Bruce Wagner - Still Holding

“What is that?”

“A reincarnation of one of the lamas of his tradition.”

“Are you going to help them?”

“They do very well without me, thank you very much. I’m going to give them money for a clinic, in honor of Gil. That’s who first took me there.”

They fell silent. He stared out the window as the dark, luxurious world whooshed past.

“I was reading,” said Kit, “about this tantric practice where you learn to use your cock like a straw.”

“What do you mean!”

“You, like, put it down and suck stuff up.”

“ No way. ”

“Hoover time. First you practice with water, then milk — then some kind of oil. At the end, when you’re a certified master, you’re supposed to be able to do it with mercury. Suck it up. ”

“That is so weird.”

“It’s about drawing your semen and the woman’s come up to the soma chakra.”

“Oh! I’m all about that! Kids, don’t try that at home. Penor Rinpo-whatever doesn’t do that, does he?”

“He hasn’t shown me, personally.”

“Tara Guber should have a workshop.”

“Peter would be all over it! Hey, are you hungry?”

“Kind of. Want to go to the Polo Lounge?”

“Or we could just go to the Bel-Air.”

“Nah — too tired. Let’s go home.”

“We’ve grown elderly, huh.”

They passed through the gate, onto Sunset.

“Getting psyched about your movie?” she asked.

“Yeah. Yeah, I am. Super psyched.”

“That’s so great, Kit. It’s not scaring you?”

“Why should it?”

“People are gonna think you’re making fun of retards.”

“People are going to think whatever.”

“Do you want an Academy Award?”

“Do I want an Academy Award?”

“I asked you first,” she said, impishly.

“You know what I want? You know what I really want? I want to be excited about what I do while passing my time on this fucked-up, dying planet. That’s what I want. And you know what? This little movie has me juiced about acting again. This little movie has me juiced about my fucking practice. At the end of the day, I just want to be able to live with myself, Viv. Which lately, hasn’t been so easy.”

She paused before serenely repeating: “But do you want an Academy Award?” Her tongue licked her lips. “Just answer the question.”

“Don’t fuck with me,” he said, mad-dogging her.

They laughed.

The Getty

KIT MOANED then screamed.

Viv bolted upright.

“Baby, you OK?”

“Yeah. I’m OK.”

“What was it?”

“Whoa! Fuckin strange. ”

He shook himself like a beach dog after a wave.

Viv passed a bottle of water.

“I was hugging him or some shit.”

“Who?”

“The Getty kid.”

“What Getty kid?”

“The one with the cut-off ear. But there was something really fuckin creepy… ”

“What.”

“I met John Paul — man, a long time ago. I don’t even think I was into my practice yet. I was hanging with Gianna Portola. She was fuckin wild before she got sober.” He laughed. Viv was glad he was out of the panic zone. “She brought me over to meet him. They used to be lovers. Somehow I kind of remember that she was still balling him, after it happened.”

“After he was kidnapped?”

“After the stroke.”

“It was a drug thing, right? A coma thing?”

He shivered again and pulled from the Aquafina. “I was curious, so she took me to see him at his house in Laurel Canyon. He got around in this supervan, Ironside style. Shit, maybe he still lives up there. It was like a very cool house with an elevator to the master bedroom. We rode it up and Gianna introduced me. Kinda ghoulish but kinda cool. He and Gianna started talking. It was a trip! The guy was talking like this, Viv, I swear to God: argabuggagoogagoolalalalmamamaoogagooguhgooguhgoo. I couldn’t understand shit! But Gianna was just gabbing away. Back and forth, back and forth. And John Paul seemed to be having a really good time. He was excited that I was there — like having anyone new around was a fun thing for him. I think that’s why she brought me.”

“So what did you dream?”

His face darkened. “It was sad. Sad, sad, sad. And he — in the dream — he, like, gave me a weird hug. Weird. Like prolonged. I don’t know. Can’t remember now.”

She softly rubbed his head. “Poor Bumpkin!”

L.A. Confidential

HE AWOKE TO the jingle-jangle light of morning. He heard voices and stood, swaddling himself in the duvet. He lit a cigarette and stepped over Mr. Raffles.

Her voice grew louder as he neared the guest bath.

Viv sat on the toilet. Her assistant stood a few feet away with pad and pen. The bath was running. The room was steamy and rank.

“I am so backed up from the codeine,” she said when she saw Kit, before directing her words to Gingher. “I need you to get me a laxative from Wild Oats. I think it’s called Quiet Moment.”

She farted loudly then laughed.

“They should call it Unquiet Moment,” said Kit. “Jesus, Viv, why don’t you let Gingher take five?”

“Because I can’t, Bumpkin, I’m on a schedule. I need to get gifts for the crew. ” To Gingher: “Or Metamucil, but it has to be sugar-free.” To Kit: “What do you think about those Prada cell phone holders?”

“What do I think? I think you should concentrate on moving your bowels.”

“We have to get one of those Japanese toilets, Kit. They douche and dry you. You never need to use toilet paper again.”

“You wouldn’t be able to wipe in front of people. Won’t that be a deprivation?”

“I’m getting everyone a Mini Cooper.”

“The crew?”

“The cast, silly. Cell phone holders for the crew. And I’m going to New York in about forty-five minutes. You knew that, didn’t you?”

“No. Why?”

“I already told you, Bumpkin. I’m doing Letterman.”

“You told me two weeks ago. When you comin back?”

“Sunday. So give me a smooch.”

He edged past Gingher and knelt at the altar of the bowl, hands on Viv’s downy thighs, fingertips reaching the matching at the fold of her crotch. The assistant shyly averted her eyes while the actress closed her own to receive the courtly kiss. As their lips touched, she oopsed and the water plashed. Kit stood, shaking his head in mock disgust. Viv guffawed, involuntarily farting.

“ Sorry, Gingher,” said Kit. The efficient, overweight girl had comically stepped back, with a forced smile. “Jesus,” said Kit to Viv. “Who have you become, Anna Nicole Smith? Who have we become?”

“Liza Minelli and David Gest.”

“Right,” said Kit. “I’m Liza, you’re David.”

“Don’t worry, honey,” said Viv, regaining composure as she wiped herself. “Gingher signed a confidentiality clause. It’s ironclad.”

Viv farted again. This time, everyone laughed.

“I’m outta here,” said Kit. He turned to Gingher and said, “Can you see why it took me so long to pop the question?”

“Maybe you should have pooped the question,” said Viv.

He had something to say about that, but she was laughing so hard she couldn’t hear. He took his wraparound floor-length comforter and shuffled out, shaking his head.

“Bumpkin!” shouted Viv. “Buy me something nice while I’m in New York! There could be a terrorist attack! You might never see me again!”