"Mike Resnick & Nicholas A DiChario - Working Stiff" - читать интересную книгу автора (Resnick Mike)
proud of it. I take the wide turn around East Elm Street --
trickiest corner on my whole route -- feeling the tires slide
across a patch of early-morning slush, and then skid to a stop
right in front of the station. Twelve midnight. Right on
schedule. I've always been a good schedule driver. And no one's
got quicker reflexes.
There's still one passenger aboard. I open the door and the
bitter cold air whisks down the aisle. Winter in upstate New York
comes in hard and fast off Lake Ontario. Sometimes it hits as
early as September and sticks around til May. Not exactly the
kind of weather I grew up with back on the island, but I always
hated tropical heat.
I turn around and this guy is still sitting on his duff. "End
of the line, Mister," I announce.
The guy walks up slowly from the rear, then sits in that
first seat opposite me. He's a short, chunky guy. Glasses.
Neatly trimmed beard. Shirt and tie under a fancy overcoat. Nice
boots. Not the kind of guy you'd normally see on my line, so I've
got a pretty good idea as to what's coming next. By now I can
sense when one of these jokers has come looking for a story.
"Mind if we have a chat?" he says, sweet as pie. "I'm from
_New York Silver Screen Magazine_."
I shrug. "Why not?"
I crawl out of the driver's seat, and the two of us walk
through the gathering snow into the bus terminal. "Wait here," I
tell him. He sits on a bench in front of the tall plexi-glass
windows facing South Avenue, and I go to the supervisor's station
to clock off my shift, half-expecting him not to be there when I
get back. Some of them don't wait. Some of them, the brighter
ones, can tell right off they're not going to get the story they
came hunting for.
Not this guy, though: he's still waiting. He gives me a fake
smile and says, "How's about I buy you some breakfast?"
"Thanks, but no thanks," I answer. "I got some errands to
run. You're welcome to tag along." I turn my back on him and head
for the street. He follows.
"You know, you're not exactly what I expected," he says
thoughtfully.
I sigh. "You mean I'm not as big as you expected."
He nods. "Right."
That's the first thing that strikes most of them. I'm pretty
big, but they always expect bigger. _Much_ bigger.
We step outdoors into the cold black morning. I start
walking. I walk everywhere, or take the bus. I'm a too large to
fit comfortably in a car. I tried a sleek little Mazda RX7 once;
three years old, 47,000 miles, drove like a dream -- but it always
felt like I was about to swallow my knees.
I figure the wind-chill has dropped the temperature to three
or four degrees below zero. Maybe I can shake this guy yet. After
all, _he_ doesn't have a fur coat. Me, I live in mine.
"Why only one film?" he says.
I grimace. These journalists are so predictable. They'll ask
one question, maybe two, about me, and then, inevitably, they'll
ask about _her_. 'Don't you miss her? What did she mean to you?
What do you remember most about her? Do you still talk to her?'
So I state the obvious. "There's not a lot of opportunity
for a guy like me in Hollywood. I'm not exactly your typical
leading man, you know?"
We walk into this tavern on Alexander Street, brush off the
snow and sleet, and take a couple of stools at the bar.
Vinnie the bartender comes right over. "What can I do for
you boys?"
I pull a wad of bills out of my jacket pocket and start
peeling off twenties. "What's the line on the Bengals and the
Jets?"
Vinnie looks at my friend.
"He's okay," I tell him.
"What's his name?"
"I don't know. What's your name?"
The guy looks ill at ease. I can't say as I blame him.
"Parker Granwell," he says, extending his hand to Vinnie. "It's a
pleasure to meet you, sir."
Vinnie snickers. He's got this kind of wheezing emphysema
laugh. He was shot in the ribs a few years back. The bullet left
him with an air leak and a limp, as if he's got a permanent stitch
in his side. "Where'd you find this nerd?"
"He found me," I answer. "What's the line?"
"Minus two," says Vinnie.
"Under-over?" I ask.
"Thirty-eight."
"What about the Dolphins and the Bills?"
"Miami plus six-and-a-half. Forty-two."
