Bruce Wagner - I’m Losing You

Jabba took in the catheter bag and said, “It’s piss .” She’d never seen a hospital room this big — crammed with flowers, a humidifier, a “wave” machine, VCR, giant New Age crystals and all kinds of expensive-looking knick-knacky things. There was a whole table filled with nothing but framed photos from better days: Obie and Clinton, Obie and Courtney, Obie and Travolta. R.E.M. played softly on a CD boombox.

“Can she hear me?”

“Of course she can.”

Oberon made clicking noises from her throat as Jabba moved closer. She’d lost weight since the stroke; an elegant satin “healing” cord — gift from Meg Ryan — fell loosely around a tiny, protuberant wrist.

“You’re a great actress,” Jabba said, chapped lips brushing the ear of the spasmodic icon. Bernie stood and smiled nervously at the nurse as she re-entered. “I think maybe we’ll go,” he said. “She seems tired.”

“Hurry and get well,” Jabba whispered as the nurse took over. “I want to work with you someday. That would be my greatest honor in life.”

Zev Turtletaub

Zev and the boys out by the pool, talking cock. Alfred the Steward long since airborne, black box and portable flotation device intact. There’s Yon Koster, the trainer who wrested muscle from the liposuctioned abs and flabby arms of a classic endomorph: Zev, with that unwieldy, oddly over-developed, dressed-for-success praying mantis thorax, like Jeremy Irons’s in the third Die Hard . There’s Moe Trusskopf and friend, one far-out looking “Lancelot,” whose true name — Rod Whalen — suggests (sez Moe) an honest-to-God nom de porn.

“You never told us about Flyboy,” said Moe.

“Stout, dark and uncut.”

“Like a Guinness.”

“On the nose.”

“You mean the head.”

“MTV should do an ‘Uncut.’”

“First, Seal, then Tom Petty.”

“Seal’d with a kiss.”

“Flyboy had about the biggest hole I have ever seen. You could drive a Bronco through that urethra.”

“An attractive image.”

“A slow-speed chase to the bladder.”

“Who’s got the biggest straight dick?”

“Oh no!” Moe posed like Munch’s Scream . “Not this again.”

“Jimmy Woods.”

“It isn’t straight, it’s crooked.”

“How would you know?”

“Into the Woods!”

“Oh please. No one’s ever seen Jimmy Woods’s cock. It’s like the Abominable Snowman.”

“The Abominable Blow Job.”

“Lisa Marie Presley in action.”

“Paula Abdul.”

“Celine Dion.”

“They say Jim Woods is the Milton Berle of our time.”

“He sleeps standing up ‘cause it’s like a kickstand.”

“What about Brad Pitt?”

“Didst thou dare invoke Princess Tiny Meat?”

Everybody laughs as Douglas brings hamburgers.

“It can’t be huge, he’d be too perfect.”

“Tom Cruise.”

“Oh yes. And L. Ron Hubbard’s another one.”

“Birds of a feather…”

“ Fock together.”

“They say Hubbard was hung like David Koresh.”

“What about Timothy McVeigh?”

“No! Alfred Mullah.”

“Who’s Alfred Mullah.”

“You know — the federal building.”

“ Alfred P. Murrah! ” Howling with glee.

“Isn’t that it? The building that blew up?”

“All those militia guys are way hung.”

“What about Cat Basquiat?”

“I don’t talk about my clients.”

“Uncut?”

“Definitely unplugged.”

“We can remedy that.”

“The girl can’t help it.”

“There’s an executive at Buena Vista with a tiny penis. We’re talking nub. He scores with chicks who want to get fucked in the ass but were always afraid. It’s like a big toe going in.”

“You are so full of shit.”

“Uh, no, the toe is.”

More laughter as the boys dig into burgers. Moe asks Douglas if there’s ice cream. Moe wants a sundae, then asks for a malted. Asks about available sherbets, hankering for a peristaltic treat. Something easy to upchuck. Would he still like the sundae? Zev says forget it. Alec Baldwin calls from Amagansett and Zev takes it inside.

“As for your nubby Buena Vista friend,” sez Moe, “some say the ass is half-empty, others say it’s half-full.”

Guffaws as Zev enters the house. Taj has arrived from the office. Zev motions him into the library, then picks up.

“Hello there.”

“Hiya, Zev.”

“You are such a good boy to call me back on your holiday.”

“The career never sleeps. Desperately seeking material.”

Zev snaps fingers at his assistant, motioning him to come near. “Caught you on the Stern show.”

“Oh yeah.”

“You were fucking hilarious.”

“Howard makes it easy.”

“He becomes your straight man. I can’t believe it — Howard Stern, a fucking straight man! Helluva trick.”

“I feel like a trick. My agent said you had some brilliant project.”

Zev, sitting now, puts a hand on the helper’s ass. Taj backs away, but the producer pulls him back by his A/X belt, grimacing with anger. Zev spins him around and Taj stands still for the remainder of the call, buttocks in front of Zev’s face.

“I’ve never been more excited. This is Academy Award time, Alec, I’m serious.”

“You’re giving me a boner.”

“It’s my AIDS movie. I know that sounds crass.”

“Is there a script?”

“I’m talking to Mamet and Zaillian. And, would you believe, Arthur Miller.”

“The lightweights.”

“I’ll make this brief, ‘cause I don’t want to hector you.”

“Hector away. You know, you should get Hector — Babenco.”

“I love Hector but he’s erratic. Here’s the premise, okay? Well, not the premise — premise, but the context: If you have AIDS and need cash, you can sell your life insurance and collect the money upfront .” A thumb bisects Taj’s thigh, stopping at the back of the knee.

“Your office faxed me the article.”

“Did you have a chance to read it?”

“Very dark — but very interesting.”

“You know, I always wanted to do A Face in the Crowd with you but instead of the music thing, I wanted to set it in Werner Erhard — land.”

“I love that. I never knew you wanted to do that.”

“For years . You were gonna be this con who scams the human potential movement — a dysfunctional Music Man ! But one day I woke up and the whole ‘inner child thing’ felt passé—”

“Tell that to my wife.”

“And how is the most gorgeous woman on earth?”

“She’s great. So the character’s one of these insurance guys.”

“‘Viatical settlement advocate’—that’s what they call themselves. He’s down-and-out. Bad karma, like Newman in The Verdict .”

“I loved The Verdict . Where does it go?”

Cradling the phone on his shoulder, Zev puts both hands on Taj’s ass, gently spreading cheeks beneath loose fabric. “He gets involved with an activist, a woman who’s HIV. Sandra Bullock.”

“Your sister’s an activist.”

“Yeah, Aubrey.”

“How’s she doing?”

“Fine. Well. Tough lady.”

“I saw her at the Hard Rock thing in New York. She looked great.”

“This is my gift to her.”

“I’d love to work with Sandra. She’s terrific.”

“Together, you’re perfect . There’s a medical conspiracy thing going on, like in The Fugitive , only a thousand times subtler. I thought of this because I asked a hemophiliac how he got AIDS and he said, ‘I got fucked in the ass by seven major drug companies, honey!’”