Bruce Wagner - Memorial

Straddling him, grunting, her sweat-beaded bindi like a tear in the 3rd eye, Ray Rausch wondered if his brush with death had made Ghulpa affectionate this way; accelerating the process, so to speak. He could smell the Cadbury on her breath but they didn’t kiss that much during the act, more with lips than tongues. (Indian gals sure loved their Cadburys.) He remembered that 1st day on the pier, he had wondered about her, if she was a loose woman, because her purse gaped and he caught a glimpse of a toiletry bag, zipper half-open as well, stocked with toothbrush, toothpaste, and tampons. Later, he realized most Indian ladies carried that sort of thing — and loved their sweets. Big Gulp always talked about having “floss on bamboo sticks” back in Calcutta. It took him a heck of a while to realize she meant cotton candy.

That was how it happened: dark, fathomless, Ghulpa’s almond eyes whitening in their sockets toward the end as he felt himself seize inside her while she clawed his gray-haired chest, threadbare patches from where bandages and EKG suction “thingies” (BG’s favorite word) had been roughly ripped away. He had the fleeting thought he might have another heart attack — die in the saddle — but there was no pain, only surprise, and then he felt the dig of her nails, that was what hurt, finally grabbing her tiny hands so she’d lighten up just a little. That’s when she seized, slowly arching her head, which ever so slowly came back down to bobblesmile its naughtily sated sumptuously wayward Cadbury grin. Everything old is new again.

Ghulpa went to the powder room and after a minute returned with a hot cloth. She wiped him down then covered her man up in the thin Target comforter just like swaddling a baby. She disappeared again and he lay there dreamy as a girl. When she came back, BG turned on his television, kissed his cheek, and went to the kitchen to cook. He felt mannish, restful, and comfortable in full measure.

Tomorrow they would visit Nip/Tuck at the animal hospital on Sepulveda. It was a long haul. The fellow in the paper was right, they ought to build monorails in LA, not subways. Subways are for cold climates. Wouldn’t it be a hoot to hop a monorail and see the Friar? Chess and Joanie loved the ones at Disneyland. He’d heard there were monorails in Vegas now. He mightily missed that dog. The Friar was gonna get himself a hero’s welcome, for sure — their lawyer had suggested piñatas and party hats. It was the 1st damn thing Ray and the man could agree on.

The smell of spices wafted in and he heard Big Gulp singing.

“IDON’T understand you, man,” said Maurie. “Why wouldn’t you agree to sign the form?”

“Because I look like an asshole. Do you think I want the world to watch me pissing my pants?”

“You can’t even see that. It’s too dark.”

“Fuck off, Maurie.”

“Did you tell them you hurt your back?”

There was something accusatory in his tone that Chester didn’t like.

“Yeah, I told them I hurt my back. Cause I did. It’s cut up from the glass and I’ve got a weird pain.”

“You always have a weird pain. Just take your Vicodin like a good little boy.”

“I can’t believe you did that, man. I might have to get a fucking epidural. My mother’s dead husband used to get epidurals and he was in his fucking 70s.”

“Then see a chiropractor. Shit, Laxmi’ ll give you a massage, she’s got a certificate. Stop being such a baby! Look, we each got a little bread for our trouble. How bad can it be?”

Friday Night Frights gave them 15-hundred apiece. Maurie brought over a tape for him to watch, and the producers had been calling, eager for Chess to sign a waiver. They backed off when he said he’d injured himself. (Don Knotts’s daughter had already provided the number of her acupuncturist.) He wondered if he needed an X-ray. Maybe he should just go to an ER. Someone from the legal department of FNF had phoned as well, trying to make nice. The cunt said she could maybe “find” 25-hundred dollars if he’d agree to absolve them of responsibility. Chess had been in enough fender-benders to know better. Did they think he was stupid? It was tricky and bogus, and tweaked his mood.

“What about your Manson girlfriend?” said Chess.

He wouldn’t say it directly but felt grossly betrayed by Laxmi’s participation in the stunt. Blindsided and humiliated. All of his fantasies had been shot down — her involvement was a major hard-off.

“It was a joke, Chess, OK? You’re the only one who doesn’t seem to get it. Plus, you got paid. Aren’t you the guy who’s always bitching about not making rent? You still owe me 7-fifty, if you haven’t forgotten.”

“So now you want your 7-fifty?”

