Bruce Wagner - Memorial

“You know,” said Chess. “I was thinking. I was wondering. About Dad.”

“Dad?”

She suddenly — wonder of wonders — realized he was stoned.

“Yeah. You know, Maurie told me he heard a story about Michael Bay — that director? He did Pearl Harbor and Armageddon. Maurie said that Michael Bay — and I don’t know if this is bullshit — Michael Bay found out his dad was John Frankenheimer, the guy who did the original Manchurian Candidate. He died last year or whenever. Supposedly he and Burt Lancaster were banging extras in their trailers during Seven Days in May. That was ’64 and Bay was born in ’65. Do the math. You know, I did some scouting for Path to War, this TV movie he did. Frankenheimer. He died on the table, I think, in the middle of surgery. They were operating on his spine — probably what’s going to wind up happening to me. I’ll kick, right on the table, with the bozo anesthesiologist snoring away. Do you have any idea how often that happens, Joan? I’ve really looked into this shit! They just kill you. End of story. You can be healthy as an ox and they accidentally kill you cause they had a fight with their girlfriend or they’re daydreaming about which satellite radio service to get or they’re pissed off because the guy at Cingular fucked up and deleted their BlackBerry addressbook. Anyway, I just thought the Michael Bay/Frankenheimer thing was weird. Maybe it’s one of those ‘urban movie myths.’ Like the gerbil. I don’t know if it’s true but it got me thinking about Dad. I mean, Bay and Frankenheimer are both action guys and they’re both alleged to be pricks. I mean, I don’t even know Michael Bay, and I really like his movies — not as much as I like the Scott brothers, but he’s fucking good —though I never heard anything great about him, personally. Not that that means anything. You always hear bad things about people then one day you work with them and they’re pussycats. So I don’t put all that much stock in gossip and shit. Still…I saw him over at the Sports Club LA and he seemed like a nice guy. I mean, he wasn’t going off on anybody. Very unassuming. Or maybe I saw Renny Harlin. No — it was definitely Bay. You know, come to think of it, Michael Bay kinda looks like Thom Mayne!”

“Oh Chess, come on,” she said, mildly exasperated.

“He does,” laughed Chess. “I swear! Not that making movies is a popularity contest. Most directors have prickly reputations. The good ones, anyway. But, Joanie, don’t you think that’s strange?”

“What are you saying, Chess? What’s strange.”

“Frankenheimer supposedly denied paternity to the bitter end — which would be cold, if it turned out to be true. Bay shoulda stole a cigarette or a coffee cup. They can extract DNA from that shit. Anyhow, it just made me wonder what the chances were that Dad was still in this city. Maybe even in the business. And he just doesn’t want to contact us.”

“Yeah, right. Maybe Dad’s George Lucas! You finally unraveled the secret, Chester! Our father is George Lucas! Or Frank Gehry! Maybe Dad’s Frank Gehry! No—” (time for her to get in a zinger of her own) “—he’s a location scout. That’s it! Dad’s the Location Scout King!”

“OK, Joanie. Chill.”

“You chill. I just don’t understand what you’re trying to get at. I mean, you’re stoned. Fine. It’s a weekday and you’re limping and you’re loaded. Look, if you need money, why don’t you just ask? Just come out and ask. You could have asked me over the phone, Chess. You didn’t need to spend your precious gas money to drive all the way to Abbott Kinney.”

The waiter brought the food.

She thought she might have been too rough on him. Then her sympathies quickly waned. Oh, fuck him. I’m not going to feel bad about his crazy shit.

Chess seemed humbled and began to eat. He let some of the smoke clear before he spoke.

“It’s just that you reach a certain age — I have a few years on you, Joanie — and you wonder, or start to wonder, what your origins are. The medical thing’s important too. I mean, what if our father had — or has —medical issues that are relevant?”

“What difference would it make, Chess? What difference would it make?”

“I’ve been talking to this friend about her dad. They’re estranged. (She’s not really a girlfriend, but I have my hopes.) Anyway, they’re estranged but she knows where he is and occasionally they talk. And my friend — this girl — she thought it was weird that I never at least tried to find Raymond.”

He waited for his sister to say something but she didn’t.

“Isn’t it weird that we never sought him out?”

“No. Not particularly. Why would we?”

“Here’s a guy who really impacted us. Our real father, right?”

“Impacted? How?”

“We’re both searching for a home. We always have been.”

“What do you mean?”

“Jesus, Joanie, look at what we do. I’m a location scout —could it be any more on the fucking nose? That’s what I do for a living: I look for places, mostly houses. I’m out there every week, looking for the perfect house. But what is it I’m really searching for?”

“You are so stoned.”

“Having this injury has given me time to think about shit, Joan. We take a lot for granted…and look at what you do. You build houses. Or at least you’re trying to. It’s not even like a metaphor with us, right? Do you see what I’m saying? And our relationships —or lack of them — I think, can be traced to this guy— Dad —leaving. I mean, neither of us can commit, right?” She grimaced, struggling to chopstick a tofu cube. “I don’t think either one of us has been with someone for longer than 3 years. Am I wrong, Joanie? Cause if I am, great. But I don’t think so. It’s all that abandonment shit, right? That’s the paradigm.”

“You’ve been watching way too much Oprah, Chester.”

“Maybe. Maybe so. Great woman, by the way. But I think — I think I’m going to look into it.”

“Go for it,” she said, aloof.

“I kinda have the time right now. And I guess I just wanted to get together and see if that — resonated.”

“I said: go for it, Chesapeake.”

That was the nickname Mom gave him. Raymond called him Chesterfield.

“Chesapeake,” he said, misty-eyed. She felt sorry for him again. “She hasn’t called me that in a long time. Anyhoo: I’m not asking for your blessings, Joanie.”

“No blessings, just cash. Right?”

He shook his head. “I don’t need your money. I’m fine. I just want to keep you in the loop.”

“Great. Perfect. Consider me in the loop.”

Maybe she had embarrassed him into rescinding his request. If that were true, she was prepared to feel minorly guilty. Joan didn’t know what to make of her brother’s oratory. He sort of had a point, bordering even on eloquence, but she just didn’t have it in her to care. It was his soap opera, not hers. She spent little time thinking about the man who walked away when she was 3. She knew their mother had loved Ghost Dad more than Hamilton — she’d tearfully admitted as much to Joan one night, after too much vino —but the daughter never probed further. Fuck Raymond Rausch. If he could live without her, she could definitely live without him. But things hadn’t turned out so well for Chess and it made sense, particularly in the throes of maudlin midlife and what sounded like a new love, to root around in that particular cellar. Rock on, Chesapeake Bay. Rock on with yer bad self. She thought his fantasy of Ray Rausch being a Master of the Universe was sad and hilarious. Money was always in there for her brother, one way or another.