Bruce Wagner - Still Holding

The Afterworld

IT WAS COLD but fun laying on the slab.

Thanks to Elaine Jordache and her connected friend, Becca had been hired to play a cadaver on Six Feet Under. She was a little embarrassed to tell Annie, even though the casting people said it was the most coveted “extra” gig in town. Evidently, the producers were superfinicky about who they hired. Becca’s mom was thrilled. She immediately ordered HBO.

All the actors were really nice. They felt bad for the extras because they had to spend so much time on their backs, sometimes wearing uncomfortable prosthetics.

“You look so much like Drew Barrymore,” said a regular.

“I think she might be a little bit heavier than I am right now,” said Becca. She didn’t mean to sound catty.

“She’s a big fan of the show. Her agent supposedly even talked to Alan about coming on, but I don’t know if that’s going to happen.”

There were actually two Alans. Everyone was always mentioning one or the other without using last names. (If you were “family,” you knew who they meant.) Becca had met the executive producer-sometime director Alan, but not the executive producer-director-writer-creator Alan.

“The show doesn’t really work that way,” the regular went on. “They don’t usually cycle in movie stars. It’s not like The Sopranos. Thank God.”

The actor went away, and a few minutes later another actor who Becca thought was gay sort of hit on her. He asked if she’d read about the mortician who had been caught posing bodies so a friend could take arty photographs.

“It was so Witkin,” he said. She didn’t know what that meant. “We actually did a story line kind of like that — life imitates art. Did you see L.A. Confidential ?”

“Uh huh.”

“Remember the whole thing with Kim Basinger? The call girls who looked like celebrities?”

“Uh huh.”

“Wasn’t she supposed to be, like, Veronica Lake? You could seriously do that — I mean, as Drew Barrymore!”

Becca smiled politely from her cold metal tray. Even though she knew he was just being friendly, she didn’t like the suggestion that she could capitalize on her looks by being some kind of whore. But she was a captive audience and not in any position to take offense. All the cadavers spent their time praying that Alan— any Alan — would bestow upon them lines for, say, an impromptu dream sequence or that in some future episode they’d at least be allowed to cross over to the living for a speaking role. A speaking role was the Valhalla.

The first A.D. called camera rehearsal.

She lay there quietly amid the tumult, pondering her life. The relationship with Sadge was coming to an end; a strange and powerful new man had entered the scene. The strange and powerful new man frightened her, but Annie said that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. It wasn’t a great thing, but it wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. It could even be a good thing.

Becca played a game with herself between takes, seeing how long it took to get wet while thinking of him.

School Days

“SCHOOLS NEVER LOSE that smell, do they?” asked Kit.

“That smells-like-teen-spirit smell?”

He cocked an eye.

“Did we ever fuck anywhere on campus?”

“Hey, mister,” she said. “I held out a long time. Don’t go mixin me up with somebody else.”

They sat on a plastic picnic table outside the auditorium. Padlocked vending machines, scratched with graffiti, hibernated against the stained cinder block wall.

“I wish I could have seen your mama before she died,” she said. “I miss her, I truly do.” She shook her head. “That was a rough time for me—’Cela Byrd: The Rehab Years.’ It’s all about me, isn’t it?” she said, sardonically.

“You doing OK now?”

“Still peeing in a bottle. Hey, my birthday’s coming up! AA — six months. Wanna give me a cake?”

“Love to.”

“So… you gonna marry Viv Wembley?” She smiled as Kit simulated a blush. “Well you should. She’s pretty! And I love that show, it’s hilarious. She’s from L.A., right?”

“Orange County.”

“Michelle Pfeiffer’s from OC too. I read that somewhere.”

A faraway girl approached on a bike. The sight of her summoned a memory.

“Remember when we got loaded at that Christmas party?”

“Yeah,” said Kit.

He fished a roach from his wallet.

“And we went into that room where everybody left their coats and purses and shit? And you, like, stole all the money —”

“I wasn’t the only one! You had some magic fingers.”

“I did, didn’t I?” she said, sex creeping into her voice.

“You surely did.”

“Please don’t call me Shirley. Remember that from Airplane ! I loved that movie.” She put her hand on his leg. “We had something special, huh. First loves…” She unbuckled his belt. He lit the roach. “You don’t know how fucked up it’s been, Kit. Sitting in rehab, watching you in a movie. Reading about you in People. Or wherever. At the premieres. Always with someone else. There I am thinking: That girl should have been me. I used to tell people we went out, but I stopped. I was in jail once, all like, ‘He was my boyfriend! You don’t understand! He took me to the prom!’ That was a low point. As worsts go, that was a personal best.”

She kissed him lightly once or twice to see how amenable he was, then drifted down and put him in her mouth.

The faraway girl was closer now and stood on her bike, watching.

A Gathering at the Rose

BECCA DROVE SADGE to LAX. He would be away about three months. It was understood that when he returned, he’d find his own place. He would for sure have the money by then, anyway.

On instinct, Becca drove to the Rose and parked in the lot. She decided to go for a stroll and check out Rusty’s building. Why not? He had described it to her. It was right on the boardwalk, a few doors up from the Figtree.

Suddenly, Elaine Jordache emerged from the café. She dawdled, then Rusty came out holding a coffee and talking animatedly to a blondish young man of slight build. He wore an incongruous dress shirt and tie along with a warm and wolfish, slightly bemused grin. Becca slid down in the car seat to watch.

A boy barely out of his teens was the last to join them. He held a binder and hung behind the blondish man with subtle, efficient obsequiousness. The trio strolled toward a vintage convertible with the boy lagging behind. The blondish man enthusiastically shook hands, first with Rusty then with Elaine. The boy-assistant got into the convertible and started the car. Becca couldn’t quite hear the words but thought Rusty was complimenting the blondish man on his car as the latter climbed into the passenger seat. There were a few more good-byes as boy-assistant and blondish boss pulled away.

Becca slunk lower as Rusty walked Elaine to her car. They stood talking awhile in earnest. The mood got lighter, and Becca’s heart sickly speeded as she wondered if he was going to kiss Elaine on the mouth. He bussed her cheek. Becca, vindicated, swore eternal allegiance. Elaine drove off. Rusty strolled from the lot toward the beach.

She considered going inside for a fruit plate then embarking on her mission, as planned. She could linger at the pier or have a cappuccino at Shutters before dropping in at Rusty’s on the way back. Take him by surprise.

Then she thought better of it, having had enough excitement for the day.

A Brief History of Tantric Buddhism

IN HER BED, Lisanne McCadden dreamed of Kit Lightfoot.