"I'll take the Dolphs and over for a hundred, and the Bengals
and under for forty...no...make it sixty."
Vinnie takes my money. "What about the nerd? Care to place
a wager?"
"I'll pass," says Parker, fidgeting on his bar stool.
Vinnie chuckles. "Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Parker
Granwell, sir" -- he makes it sound like a title -- and limps into
the back room.
I nod toward the door. "Let's go."
We enter the storm again. Granwell seems like a decent
enough guy, and I figure I might as well give him what he wants.
So as we walk, I talk about the good old days, the days of Mary
Pickford and Doug Fairbanks and Scott Fitzgerald, the days of
Gable, Harlow, and Cagney, the glory days of Universal, Paramount,
Warner Brothers, MGM, and of course RKO, the days before the
Screen Actors Guild destroyed something so pure and simple as the
studio contract. I even throw in some trite quotable stuff about
Willis O'Brien's brilliant animation and Max Steiner's under-
appreciated musical score and Merian Cooper's genius. What the
hell, it was all true; I just never cared.
Anyway, Granwell nods and takes some notes and throws in a
"yeah -- uh-huh -- okay" every now and again, and when it's all
over he tucks his notebook in his coat pocket and frowns, the snow
gathering in his neat beard.
"I do believe that is the longest line of bullshit I have
ever heard," he says.
"I've had a lot of practice," I reply without missing a beat.
"I want the truth."
He's right, of course, about the bullshit. But he's wrong
about the truth. He doesn't really want it. None of them ever
do.
We stop at the Cork Screw, a liquor store about the size of a
meat freezer over on Chestnut Street. Max closes at midnight but he's always in the back room til around two or three, counting
receipts, punching figures into his adding machine, and drinking
away his profits. I like Max. We've spent many an evening
together talking football and getting drunk. He's one of the few
people in the world who has never seen the movie, and has no
desire to.
I rap on the back door. Max opens up and asks me in.
"Sorry, Maxy," I greet him. "I can't stay tonight. I got
company I can't get rid of."
Max peeks out the door and shows the barrel-end of his
Remington twelve-gauge. "I'll bet _I_ can get rid of your company
for you."
I see Granwell go a little pale. This is more than he
bargained for. He was probably looking for an easy piece of back-
page fluff, not a tour of the inner city in sub-zero weather,
complete with gangsters and sawed-off shotguns. "That's all
right, Maxy, he's okay. You got any overstock tonight?" I peel
off another twenty and, as usual, Max won't take it. He hands me
a bottle of Canadian Club -- not my favorite, but well worth the
price -- and Granwell and I make our way down Chestnut, through
the windy spray of sleet and snow, to the trucking warehouse where
I rent my living space.
I push through the heavy doors, click on the overhead light
bulb, and invite him in. What the hell. I'm always hoping that
one of these guys, one of these days, will print the truth. The
_Truth_. Your king lives in a warehouse surrounded by banana
crates, and sleeps on two king-size mattresses thrown on top of a
concrete floor. Your king is a bus-driver who gambles and drinks
away his paycheck. Your king never wanted his goddamned crown,
and if he regrets one thing in his life, it's that he took the
role that made him king, that he died on-screen for the love of a
flat-chested wig-wearing blonde, and that the world can't forget
about it.
Suddenly, the Canadian Club doesn't appeal to me. I need a
beer. I open my fridge, crack open a Bud, and offer one to
Granwell. Much to my surprise, he accepts.
"You know," he says, "rumor has it that your movie saved RKO.
They were ready to file for bankruptcy when -- "
"Yeah, it's true. But let's get one thing straight. It's not
_my_ movie."
"Without you, there _is_ no movie." He sits on a banana crate
and sips his Bud. "In 1975, the American Film Institute honored
it as one of the favorite American films of all time. There was
even a reception at the White House."
"You got guts, Parker Granwell," I say, guzzling my beer and
crushing the can. "You want honesty? I like being a bus driver.
I like to gamble and I like to drink. I like my friends and my
life. Why not let it go at that?"
"I don't get it. Why did you leave the island if you didn't
want to be king?"
