Bruce Wagner - Still Holding

Kit had to be reminded of the canine casanova, more on account of nerves than anything else.

“He died,” said Kit.

“Oh shit,” said Alf, genuinely sorrowful. Any sort of loss now had a larger context. “That’s fucked up.” Then, joshing again: “Thought he might have met a nice Beverly Hills socialite and settled down.”

“Great Danes don’t live too long.”

“Sure you don’t want a martini?”

“Can’t. Take all the medicines. For seizure.”

“Oh, right. Right.” Awkward. “You know, you look really great. And you talk well too — I mean, you’re well-spoken. Much better than the last time I saw you.”

Wished he hadn’t said it. Sounded patronizing. And it had been too long since they’ve seen each other — his fault.

Everything his fault…

“Yeah,” said Kit.

“I been workin,” said Alf, by way of explanation and apology.

“Me too,” said Kit.

“Oh yeah?” he said, intrigued.

“Physical therapy!” said Kit, grinning at the joke.

“Right!” The attempt at humor shot past. “They’re workin my ass, Dog. But you ain’t missin much — ain’t shit out there. Scripts are all shit. Showbiz is a shambles, dude. I mean, there’s always one or two people out there keepin it real. But hey! You’ve really managed to stay fuckin hidden, man, I’m impressed. Guess your dad’s done a pretty good job. After Osama, you’re the world’s most wanted man!”

Awkward again — coming in waves.

“But it’s good over there? I mean, with Burke?”

“Pretty good. Pretty good.” He shifted on the couch. Reached for the water, drank, set the glass back down. Cleared his throat. “Hey, Alf, I want to ask you something.” Cleared his throat again. Reached again but pulled back his hand before it got to the glass. Shifted. “OK. I want to see Viv. I know she feel bad — feels bad. Maybe afraid. Maybe she’s afraid. Not of me! I want to tell her it is — that it’s OK. I want to tell her that, Alf. That I am OK. That it — it’s cool.”

“She knows that!” Alf said, too congenially. “She knows that, Kit. She’s smart, she’s really smart. You know how smart she is. But, you know, she’s away.” Lit a cig (skittish actor’s prop). “Yeah, she, uh, was doin a film, you know, the David Gordon Green, while they were on hiatus? That’s why she couldn’t come see you. Pretty much. Cause you know she wanted to… but she got really run-down and shit. Then her grannie died. Her mom got real sick too, no lie. Got all jaundiced, but I think she’s cool now. The mom’s cool. Out of the woods and all. But it was fucked up. Been kind of a fucked-up year for her. Not to take away from your fucked-up year.” Levity, then amended gravity.

“I feel bad for her!” said Kit, earnestly. Winced and shifted some more — stabby nerve-ending pain out of nowhere, per usual. Pressure in the temples. He could deal but hoped his eye didn’t start to twitch; hated that. He could feel Viv’s sorrow and only wanted to comfort her. “I really want to see her!”

“Here’s the thing, man.” Actors Studio — size drags off cig. “And look — I didn’t think this was a good time to tell you but I guess it’s that old cliché. Ain’t no good time to give bad news.”

Kit panicked, envisioning the worst. His lips went bloodless and he began to tremble. To Alf, it looked kind of pathetic.

“She OK? What is happening to her?”

He shifted into Samuel French/Dramalogue mode — Alf Pacino. “She’s fine,” he said, to allay him. “She’s got a pretty good support system. I guess that — Well, I guess I’m the support system. Now. I’m kind of the one she turns to for comfort. Know what I’m saying? I know it sounds like a bad movie or some… fucked-up Mexican soap opera or whatever, but it’s — it’s life, man, it’s what happened. And it wasn’t right away, it didn’t happen right away, you gotta know that. No lie. It was a gradual thing, something that happened out of a grief thing. I mean, that girl was seriously hurting, Dog! Like, crazy out of her mind. Takin pills to sleep. Doin whatever — I don’t mean it that way. But we both were. We spent a lot of time together. Most of that time was all about you. And it just fucking happened. And we knew it was fucked up but we couldn’t do anything to change it. I’m sorry, Kit. I’m sorry about fucking everything , man! I’m sorry we went to that club —I’m sorry you went to that liquor store —and you know what? I’m gonna hire someone to full-on fucking kill that punkass motherfucker in prison — that’ll be my gift to you, bro. And I’m sorry about Viv… and I’m — I’m all sorried out. And you know what? I’m glad I can finally be telling you all this — that you’re at my house, and you’re happy and healthy and look fuckin hunky-dory — cause it’s been eatin me up. Been killin Viv, too.”

“OK.” Laughed. Pains in body. Shifted. Quick water drink — smiled and winced like it was ninety proof. “Bad movie… bad Mexican movie!”

“Are you OK?”

“Yeah! It’s like, cool. I’m all cool. I’m all, like, yeah. Yeah!”

“Looks like we’re gonna be doin this Nicole Holofcener thing together. The ‘Lovely and Amazing’ chick?”

“Lovely and—”

“We’re doing a movie. It shoots in Maine…”

Softly, Kit said, “ Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. ”

“Sorry, man.” Alf sheepish and mewling now, redundant with self-contempt. “Too much information. I’m an asshole. Shit. ”

“Shit.”

“It’s crazy,” said Alf, lamely.

Spastic laughter from Kit: “Crazy fucked up!”

Alf managed an agonized grin. His grins were getting old.

“Hey, know what… dawg?” said Kit, slapping his thighs as he stood. “I’m gonna go home. I–I real tired.”

Alf nodded like a jack-in-the-box while staring at the ground.

“Thank you for having me as your guest.”

“You’re family, man.”

A clumsy O.G. soulshake, segueing to standoffish, gentlemanly hug.

“Tell Viv I am happy because she is happy. And I am happy for you. Because I love you both and I am… happy for everybody!”

Sincere relief. Worst part over. He can smell Viv again. Wants her terribly now — will rush to her as soon as Kit’s gone, rock-hard the whole way. She paces at Beachwood as they speak, a woman awaiting her man’s return from battle, salty and bloodied. This morning, after it was agreed that he would tell Kit everything, she said that she’d shave her pussy. For when Alf came home. He flashed on it, banishing the image.

“You don’t know what that means — to me. And to Viv. I know she wants to see you, Kit. She just needs a little more time.”

“Bye, Alf.”

Walked out. The air was good. The house oppressed like a cage. Tula jumped, opening the passenger door.

As Kit got in, Alf said, “Hey, Cameron sends her love, Dog!” They pulled away. Alf shouted, “I talked to her last night. She’s in Africa, doing a thing with Bertolucci.”

Apologies

A COUPLE OF GAYS shouted from their car while rolling out of Fred Segal.

“Oh my God! An Undergirl!”

When the same thing happened a few hours later as she was leaving Elixir (a less flamboyant shout-out from a passing dyke), Becca thought she was being mistaken for someone in a band. Then it happened again, near Agnès B. — but this time, the person scarily invoked her name. She grumpily assumed it had something to do with recent notoriety. The article in the Weekly had come out (an LAPD mugshot of Rusty on the cover, not Elaine) with a photo of Becca inside captioned DOUBLE TROUBLE. One of the tabloids — RUSTY NAILED! — ran a grainy picture of the two walking hand in hand, just like Penélope and Tom. That was actually kind of cool.