Bruce Wagner - The Chrysanthemum Palace

“Miriam,” I said impatiently. “What was it you—”

“Bertie, Thad is completely on his ass. ” She was getting drunker. I began to kiss her neck but she warded me off with a smile and a coy twist of the head. “I mean, financially. ” I put a hand on the inside of her thigh and she let me; easier now to pay attention to her tangled speech. “So I had this amazing idea. I called your dad and talked to him.”

“You called my father?”

Now I was intrigued.

“Bertie, I know this is going to sound completely insane. I called your dad and told him — of course I introduced myself and we talked about Jack and how Perry’s a big collector and he told me how he optioned one of Jack’s books, yadda yadda — I told him you and I had met but I swear I didn’t use your name in vain, ” she said, with a sexy lift of her brow. “And I asked if he knew Thad was a novelist too. He had no idea! Or maybe he did, but forgot — whatever. But I think he was actually kind of tripped out when I told him. Anyway, I said I was at Barnes and Noble and saw the Starwatch books — the series, right? Starwatch: The Navigators. You know about that, right? There’s like, sixty of ’em. Sixty episodes novelized from however many seasons. And I wanted to know if Perry might be interested — I haven’t even talked to Thad , and I was very clear about that when I spoke to your dad — I asked if he thought anyone — meaning Perry — hel-lo! — might be interested in Thad potentially adapting the episode he was currently shooting. ‘Prodigal Son.’ I mean, into a novel. For the book series. It’s a no-brainer, right? It’s genius! Because maybe that might be fun. And this was a bit of a shot in the dark, OK? Because his agents aren’t thinking about him in those terms. His agents aren’t thinking about him in any terms except, like, doing a Verizon voice-over. I mean, nobody knows what kind of trouble the man’s in, Bertie! Nobody knows the trouble he’s seen !’—she sang the latter in old negro basso, making me hornier—“and even if they did, nobody even fucking cares. So I called your daddy, OK? Because I love Thad and someone has to help him. And I know they probably don’t pay all that much but it could be one of those ‘event’ things. We could turn it into that. A little harmless spin. I mean, Thad’s getting top dollar for ‘Prodigal Son’ and I’m sure I could get him a nice paycheck for adapting it as some stupid fucking paperback they’re probably going to adapt anyway. But that’s not even really the point… I thought if I could at least get him writing again, for money, even if it’s not some fortune, at least if someone’d pay him to write, which he does better than like ninety-eight percent of anyone out there, then maybe the creative juices would start flowing, OK? Right? For his new book. You know? No? Does that not make sense, Bertie, or does that not make sense. Anyway — there ya have it. So I guess what I wanted to know is, well… what do you think? Did I fuck up or did I fuck up?”

The next few days of shooting went well.

Thad was footloose and headache-free. The meds, whether contraband or prescribed, didn’t interfere with his work. He was a pro as always, bringing wildly interesting touches to his work when he might easily have slipped into rote. Clea was definitely getting loaded again, something she couldn’t hide — not from me, anyway. The first sign that a reformed addict has lost her sobriety is when she starts dropping clues about the amazingly powerful effect an over-the-counter anti-itch pill had just the night before on her “virgin system.” An even stronger indication of a slip is when said addict volunteers how the synergistic combo of, say, Robitussin — for that nagging, three-week-long cough — with Wellbutrin (Clea and I were of the non-Nazi sobriety school that didn’t consider drugs for depression or OCD to be taboo) managed to produce actual stumbling and slurring of words. Incredible but True! AA’s Believe It or Not … By making such faux-naïf observations public, the dope fiend craftily seeds the ground — or clouds, if you will — to justify the coming shitstorm. 1So it was with extreme skepticism that I greeted Clea’s casual announcement that she’d tripped on a rug and fallen down the night before (hence, the subtle limp) due to the totally bizarre and unexpected effect of mixing Zoloft, Benadryl gel caps, and Allegra-D. She caught my glance — really more of a grimace — my palpable displeasure giving her enough of a reason to cease and desist our get-togethers at the Sepulveda gym. Brunch at Hugo’s was out as well.

I took a deep breath and told myself to stop the judgy, codependent nonsense. I could barely manage my own life and had no right or reason to micromanage hers. What was all this about, in the last analysis? Residual jealousies vis-à-vis Thad? Or maybe I was the one who wanted to get loaded — and resented her easy, guilt-free indulgence. Maybe I was the one with the death wish.

Then I told myself that was bullshit. She was fucking up big-time and I wasn’t going to be there to pick up the pieces.

1I always find it amusing when actors maintain they got hooked on painkillers because of bone breaks, neuralgia, and herniated discs, or began using speed to cope with the punishing hours of film shoots. Why is it that no one ever comes out and says, “I love the way it makes me feel! Stronger and prettier, smarter, sexier, luxuriantly numb! I hate myself less! I’m not afraid of terrorists! I can even love you, and the whole god-abandoned world!”

WARDROBE WENT ALL OUT: CLEAwore a diaphanous tunic, a madcap yet demure rip-off of a widely publicized haute couture design which had appeared on Parisian runways just two weeks before. How strange, seeing Thad and Clea stand together with transformed, angular faces that, while not exactly gruesome (perhaps I’d grown accustomed), were still within shout-out of an atavistic nightmare. It was as if I had donned special glasses, affording a view of the ordinarily imperceptible “alien” dynamic that lay just beneath the surface of any chemically complex, long-term, passionately erotic alliance. I wondered how Miriam and I would look, through the same magic spectacles. Probably nowhere near as interesting.

We were pondering whether to have the strawberry shortcake or peach cobbler à la mode when Nick Sultan, our properly English director, arrived with a tray of meat and potatoes. He diffidently asked if he might join us (directors always seem to begin their meals just as everyone else is finishing). Not wanting to be rude, we obliged.

“That was such a great scene,” he said.

He referred, of course, to the moment in which it was revealed that our own Ensign Rattweil was none other than a Vorbalidian prince in exile. See, Thad’s father, the king, was near death; hijacking the Demeter was the family’s way of bringing the runaway royal home to take care of unfinished business — i.e., the sticky wicket of succession to the throne involving his nasty twin, Prince Morloch.

“I was in tears. You were brilliant. ” Gentleman that he was, the helmer hastily included Clea and myself (glimpsewise) in his encomia. “I’m so glad you’re doing the show,” he said, now strictly addressing the famed guest star. “You wouldn’t believe who’s addicted to Starwatch. It’s bizarre. ” The last, accompanied by a fuller glance in my direction, as I must naturally be the residing expert on the cult franchise’s global appeal.