The Hollywood Guy (10 page)

And the music never stops while Pete unable to do the job watches her masturbate.

And the music finally stops when she comes.

In the silence that follows, Pete stares at the shadow of Sully’s Bridge flickering on the ceiling, wondering if he’ll ever get it up again.

K
urt Van Dusan has been active in state and local politics for over twenty five years. A lawyer by trade, he knows how to fix things. There he is wearing a three piece suit, smoking a cigar, sitting on a weathered stone bench in the old graveyard in front of the first Dutch Reformed Church in historic Kingston. He’s evaluating Pete’s Cuban, happy to be out of his office, enjoying the mix of fresh air and smoke in his lungs. He exhales and shakes his head. “The Commies screwed up Cuban tobacco.”

Pete is nearby talking on his cell phone. Jackson fidgets awkwardly, doesn’t understand what the man is referring to.

“You want to taste a good cigar?” The lawyer opens a case, offers one to Jackson. The kid hesitantly lights up, coughs. “Don’t inhale son, savor the taste and enjoy the aroma.” He blows a series of smoke rings one inside the other, waiting patiently for Pete to get off the phone. “The Hollywood guy is a very talented writer.”

Pete circles a weathered bust of George Washington. “Look, Mr. Bergman, I’m really having second thoughts about doing this.”

The producer’s voice is calm and clear. “Don’t worry, tomorrow we’ll discuss face to face. I want you to be comfortable, Pete. Trust me, we can make this work. Can’t wait to meet you, buddy.” Bergman hangs up.

Van Dusan waves his cigar at Pete. “I could be arrested for smoking this.”

Pete shakes off the call. “By whom?”

“Same people arrested your boy.”

“Jackson has never been in trouble with the law. There must be something we can do.”

“You know I’m hosting a charity roast for Congressman Richard Denby. Maybe you could you help me out with some smart patter?”

“Jokes?”

“You won awards for being funny.”

“When do you need them by?”

“Two weeks, ten minutes of ribbing.”

“Email me Denby’s bio.”

The men shake hands. Van Dusan winks at Jackson. walks off jauntily, stopping to give the Cuban cigar to a homeless man before leaving the churchyard.

The kid is confused. “We never talked about my case.”

“He took your case.”

“Really?”

“In exchange for me writing him a speech for the congressman’s roast.”

“And what will he do?”

“Make your case disappear.”

“How do you know?”

Pete winks. “Did you see us shake hands, no paper trail.”

“Cool.” Jackson pukes in the bushes.

“But you have to stay clean, nothing changes that.”

“Not even grass for personal use?”

“Jesus, fuck, concentrate on your music.”

The boy pukes again.

“Count yourself lucky to stay out of prison.”

Pete stops Doc Barnes sneaking out of his office to go fishing. “I need a minute Doc, it’s kind of an emergency.”

Back inside, Pete relates in embarrassing detail his lame dick episode the previous evening.

Doc checks his blood pressure. “What caused you to give up celibacy?”

“Something special and it started with a double orgasm but the following night I couldn’t get up.”

“Blood pressure, excellent. Any problems with your A-fib?”

“I don’t even know I have it.”

“Sex is good for the heart. We’ll start you off with fifty milligrams.”

“I’ll be able to get hard and stay hard?”

“If stimulated.”

“I’ll take a year’s supply.”

“A hundred pills?”

Pete does a quick calculation, reliable wood every three and a half days. “Make it two hundred.”

“They’re expensive, fifteen dollars an erection.”

Pete had never monetized a hard on. “Three grand! Start with fifty, maybe I won’t need them after awhile.”

“Sex is often psychological, the pill will restore confidence.”

“I never subscribed to that theory, a man’s penis is quite capable of operating independent of the mind.”

Doc scribbles a prescription. “You must have gotten plenty of action in Hollywood.”

“Let’s say I succumbed to the whims of the flesh.”

“Give the pill forty-five minutes to activate, works best on an empty stomach, don’t overdo. The idea is not to make you Superman.”

“You know the song, Sixty Minute Man?”

“Great song.”

“That’s all I’m looking for.”