I can't help but laugh at that one. How could I have known
back in 1933 what I was getting myself into? I was just a big
kid. So I tell him the truth, just like I tell all the others:
"I _hated_ that damned island. The heat, the gigantic insects,
the carnivorous spiders, snakes a mile long, vultures the size of
airplanes, the tyrannosaurus always hunting me. I had to fight
the pterodactyls and pteranodons for every scrap of food. I was
allergic to more plant-life on that goddamned island than you can
find on this whole fucking continent. And the natives were the
worst of the lot: they'd sacrifice virgins to me one minute and
chuck spears at me the next. How long do you think I could have
survived in that environment?"
I take a deep breath and continue. "I needed a change, and
quick -- but the problem was getting off the island. I couldn't
swim. (Still can't.) Anyway, I hear through the grapevine that
this guy Merian Cooper is vacationing on the island and he's
putting together this film in the States and it just so happens he
needs an ape, so I go looking for him. Once he calms down he
gives me this mock screen test and he likes what he sees. The
rest is history."
"How did you get so small? I mean, you were _huge_ -- forty,
fifty feet tall at least."
I shrug, go to the fridge, crack open another Bud. "That
one's a mystery to me," I admit. "But I have a theory. I think
the universe has to be in a kind of balance. Over the years, as
the myth grew bigger, I got smaller. It's as if there's not
enough room for both of us in this world: it can accommodate
either me or the myth -- and the myth is a hell of a lot stronger
than I am."
Granwell looks like he's mulling it over, then apparently
decides to let it go. "I'd like to read you something," he says.
"It's an open letter from--"
"Let me guess," I interrupt, because while I have never read
his writing, I can read Granwell himself like a book. "It's from
the one true love of my life."
"It's from the introduction to her autobiography," he
answers, missing my finely-wrought sarcasm. "It reads something
like this: 'I wonder whether you know how strong a force you have
been to me. For more than half a century, you have been the most
dominant figure in my public life. To speak of me is to think of
you....You have accumulated so much affection over all the years
that no one wants to kill you. What the whole world wants is to
save you.'"
I pick up the remote, click on the television set, and flip
to ESPN. Speed Week. Damn. I was hoping for a college football
game.
"Don't her words mean anything to you?" asks Granwell. "Don't
you ever think of her? Don't you have anything you want to say to
her?"
So at last Parker Granwell comes clean. I mute the TV and
shoot him my most feral expression, curling my lips and showing my
fangs, but to be perfectly honest, there isn't much in me to be
afraid of anymore.
I set down my beer. "Do you think you're the only bright-
eyed reporter who has ever bothered to track me down, Granwell?" I
say. "Hell, it's been sixty years since I made that flick. You
all come looking for the same thing. You want to find this
gigantic, forlorn ape, pining after the woman of his dreams, the
woman whose heart he could never capture because he's nothing but
a savage beast. And none of you can bear the fact that it just
isn't so." I pause long enough to stifle a growl deep in my chest.
"The truth is I'm not a savage beast and never was. I never loved
that screeching bitch. I never even _liked_ her. In fact, I
could barely tolerate her. I was _acting_, plain and simple. She
used to give me migraine headaches on the set like you wouldn't
believe. Cooper hired her for her piercing scream, which as far
as I can tell was her only talent. And she made up for her
inadequacies by burrowing into the Hollywood social scene like
some pathetic maggot. Who was Cary Grant dating and was Hepburn as
good an actress as everybody said and was Fitzgerald going to be
at this party or at that one? Christ, she made me want to puke!"
Instead I belch, which suits me and my mood just fine.
Granwell just sort of shakes his head. I can see it in his
eyes: This won't do at all, he's thinking. He's already put his
notebook away. He says, "Paul Johnson wrote an appreciation of
you in the _New Statesman_ back in the sixties. It was brilliant.
He called you a creature of intelligible rage, nobility, pathos.
He called you a prehistoric Lear. And he was right, you know.
You're America's only king."
