Bruce Wagner - Still Holding

“Well,” he said, voice dripping acid, “maybe Sofia, who’s probably your new best friend, maybe Sofia is having a surprise party for old Spike. Remember the one you did for Cameron? In the Colony? The Colony’s your hood! Well, maybe they need a Drew to hand out hors d’oeuvres and blow jobs.”

“ Why are you being so mean ?”

“I don’t like people doing snaky things around my back.”

“But I didn’t —”

“I’ll take it up with Elaine.”

“I told you, she didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“There isn’t any reason for you to go see Mr. Jonze tomorrow, OK? Unless you want to be humiliated. But maybe you do. I forgot who I was talking to. Maybe that’s your thing.”

One-Man Show

KIT WAS ALONE onstage.

He had sublet the Delongpre Avenue space from the Metropolis troupe for a private, weeklong intensive with Jorgia Wilding. When he first landed in Hollywood, he’d attended the acting coach’s legendary class. She was in her seventies now but hadn’t lost her acumen — or her bite.

He slouched à la Monty Clift, slurring and stammering his words as he flailed about in bravura Method mode.

“No!” she yelled, cutting him off from her middle-row seat. “No no no no no !” She stood and shuffled toward him. Her head poked through an immense wide-knit purple poncho, like some crusty cartoon character caught in a fisherman’s net. “You’re gonna win an Oscar for this, all right— an Oscar Mayer. Cause that’s what you’re doing. You’re hot dogging.”

She climbed to the stage. Kit hung his head and waited, as a prisoner might to receive his blows.

“What are you doing? What are you doing? You doin brain injury? Or you doin retard? I’m asking you: Is this traumatic brain injury or is this mental retardation?”

“It’s, uh, it’s both,” he said lamely.

“Both,” she said, slack-jawed. As if that were the dumbest thing yet uttered by actor or man. No one could’ve said anything dumber.

“I guess I’m not sure,” said Kit. “I’m finding my way.”

“Well, you sure as hell are. We finally agree! And by the way, ‘brain injury’ for ‘retarded’ is like Cockney for Bostonian. They’re completely different languages, OK? With their own aphasical rhythms and syntax .” She took a deep, disappointed breath. “Kitchener, we’ve known each other a lot of years.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Unless you dig deeper you’re gonna be laughed off the screen. Folks are gonna think you’re in a Farrelly Brothers movie. Sling Blade you’re not; Sling Blade you don’t want to be. But this isn’t some TV movie, am I right? This gonna be a TV movie?”

“No ma’am.”

“This is Aronofsky. He’s very demanding. I know— I worked with Ellen for Requiem. Very smart and very demanding. And he won’t let you get away with it, honey. So guess what: you’ve got homework. We need to unlearn you some bad habits. Bad movie star habits.”

“If you say so, ma’am,” said Kit.

He laughed, breaking the tension.

“Yeah, well I say so,” said Jorgia, softening. “You want to be on Jimmy Lipton’s show, doncha?” she said facetiously. “Have you done Actors Studio yet?”

“In fact I have, ma’am.”

“You did?” She seemed genuinely surprised.

“Yes ma’am.”

“I missed that one.”

“That’s probably a good thing.”

“Well, you want to be asked back, don’t you?”

“No ma’am, not really.”

They both were laughing now. It was the end of their day and he was exhausted. She was indomitable.

“All right then, let’s stop wasting time. I want you to sit on that cushion and center yourself!”

He assumed the pose of the Buddha, spine erect, eyes half-closed. Jorgia, an old yoga hand herself, sat opposite. She began to speak, trancelike: “All those years of meditating. All those years of clearing the mind. The discipline. The energy. Call on it. Call on emptiness. Dérèglement. Derange the senses. Breathe. Pull, from your root. Everything flows through you. Empty the mind. Astonish me. Astonish your self. Be still, in the core of you. Untangle. Undo. Erase Kit Lightfoot. Kit Lightfoot is overpaid for what he does. Kit Lightfoot doesn’t know what he does. Kit Lightfoot doesn’t have a clue. Kit Lightfoot doesn’t know what he’s capable of, the heights and depths he can reach. Kit Lightfoot is retarded, brain-damaged! Kit Lightfoot is the enemy. Erase Kit Lightfoot. Breathe. Go to that yoga place. Yoga means ‘union.’ Erase the self. Breathe. Forget the self. Breathe…”

Entities

REGGIE MARCK HAD a three o’clock meeting with a married couple. They had been referred by Rodrigo Muñoz, a well-known attorney who specialized in civil rights violations stemming from police misconduct. He was seeing them as a favor to Rodrigo, who’d sought Reggie’s services after being too closely portrayed in a Law & Order episode a few seasons back. He felt maligned. Reggie had gotten a small but reasonable settlement and they’d become friends.

Rodrigo had told him some colorful stories about “the Munsters,” and Reggie thought Lisanne might get a kick out of meeting them. Lately, she’d been so dispirited. It seemed like she was gaining weight by the week. His wife thought he worried too much, but for Reggie, Lisanne was family. He asked her to sit in and take notes.

“Rodrigo said you were the Man,” said Cassandra.

“I hope I can be helpful,” said Reggie. “How’s the big guy doing?”

“El jefe?” said Grady. “Still causin trouble. Stirrin it up.”

“He keeps it real, though, that’s for damn sure,” said Cassandra.

“Sounds like Rod,” said Reggie. “He’s sharp.”

“I call him the Brown Man of Renown.”

“That’s better than the Brown Turd!” said Grady.

They bantered like that until Mr. Dunsmore finally got to the point. “See — the thing is,” he said, “that we want to make movies.”

“But we don’t know too much about it,” said Cassandra. “Ain’t our world. I mean, we’re learning, don’t get me wrong. Learnin quick. And we know a shitload of people—”

“A shitload.”

“—in the business, but the bottom line is, if they’re successful, they ain’t really in too much of a hurry to say hello. Not to no virgins. And I can understand that. Shit, I’d be the same way. Show business is a motherfucker, it ain’t a charity. Took ‘em this long to get to where they’re at and here comes some asshole wanting to know the secret of their success. Hey, how’d ya do it! I wanna be rich too ! Know what I’m saying?”

“Absolutely,” said Reggie, nodding.

“There are only so many pieces of the pie,” said Grady.

“That’s what they think,” said Cassandra. “That’s the fallacy in a nutshell, see, cause that is one hundred percent, gold-plated bullshit. There’s plenty of apple pie to go around — cherry and blueberry too! Motherfuckers just greedy. ”

“Greedy,” echoed Grady, like a pilgrim at a tent meeting. “Damn straight.”

“And I ain’t even sayin it’s the Jews. Cause hell, they’re the ones we need to be learning from.”

Lisanne kept her head down and scribbled furiously, trying not to laugh.

“Rodrigo said we got to form a production company.”

“That would seem a logical way to go,” Reggie said.