Bruce Wagner - I’m Losing You

Simon retrieved a stained sack from the Datsun. It held flashlights, Hefty bags, Lysol, gloves, surgical masks and a deodorizer called Zap. He slipped on the mask and went to the side of the house to another mesh-covered vent. Fur was stuck to its torn edge. He saw the cadaver right away and Lysoled the maggots. They sizzled — like the Top Ramen commercial, he noted aloud. Simon’s anarchic humor was his strong suit. He thought of himself as a Wired generation hepster, a kind of homegrown traveling cyberfolk Dadaist. He wouldn’t be crawling under houses forever; one day he’d write paperbacks or screenplays. These were preliminaries. Like Burroughs and Fante before him, the oeuvre would be drawn from this , from now. That he was thirty-five didn’t matter. At thirty-five, Van Gogh was barely painting with oils; Leary hadn’t even tripped, heh heh. As Lysol fumes hammered through the mask, he thought of Burroughs’s Cities of the Red Night . “You must touch Death, you must get close to Death.” Fuck that, he said loudly, and laughed. The haughty Latina was probably upstairs listening, ear to vent. She was the kind that would try to make him feel guilty when he asked for the money, even though it was half what anyone else would have charged. Simon put the saprogenic mophead of possum in the bag, Zapped the area and collected his due. His pager beeped but the third-world prig wouldn’t let him in the house to use the phone.

He drove straight to the pound (tossing the thing in a Dumpster would have been an outright violation of the covenant). He circumvented a long line of people adopting pets until he reached the hosed-down concrete outback, where an albino girl sobbed over a euthenized cat. Turn, turn, turn . A worker took Simon’s thoughtfully double-bagged quarry for incineration. The Dead Animal Guy was a familiar face, so they let him use the phone.

“Did someone page me? I’m the Dead Animal Guy.”

“Hello?” said a raspy voice.

“Did you page me?”

“Yes.” It was a woman. “Can you come?”

“What seems to be the problemo?”

“I think something died in the basement.”

“Are you on a slab?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The house — what kind of foundation do you have?”

“I don’t understand what you mean.”

“Tell you what. I can come out and have a look, but I can’t guarantee anything. If it’s a situation where our friend Fluffy decided to take his permanent vacation inside a wall , there’s not too much I can do but tear the wall open, which I’m not actually equipped to do and which I don’t think would please either one of us—”

“Who is Fluffy?”

“Whatever’s down there, I call Fluffy. What I’m trying to say is, there are various situations where I can’t really be of great help, other than to make certain recommendations I could do just as well over the phone.”

“I would like you to come.”

“That’s fine, happy to, we all like to make money. At the same time, to summarize, I want you to know that I will have to charge you sixty-five dollars just to say hello. If I do find our furry friend, depending on the size of el problemo and the amount of time I spend, I could wind up charging you anywhere up to a hundred and thirty-five.”

“Well…” Simon thought he had talked himself out of a job. That’s what happened when you tried to do the right thing. “I don’t care what it costs. How quickly can you come?”

The address was on Carcassonne Way, not far from where he grew up. His mother, the well-known psychiatrist Calliope Krohn-Markowitz, still lived in the old Brentwood family digs. Her second husband was an analyst, and the couple worked at home, seeing patients from opposite sides of a quaint guest cottage. Simon resolved to drop over when he finished with the new client.

In five months of therapy, Donny hadn’t revealed much. He’d seen shrinks on and off for twenty years; it wasn’t like he didn’t know the game. Then why was he being such a tightass? He hadn’t even mentioned his obsessive fantasy life with Katherine. He sat in Calliope’s office week after week, bullshitting — agenting. And he knew she knew it. Donny was starting to feel the pressure to unkink. Sometimes he thought he would have been better off with some out-of-the-way therapist, say in Sherman Oaks, one who wasn’t so hardwired to the business.

There was no denying Calliope Krohn-Markowitz’s charisma. In her mid-sixties, she looked like a collagened Georgia O’Keeffe. She was fit and authoritative, with twinkly eyes and actor-perfect teeth. Like Dr. Trott’s, her clientele was almost strictly the scarily famous. Calliope didn’t believe in lengthy analysis, preferring short-term crisis intervention, usually seeing patients in three-, six- and twelve-month modules. On cynical days, Donny saw true brilliance in the high-octane turnover of this imperative; no one was immune to the seductions of the Big Star — fuck, let alone the renowned shrink who had given herself the celeb gangbanger’s supreme gift of a gossipy gigawatt carriage trade. As Donny waited outside in a green Adirondack, he turned on the spigot and let the petty resentments flow.

Celebrity psychiatrics was a specialty as bona fide as diseases of the retina or surgery of the hand. It seemed to Donny that famous people were probably less interesting on the couch than those who’d never known the effluent murmur of publicist and toady — by the time Big Stars found their way to the now-itself-famous cottage, they cathected with all the drollness and showy urgency of a talk show appearance (at Calliope’s, clients flogged themselves instead of a film). Simply letting others know one was “seeing Calliope” was enough to set peculiar alchemical forces into play. One instantly garnered a quiet, casual dignity that was almost spiritual; an admittedly lower rung from, say, the level of dignity conferred by the purchase of a Vajrakilaya Center for one’s pet Tibetan master — but a rung nonetheless. Donny noted a distinct symbiosis in transaction of analyst and analysand: Calliope blushed and swelled with the borrowed energy of her temporary acquisitions. The interesting thing was that during visits he never saw Big Stars come or go. This, he surmised, was because Thursday morning — his time — was probably C-list material: potluck, charity, favors, dross. Most of his visits were bracketed by a Castle Rock business-affairs gal and Hiram Joggs, Oscar-winning cinematographer. Donny wondered what they had on the shrink — they seemed more like material for husband Mitch.

Donny was thinking he should probably start telling her things, otherwise she might fire him. Shrinks did that these days, especially one who was turnover-crazy. Make way for that Big Star coming ‘round the bend. He was at a temporary loss. His tried-and-true litany of early sorrows (recited to shrinks throughout the years) was exhausted — not an abreaction in the lot.

“I ran into Katherine the other day.”

“Where?”

“On Bedford. I took Serena to the doctor. Did I tell you she was with a woman?” Calliope looked like a tourist who’d asked directions but got gibberish instead. “Yeah. Katherine’s supposedly been having this hot woman thing for months now.”

Her dim, abstractly sympathetic smile reminded him of the mother on Little House —all “rerun.” The expression shifted to that of tender inquisitiveness; the paranoid agent took it as the veneer of a shrieking tabloid curiosity.

“Do you know this person?” she asked.

Donny shook his head. “A novelist, with a Kathy Acker haircut.”

“How do you feel about that? Are you angry with Katherine?”