They all come to this realization sooner or later. Elvis
won't cut it because of the drugs and some of the ugly things he
did and stood for which just won't go away, and they've learned
too much about Kennedy, and the world is too hard and cold and
jaded now to come up with anything better. America may be a land
of riches and excess and (some say) even self-made royalty, but it
is not a land of monarchs. No, there's only one king. Me. The
ape. "I'm sorry I don't live up to your expectations."
Granwell sighs. "So if we just leave you alone, if we let
you pass your time quietly here on Earth, we can take comfort in
knowing that your myth will survive."
I nod. "Don't sweat it, Parker. Most people have already
forgotten about me. I'm out of the loop, man. All the golden
anniversary celebrations for that stupid movie -- I didn't get a
single engraved invitation. Not one. De Laurentiis never called
to consult with me about the remake. I didn't even get an invite
to that White House thing back in '75. But _she_ was there,
kissing up to Jimmy and Rosalyn Carter." This time I can't hold
back the growl. "She wouldn't have missed it for the world."
"Don't you think you're being a little tough on her? She was
one of the most popular actresses of her day, worked with every
major male lead in the business -- and then, to be frank, you
ruined her. After your film, the monster-movie offers came
pouring in, and nobody would give her the serious roles she
deserved."
Granwell's no different than the rest of them. By the time
they finish talking to me, they wish they never found me, and so
do I. "Look, man, I'm just a gorilla. I don't share your sense
of tragedy."
Granwell sets his beer down, slides off the banana crate, and
walks to the door. "Thanks for the chat."
I call after him: "If you want to make an old ape happy
before he dies, print the truth."
"You will never die," he says, and walks out.
Touche.
Suddenly I could use some Canadian Club. I pour myself a
tall one, drop down on my mattresses, and start flipping through
the channels. I pull the covers up to my chin and listen to the
fierce wind howling through the empty lot behind the warehouse.
I've got a chill I can't get rid of. Regardless of the
temperature, some nights are colder than others.
Fifty-seven channels and there's nothing on.
Yet on any given night, if I can keep my eyes propped open
long enough to catch the late shows...if I don't pass out from the
booze or the beer or the boredom...chances are, sooner or
later, I'll come across my favorite film. -end-
proud of it. I take the wide turn around East Elm Street --
trickiest corner on my whole route -- feeling the tires slide
across a patch of early-morning slush, and then skid to a stop
right in front of the station. Twelve midnight. Right on
schedule. I've always been a good schedule driver. And no one's
got quicker reflexes.
There's still one passenger aboard. I open the door and the
bitter cold air whisks down the aisle. Winter in upstate New York
comes in hard and fast off Lake Ontario. Sometimes it hits as
early as September and sticks around til May. Not exactly the
kind of weather I grew up with back on the island, but I always
hated tropical heat.
I turn around and this guy is still sitting on his duff. "End
of the line, Mister," I announce.
The guy walks up slowly from the rear, then sits in that
first seat opposite me. He's a short, chunky guy. Glasses.
Neatly trimmed beard. Shirt and tie under a fancy overcoat. Nice
boots. Not the kind of guy you'd normally see on my line, so I've
got a pretty good idea as to what's coming next. By now I can
sense when one of these jokers has come looking for a story.
"Mind if we have a chat?" he says, sweet as pie. "I'm from
_New York Silver Screen Magazine_."
I shrug. "Why not?"
I crawl out of the driver's seat, and the two of us walk
through the gathering snow into the bus terminal. "Wait here," I
tell him. He sits on a bench in front of the tall plexi-glass
windows facing South Avenue, and I go to the supervisor's station
to clock off my shift, half-expecting him not to be there when I
get back. Some of them don't wait. Some of them, the brighter
ones, can tell right off they're not going to get the story they
came hunting for.
Not this guy, though: he's still waiting. He gives me a fake
smile and says, "How's about I buy you some breakfast?"
"Thanks, but no thanks," I answer. "I got some errands to
run. You're welcome to tag along." I turn my back on him and head
for the street. He follows.
"You know, you're not exactly what I expected," he says
thoughtfully.
I sigh. "You mean I'm not as big as you expected."
He nods. "Right."
