Bruce Wagner - Still Holding

(Old Larry Sanders freaks.)

Becca hung back while the men embraced.

“Jesus, it stinks,” said Rusty. “What’d you, just take a dump?”

“Nature’s finest.”

“This is my friend Becca — Becca, this is Grady.”

“Hello, Becca.”

“Hi.”

“Grady Dunsmore, at your service.”

His hand felt damp when she shook it.

“Need servicing? Give Grady a call.”

“Hey now,” said Rusty, chastising. “Heel, boy. Stay at your curb.”

“Hey now.”

Grady wobbled on his good leg while bracing himself against the slim Filipino man who was helping him dress.

“Wish I knew you were coming, motherfucker. Always so sly. Slip and slide. Stealth-Man.”

“Into the night, baby.”

“See, cause now I gotta go do my thing. My get-better thing.”

“They gonna work you?”

“You better believe it.”

“Put you through some major pain?”

“I already prepared.” He voodoo-rattled a bottle of pills. “Gots to take the vikes before Ernesto puts me through my paces.”

“How long you gonna be?”

“I don’t know — forty-five? Maybe an hour. Can you hang?”

“Absolutely. I’ll try on a prosthetic or two.”

“Knock yourself out, Mad Max.”

“Hey now.”

“Eat me.” Then, to Becca as he left: “Pardon my Spanish. And watch him closely. See that he doesn’t steal any of my shit.”

Benefits

IT TOOK LISANNE a few days to shrug off the torpor of the trip back across America. There was so little to do on a train that one’s cycle shifted — Lisanne’s did, anyway — she slept practically from sundown till dawn.

Reggie kept her workload to a minimum. At the end of the week, he asked for a favor. A longtime client and somewhat eccentric old friend, Tiff Loewenstein, copresident of Fox, was being honored at Casa del Mar. Reggie and his wife were unable to attend. He knew how fond Tiff was of Lisanne (through the years, she’d become so much more than the firm’s amanuensis) and asked her to do some hand-holding. He said Tiff was a wreck. He’d been drinking and had thrown up in the living room, like a dog. His wife kicked him out.

When Lisanne got to the penthouse suite, Tiff answered the door, sobbing and half-dressed.

“Hi, baby,” he said with a scary smile. “Thank you for coming! Can I get you anything?”

She trailed after as he cried his way to the bathroom.

She had come to his rescue at her boss’s behest before, when Tiff was depressed and holed up in the Colony. (Once he even tried to kiss her. He was drunk and begged forgiveness the next day.) They had an easy intimacy. In the summers, the Loewensteins asked her to Malibu on weekends, and she grew to be a kind of auntie to their kids.

She was a commodious, safe harbor, someone he could pour his heart out to. He appreciated her wit — and they had more than a few phobias in common. Lisanne had never become acquainted with the man who was a feared Hollywood player; she knew only the vulnerable, courtly, rollicksome bear, and thought the world of him.

“Roslynn threw me down the stairs, did Reggie tell you?”

A butterfly bandage graced his temple.

“Are you all right?”

“I had Armani send a tux over… this one’s from Dolce, think it’s too long? They say that’s the style, but I think it’s for a younger man. Roslynn wouldn’t even let me back in the house! I don’t know if I can squeeze into this.” His hand rose to a second bandage when he caught her looking. “No, no, that’s from the cancer. Can you believe? They did a little scrape. You know, I was one of those kids who didn’t even like to swim in a pool. Never swam in the ocean. Never been a sun freak — that’s Roslynn. Thank God it isn’t melanoma.” He sighed, wiping away fresh tears. “Thank you for coming, Lisanne! So that fucker your boss couldn’t make it, huh? Well fuck him. I’m kidding. Reggie’s one of the good guys.” He sat and sipped his drink. “Everything OK? Everything OK with Reg and Janie and the kids?”

“Everyone’s great.”

“Christ, what a year. I got hit with prostate, did Reg tell you that?”

“No. He didn’t.”

“They irradiated, which was fine — until two weeks later. That’s when you wake up in the middle of the night screaming. Top of your lungs. I’m not kidding, Lisanne. You try calling the doctor and you get one of those messages saying which buttons to press but you can’t because you’re screaming. I told him I wanted liquid morphine. He said, ‘I can’t do that.’ Didn’t want to give it to me. I said, Then I’ll kill myself because I can’t live with that kind of pain. No one can. And I know myself. I told him I would kill myself and take him down with me, and make sure everyone in this city knew his name before I went. So he gave it to me — two drops under the tongue. And I’ve hardly used it, Lisanne, but I just had to know it was there on the nightstand. Makes me feel better. Because you don’t want to live, Lisanne. You can’t live — not with pain like that. Michael Milken’s been a godsend. And Dominick. Talked me through a lot of it. I even talked to Giuliani.” He started crying again. “You’ve got to take care of yourself, Lisanne! You’re a beautiful girl but you’ve got to take care of yourself. Lose some of the weight. Will you please? Cause you’re open to the heart stuff and the diabetes. You look beautiful, by the way — you’re a gorgeous lady. Do you know I’ve completely changed the way I eat?” He hoisted his glass in the air. “This is a recent thing — the wine — I never drank the way I’m drinking now. And it’s gonna stop tomorrow. The cigarettes too.” He took a deep drag then lifted his shirt like a tease, to show the nicotine patch. “Know what it’s all about? Changing the environment of your body. Cancer likes acid, acidic foods. Loves acid. And sugar. That’s where it likes to grow. You’ve got to go alkaloid, acid versus alkaloid. Raw veggies — alkaloid. Broccoli. I have wheatgrass every day, Lisanne, like a fucking goat. Colonics three times a week to flush out the toxins. They did some tests (all I do are tests) and found I had high levels of mercury. Having all the old fillings taken out. Ever had a colonic? I don’t have a choice. You can do it over in Culver City, there’s a marvelous place, I’ll make the call. Seema — she’s the girl to ask for. You’ve got to take care, Lisanne, while you’re young. My daughter in Michigan — Kittie — you’ve never met Kittie — from my first marriage — had a double mastectomy. They took the tits, the implants, the whole shebang. Shitty implants to begin with. She’s got a South African doctor, a real Christiaan Barnard type. He cut everything off. She’s got tattooed nipples now. He put a hose in there — she comes to the office and he pumps ‘em up with saline, right under the muscle. She calls ‘em Magic Tits. Know what Kittie said when they were wheeling her down to surgery? ‘Dead tits walking!’ The schvug orderlies turned white. Then she wasn’t healing so they put her in a hyperbaric chamber. She’s been through major tsuris. Remember Michael Jackson and the chimp and the hyperbaric chamber? We’re Ashkenazy, so Kittie’s getting herself tested for genetic markers — if they’re positive, he’s gonna rip her ovaries just to be safe. She was taking this nausea pill during chemo. I went to pick the prescription up and the pharmacist says, Boy, she’s got great insurance. It was fifty bucks for thirty pills. I say, So how much would it be without insurance? He goes to the computer. Thirteen hundred dollars! For thirty pills, Lisanne! The country’s a nightmare. They stick it to you cause you’ve got cancer and can’t do without. Who wants to be nauseous? So they rob you. What are we gonna do when the smallpox comes if we can’t even deal with fucking nausea?”