Dead Stars (40 page)

Toggling between the chacne-fied geyserfest & the Chippy D Q&A . . . the Question was, “Don't you realize this is hurting your father?” Chippy says, “Yes, and I feel bad. But I'm not going to let hurting his feelings stop me from living my dream.”

Jerzy cums even better with the bitter herpes sting, smokes a blunt then sum GBH. Ponders the looming strife, Black famine subjugation & White triumphal hegemony. Slow poisoning of Black kultur. Watched the shameful Tivo of Jamie Foxx playing a streetwise cartoon parrot in
Rio,
will.i.am was in there too
.
Watched shameful old youtube of Nicki superbowlwhoring for Madonna/opening for Britney on Grammys (femcee Nicki astonishing impossible algebraic genius of
Superbass
) then Britney flown in at the end perfect humiliating upstage of the slaveworking ass minajerie, Britney with angel of death wings, dance until the world ends deathwings of White triumph while Nicki stepped obeisantly aside, bowed down before her as if direct sight of White Goddess most certainly would blind her—she, Britney, who breathed (Puppetmather-ordered) life into Barbie—
two
Barbies now—by offering the blondhair'd poisonteat succor of opening for her on tour, which of course Nicki could not resist and of course was her subjugation & death. Jerzy knew that before it was done, Britney looked at Nicki's teeth then inspected her feet and genitals & only then did buy her slave.

(Everything fell into place when he read online that Nicki's childhood crush was Bruce Willis . . .)

Jerzy especially sickened by the castration I'Vene performed on all Blacks upon their arrival at the Plantation, it was the very 1st thing that had to happen, it was in Plantation bylaws, & mandingatory upon being bought—this being the bootcamp wherein they were taught how to censor their own lyrics whilst performing on network TV or in venues that would not support the free speech
all
Blacks had fought 100s of years to be born into, I'Veen said,
If you are to suckle whitecocks of myself and Ryan Seacrest and Jimmy Fallon/Kimmel/so many others, not of course excluding that of your Overseer the Puppetmathers, if you are to worm yourself into the fresh princed hearts of White children by collab-ing with Katy P and Bruno M, Taylor and Justin, Charice & Celine and Britney and Josh Grob. and J Lo/the Sisters Deschanel, if you wish to one day duet with dead Tony Bennett (Tony had already taped record company-dictated variants of possible posthumous duets with himself), & Coachella with Sinatra/Winehouse/Whitney/Levon Helm/Donna holos, if you want to be SNL's beloved,
if you dream of your own fragrance, liqueur, prêt-a-porter, net-a-porter, headphones beatboxees toothepaste Halloween costume Superbowl halftime limited self-designed edition Maybach that forever carries your name, if these things you desire & untold dreams unimagined/unimaginable then we shall school you ---------
meaning, of course, teach them the newfangled Plantation technique of artfully dubbing/replacing/sanitizing their
own song lyrics
, killing the flow for money, a seizure of caesuras deforming the beauty & power of rhyme/meaning by a shitstring of plosive fricative click-trills, just to get on primetime, the White made them
forget
that language was all they had, language had given them hope & riches, language had given them
everything
, they'd cracked open White Kulchur with the rage of their language, the perfect violence of it, language was their
land
, it was the only thing they owned, & the Whites were better off for it, but in the end they must dominate. Now, as each arrived at the Plantation they were spayed & abridged right there on the porch while other Whites watch sipping mint jew lips. To becalm them, Cee Lo wore a playful Humpty Dumpty costume, & told them there was no real difference between
shhh
&
shit
, and that it had always been
I'm like forget him and forget you too
and that the transition from EXPLICIT to CLEAN was painless. Everything the Blacks had purchased with their birthright, all of their land, the millions of acres of hardcore poetry of their vowels & consonants, their
spit
as the Puppetmathers called it, the Language Land upon which they stood for good reason so tall and so proud, their ankles awash in the blood of hundreds of thousands of slaves whose words would never be heard, whose
lost syllables
came to nought, now there they stood, not on
their
land but on
his
land, the land of I'Veen, the porch of the Puppetmathers, in a fell swoop I'Veen's men stole their language land then stood at the ready with clamps, forceps and triple crush elastrators, and took everything that was left. Oh the elided lyrics—the
uninterrupted flow
demonstrated by the Puppetmathers was so perfect! All the
muthafuckas,
bitches
,
fucks,
nigger,
shits
and
hard dicks
vanished—the new slaves were quick studies! Now avail on itunes: Kim Kardashian feat. Kanye/Jay-Z/Scarlett Johansson, Justin Bieber feat. Ludacris/Chris Rock/Susan Boyle/Zooey Deschanel—Lil Wayne featuring Rumer Willis/Drake/Blake Lively/Enrique Iglesias, T-Pain feat. Anderson Cooper/Charice/Ke$ha/The Game/Jennifer Aniston, shameful old
SNL
youtube of Weezy taking his seat in the back of EM's bus on the Ryan Seacrest/Plantation-approved “No Love”
yeah put a
dick
in their mouth, so I guess it's
fuck
what they say, I'm high as a
bitch
, up up & away . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . the peacock Puppetmathers spit
look at these rappers how I treat em
but Jerzy knew the Puppetmathers had censored
himself—
such was his brilliance & the enormity of his vision!—Jerzy didn't need to contact the martyr Suge Knight to know that the original filecard in PuppetMathers' vast word-warehouse must have read
look at these niggers—
a lyric he would reinstate with high pomp and ceremony when the Wars had ended victorious, & all Blacks who had not Whitened were vanquished————
——
more collabs were comin: Tyler the Creator feat. Taylor Swift/T.I./Whoop Goldberg/Busta Rhymes . . . Mobb Deep feat. Jeff Bridges/Rick Ross/Karl Lagerfeld & Kanye West . . . 50 Cent feat. Katy Perry & Russell Brand/Chris Brown/Jerry Seinfeld . . . Wiz Khalifa feat. Pharrell/Paul McCartney/Nicki Minaj/Selena Gomez/Drake/T.I./Matt Damon . . . Nas/feat. The Mumford Brothers/Snoop/Jeff Bezos/Betty White . . . MIA feat. AKON/Gwyneth/Jay-Z/Skylar Grey/Sasha Grey/Reese Witherspoon/Homer Simpson/50 Cent/Drew Barrymore . . . Gwyneth Paltrow feat. Dre/Eminem/Chippy D/Lupe Fiasco/Bruno Mars/Nancy Grace/Cher Lloyd it

