Bruce Wagner - The Chrysanthemum Palace

“Now you do look familiar,” said the doc, warming to his subject. “Were you in that Don Quixote movie?”

“Yes, he was,” said the proud Miriam.

“I saw it on a plane. It was great!” Everything fell into place. “Your father’s the writer?” No one responded. “Jack Michelet? The novelist?”

Shockingly enough, Miriam skillfully aborted exploration of the topic by thanking him for his services.

Turning to Thad, he said, “I want you to try the Zomig.” The doctor gathered his things. “If he feels a headache coming on, he’s to take a pill. They’re two and a half milligrams. He can have up to four, but no more than ten milligrams — total — per day. That, plus the Vicodin. If the headache’s still there, I want you to call.”

“Careful with those Darian showgirls, Doc,” said Thad, good humor briefly returning. “Remember: alien ‘pelvics’ can be a bit pesky. Better to triple-glove.”

“Will he be able to work tomorrow?” asked Miriam.

That was another annoying trait — her tendency to ask a mindless question for which she already knew the answer. But why was I subjecting the girl to such brittle scrutiny? Simple: too much time had elapsed since we’d shagged.

“I don’t see why not. He might be a little unsteady on his feet, but he’s an old hand. The show must go on, no?” He gave Miriam his card. “Call my office or pager. And I can always be reached through the hotel.”

“Do you make housecalls? I mean set calls?” asked Thad, in earnest.

“It’s been known to happen. Yes. That can be arranged.”

“Do you feel it yet?” asked Miriam of the drugs.

“Hasn’t quite kicked in.”

“Oh bullshit,” said Clea, our resident expert. “It’s been at least half an hour.”

“I’m a woman on the verge — the mere knowledge the stoned Pony Express is galloping through the bloodstream with those leathery ol’ saddlebags of painkiller molecules brings me exorbitant comfort.”

“Are you really going to feel like eating?” said Miriam.

“It’s probably not a great idea to load up on food,” I said, supportively.

Clea came and sat beside him. “Why don’t you let me put you to bed?”

“Because I want a shrimp cocktail, OK?” said Thad, imperious. “Don’t worry — I won’t aspirate. And french fries and a fucking cheeseburger. Everyone has to order, is that understood? Mister Karp? Call room service immediately or I’ll kick you where the six Darian suns don’t shine! As acting captain of the good starship Demerol, I command you!”

Thad’s stamina was pretty amazing. We played half-assed duets on the piano, messily eating our food while Clea and Miriam sat on the terrace, smoking and murmuring girl-things. I knew it was neurotic but ever since we met I’d worried he thought of me as just another inane, rich lummox from Clea’s childhood, or — far worse — that I was boring. Sitting side by side on the lacquered bench of the Kawai, I began to loosen up and be myself; maybe it was a contact high. I fantasized we could really be friends. The truth was, I did feel boring next to this man — I didn’t necessarily want to feel his pain but coveted his cadence and complexity. I understood why Clea was so drawn. I actually wanted to please him, and decided that was all right. So we laughed and pounded the keys and I did those impressions I used to haul out at parties years and years ago. At some point, I coined the phrase “endorsement rush” (what athletes feel when they sign a big product deal) and Thad laughed so hard the girls wandered in to see about the commotion.

The three of us had early-morning set calls. Miriam and I left, so Clea could tuck him in. (To our relief, she was staying over.) I walked her downstairs just before midnight and, happily, she asked me in. My curiosity piqued because whatever Miriam had in mind wasn’t amorous; she’d made that clear enough by saying she had “overdosed” (tonight’s theme) on Motrin, due to “Godzilla cramping.” Too bad — if she thought I was going to reject her polite invitation, the hint fell on hard-on ears.

Because the rules of engagement (or against it) were already set, the lovely suite took on a kind of formal, faintly clinical cast. For one of the few times in my life, I regretted following my dick — suddenly it felt like we were in the sitting room of a mortuary. Miriam poured herself a drink, fetched me a Diet Coke from the perfectly restored fifties fridge, then plunked herself down on the floor with great cross-legged intent. There was something she needed my advice about.

