Bruce Wagner - Memorial

He dutifully passed on his recent Job-like travails to Remar De Concini LLD, AKA the Gay Pit Bull.

AFTER the make-out session in Griffith Park, Chess shared some memories of his dad. Laxmi enthusiastically echoed how The Jungle Book was a favorite of hers too, from girlhood. (She meant the version with John Cleese.) A few days later, she brought over a Netflix of the original Disney. They did hash brownies and Baileys Irish Cream: a killer combo. Laxmi said she used to watch the one from 1994 with her mom when they relocated to a rental on Tigertail Road in Brentwood Hills. From the commune.

The odd couple sat on the couch munching magicsnacks, and got all snuggly and captivated. They wrapped themselves up in each other’s arms, grooving on the night’s activity. (Chess didn’t become aroused and as usual found that both worrisome and copacetic.) When it came to the innocuously clever, charming scat song of the old hipster orangutans, Laxmi exclaimed it was “totally racist.” “I mean, all they’re really saying is, they just want to be white.” Chess wouldn’t give an endorsement; he didn’t relate to the politics of it. She must have realized she sounded over-the-top, adding that “The Bare Necessities” was “amazingly perfect and Zen.”

Chess remembered more of the movie than he cared to. He used to call Daddy Ray “Baloo.” They got to the part where Baloo wanted to adopt Mowgli as his son but the panther said it wasn’t right because Baloo was a bear. That was always a downer. Still was. The panther said the “man cub” had to be returned to the “man village” and Baloo got all sad and Chess, under a goodbye hashish-Baileys moon, grew teary-eyed as well. Baloo told Mowgli he couldn’t stay in the forest and it broke the bear’s heart. The boy ran off. When Baloo the bear said, “If anything happens to that little guy, I’ll never forgive myself,” Chess thought of Raymond. What a shitheel. A remark like that would never occur to that old fuck.

A wave of dizziness washed over him and he braced himself to barf. Chess began to cry, the tears somehow stanching nausea. He full-on sobbed. Laxmi held him and they rocked together, then both began to laugh. That was cathartic and good, and what was special about their relationship. That funny-sad thing they could tap into on a dime. They lit up a bong.

George Sanders was the voice of the man-eating Bengal that kicked the shit out of Baloo when he tried to protect Mowgli, and suddenly the old bear lay on the ground without moving. Chess had forgotten this part: he couldn’t remember if Raymond died or not, and in his stonedness, got briefly freaked. Then, ever so slowly, the bear opened an eye — of course. Of course he was OK. Those were the days before wholesale bloodbaths and glimpses of hell had worked their way into animated kid stuff. But actually, now that he thought of it, Bambi hadn’t had such a far-out time.

“You know what you should do,” said Laxmi, “if it doesn’t work out with that lawyer of yours? You should get an Indian guy. My dad could probably help.”

“For an attorney?” he said, confused. “But he’d be…in India. Right?”

“You may not know it, Chess,” she said, taking a deep toke, holding it, then coughing a mite. “Every —or at least lots of American law firms outsource to Indian firms. Rebar probably has a whole—”

“Remar.”

“Remar probably has a whole fleet working for him already. They call them ‘chutney sweatshops.’ My father said that even Du Pont farms it out. It’s like a 10th of what they’d pay in the States. Why wouldn’t they?”

The phone rang — it was Maurie. Chess gave her a furtive Freemason heads-up.

Maurie mentioned the Morongo casino gig again and how Chess should lighten up so they could go make some bread. What the fuck. Yeah, I’ll go. He probably wouldn’t have assented if Laxmi wasn’t there but her secret presence lent a nice Fuck You to the conversation. Maurie was surprised, and glad to hear it. Laxmi got up to use the head, walking on giggle-suppressed exaggerated tippy toes to drive home the fact of her satisfying private life with Chester. That titillated him, there was something payback pervy about the 3some going on a trip without that arrogant piece of shit knowing what was happening behind the scenes. Not that there was much happening, not yet. Just a little huggin and kissin and smokin.

Chester hoped to change all that. He went online to order Viagra. (He’d thrown the original free samples away out of pride, and didn’t want to call the doc back for a “refill.” Anyhow, the dick-stiffeners were expensive.) It was easy. They even had a “special”—like a clearance. He got Oxycontin, Xanax, and Ambien CR at a discount. Sweet.

SHE bought her daily ticket.

A funny feeling, because the notes and flowers that decorated the liquor store in memoriam were down now, and you had to look hard to see the wires, mostly gone themselves, that once held bouquets in place.

The devout son was behind the counter and the mother nowhere to be seen. The young man smiled and went about his business. It was strange to Marjorie, not that it should have or could have been any other way, but she had the unsettling feeling that Riki had somehow died in a different way — the violence of it had conveniently receded, and now it seemed as if his death had been natural, or he’d gotten the flu and would soon be back, or he’d simply returned to India for an indeterminate amount of time. Marjorie knew it would be poor form to share her little wish-fulfillment fantasy-observations. What right had she to smalltalk about such a thing? Besides, it wasn’t part of their culture to endlessly hash over death; death was so much a part of their world that no one had the need to “kibitz” about it (as Hamilton would say). The Indian people embraced the cycle of life — karma, death, and rebirth — and didn’t need to be inoculated or familiarized or talked down to, or have their noses rubbed in the obvious by meddling, mawkish Westerners. That would be ignorant and presumptuous. But part of her still stubbornly wanted to reach out, and she remembered hearing something on a talkshow, maybe Dr Phil, where an expert said that in times like this, the worst thing a person could say was “nothing.” That had really stuck. Well, she would just have to get over it. She had done her part and given the widow an honorarium and anything else at this point would be self-indulgent. Marj would continue to patronize the shop, as usual, thus actively demonstrating her support. The side benefit being that the old woman could help restore a sense of normalcy, not that it was even possible. And she mustn’t forget: they would soon reap the benefits of her Blind Sister winnings. She needed to ask Lucas when they would be told, and if an exception could be made to inform them earlier. She wondered what % they had coming.

Ever since she gave them the money, the grieving family treated her with what sometimes felt like an awkward obsequiousness, which was perhaps cultural as well. The son slipped small gifts into her hand that his mother had delicately wrapped, packages of sweets or modest scarves of silken fabric. When Marjorie came in, the young man warmly greeted her and never let her leave unescorted, not only for safety reasons but it seemed from deep respect and gratitude. (Another facet of Indian society was to respect the elderly, which was wonderful, because lately, with all the excitement, Marj Herlihy sometimes felt her age.) She had the means to lighten their heavy load, which she did, and Bonita helped her to feel humbly ennobled. My God, look what Bill Gates does with his billions! Say what you like, but he gives away more money than any other person on planet Earth. By helping Riki’s family, she was nurturing her connection to Mother — Mother India, whose arms in which she would soon be embraced.