filled

him

with

DISGUST

he wanted to set

fire
to the

Plantation

he wondered when
Suge Knight
was gunna

call

CLEAN

[Rikki]

Dead Starfishes

“I

know
we're gunna find our boy—gon find him
today!
”

Larry Fishburne was in high spirits. He & Douglas had just come from lunch at Ago; they thought they'd drop into the Ooh Baby production offices unannounced & give Antwone a hard time. Fish (not Fishburne) was deep in the throes of casting, which made the
s even more impishly rambunctious.

Of course, all of the interns, gofers, staffers (especially Brando Brainard) were thrilled to see them. Their good-time energy boded well. They broke into Fish's casting session, intimidating whatever hopeful happened to be in the hotseat.

Which in this instance was Rikki.

“We're just busting our friend Antwone's balls,” said Fishburne to Rikki. “We know
you
can take it—we just want to see if
he
can.”

Antwone smiled, surrendering to the high-voltage hijinx. Douglas crept up behind Fishburne and stage-whispered to Rikki, as if inviting him into their special confidences. “We're just
taking the piss
. Ever heard that phrase, Rikki?”

He couldn't believe—didn't, actually—any of this was happening.

“It's veddy British,” said Fishburne, “for
ball-busting
.”

“My wife uses it all the time,” said Douglas.

“Is she a ball-buster?” said Fishburne.

“She's
Welsh
, what can I say?”

The director got the boys to settle down, which they did, mindful of the auditioner's nerves. There were two others in the room, casting people, both with big grins. One manned the camera while the other sat next to Fish, taking notes after each aspirant left the room.

“And by the way,” said Fishburne to Rikki. “I'm
Fishburne
, he's
Fish
. Just so nobody's confused.” Then he winked at him.

The scene they were in the middle of took place just after the boy almost takes the two grifters for 5K at a rigged bingo game. They outwit him but are intrigued.
Who
IS
this young flimflammer?
They take him to a steakhouse, where he has a long, moving monologue about his life as a foster child. The casting gal had been reading the lines of other characters, but Fishburne & Douglas insisted on jumping in.

Rikki read it through, & the director told him to do it again, but “a little lighter on your feet.”

Michael Douglas (!) said, “That one was for free, because my uncouth friend and I rattled your cage. For which we apologize.”

“Yes,” said Fishburne, in earnest. “We were
taking the piss
out of our friend here, not you.”