“No, man. I’m just saying: I did it cause I thought it would help— everybody. OK? Things are a little tight with me right now too, OK? I thought it’d help us both.”

“I always pay my debts, Maurie. Haven’t I always paid back anything I’ve ever borrowed?”

“You’ve been really great about that,” said Maurie, in earnest. He seemed almost contrite. “And that’s not even the fucking point. Why are we talking about $750? You’re a friend, and would do the same for me. I don’t give a shit about that 7-fifty, OK? OK? We’ve been through a lot together. We’re gonna make a movie one day. OK? All right? We’ll make our Saw or our whatever. I just think you’re being a little prideful here, Chess. You said they offered you 25-hundred. Why don’t you just take it?”

“Because I don’t want to look like a schmuck. I don’t want this shit on cable or the Internet.”

“Maybe they’ll give it to you anyway. To make it go away. It’s a wash. They probably have a fund for that shit.”

“If they have a fund, they should give me 5.”

“Then ask for 5. But don’t get greedy or you’ll wind up with zip. You know, I’m thinkin about it, and I’m not even sure everyone agrees to be on…but you’d be nuts not to. It’s a goof —a goof that could put you 5 grand ahead. It’s not like you’re on Dateline, showing your schvanz to a tweener! It’s a hip show. People download it on their iPods.”

“Great.”

“You’re being way too serious about all this, Chester.”

“What did Laxmi get paid?”

“500.”

He shook his head disconsolately.

“Hey man, I’m sorry you whacked your back. OK? I don’t think you’re gonna wind up in a wheelchair, I really don’t. It’s all, like, no big deal. It’s only a big deal if you make it one.”

He told Chess to take an Ativan and chill. He left the tape, along with a DVD compilation of past Friday Night Frights.

CHESS watched a few oldies but goodies. The host was some faded TV star he couldn’t place. 1st he walked the audience through what they were about to see, to minimize viewer confusion — the FNF skateboarder demographic had total ADD. At the beginning of each segment, the camera freeze-framed on “Perp” (sometimes with an “Accomplice.” That would be Laxmi) and “Vic.” The Perps gave short interviews directly to camera saying why they thought it’d be fun to fuck with whatever friend they’d set up. People were thrown into incredibly well-choreographed, unnerving situations, which initially seemed absurd or unlikely to the home viewer but distressingly convincing to the Vic. Most of the stunt scenarios were drawn from the Texas Chainsaw/Alien canon — the effectively familiar date movie genre. Common themes were plague or radioactive outbreaks, creepy Village of the Damned kids with telekinetic powers, Big Foot/UFO shenanigans, and the like. The deranged serial killer motif was a fave. Chess hated to admit it but he became engrossed; from a purely psychological perspective it was amazing to watch how people reacted to life-threatening situations. He sat through 5 full half hours, astonished that none of the Vics— none of them —ran, not even when it seemed certain they were going to be slaughtered. Some froze in their tracks like the actors in Blair Witch, voices becoming eerily basso as they pleaded not to be hurt; others were manic and jokey, like the bespectacled nerds who get impaled in splatter films. A couple of them grew quietly grim and nonreactive, as if watching a movie in their heads, waiting for the part when they got killed. In one show, a Vic was about to be set on fire with a blowtorch by a disfigured Freddy Krueger type. Chester was blown away when the kid — who, earlier in the segment, before the shit hit the fan, revealed he had “taken the calling”—actually shouted, “Go ahead! Do it! Light me up! Cause I’m a Christian, and I’m goin to Heaven!” (Chess thought, That boy could really clean up on the evangelical circuit. All he’d have to do was run the clip at the Crystal Cathedral. ) Another thing he noted was how young everyone was, which explained why, when the Vics realized they’d been had—“Are you freaked out? Well, you shouldn’t be — you’re on Friday Night Frights!” —they were so quick to forgive after reflexive disbelief and rain of bleeped expletives. When teens got spooked or shamed (kind of where they lived anyway), they were resilient by nature and physical constitution, not to mention super-reactive to peer pressure. A teenager’s ego ultimately demanded he show himself to be a good sport or risk further abuse — there was no way his friends would allow him not to sign the release. Also, kids were less likely to have fucking heart attacks. That’s why Chess couldn’t understand why they went with a guy who’d hit 40. Must have been a programming aberration. He guessed they were trying something new but it sure as hell didn’t fly. The producers had to be kicking themselves; whoever hatched the bright idea was probably on his way to being terminated.