That's the first thing that strikes most of them. I'm pretty
big, but they always expect bigger. _Much_ bigger.
We step outdoors into the cold black morning. I start
walking. I walk everywhere, or take the bus. I'm a too large to
fit comfortably in a car. I tried a sleek little Mazda RX7 once;
three years old, 47,000 miles, drove like a dream -- but it always
felt like I was about to swallow my knees.
I figure the wind-chill has dropped the temperature to three
or four degrees below zero. Maybe I can shake this guy yet. After
all, _he_ doesn't have a fur coat. Me, I live in mine.
"Why only one film?" he says.
I grimace. These journalists are so predictable. They'll ask
one question, maybe two, about me, and then, inevitably, they'll
ask about _her_. 'Don't you miss her? What did she mean to you?
What do you remember most about her? Do you still talk to her?'
So I state the obvious. "There's not a lot of opportunity
for a guy like me in Hollywood. I'm not exactly your typical
leading man, you know?"
We walk into this tavern on Alexander Street, brush off the
snow and sleet, and take a couple of stools at the bar.
Vinnie the bartender comes right over. "What can I do for
you boys?"
I pull a wad of bills out of my jacket pocket and start
peeling off twenties. "What's the line on the Bengals and the
Jets?"
Vinnie looks at my friend.
"He's okay," I tell him.
"What's his name?"
"I don't know. What's your name?"
The guy looks ill at ease. I can't say as I blame him.
"Parker Granwell," he says, extending his hand to Vinnie. "It's a
pleasure to meet you, sir."
Vinnie snickers. He's got this kind of wheezing emphysema
laugh. He was shot in the ribs a few years back. The bullet left
him with an air leak and a limp, as if he's got a permanent stitch
in his side. "Where'd you find this nerd?"
"He found me," I answer. "What's the line?"
"Minus two," says Vinnie.
"Under-over?" I ask.
"Thirty-eight."
"What about the Dolphins and the Bills?"
"Miami plus six-and-a-half. Forty-two."
"I'll take the Dolphs and over for a hundred, and the Bengals
and under for forty...no...make it sixty."
Vinnie takes my money. "What about the nerd? Care to place
a wager?"
"I'll pass," says Parker, fidgeting on his bar stool.
Vinnie chuckles. "Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Parker
Granwell, sir" -- he makes it sound like a title -- and limps into
the back room.
I nod toward the door. "Let's go."
We enter the storm again. Granwell seems like a decent
enough guy, and I figure I might as well give him what he wants.
So as we walk, I talk about the good old days, the days of Mary
Pickford and Doug Fairbanks and Scott Fitzgerald, the days of
Gable, Harlow, and Cagney, the glory days of Universal, Paramount,
Warner Brothers, MGM, and of course RKO, the days before the
Screen Actors Guild destroyed something so pure and simple as the
studio contract. I even throw in some trite quotable stuff about
Willis O'Brien's brilliant animation and Max Steiner's under-
appreciated musical score and Merian Cooper's genius. What the
hell, it was all true; I just never cared.
Anyway, Granwell nods and takes some notes and throws in a
"yeah -- uh-huh -- okay" every now and again, and when it's all
over he tucks his notebook in his coat pocket and frowns, the snow
gathering in his neat beard.
"I do believe that is the longest line of bullshit I have
ever heard," he says.
"I've had a lot of practice," I reply without missing a beat.
"I want the truth."
He's right, of course, about the bullshit. But he's wrong
about the truth. He doesn't really want it. None of them ever
do.
We stop at the Cork Screw, a liquor store about the size of a
meat freezer over on Chestnut Street. Max closes at midnight but he's always in the back room til around two or three, counting
receipts, punching figures into his adding machine, and drinking
away his profits. I like Max. We've spent many an evening
together talking football and getting drunk. He's one of the few
people in the world who has never seen the movie, and has no
desire to.
I rap on the back door. Max opens up and asks me in.
"Sorry, Maxy," I greet him. "I can't stay tonight. I got
company I can't get rid of."
Max peeks out the door and shows the barrel-end of his
Remington twelve-gauge. "I'll bet _I_ can get rid of your company
for you."