Rikki began the monologue, & had a good feeling in his stomach. When he reached the end, Douglas read his line:

 

FALCONER (DOUGLAS)

Well now, that's a helluva moving story, kid. But how do we know it's true?

 

SLOOP (FISHBURNE)

He's right. How do we know?

 

JEROME (RIKKI)

You don't.

      (Beat)

And why is that a problem?

 

The men laughed too loudly at Rikki's deadpan delivery, told him he was
killer,
then left as noisily as they'd arrived.

He read with the casting woman for another 20 minutes, with Fish giving him very specific notes, as if to make up for the disruption. It was only after Rikki left the office and was getting on his motorcycle that he realized he hadn't said anything about their similar backgrounds or how much he loved the book Fish wrote and the movie they made about his life too—as he'd planned.

CLEAN

[Bud]

The Player

“Thanks

for coming in, Bud.”

It'd been a long time since some showbizzer thanked him for coming in. Even though it was bullshit, it still felt good.

The offices of Ooh Baby Baby were in that luxe business pocket of Beverly Hills, a triangle made up of Burton Way, Santa Monica Boulevard & Doheny. The building was of the hipped up, minimal school, all concrete & open plan.

“It's a little crazy around here. We usually cast somewhere else but it's too boring to even talk about.”

On the way in, Bud noted a clump of gangly, nervous-looking black teens with script pages in their hands.

“Are they here for Michael's movie?”

“‘Michael's movie'! I like that.”

“I meant—the movie he wrote for you.”

“We've got two Fishes and two Michaels around here—
very
confusing. Tolkin'll love that,
Michael's movie!
In a sense, I suppose it is. Have you read the script? To
Treasure
? I'll give it to you. It's probably one of the most amazing screenplays I've ever read. Michael is writing on a
beyond
Aaron Sorkin level
.
”

“He's pretty great.”

“Did you ever see
The Rapture
? I'm a
huge
fan of
The Player—
that opening shot? But
The Rapture . . .
I think it's
better
. He's an
amazing director
.
The Rapture
's one of my all-time favorites & I only saw it for the 1st time when Michael came onboard. Fucking
genius
.”

Brando Brainard looked absolutely like a cheerleader—no: one of those tireless Jehovah's Witnesses who go door to door—no: the boy that played the Music Man when Bud was in junior high. Whatever he was, he was American through and through. His skin glowed with capital promise, hard, hopeful, shiny as a Granny apple. He was 28 but looked 18. Brando's fanboy élan, his peppy innocence, his unabashed
verve
were absolutely contagious—moreso when Bud refreshed the page to remind himself not just of the sweet kid's billions but of Tolkin's unswerving faith in the youngster's proclivity to make a deal. Bud felt suddenly lifted on a cushion of air, as if to get a better view of the inexorable rightness of the world. It wasn't so far a leap for him to see himself of the same class as Faulkner and Fitzgerald—a novelist preparing to moonlight as a screenwriter, for a little fast and easy cash.

“Here's the deal, Bud. And I'm going to pretend you know nothing about Ooh Baby, OK? I'm going to pretend you don't have a computer. That you don't even know what a search is. Old school. That's what I almost called the company, by the way. Old School. But my little brother liked Ooh Baby. So do I. It's funny, people come in here looking for jobs—not screenwriters, people who just want to work in production. By the time they're sitting in that chair, they've read so much shit on the Internet—and I don't care if it's favorable or unfavorable, I call it shit because it's a shitstorm of information with no human context. But they're somehow proud of themselves! Like they want me to know how much time they spent
Googling
. Really? So by the time they get in that chair, it's like
they've already had the whole experience
. I'm like, really? It's kind of like they've already
worked here—
because that's how these people talk, like they know
everything
, which is
true
, but they only know everything the
Internet
told them—don't get me wrong, Bud, I
get
the Internet, I'm a Millennial, I'm an Internet
baby—
but it's like by the time they finish talking, I feel like
, Wow, I either need to fire this person or give them a raise!
OK. Sorry for the preamble.

“We've only been around two years and we've done very well for ourselves.
Turndown Service
made six hundred and fifty million worldwide,
before
DVDs, before
anything
. We're going into television, we're going into game design, we're going into web content. We might even produce a Broadway show. So now we're sophomores. And people
hate
us. They hate our
money,
they hate that we're
outsiders
,
right behind the smile
, you can
hear
them saying
Please God let him fail!
Now we're sophomores and those same haters who wanted us to crash and burn are praying we're just a one-hit wonder. Funny, huh. Really? They want to see you in that sophomore slump
—permanently
. Really? Sorry, guys. Afraid we're going to disappoint you. We have
twelve movies
in development and we're about to start shooting
The Treasure of Sierra Leone
. You know what we're calling our TV divisions, Bud? ‘Hard To Get By' and ‘Just Upon A Smile.'”

