Bruce Wagner - I’m Losing You

So Bernie got the name of a law firm specializing in lemons. He paid a small fee and completed a form relating the lengthy, redundant history of repairs. After a week or so, a paralegal called to say they didn’t think he had a case just yet — the legal hitch being, none of the recurring problems were deemed dangerous. Bernie’s inventory described a minor, exasperating potpourri; alarm-system shorts, freon glitches and frozen ignitions — a nuisance, to be sure, yet a far cry from your chassis dropping out on the four-oh-five like the surgeon’s wife’s a month before (Jag) or the realtor doing sixty on Fountain when the brakes spontaneously seized (Land Rover). The would-be litigant was encouraged to document future repairs.

Maybe he’d just sell it and take the loss — around thirty K. He could drive around in Donny’s Impala, who the fuck cared? Life was too short. Even now, after all he knew, he combed the Recycler for Jags. Sell the Rover for thirty, buy something old for fifteen. Ride around in stone class with pocket change to boot. Bernie had that “classic” feeling again, always the same: the “blow-job Bentley” Serena hated, the little MG that knocked out his teeth, the murderous Mini — the Jensen, crapped-out at Cyrano’s, overheated at Romanoff’s — the XKE, puttering from Perino’s, stalled-out at Schwab’s…

That’s the way it was in this English life.

Zev Turtletaub

“Hey, cunt.”

“I’m sorry?”

That was Taj, the relatively new Assistant.

“What happened to the Dead Souls coverage?”

“What did you call me?”

Shortish hair in tight curls. The kind of preppie skin that mottled pink when he blushed or got cold or evinced outrage. Fear quickly soured his breath.

“A gaping, shit-contaminated hole.”

“I am leaving here!”

Ellen Wiedlin, a Microsoft attorney from the Bay Area, enjoyed hearing brother Taj’s colorful stories of that alluringly neurotic industry, the Movies.

“You’re not going anywhere!”

“Let me out —”

“Give me my coverage!”

Taj hadn’t yet told her about office hijinks. He wanted to give it a little more time before he asked if she thought…

“You’re crazy ! Get out of my—”

“I thought you went to Harvard.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“I thought you could take it. Oh! Gonna fold up your cards? Pick up your jacks and go home?”

“I did not come here to be ridiculed and abused.”

“Really! Listen, Princess Tiny Meat, that’s what Hollywood’s about —abuse. So don’t give me your bullshit dignity speeches, because you sound very Ridiculous Theater. You want to learn ? You want to be a producer ? I asked you a question!”

“I–I don’t know!”

“ Please don’t cry. Here’s a Kleenex, like we’re on Ricki Lake. If you don’t want to be a producer, then what the fuck are you doing here?”

“I thought that — I thought that—”

“Why are you wasting my time?”

“I’m not —I–I do want to…”

“You do want to what …”

“To be — a producer!”

“Goal! He scores! He whores! Three points! Okay. Now that we’ve established what you’re gonna wish for when you rub the lamp, let us negotiate the amount of genie shit you will suck through your pretty little mouth to get there. You’re upset. Why? Because you have an ego. A good producer has no ego. A great producer pretends to have one, a very big one. You are not a good producer — you are not an anything . All you are today is an assistant manqué. Do you know what ‘manqué’ is, Mr. Hah-vehd?”

“Yes, I know what manqué is.” Defiant.

“That’s a good Hah-vehd boy. You’re an assistant manqué because of your fucked up ego. But I’m going to give you a chance because I don’t care about you. If I cared , you’d stay a shitty assistant except eventually — maybe — you might drop the manqué. I’d make you into a great assistant. Is that what you went to Harvard for?”

“The reason I—”

“Shut up. Donny Ribkin called and pitched you— that’s the fucking reason. Donny Ribkin is a great agent and he’s also a good friend. I owe Donny Ribkin. Donny Ribkin had a very bright assistant who didn’t seem to know his own mind. This very bright and wonderful assistant thought he wanted to be an agent. But one day Very Bright and Wonderful changes his mind.”

“Donny always knew I—”

“Shut up. Very Bright and Wonderful thought he wanted to be an agent but as it turned out, fickle feckless Princess Tiny Meat announced he’d rather be a producer . Mommy, I want to be a producer! Lots of time wasted on both sides. Because this is not the Hahvehd Romper Room but the real world. So be it. These things sometimes happen. Youth is wasted on the young — and the hung. Because Donny Ribkin is the sweet and thoughtful and gracious guy he is, he calls friend Zev. And, because friend Zev owes him, he takes on your very smart and wonderful, very hairy ass — stop crying now , fucked up cunt! Real producers don’t cry, understand? I am going to take a giant shit on your head! Did you think the world was a Ron Howard movie? What is your fantasy of apprenticeship to a ‘successful’ producer?”

“I d-d-d-didn’t have a fan—”

“Freaky stupid bitch. Liar . Everyone has a fantasy. Did you think you’d be at DreamWorks sipping cappuccinos with Steven , ‘shepherding’ pet projects? Associate Producer: Taj ‘Cunt’ Wiedlin! Executive Producer: Taj ‘Wet Hole’ Wiedl—”

“Stop it! Please…stop—”

“This is your wake-up call, you cunt fart.”

Zev brings Perrier to the trembling assistant. The smallest of small bottles. Taj takes it but doesn’t drink, futzing with the cap instead.

“What is your fantasy?”

“I would like — I…I–I would like to produce a major film…”

“Well, thank you for sharing.” Pause. “I can help you make it real.” Pause. “You know, you’re just like my sister — you think you’re hot shit cause you’ve read Dante.” Zev swigs from his own little bottle and stares. “Do you want to call Donny and tell him what a bad man I am?” Holding the receiver in the air. “Do you want to call Mommy and cry?”

“I–I don’t—…”

“I’ll puke in that Harvard mouth.”

“Oh God.”

“Fuck that ass so wide they’ll call it the Harvard Yard.”

“Pl-pl-plea—”

Time to get back to the business at hand. “What happened with Dustin?”

Taj tries to shift gears. “He…he — his office said he w-w-wasn’t able to—”

“W-w-w-w wasn’t able to w-w-w- what ?”

“He he’s w-with his children. For…for uh for the next two weeks.”

“ Shit . Find out where — unless of course, you’re quitting on me.”

Screwing up all his courage and dignity now. “I’m going to stay ! God damm it—”

“Oh who cares. Did you read Dead Souls ?”

“I–I-I did…my Powerbook was, uh, something isn’t—”

“Your Powerbook’s broke. There’s a metaphor.”

“I–I took it. It’s fixed now.”

“I want coverage in the morning.”

“I’ll do it — I will. I’ll I’ll — I’m sorry. I didn’t — it’s just — no one ever talked to me that…”

Completely bored with this. Looks in the mirror, sideways. Bald pate; fluff and flex the swollen quads. Liking the way he looks today. Svelte. “Well, good. Why don’t you order some food in from the Mandarin.” On his way out now. “Smile,” he says to the blud-geoned Ivy Leaguer.