I see Granwell go a little pale. This is more than he
bargained for. He was probably looking for an easy piece of back-
page fluff, not a tour of the inner city in sub-zero weather,
complete with gangsters and sawed-off shotguns. "That's all
right, Maxy, he's okay. You got any overstock tonight?" I peel
off another twenty and, as usual, Max won't take it. He hands me
a bottle of Canadian Club -- not my favorite, but well worth the
price -- and Granwell and I make our way down Chestnut, through
the windy spray of sleet and snow, to the trucking warehouse where
I rent my living space.
I push through the heavy doors, click on the overhead light
bulb, and invite him in. What the hell. I'm always hoping that
one of these guys, one of these days, will print the truth. The
_Truth_. Your king lives in a warehouse surrounded by banana
crates, and sleeps on two king-size mattresses thrown on top of a
concrete floor. Your king is a bus-driver who gambles and drinks
away his paycheck. Your king never wanted his goddamned crown,
and if he regrets one thing in his life, it's that he took the
role that made him king, that he died on-screen for the love of a
flat-chested wig-wearing blonde, and that the world can't forget
about it.
And neither can he.
Suddenly, the Canadian Club doesn't appeal to me. I need a
beer. I open my fridge, crack open a Bud, and offer one to
Granwell. Much to my surprise, he accepts.
"You know," he says, "rumor has it that your movie saved RKO.
They were ready to file for bankruptcy when -- "
"Yeah, it's true. But let's get one thing straight. It's not
_my_ movie."
"Without you, there _is_ no movie." He sits on a banana crate
and sips his Bud. "In 1975, the American Film Institute honored
it as one of the favorite American films of all time. There was
even a reception at the White House."
"You got guts, Parker Granwell," I say, guzzling my beer and
crushing the can. "You want honesty? I like being a bus driver.
I like to gamble and I like to drink. I like my friends and my
life. Why not let it go at that?"
"I don't get it. Why did you leave the island if you didn't
want to be king?"
I can't help but laugh at that one. How could I have known
back in 1933 what I was getting myself into? I was just a big
kid. So I tell him the truth, just like I tell all the others:
"I _hated_ that damned island. The heat, the gigantic insects,
the carnivorous spiders, snakes a mile long, vultures the size of
airplanes, the tyrannosaurus always hunting me. I had to fight
the pterodactyls and pteranodons for every scrap of food. I was
allergic to more plant-life on that goddamned island than you can
find on this whole fucking continent. And the natives were the
worst of the lot: they'd sacrifice virgins to me one minute and
chuck spears at me the next. How long do you think I could have
survived in that environment?"
I take a deep breath and continue. "I needed a change, and
quick -- but the problem was getting off the island. I couldn't
swim. (Still can't.) Anyway, I hear through the grapevine that
this guy Merian Cooper is vacationing on the island and he's
putting together this film in the States and it just so happens he
needs an ape, so I go looking for him. Once he calms down he
gives me this mock screen test and he likes what he sees. The
rest is history."
"How did you get so small? I mean, you were _huge_ -- forty,
fifty feet tall at least."
I shrug, go to the fridge, crack open another Bud. "That
one's a mystery to me," I admit. "But I have a theory. I think
the universe has to be in a kind of balance. Over the years, as
the myth grew bigger, I got smaller. It's as if there's not
enough room for both of us in this world: it can accommodate
either me or the myth -- and the myth is a hell of a lot stronger
than I am."
Granwell looks like he's mulling it over, then apparently
decides to let it go. "I'd like to read you something," he says.
"It's an open letter from--"
"Let me guess," I interrupt, because while I have never read
his writing, I can read Granwell himself like a book. "It's from
the one true love of my life."
"It's from the introduction to her autobiography," he
answers, missing my finely-wrought sarcasm. "It reads something
like this: 'I wonder whether you know how strong a force you have
been to me. For more than half a century, you have been the most
dominant figure in my public life. To speak of me is to think of
you....You have accumulated so much affection over all the years
that no one wants to kill you. What the whole world wants is to
save you.'"
