermilion like the guy from Entourage. He hoped there would be temple bombings. None of it concerned him. He’d recite verses from Kabir and the Koran, and bow down in the Kashi Viswanath, the Gyanvapi. He would offer Vicodin (750 mg) to the armed guards. Something inside began to shift and he envisioned himself outside the perverse damaged country of his birth, country of warmongers no longer his own, country of the armies of the night that raped dementia’d old ladies in oilhiked steelcage lavatories. Just being there — Mother India — would be to matriculate with cubenses. So vast! Sure there’d be troubles, he wasn’t so naive to think otherwise, he’d probably get hep or typhus but trouble in Paradise was different than trouble in Hell. India would be the matrix of his new birth, his rebirth and death. Being there would be like going with Her, ruler of plants and imperial troops, his betrothed. He would ride on Her wedding train and soon they

visited every day at Golden Grove Assisted Living (a bit of a misnomer because it was sprawling and there was a wing, a separate building actually, for those who needed far more than that— Night of the Assisted Living Dead. Some were in vegetative states, but the 2 communities did not intersect), the place where Marj had been transferred after a 3 day stint at St John’s.

GG had a warm swimming pool and Wellness Community Village where clients practiced yoga and handicrafts. Doctors and nurses 24/7. Bright commissary (“Rick’s Café”) with waiters and tablecloth coverings and often a pianist. You could be served in your room if you weren’t feeling up to it but that was discouraged. The staff felt it important you socialize. Socialization was the amulet to ward off depression.

Joan didn’t want her mother to be there. She’d gone house-hunting in Santa Monica (a Craftsman on Marguerite) and high in the Malibu Hills — and even thought of buying a lot off Sawtelle that ARK could build upon from her own design — old-money folks did that, Ann Janss had lived over there for years — because everything was so costly and she didn’t want to shoot her wad. (There were a thousand places for $12,000,000.) Anyway, she couldn’t make her move until the baby was born and the money came; they would have to find a rental. She just didn’t want her in Golden Grove; Mom deserved so much more. She would not leave her there in this time of life, in this time of Joan’s life.

Occasionally Marj asked to see her son but she asked to see Ham and Ray and Lucas and Bonita and Jeffrey Chandler as well.

THEN something happened that was beyond comprehension.

Barbet had her mom’s Jil Sander coat, he brought it to the dry cleaners, emptying the pockets beforehand, and that was when he found the LOVE IS AROUND THE CORNER fortune with 03 15 25 36 38 18, and the lottery ticket Marj got at Riki’s on the day of her assault, the ticket with those very numbers. She must have bought it right before she took the bus to Long Beach, and Barbet checked, for the hell of it — she’d won. No one had come forward in 3 weeks and for the hell of it he checked and they were the numbers that won. He told Joan and she thought he was kidding. They drove down to Riki’s and doublechecked, and it was true, no one could believe it, there was the widow and son, they checked the numbers in the machine while Joan reminded them who she was (of course they remembered) — Marjorie Herlihy was her mom. They knew that something bad had happened to the wonderful old lady, they knew about the beating and the fire but not the recent calamity, and Joan just said Mom had been ill, and staying with her, and would be so happy about this, the widow and son were happy too, they were waiting for the person to come with the ticket and now here it was — their friend, their neighbor — now here was the daughter of the woman who had treated them so well. They loved her mother, and were going to get lots of money for having sold the winning ticket, a 173,000,000 dollar Super Lotto with an immediate cash payout, if you so chose, of about half, something in that area, all too much to take in.

On the way back to the hotel, they were giddy yet still somehow doubtful so Joan called the PI who by now had become a kind of friend-on-retainer, and he said Jesus, he would do some checking, then phoned right back, Jesus, oh Jesus yes! it was true, absolutely, and they called Joan’s lawyer and everyone examined the development like wide-eyed kids finding buried backyard treasure, it was true, a lump 93,000,000 after taxes or something like 10,000,000 a year for 20 years if they so chose (they didn’t) and still no one could really believe it. No one. They soon gathered in Century City and got the lottery folks on speakerphone, told them the situation because the attorneys were mindful of what had happened and didn’t want Joan to dissemble, no reason, it could definitively be proven, regardless of Mrs Herlihy’s current mental state, that she was the daughter and rightful heir. Plus, she had POA. The widow and son confirmed that Marj had been a fixture there (lately supplanted by emissaries, added Joan), choosing numbers from a ragged fortune cookie paper strip (the one she got at the end of her dinner with AKA Lucas Weyerhauser, though not quite the same since she had altered the very last digit, a detail that no one would ever trace as a commemorative of the year Marj went to Bombay with her father; otherwise many would have won, having selected that particular computer-generated sequence, which had been dispersed to Chinese restaurants state-and nationwide, that explained the solo win, the changing of the last digit, because the lottery people said otherwise they would have seen a pattern, there had been mass fortune cookie — selected winners before) and the lawyers wanted to confirm there would be no problems linked to Mrs Herlihy’s current physical or mental health, and the State said, with what seemed to Joan, some whimsy or State Fair abandon, that Marj was “a winner,” but they might want or need a photograph of the “lucky girl” for publicity purposes — of course respecting her current delicate situation — Joan’s lawyers didn’t assent to anything right away, though their client said it might be fun to bring in “hair and makeup” to Golden Grove and make a big to-do, her mom might like that, the lawyers didn’t immediately assent, trained not to do or say anything with undue speed, yet also trained not to be heavyhanded, especially when clients expressed warm or playfully harmless desires, all very friendly, in the outrageous spirit of what had happened the lawyers wanted everything kept amenable, which it was, and would remain, courtesy of AKA Lucas Weyerhauser, whereabouts unknown — Det Whitsell especially got a kick out of the development — AKA Lucas Weyerhauser, whose trail was being eagerly followed by all manner of high- and low-priced dicks. Nobody was ever to learn that the numbers from the cookie he gave her that very special night (she hadn’t been out to dinner with a man in God knew how long) were the very same Marj had fixated on; everyone thought the sweet treat came from local delivery. Marj was known to order in. No one would ever uncover the source of her insanely macabre windfall: a final, maddening, karmic reversal of fortune.