Pete drives home trying to come up with some jokes for the roast. His forte was spinning yarns with a mocking sense of humor, stand-up was not his thing. He didn’t really do jokes. His thing was situational, like a summit meeting he wrote between the President of the United States, a former General, and his Russian counterpart, ex-head of the KGB. It ends with the two men nude in a thermal spring having a weighty conversation about climate change while their translators make love under a nearby waterfall. The Russian, proud of his body, strikes poses in the nude while the American prez plays with himself under the water. Maybe Pete can recycle some wisecracks from that trunk item.

Back at the Streamside, Cleo and Jamie hang out by the swimming hole laughing about something. Do women talk about sex as much as men do? He removes three diamond shaped sky blue pills from a plastic container, places them in a film canister that he’ll carry on his person. The rest go into the inside pocket of his custom made, velvet English smoking jacket gathering dust in the closet.

Cleo finds him at the laptop, a baseball game on the TV. “Working on our novel,” she asks brightly, “or moonlighting for Hollywood?”

“I’m writing a speech for an important guy to give at a congressman’s roast in exchange for Jackson’s charges going away.”

“For that I can wait.”

“I’d rather talk about last night.”

“Why?”

“That never happened before.”

“Pete, sex doesn’t mean anything to me.”

“It does to me.” He goes to the bathroom.

“I want to talk some more about the Count and his son.”

In the bathroom, Pete takes a blue pill, scrutinizing himself in the mirror. His longish hair is almost grey; worry lines are etched across his forehead; there are bags under his eyes but he stands straight, sturdy, and flexible.

Cleo, eyes closed, lies on the chaise, she speaks as if to a therapist. “Even though I was fucking his father in the palazzo, I never stopped being Renzo’s American girl friend. He was the opposite of the Count who only loved downers. Renzo was a cocaine cowboy. To get away from his father he took me to Barcelona where he had an apartment. That’s when things got weird. He had another girlfriend, the jealous bitch gave Renzo the idea to use me as a model for a line of mannequins.”

“How did that work?”

“They made plaster of Paris molds of my nude torso in different positions. I’m naked in department stores all over the EU.”

“Cleo or Desirée?”

“In Barcelona we never ate ’til after midnight, then partied ’til dawn. Wherever we went there were mountains of coke. During this period I only slept intermittently.”

“How long did that go on?”

“Three months. I woke up in a cheap hotel in Amsterdam, almost died. Renzo abandoned me. Roy came and took me home.”

“I thought you were done with that musclehead?”

“He saved my life, took me to detox, helped me rehab, get healthy again. Desirée made her comeback film as a way of saying thank you.”

Pete clicks off the recorder. “Did you have fun last night?”

“Don’t start with that again.”

“Before the sex, at the Colony, dancing.”

“That was the most fun I’ve had in forever.”

“Me too.” Pete has classic Marvin Gaye cued up on his system, takes Cleo in his arms.

Marvin sings in a sexy, sinuous falsetto. Grooving, Pete joins in.

Cleo laughs. “Older men are so romantic.” She kisses him tenderly, seems like a real kiss.

They move together, back and forth. No need to rush. All is languorous, conscious. Pete removes Cleo’s clothes, covering her body with tiny kisses. Tonight when he drops his pants, he has a hard on with a four to six hour shelf life. Pete doesn’t count himself the subtlest lover but he’d always been passionate, never held anything back.

Cleo was often separated from the moment, present but not really there. Not tonight.

Conversely, Pete is surprisingly detached, making love to the woman of his dreams with a hard on that doesn’t belong to him. His dick is stiff but he isn’t feeling anything. He’s out of body watching Pete fuck Cleo from the point-of-view of a high angle surveillance camera.

Cleo is going crazy, babbling Italian. “Va fa cuoio, va fa cuoio.”

Probably a phrase she picked up from the Count in Venice or Renzo in Barcelona. Pete doesn’t understand what she wants until she gets up on to her hands and knees and offers him her ass. At this point in a geezer’s life, all sex is déjà vu. Whatever bliss Pete hoped to achieve through medical science, turns out to be, va fa cuoio, fuck my ass. Why this particular orifice, he wonders, as he fucks her ass with his artificial hard on. What Pete wants is romance. He wants to stare into Cleo’s eyes and make love to her in slow motion, missionary position, or he’d be happy to squirm on the floor as he had with Samantha, or give it to her in the back seat of a car like he did with Barbara, not ass fuck her like Heidi when she was drunk. Va fa cuoio doesn’t feel like magic.

