Bruce Wagner - I’m Losing You

“How many years did you say you’ve been sober?”

“Four. Going on five.” That was the truth.

“People tend to get squirrely around that fifth chip,” she said. “I know I did.”

“I still feel like a jerk.”

“You just didn’t want to disappoint.”

“Maybe. It gets a little twisted. You did dazzle me, though — I guess that was part of it.”

Aubrey smiled; she liked that. “Sure you’re not one of those ?”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, there was a chick who hung around forever — we finally had to tell her to fuck off. She was desperate to test positive, had no life . A huge chick — five-two, two-fifty. She was a wall . Her old man taught jumping. Parachuting. He was pretty strange himself. She started taking his AZT when he died. I mean before, before he died! She was always asking people for their Zovirax, so we finally said, Here, bitch! Everyone has shitloads of Zovirax. And she’s still testing negative — although I heard she was pregnant by some hemophiliac, so maybe she’ll get her wish. I know I sound terrible, but there’s for sure some fucked up people in the world.”

Chet eyed the last of the pills. “They do look sort of appetizing. Mind if I—”

“Go right ahead,” she said, without missing a beat. “This one’ll put hair on your liver.”

On the way back to Oakhurst, they drove to Roxbury Park. He’d been to AA clubhouse meetings there. Aubrey pointed to an apartment building with a Frank Gehry penthouse floating above the trees like a tiled post-modern elysium. Chet never noticed it. They walked in the darkness and sat on a bench in front of the lawn where retirees did their Sunday-bowling.

“I was married. He was a lawyer. We weren’t rich, but he did okay. You know, the Tom Hayden type, public-interest. We tried having kids, for six years — nothing. That turned out to be a good thing, though, I guess. It ended. He has two now, boy and a girl. Then I met this guy through my brother. I wasn’t really looking. My brother works in film, does rather well. Anyway, this guy was an editor and I wound up apprenticing. It felt good. I never really had a vocation — God, that sounds dumb! ‘Vocation.’ White-trashy. But I liked editing. That sounds dumb too, I know. I guess what I really liked was the idea of cutting something together, having to make sense of something, be in that kind of control. Some kind of control. I decided I was going to ‘edit’ my life. Hey, why not? Naturally, I fell in love with the man who was teaching me. Women are like that.” She laughed. “Jake — the editor, that was his name — he was a sweet man and I was needy, to put it mildly. Sexually, I was starved . Not to mention emotionally. I mean, at this point if it wasn’t for the fertility stuff — having a kid became an obsession —I don’t think my husband (the lawyer) would have ever touched me. And most of the ways we tried, he didn’t have to! I mean, it was bad. I got pretty out there for a while. Anyway, we divorced. I got pregnant right away with Jake — of course, right? He was ecstatic —I mean, Jake was. Am I confusing you? I look back and…Jake used to sweat at night, I mean sweat a lot . I thought it was just the sex — he was so attracted to me. There was never a question about that…and I just wasn’t thinking in any other terms. This was a good, gentle man. Never used drugs. Zephyr was negative — that’s our son — so something went right. Jake got sick a few months after Zeph was born. Six months later, he died. Wanna see something?”

Aubrey searched her pocketbook while the wind gusted the trees outside the designer aerie. She stuck a snapshot in his hand.

“Isn’t he beautiful?”

“I saw him at the party.”

“That’s my Zephyr.”

“Beautiful boy.”

“My American Zephyr — we named him after a train, you know.”

When Chet got home, there was a message from Horvitz. He turned off the machine; he would listen in the morning. Then he’d call and quit — death takes a holiday. He fell fast asleep and dreamed Aubrey was a guest on the old talk show. The theme was “People Who Have Recovered from AIDS.”

Troy Capra

Troy got a curious phone call from Quinn, the gaffer.

They’d worked together on scores of X-rated productions and Troy planned to use him for lighting on Skin Trade . An occasional performer, Quinn saw most of his action off-camera — as a bisexual pretending to be straight, he was a crossover hit.

Quinn was eager to talk about a recent “scene” with Moe Trusskopf, the well-known celebrity manager. They had been joined by Trusskopf’s beau, a studly stud and nicely knight with the moniker of Lancelot who happened, in actuality, to be none other than the famous Rod Whalen. Ring a bell? Troy blinked, trying to place the name. Quinn reminded him of the young dancer in Guys and Dolls who gave him his big directing break.

“Jesus, how do you even remember that kid?”

“You told me about him. I became a fan of his work. You forget I’m an aficionado.”

“I thought he’d be long dead.”

“Just long.”

“How did my name come up?”

“I made the connection. You know, I never forget a pretty face — especially one I’ve sat on.”

“Don’t start talking like a queen. Please, Quinn, not you.”

“Listen, I got this idea, right? You have a copy of that, don’t you?”

“A copy of what.”

“Your first film! Come on, Troy, I know you.”

“I may have it somewhere.”

“You have it, Troy. What was it called?”

“ Up in Adam .”

“ Up in Adam! Right! Okay, here’s what’s happening: Trusskopf really wants to see it — he’s like, been looking for it, right? He’s burning , he would kill for a copy. And the kid is, like, game. I said I’d talk to you and arrange a little screening.”

“At the Directors Guild. Have it catered.”

“You should do it, Troy. They’re having a party Sunday. We should go over with the tape.”

“You go over.”

“This could be good for you, Troy.”

“Yeah. I can have a scene with Moe and Curly.”

“Moe Trusskopf’s a heavy , okay? And he’s smart , Troy, he’d like you. You’ll like him . The movie’s just an entrée.”

“And your dick’s the aperitif.”

“You want to do Skin Trade , don’t you? I mean, you want to exploit it, right? To be in that position once it’s done? Just get into a conversation with him, Troy, and tell him what your plans are, right? Or whatever . You don’t know where this shit leads, he could fucking sign you. Tell him all your theatrical bullshit, he’s from that world. And he knows all those guys, he knows everybody , right? I’m telling you, man, you should do it.”

On Sunday afternoon, Troy and Kiv looked at houses. That was her idea, because with the expense of the coming show, there’d barely be money for rent let alone four-point-four million for a shanty in the Bel Air hills. It was only practice, Kiv said — she wanted to know what it felt like to be a “lady of the Pantheon.” Besides, convincing the realtor she was “a nouveau” was a good acting exercise. Driving through the West Gate in his near-jalopy of a Mercedes, Troy felt uneasy. He already had a pretend life.