“Hard to get by—”

“Hard To Get By Television is for limited cable, like
Game of Thrones
; Just Upon A Smile is for network—sitcoms and reality shows.”

“I love that.”

“Because you
get
it. And if people don't
get
it,
fuck em!
Here's the deal, Bud. Wanna know who came up with the idea for
Turndown Service
? And the title? Which is genius? My little brother Biggie. He's 12 years-old. I shit you not. Wanna know who came up with the idea for
The Treasure of Sierra Leone
? And the title? Which is genius? Ditto.
My little brother Biggie.
Roger that. Do you know anything about savants? Mind you I didn't say
idiot savant
because my little brother is far from an idiot, he's fuckin
genius
. He's king. King Baby. There are all kinds of savants.
Musical
ones,
mathematical
ones—you know that woman Claire Danes played in the movie she got an Emmy for? Temple Grandin? I just saw it because we want to put Claire into something. Amazing performance. People don't know what Claire's capable of,
Homeland
just scratches the surface. So when they saw her in that movie, they were, like,
Really?
People say Temple Grandin's some kind of autistic, or Asperger, but I just think she's a savant. Her
thing
is that she can get into the heads of
animals
, she knows what they're
thinking
, what they're
feeling
. My brother Biggie happens to be a savant of
stories
, not
any
stories, but
Hollywood
stories, stories that lend themselves to the big or small screen. We just sold one to CBS called
You Rule
, about a slacker who finds out he's king of an island in the South Pacific. We actually have 14 projects in the TV hopper—I shit you not!—80% of which come
directly
from ‘MSW.'
My Secret Weapon!

“You know, I don't usually do the Biggie rap. Cause if I do, people are like
Really?
I guess I'm telling you because I have a feeling you could identify. With the underdog. Right? And that's a total compliment. Biggie's always been kind of an underdog, in a developmental sense. He has a tough time in social environments. He
can
have a tough time. Which doesn't mean he never comes out of his shell. I can get him to, but it takes a little
work
. I don't do it for me, I do it for him, because I'd like him to have relationships with
people
. He's all up in his head, which is an amazing place to be. But he's fine.

“So here's the deal. Biggie's given us a lot of comedy ideas but he has an idea for a drama. This one I don't get 100% but I'm not the genius either. What I'd like you to do—if you have the time, cause I know Michael said you're working on a novel, which I have total respect for by the way, I don't know how you guys do it—what I'd like you to do is maybe meet with him so you can get more of a flavor.”

“Wow. Fantastic.”

Bud had been down this road before. They always want you to do the monkey jig. So you do—but never get the job.

“I read those short stories you wrote in the 80s.”

“Wow. Did Michael give them to you?”

Bud was thinking that pretty soon he would have to make a statue of Michael and put it in the living room, for easy access to prayer.

“eBay. But that's because Michael told me about it. What I liked about the stories was they were funny—but
dramatic
. Right?”

“That's sort of what I was trying to do.”

“Well you succeeded, in
spades
. Like until James Perse I could never find a decent t-shirt or hoodie. I was like,
Really?
The universe
senses
shit, the
need
for certain shit, and
poof
, one day there's a guy named James Perse who steps up to fill the whatever need. Anyway, here's the deal: my little brother has an idea for a
drama
, it's a little
morbid
, I don't
understand
it, but that wouldn't be the 1st time I didn't understand something Biggie came up with, nor will it be the last. I don't ever want to bet against my brother. So what I'd like, is for you two to meet. It can be one time or you could meet
ten
times, doesn't matter, hell, if you get along, we'll just move you in! Then
after
you meet with my brother and you've got it all in your head, I'd like you to write up a little story for a screenplay based on the idea. Right? See I don't mean to keep repeating myself but just because I don't
get
this particular idea doesn't mean
shit
. In fact, it almost makes me think more highly of it. All I know is I have a duty to honor my little brother, honor his genius. I need to follow through on
anything
he presents. Right?”

“Sure. You said write up a story, do you mean an outline?”

Outlines were always freebies, another way the writer got grinded. You worked your ass off giving away your best ideas, because they knew you weren't in the position to say no.

“I can do that.”