The blue pill provides Pete with the stamina to be the stud he never was. He fucks Cleo like they are doing a scene in one of Desirée’s movies. But why complain? Out of body sex is better than no sex, hard is better than soft, and eventually when he comes, satisfaction is definitely achieved.

T
he Berrymans, a Canadian couple on their way home to Toronto after a weekend shooting craps in Atlantic City, check into a deluxe room overlooking the stream.

Ingrid is a robust woman of uncertain age, Icelandic by birth, family name Stefansson, the same as Pete’s once was. When Jamie informs her of this fact, she calls her old auntie in Reykjavik and determines that he is her long lost Jewish cousin. She insists on meeting her mishpucha, a Yiddish word that she recently learned.

Jamie delights in calling Pete on the intercom to meet and greet Ingrid. “Your mishpucha is at the front desk.”

“What time is it?”

“Almost noon.”

“Almost noon!” Overslept again and he has a splitting headache, another unheralded side effect of the blue pill. The sight of Cleo beside him instantly changes his mood. Could the geezer be falling in love? She’s snoring lightly, turned away, legs pulled up, Precious playing peek-a-boo with his mind.

•   •   •

Charles Berryman has a red face and a pear shape. Born in Rye, England, he met his wife Ingrid in college. They immigrated to Canada where until recently he managed a bank. Charles had done quite well for himself until his net worth evaporated and he was forced out of his job. He’s finishing a cell phone call with more bad news as Ingrid freshens her lipstick.

Here comes Pete, hair askew.

“Petur Stefansson?”

It’s been a long time since anyone called Pete that. He nods to a big hipped woman with full breasts and a warm smile.

Ingrid sees the family resemblance immediately. “Mishpucha,” she shouts and gives him a mighty hug, kissing him wetly on the mouth getting a taste of Cleo. “I’m Ingrid Stefansson, your father and my father were brothers. We’re cousins. You look just like them.”

Pete never had any connection with his Icelandic relatives because Big Petey’s parents didn’t accept his mother who was a Jewish atheist. Now they speak Yiddish?

“All the anti-Semites in my family are dead. I even have a Jewish lawyer.” She smiles and elbows Pete in the ribs. Ingrid is a kidder. “Say hello to my husband Charles.”

The man’s face is ashen.

“Are you alright?”

“The bank seized our cottage by the lake.”

“Too many mosquitoes on the lake,” cracks Ingrid.

Charles laughs. “Without my darling I’d blow my brains out.” He hugs Ingrid. “She makes me laugh and I love her dearly.”

“Icelandic humor?”

“Cousin, what do you think gets us through long winters besides sex and booze? Icelanders are very funny people. Your cousin Ole won prizes for his standup.”

“What kind of prizes do comedians win?”

“Booby prizes.”

Charles breaks up.

“I always assumed my sense of humor came from the Semitic side of my gene pool.”

“Like your natural sense of rhythm?” Ingrid delivers the line as if she and Pete were a comedy team.

Charles’ gaze is drawn to the main house where Cleo, naked, waves to Pete from the bedroom window. Everyone enjoys the view including Jose, who’s raking leaves. “Speaking of rhythm,” Pete says picking up the conversation, “it’s not common knowledge, but a Jewish sailor fleeing the Inquisition brought the first guitar to the New World.”

“Did you say tailor, cousin?”

Charles laughs. “You two should have an act.”

Ingrid kisses her husband. He gets a taste of Cleo too. “I love this man.” She picks up the room key. “Let’s catch up over dinner.”

“Bring your friend.” Charles winks. “See you at seven.”

Ingrid steers her husband to their room. “Ready for a Jacuzzi, honey-pie?”

Jamie watches them go. “Cleo celibate like you?”

“Sometimes you can’t account for what happens.”

“Only the consequences.”

Pete stands in the living room emulating Kurt Van Dusan’s oratorical style. “When the committee asked me to say a few words about my friend Congressman Denby, the first that came to mind was honest, the second was boring. Mind you, I don’t mean that in a bad way because I’ve slept restfully through many of the congressman’s fine speeches. What do I care if the twinkle in his eye is actually the sun shining between his ears? Richard Denby is a friend of Ulster County.”

Cleo enters breathlessly, followed by a mixed black Lab puppy. The dog regards Pete. “I found her by the stream, isn’t she cute? She followed me back to the car and jumped in.”