I pick up the remote, click on the television set, and flip
to ESPN. Speed Week. Damn. I was hoping for a college football
game.
"Don't her words mean anything to you?" asks Granwell. "Don't
you ever think of her? Don't you have anything you want to say to
her?"
So at last Parker Granwell comes clean. I mute the TV and
shoot him my most feral expression, curling my lips and showing my
fangs, but to be perfectly honest, there isn't much in me to be
afraid of anymore.
I set down my beer. "Do you think you're the only bright-
eyed reporter who has ever bothered to track me down, Granwell?" I
say. "Hell, it's been sixty years since I made that flick. You
all come looking for the same thing. You want to find this
gigantic, forlorn ape, pining after the woman of his dreams, the
woman whose heart he could never capture because he's nothing but
a savage beast. And none of you can bear the fact that it just
isn't so." I pause long enough to stifle a growl deep in my chest.
"The truth is I'm not a savage beast and never was. I never loved
that screeching bitch. I never even _liked_ her. In fact, I
could barely tolerate her. I was _acting_, plain and simple. She
used to give me migraine headaches on the set like you wouldn't
believe. Cooper hired her for her piercing scream, which as far
as I can tell was her only talent. And she made up for her
inadequacies by burrowing into the Hollywood social scene like
some pathetic maggot. Who was Cary Grant dating and was Hepburn as
good an actress as everybody said and was Fitzgerald going to be
at this party or at that one? Christ, she made me want to puke!"
Instead I belch, which suits me and my mood just fine.
Granwell just sort of shakes his head. I can see it in his
eyes: This won't do at all, he's thinking. He's already put his
notebook away. He says, "Paul Johnson wrote an appreciation of
you in the _New Statesman_ back in the sixties. It was brilliant.
He called you a creature of intelligible rage, nobility, pathos.
He called you a prehistoric Lear. And he was right, you know.
You're America's only king."
They all come to this realization sooner or later. Elvis
won't cut it because of the drugs and some of the ugly things he
did and stood for which just won't go away, and they've learned
too much about Kennedy, and the world is too hard and cold and
jaded now to come up with anything better. America may be a land
of riches and excess and (some say) even self-made royalty, but it
is not a land of monarchs. No, there's only one king. Me. The
ape. "I'm sorry I don't live up to your expectations."
Granwell sighs. "So if we just leave you alone, if we let
you pass your time quietly here on Earth, we can take comfort in
knowing that your myth will survive."
I nod. "Don't sweat it, Parker. Most people have already
forgotten about me. I'm out of the loop, man. All the golden
anniversary celebrations for that stupid movie -- I didn't get a
single engraved invitation. Not one. De Laurentiis never called
to consult with me about the remake. I didn't even get an invite
to that White House thing back in '75. But _she_ was there,
kissing up to Jimmy and Rosalyn Carter." This time I can't hold
back the growl. "She wouldn't have missed it for the world."
"Don't you think you're being a little tough on her? She was
one of the most popular actresses of her day, worked with every
major male lead in the business -- and then, to be frank, you
ruined her. After your film, the monster-movie offers came
pouring in, and nobody would give her the serious roles she
deserved."
Granwell's no different than the rest of them. By the time
they finish talking to me, they wish they never found me, and so
do I. "Look, man, I'm just a gorilla. I don't share your sense
of tragedy."
Granwell sets his beer down, slides off the banana crate, and
walks to the door. "Thanks for the chat."
I call after him: "If you want to make an old ape happy
before he dies, print the truth."
"You will never die," he says, and walks out.
Touche.
Suddenly I could use some Canadian Club. I pour myself a
tall one, drop down on my mattresses, and start flipping through
the channels. I pull the covers up to my chin and listen to the
fierce wind howling through the empty lot behind the warehouse.
I've got a chill I can't get rid of. Regardless of the
temperature, some nights are colder than others.
Fifty-seven channels and there's nothing on.
Yet on any given night, if I can keep my eyes propped open
long enough to catch the late shows...if I don't pass out from the
booze or the beer or the boredom...chances are, sooner or
later, I'll come across my favorite film. -end-
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