“I don't need an outline. That's not what I meant. Look, Michael spoke
very
highly of you, & Michael's a genius. I don't need you to
audition
. Who's your agent again?”

Bud blurted out “CAA.”

“O right—Rod Fulbright. I'll have business affairs call. Contact Biggie directly and set up a time to get together. Shelby'll give you his email. He's a very special kid. I think the two of you might hit it off.”

. . .

He picked up a frantic caregiver message on his way home. Dolly had fallen and was at the Cedars ER. He turned the car around.

Bud noted how calm and steady he was.
So this is it.
He played out the scenario in his head. He would park in one of the spots reserved for ambulances, the scofflaw act of an anguished family member. He would walk into the waiting room with a loping, dignified gait. The first person he'd see would be the distraught caregiver kneading her hands and gnashing her teeth. “Ine sorry, Meester Bud! Ine sorry!”—because as much as old people fear falling, caregivers fear being blamed for allowing it to happen. In the low, calm tone of a minister, Bud would tell her it was OK, it couldn't be helped, it would have happened sooner or later, there was nothing to be done.
It isn't your fault.
He would approach the
maitre d'ER
and ask to speak with a nurse. When the RN came, he would say that he was the son of the old woman the paramedics brought in, the woman who fell. An inscrutable flicker would cross the nurse's face. She would tell Bud to wait a moment, and vanish—then reappear, saying, “Dr. Weymouth wants to talk to you.” The security guard would allow Bud passage to the ER and the same nurse would lead him into a small lounge just off from the general commotion. The doctor would say, “I'm afraid that your mother didn't make it. She took a
very
nasty fall. When she fractured the hip—it was broken on both sides by the way—I think what happened was just a very
small amount
of fat wiggled loose from the bone marrow, formed an embolus and entered the bloodstream, traveling to the lung. Which was ultimately what killed her.”
*
Bud would thank the doctor, who himself was relieved to be dealing with a sane and sensible relative rather than a hysteric. “How old was she, 90?” “92,” Bud would say. “That's a pretty great run. I've seen folks her age try to mend from something like this. It isn't pretty. I hate to use cliché but she's in a better place now, that's for sure.” Bud's rejoinder would be “Let's hope so,” and the doctor would smile, appreciating the hint of dark humor. Maybe the doctor had even read his book of short stories way back when. He would ask Bud if he'd like to spend some time with her alone and Bud would say yes. The doctor would disappear for a moment before returning to tell him it would be just a few minutes, the nurses were “cleaning her up, getting rid of all those tubes” and Bud should have a seat in the waiting room. Not wanting to encounter the caregivers—not having the energy to tell them of Dolly's demise and endure further histrionics—he would quietly step outside. There'd be a smoker there and Bud would ask for a cigarette. He hadn't smoked in 30 years. The smoke would feel good in his lungs. He would thank him, then stroll into the perfect Santa Ana-ruffled night air, toward Jerry's Deli. May as well have a sandwich before seeing the body. The paramedics were putting a gurney back into their truck. Bud would overhear one of them say “Jesus, could that old bitch
scream
.” “You'd scream too if two inches of bone was sticking out of your skin.” “It sounded like an animal being slaughtered . . .
incorrectly
.” “You'd think the Dilaudid would have chilled her out.” “O
shit
,” one would say. “I never pushed it! Fuck! She started gurgling blood & I had to deal with it—so I never fucking pushed the Dilaudid!” Bud had already ducked into shadow. “Whoa!” “You have
got
to keep that between you and me.” “Don't worry about it. I did that same shit 3 weeks ago. I literally hadn't slept in 48 hours.”
“Fuck.
How long did it take to get her from the house to here?” His partner punched a few numbers into his phone. “53 minutes! Cause she wouldn't stabilize? Then we had to bounce her down those stairs . . . 53 minutes, with nothing for pain!” The paramedics would devolve into laughter and grannyfuck jokes and Bud would snuff the cig. On his way back inside he would think about calling his mother's attorney. He would want to get the ball rolling on the inheritance but didn't want to come off as mercenary. He would decide that the way to handle it was to call in the morning to inform of Dolly's passing under the pretext of inviting him to the small service to be held at her interment. Bud actually hadn't even thought about a service, and would probably only end up having one if the attorney said he could make it. Back in the ER, an orderly would lead him to her draped enclosure, then make a hasty, respectful exit. There she would lie with a bluish tinge, a large patch covering where the bone broke thru. Her muff would be partially displayed—that old woman concentration camp corpse-muff, a dead bush still compelling him to look.