Thad was in trouble with the IRS. He had a lifelong gambling problem and Morgana perennially bailed him out — but no more. (I was shocked his mum had done as much.) The government forced a lien against his Manhattan apartment and he was struggling to make payments that with penalties and interest approached $35,000 a month. Miriam said he was drinking and drugging more than usual since Jack’s death, and enduring extreme writer’s block with the new book as well; whenever he was really bad off, he phoned at all hours to go on about Dostoevsky’s gaming woes. The end result of these agonies was frequent headaches that necessitated “the ingestion of analgesics.” Ironically, the pills caused a rebound effect (actual medical term), which began the vicious cycle of migraines all over again. It was excruciating for her to watch him self-destruct because she held the guy in such high esteem and truly cared so much. She wanted him in good shape for “all the wonderful things coming his way.” “This is his time,” said Miriam — and she really meant it. She had planned a meeting with Mordecai Klotcher because it was her opinion there was a good chance the producer would option one of Thad’s books. Aside from that, she was keen on pursuing the potential game-show franchise William Morris was pushing. She wanted a flurry of meetings and auditions, not just with indie folk but high-power directors who also happened to be long-term fans (Joel Schumacher, Cameron Crowe, and Tim Burton came to mind). Most of all, she wanted Thad Michelet, whose life had been filled with torment, to be happy. In that regard, she was of the tenuous, desperate, wistful opinion that Clea Fremantle was a short-term, stabilizing influence, even though the two “had some history.”

I sat down on the floor opposite her. “You said you needed my advice.”

She was a little drunk. I was tired, my attention still held by the unlikely prospect of sex.

“Well — it’s something I did. I did something, Bertie… and it’s just that now I’m not so sure it was such a great idea. The thing is, I’m not so sure William Morris is the place for him to be. I mean, now. At this juncture. They haven’t gotten him anything for a while — any features, I mean. And that’s his bread and butter! I think they’re a little disorganized. I still do lots of business there so don’t get me wrong. They want him to do commercials. And that’s OK. But he loves doing movies. I mean, if he has to act —which most of the time he’d rather not! — he’d rather be writing but that doesn’t pay the bills. And you know how he likes the obscure theater stuff, but — they’re not exactly lining up around the block to finance a two-act adaptation of I. B. Singer’s short story ‘The Slaughterer’! And the really good indie stuff doesn’t come along that often… and if you wind up doing a little movie and it sucks, it sucks. You know? Suddenly, you’re the person in the little thing that sucked. Whatever. The person who tried to do the hip indie thing and failed failed failed . Not that failing’s a bad thing. But I just don’t think our little guy needs any more practice at this point in time. But in the right feature —a studio feature — oh, Bertie, that’s where he shines. The La Jolla thing was canceled — you knew? — the Beckett. The money fell out. Which wasn’t shocking — to me. And it’s OK because it gives him… he likes to do a big movie because he’s in and out —Bertie, he can do four a year and make a serious chunk o’ change! Which is what he really needs — now. Boy, does he need it! Then he can go write. Or try to. Or do whatever. He can check into Canyon Ranch — that’s what he likes — and write and lose weight and hike. Pilates and all that good stuff. Fact is, he got this job cause of your dad. Your father loved Jack Michelet, loves his work. And that’s fine. But you knew that. Everybody loves Jack Michelet. Isn’t that always how it is? They love the monster? Well, they don’t know Jack. Didn’t. ‘You don’t know Jack.’ Isn’t that how that goes? I mean the name, there’s a game called that? Perry thought it’d be fun, God love ’im — I mean, he loves Thad too, in his way, and that’s fine —fun to have him on the show. Which it would be. Which it is . Right? Class it up. What else is new. Thad’s used to that. The ‘class clown.’ Clown with Class. And that’s OK. As long as he’s getting his goodies. You know, William Morris wasn’t even involved. I mean, they made a nice deal for him, with my help. But… they would have fucked it up. They would have fucked it up if I—”