Bruce Wagner - Memorial

“Listen, Lotus Girl”—she smiled when he called her that—“believe it or not but I’ve actually watched that show, and everyone seems to have a good time. Even the so-called Vics. I think I was kind of an aberration. An anomaly, whatever. Shit happens. Right? So don’t get your hippie head in a lather — just go for it. If it’s gonna help you finish your book, do what’s necessary. TCB. Elvis out. Do what you gotta do.”

“Oh my God, Chester, that is so understanding of you.” She hugged him close. “That is so heartfelt. I would never do anything to hurt you. You have to know that!”

“I do, honey. I do.”

He poured water over the teabags.

“And I just didn’t want to lie. I had to talk to you about it.”

“It’s totally OK.” They sat on the couch. “And thank you.”

He took some more pills. They relit and smoked the joint.

He took her to dinner that night at the Polo Lounge. Brett Ratner, Jake Gyllenhaal, and Jay-Z were there, at separate bar booths; it was kind of a scene. (She wanted to go to the Dime but he didn’t think they could get in.) He was doing all right with his pain. Chess ordered an expensive bottle of wine to celebrate her getting the gig, and him getting the 10K from his mom.

“ARE you Marj?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Bonita Billingsley — a friend of Lucas’s.”

The woman was dressed in YSL. She was in her early 60s.

“Oh! Hello!”

“I’m from Ojai. I’m a Blind Sister!”

“Oh! Dear! Yes! Lucas said he drove up to see you.”

“He did, and made me very happy. So: how does it feel to be filthy rich?” she said, eyes agleam.

“Well, I don’t feel filthy just yet…but I’m looking forward to it!”

The woman had an easy laugh.

Marj invited her in.

She looked all around. “What a beautiful house! Is your husband here? I don’t want to interrupt.”

“He passed, about a year ago.”

“I am so sorry —mine did too. On the 18th, it’ll be 3 years. ‘18 holes,’ ” she said, whimsically. “He loved to golf.”

“So did my Hamilton.”

She admired Marjorie’s wedding ring, which the old woman never removed — a fire opal surrounded by diamonds that reminded her of “the color of my beloved India.” Once she said it, she sounded hopelessly pretentious. Marj realized how nervous she was; she wasn’t used to being social.

“You’ve been?” asked the visitor, with eager respect.

“Oh yes — but not in a while.”

“I’ve always wanted to go, but I guess I’ve been a little scared.”

“I’m planning another trip.”

“Well, maybe you and me should hit the road!”

Marj smiled — maybe so.

“My friend Cora and I call this ‘Widow Street,’ ” she said, bringing them back to commonground. “Cora lives next door. And there’s a gal across the way whose husband died just a few months ago — we’re not that close.”

“Fred had stomach cancer. The kids were there — all 4 of em, at bedside. But I was working, back east. I’m a sales rep. Well, I was. Not anymore! I really kicked myself that I wasn’t with him when he left us, but then Lucas —Mr Weyerhauser —read me something a great guru said. Yogananda. Have you heard of him?” Marj looked quizzical, but reflected back that same sort of civil curiosity the woman had earlier demonstrated. “He wrote The Autobiography of a Yogi.”

“Oh my, yes!” exclaimed Marj, involuntarily touching her visitor’s arm. “The Self-Realization Fellowship — I’ve been to Sunday services there. Beautiful.”

“Aren’t they glorious? Krishnamurti lived in Santa Barbara — that’s where we’re from, originally. Lucas showed me a passage in the book where Yogananda said that he wasn’t at his guru’s side when he passed and felt just awful about it. But then Yogananda realized it was the grace of God that allowed him not to be there at the end, to spare him the suffering of seeing his teacher die. (That’s how I think of husbands and all kind of folks — our own personal gurus, warts and all.) Well, when I read that, poof! It made everything all right. I felt 100 % better. The guilt just washed away. And I don’t mean to be sacrilegious, but I think it’s by the grace of God that we were selected for this marvelous gift. I just wish Fred were here to play with some of my new toys. He would love the new Lexus. My gosh — when you back up, a little TV shows how close you are to the car behind. Warning whoops and everything! Fred hated the way I parallel-parked!”

How strange — Marj recalled her neighbor going on about the very same thing. That’s how we seemed to advance, in America; if you heard about enough people having something, why, eventually you just had to have it yourself.

Bonita went on to say that she’d won an “enormous” amount in “the shadow” and there was a great big party being thrown in New York for the “Sisters”—in about 2 weeks’ time. Hadn’t Lucas mentioned it? (She made no bones about having a crush on him.) She said the Blind Sisters was the most exclusive “country club” in America, and the State of New York was chartering a jet to fly in the winners. Everyone was “bunking” at the Four Seasons here in LA the night before, so “we can all get to know each other.”

“There’s going to be a fancy dinner at Spago.”

“I hadn’t heard,” said Marj, with a smile.

“On Saturday! Did you apply for the Expedited Award Program?” The old woman was nonplussed. “I gave Lucas a check when he came up — for the Windfall Tax. Almost killed me to write it. But within 72 hours, the 1st payment was wired directly to my account, just like he said: $1,140,000. Marj, I nearly fainted!” The women cooed like pigeons. Then Bonita asked, “How much did you win?”

Marj didn’t want to say; a shyness born from her upbringing when it came to things like money.

“I hope my question wasn’t impertinent!”

“No! Not at all—”

“Oh, I understand!” she said, patting Marjorie’s hand. “I didn’t want to tell anyone about it — in fact, Lucas warned me not to, he was very serious about that — until I actually drew the money out. That’s when it became… real.” Her eyes teared up and Marj handed her some Kleenex.

Then, realizing she might have appeared vulgar, the guest grew contrite. “I’m sorry if I busted in on you.”

“It’s fine. It’s really fine!”

Now it was the old woman’s turn to feel sorry. The last thing she wanted was to come across as “hoity.” She reached out and patted Bonita’s hand.

“It’s just that I’ve been so happy!” said her visitor. “So excited —and I haven’t had anyone to share…”

Marj wanted to “open up,” but felt constrained for a tangle of reasons. She let Bonita talk, grateful for the compensatory rush of words.

“It’s just — I know miracles happen, but I never thought they would happen to me. I’m not a young woman but I’m not ready to die either. I want to go places and do things and meet people I would never have gotten the chance to meet. Do you see that car?” She pointed out the window. “It’s an SUV hybrid. I paid for it in cash. I have never paid cash for anything in my life. Can you understand? Do you know where I drove it today? To Children’s Hospital. I sat in the lobby awhile and just listened. I learned more about suffering in those few hours than I have in a lifetime, and my life hasn’t been a cakewalk. But I’ve never — knock on wood — had to suffer through the sickness of a child. I went to the bank and came back to the Ronald McDonald’s — where the families stay while their kids have the chemo — that same afternoon. Gave out little packets: $5,000 each. And the nurses who work so hard got their packets too, oh yes. They are unsung! You cannot imagine how that made me feel.”