Bruce Wagner - Memorial

Maybe Ray was even a grandfather now, the thought of which compounded his remorse. At the same time, the possibility made it easier to distance himself. There were so many chasms to cross. He could do some of that in his head, too old for the rest. What was the point of raking himself over the coals? There was a whole horde out there just like him: the gimpy fellow you passed on the sidewalk, the lonesome-looking lady boozer waiting for the light to change. Everyone had a history. Still, a divorce or even the death of a child was one thing but the deliberate amputation of a life, 2 lives, a wounding of innocents through absence born of self-indulgence, cowardice, or plain perversity was a cardinal sin. You heard about those sort of people but mostly they were mentally ill, vagrants or jail faces. At the end of his tug-of-war, Raymond Rausch considered himself an ordinary retiree who’d grown insular, dependent upon his dog and a woman from a country that was as exotic as whatever high tone beachside town he fantasized harbored Marj’s new life. Maybe the kids lived in Europe, where they’d been to boarding school, and learned other languages. They could have become doctors or lawyers. Chester might even be working for the ACLU! Wouldn’t that be something…Or maybe Marjorie was dead — again, he crossed himself. Joanie and Chester would probably spit if they saw him on the street. Not that they’d know who he was. He’d have to be wearing a sandwich board saying JOAN AND CHESTER RAUSCH’S FATHER, WITH THE DNA TO PROVE IT.

Ghulpa sensed his reflective mood and let him be. He sat in front of the TV eating lentils and rice. A great Cold Case was on. Somewhere in California. Marine has a fight with his pregnant wife. Leaves the house to go to Jack in the Box and cool off. 10 or 11 at night. Only gone about 45 minutes but in that time, a serial killer breaks in and bashes his old lady in the head. Rapes her. Later, neighbors say the Marine and his wife fought a lot. The swabbed semen belongs to just 15 % of the population — the Marine being in that group. (The days before DNA.) Wife loses the kid but survives. Her short-term memory isn’t so good but she remembers all the trouble between them and tells police that he did it. They lock his ass away. After 4 years in San Quentin, the guy says one day his body begins to shake so violently that he decides to throw himself off the tier and end it. That’s when the lightbulb goes off: he’s in prison for a reason, and everything will sort itself out. 16 years go by. It’s friggin Papillon. The Cold Casers finally get on it. Track down the real killer, currently in the penitentiary, a black sonofabitch who bashed in ladies’ heads. That was his MO — bash and rape. Killed about 7 of ’em. The Basher and the Cold Casers have a heart-to-heart. They tell him he’s done a lot of bad things in his life that he can’t make good. But there’s one case where he still can make a difference. Ask him about the Marine. Turns out the Basher’s a Marine too. Tells the cops it was the only one of his crimes that ever really bothered him — because a fellow Marine had been falsely accused. Semper Fidelis! He confesses, and they release the husband. State gives him a hundred dollars a day for all the years of incarceration. Something like that. Comes out to $600,000. He cuts a check to the lawyer for 200 grand and blows the rest in the stock market. “If God wanted me to be rich, I’d win the lottery. So it’s not that big a deal. But paycheck to paycheck that’s my life back, my prayer. And that’s what I got.” He’s free.

Ghulpa joined him for the last 15 minutes of the program.

“They broke in your house too,” she said sagely, before collecting his bright orange bowl for a refill. “Just like that monster. Don’t you forget it.”

Ray said he wanted to visit Friar in the morning.

He was going to take him home, no matter what the doctors said.

CHESS enjoyed not returning Maurie’s calls.

Laxmi came by a few times, with raw foods and various herbal concoctions. Shit like Gaba, Traumeel, and L-Tryptophan. They smoked dope together, and in the back of his mind he always thought something sexy might go down. (He let her rub the Traumeel on his shoulders but nothing “happened.”) He told her not to tell Maurie she was visiting and Laxmi seemed cool with the request. Not because they were doing anything illicit — it just wasn’t anybody’s business. Though maybe he shouldn’t have voiced that; he doubted if she’d already blabbed but wondered all the same. (Maybe his remark would give her an incentive.) Chess didn’t even really know if she and the Jew were still “together.” Since Laxmi hadn’t said anything to the contrary, they probably were. He could just see them patching things up — if the guy laid another half-grand on her, she’d chill right out.

That isn’t fair. Laxmi wasn’t like that. She’s a good girl. Must be the pain talking.

It wasn’t until after she left that Chess realized he hadn’t been turned on by the minimassage, and that spooked him. Could be the fistfuls of vikes he was taking…or maybe it was nerve damage. The nerves that feed my dick. It was so fucked up.

Some functionary from Friday Night Frights called to ask about getting the tape back. He couldn’t believe they’d be that cheap — maybe it was a legal thing. But the guy was asking about a 2nd tape, the one “sent by mistake.” The dumbfuck asked him to leave it by the door for a messenger to pick up. Chess didn’t even get the chance to say what the fuck are you talking about.

He searched the big envelope the compilation DVD and his “audition” tape had arrived in, and there it was, overlooked. Chess remembered clocking the 2nd tape subliminally, then being so thrown by the veterinary clinic clip that he forgot it was there.

He popped it in the VCR.

There was Maurie, in-studio, talking to camera in the role of Perp — laying out the patsy game.

I’ve known Chester a long time. We’re buds. I’m a director and I usually have him do all my location scouting. I think lately his life is on the dull side — I don’t think he’d mind a little spicing up.

“On the dull side.” The motherfucker. “Buds.” What did that mean? Like some word out of Fast Times at Ridgemont High. “I’m a director.” Right, you’re Ridley fuckin Scott. “I usually have him do all my location scouting.”

Mah nigger!

THEY met at a patisserie on Doheny called In Conversation. Mr DeConcini was early and stood to greet him at a tiny outside table, sympathetically watching his client move slowly toward him, clearly in distress. They shook hands and Chess winced from the strength of the grip. He got a stabbing pain. The attorney apologized.

Remar was bald, black, buff, and gay, one of those aggressive queers in delicate, rimless glasses that you don’t want to tangle with. Chess was right — the lawyer confirmed he’d been tipped by someone on the show. They chitchatted before the plaintiff gave the waiter his order: orange juice, latte, chocolate croissant. He knew the breakfast was a freebie.

Remar asked for an egg-white omelet, and red Tabasco.

“You know, this is really a growth industry in terms of recent litigation. Some of these shows are just outrageous! It’s not just the injuries — which many people don’t even report, because they wind up, for God knows what reason, still consenting to be on the broadcast. That’s America — we love to be on television! The fame game. Born and bred for it. I think it’s one thing if you’re a 19 year old kid and all your friends watch this garbage and somehow it’s cool to be made a jackass. When you’re 19 you’ve got a whole different mind- and body-set, you’re out there on weekends indulging in dubious activities anyway — I know I was! — skateboarding, gettin concussions, whatever. So you’re used to being knocked around. But it’s something else entirely if you’re an adult person, fully grown, awakening each day with the reasonable expectation one’s privacy is not going to be violated in an egregious, frivolous manner, for the sport of others. How old are you, Chester?”