Bruce Wagner - Memorial

He looked at his own segment over and over, a hastily edited approximation of what would air. They had deliberately left out the part where Maurie said what a hoot it would be to fuck over his bosom buddy. (Also, the tape was unsweetened as yet by cheesy musical “stings.”) There he was, walking through the empty clinic, a cocky Judas (wasn’t Judas the New Saint?)…. Chester’s bit about the satanic ritual training video, and how the place looked like something out of Saw. …Laxmi’s stage-yelp at the crucified taxidermist’s dog. When the hollow-eyed, stringy-haired psycho appeared, he looked ridiculous, the acting campy beyond belief; Chess was shocked he hadn’t snapped to the put-on from the get-go. (But why the fuck would I?) Laxmi did seem genuinely distressed, gaze flitting between “the maniac” and Chester…he wondered if right then she was maybe having 2nd thoughts about the prank. That cunt. That stone pony stunt cunt. His heart sped up as the clip came to a close.

He put the tape on slo-mo, to see if he could catch the stain of urine on his trousers. Maurie was right — it wasn’t there, at least not at this resolution. They’d probably find a way to insert it digitally. If George Lucas could make whole movies of shit that didn’t even exist then some Geek Squader surely could figure out how to make it clear to the world that Chester Herlihy had peed himself.

SHE went to Riki’s for more lottery tickets but it was closed.

A news van was there. A tall white pole spiraled from its roof. A woman was interviewing people gathered outside. The storefront was plastered with flowers and handwritten notes. Marj asked someone what happened and a man said Riki had been shot last night. She started to faint; he lowered her to the sidewalk. The lady with the microphone came over. She kneeled beside Marj for an impromptu interview but a neighborhood girl shooed at her.

“Get away!” said the girl in anguish and disgust, blocking the cameraman’s view. “She’s old! Get out of here!”

The lady backed off with a phony, apologetic smile.

Marj thanked the girl, who then helped her up. She asked if there was anyone to call and Marj said no, she’d be fine, she just had the wind knocked out of her. The man who said Riki had been shot came over and that was when Marj saw the girl had been crying. The girl said she couldn’t believe someone would have killed such a good man, that he was her friend, if the killer had only asked, Riki would have given him money or food or whatever he needed. The man said he’d only been to the store twice but when he heard on the news what happened, he came right over. He said he was a poet and had gotten into a long, “erudite” conversation with Riki about Indian writers. He’d spent about an hour in the shop reading his own poems to the shopkeeper in between customers. He had already written some stanzas in memoriam. He pointed to the scribbles, a piece of paper wedged into the metal accordion fencing now surrounding the store’s facade. Votive candles burned weakly beneath yellow CRIME SCENE bunting.

As she slowly walked home, Marj thought about the sudden widow and the beautiful son. She wondered if they were hidden away in the store’s recesses or at the police station or at home. Maybe they were already doing a puja —she thought that was the word — a ceremony of mourning. Indians are so close-knit. She wondered how much of the family lived in Bombay and hoped they had lots of friends in the local Indian community who would comfort them. But how could anyone be comforted after something like that? It made her sick and she felt herself become faint again; she was almost home.

It was hard enough when Ham passed; still, that was natural, a natural death. She decided to offer them monetary help as soon as they resurfaced. Marj didn’t think they would be offended, and just now, didn’t care. It was what her heart told her to do. She could track them down through the police then thought it simpler to offer condolences when they came back to close shop. Though maybe they wouldn’t close; maybe they would persevere. Indian people were used to adversity. She truly hoped they’d stay on. The neighborhood wouldn’t be the same without them. Perhaps it was selfish of her. And that young girl — so sweet, and so touching! Riki had that kind of impact on the world. It broke her heart.

Cora was outside with Pahrump.

“Terrible!” she said. She had watched a news report about the murder. “Did you hear?”

“Yes! I was just there — I went to buy a ticket.”

“Was he black?”

For a moment, Marj was confused.

“I’m sure it was a black. Stinky, smelly animals.”

Pahrump darted this way and that, giving no indication he was ill. Cora leaned down and grabbed him.

“Did you see the collar? Steinie gave it to me. Don’t ask how it works but Steinie says that if Pahrump dares leave the yard — and you wouldn’t, would you, Rump? — a message pops up on his cellphone. You know how my son is with technical things…where he got the ability, I’m not sure. It certainly wasn’t his father, no no, it wasn’t Jerry. Jerry was a Samsonite, like the Unabomber!” She stroked behind the dog’s ears. “And if, God forbid, Pahrump should ever run away, Stein could use his phone to find him, just like one of those things they put on a car. A hijack or a low-jack or a whatever.” She laughed. “Stein says if I ever left him in the car — which will never happen — Marjorie, can you imagine me forgetting about my Rumper? Leaving him in a hot, stuffy car? Well, if ever I get Old Timer’s disease, the collar would call Steinie’s cellphone and let him know my Pahrump was hot under the collar. Don’t ask! I’m afraid Steinie is going to put one on me!”

Marj wobbled toward the house.

“Let’s go see a movie!” Cora called after her. “Let’s see what’s at the Pavilion.”

The old woman had turned away from her neighbor and was focused on getting to the front door.

“My poor Pahrump — he starts treatment tomorrow. Poor baby! You’re going to be a brave little soldier, aren’t you, Rumpus? You know why we named him Pahrump, Marjorie? Did I ever tell you? When Jerry and I bought him, it was Christmas-time. And Jerry always loved the ‘Drummer Boy’ song. That’s why we call him that: Pah rum-pum-pum-pum. Me and my drum. And because he’s got a tiny supermodel rump — don’t you, Rumpelstiltskin!”

Marj made a beeline for the La-Z-Boy. Her blouse was soaked in perspiration and after a minute or so, she was fast asleep.

IN bed with Pradeep at the Wyndham Bel Age — talking about Lew Freiberg.

Watching Larry King. The topic: migraines.

A few experts were on, plus a passel of longtime sufferers, including Larry’s wife (the old Jew had chutzpah ), and actress-turned-director Lee Grant.

“Did you see Lee Grant’s face?” said Joan, nonplussed.

“I tried not to look.”

“Did you see it was out of focus?”

“Not really.”

“Oh my God, Pradeep, look! You have to! It’s like that Woody Allen film! Pradeep, you have to look.”

She forced him. Larry King’s wife was on the left, in clear focus. Lee Grant was on the right — a blur.

“They have a gel on the lens!” she shrieked.

“The woman’s in New York. Maybe it’s a technical thingie.”

“That is insane. I am telling you they have something on the lens — or in front of it. She would have to have requested that. It’s the most bizarre thing I have ever seen.”