I’m Losing You (14 page)

Since I was a girl at Horace Mann School in Beverly Hills (one of the ‘Four Sisters' of the Beverly Hills elementary school system: Beverly Vista, El Rodeo, Hawthorne and Horace Mann—the latter being the poorest; Hawthorne and El Rodeo with the most star-studded scions), I remembered being lauded for my literary efforts. My story ‘The Drought' was deemed ‘Best Written'…the short, gripping tale of a primitive village that underwent a terrible onslaught of drought. This was in Junior High; I was, I would say, the tender age of eleven. The story was only five pages long. On its penultimate page the rain finally came, the ironic ‘twist' being that it
would not stop
. And the village sank under, so the final sentence told us, as in ancient times! This morbidly effective divertissement was of course written under the spell of O. Henry and Bret Harte (and even, perhaps,
The Twilight Zone
), whom I greedily admired. I uncovered the pages of ‘The Drought' recently, and while it is somewhat Hemingwayesque, one clearly would not necessarily associate it to being written by a child of that age. I have since progressed to more sophisticated authors, Jane Smiley, Stocker Vidra, and Gogol's
Dead Souls
—not to say I don't indulge in the occasional Grisham, Koontz, Straub, Crichton or Krantz (sounds like a law firm)—but this latter quintet, only in bathroom or den. I will
not
have them in my bedroom, because they sully. My saga will cover the Early Years of my life, with special poignant emphasis on the death of my sister, Wanda—this will beautifully set the stage. There will of course be discussion of the subsequent, infamous kidnapping (which marked me indelibly); I will discuss and share my apprenticeship in the art of massage and festively detail my subsequent acquired intimacy with celebrities on the calibre of Jodie Foster, Laura Dern and Whoopi Goldberg. How I took from them, and gave, too.

As I began this process, I had the desire for a professional person to be available as a bellwether or anchor. I set sights on the famous psychiatrist Calliope Krohn-Markowitz, but the doctor would not see me. I know from furtive Filofax peregrinations that she is currently Laura Dern's ongoing therapist (I snuck a look while Laura was in the ladies' room, post-Massage); and that Julianne Moore saw her for a three-week crisis, impromptu. Alas, a sad commentary, but in the pecking order of this town one must be a luminary in order to be seen by certain rarefied psychiatric types—très pathétique! I
did
talk to her, Calliope finally calling back after several days, apologizing
for her tardiness, which was thoughtful if slightly rehearsed, as if covering bases in a routinary fashion. I told her stupidly that I had read various flattering profiles of her (
Vanity Fair and Mirabella
), and when she appraised I was an ‘unknown' (I said I was a Miramax executive—first thing that came to mind. It wasn't enough) she referred me to one Dr Erica Miller at the NPI. All this before I could even ask if her lesser husband could see me in her stead. (He sees his own patients in an adjacent guest cottage—or so I am told by the
Mirabella
profile.) Haven't yet decided which course to take re: whole therapist notion. Lie low awhile. It is inevitable it would be a helpful tool, in conjunction with a working journal—the ‘Journal of a *** Thief
of Energy.' Perhaps I will call Dr Erica Miller after all. In therapy, which will enhance and focus my telling of this tale, I will discuss the Men/Women/Clients in my own life; growing up poor in Beverly Hills (shit happens); the death and subsequent kidnapping of my sister Wanda; and slowly building to the Great Rip-off—how
Beverly Hills 90210
was appropriated from me by Mr Jeremy Stein and Mr Darren Star; how
The X-Files
and Mr Chris Carter will too have their day in court. How I let that happen, because I wasn't a shark, and am ignorant of shark-like ways.

I know if I can massage Julia Roberts or Sandra Bullock (I have already been recommended by Laura to the latter—now there is only ‘one degree of separation' between Sandra and myself!), one of them will eventually agree to play the *** Thief
on-screen.

Hello, Columbus

T
O:
SHARKEE
@
CLS.OHIO-STATE.EDU
(S
TOCKER
V
IDRA
)

F
ROM:
DOLPH
@
AOL.COM
(K
ATHERINE
G
ROSSECK
)

Dearest Sweetest Sharkee (AKA Stocker Vidra, AKA Mi Vidra Loca, AKA Charlene the Tuna),

Miss you SO bad—the Dolphin misses her Shark. (Starting my period; miss your cotton-pickin' mouth.)
Hate
you for going away to teach; live for our time together. The ban on phone calls
so
Victorian…and so
mmmmm
. You're my e-mail fatale. Who ever thought freaking Ohio would be an erogenous zone?

Phylliss told me all about how you're going to do her memoir.
Mercy, I got steamed (mercy of a rude steam)—a writer's jealous pang, a mercenary, knee-jerk thing about anyone thinking they can put pen to pencil, that it's so fucking
easy
—but more, thinking about the two of you stoned, doing slow migration ‘crost a six-mile-high dark empty plane, with Greek chorus of Stepford stewardii in the wings. Hopes to Gawd there warn't no hanky panky committed in dem aisles (dose lips, dem aisles). If so informed, Dolphina wilst surely speak her Greenpeace then swim away. Holy moly! the sacrilege I would have committed between the stretchy, stained headrest tombstones of those vacant seats…oh well. Comfort at least to know I'm the only one who takes your Red Eye,
really
takes it, salty cyclops, anytime, anyhow, anywhere. Jeepers creepers, where'd you get that peeper, anyway?

Did you know my ex has been helping Phylliss with financing on
Teorema
? (He was the one who put her together with Oberon Mall before the, ahem, dental mishap; I still think that's bullshit cover for drug-induced coma.) Have the sneaking suspicion he's doing it to somehow still be
involved
—Donny needs to know there's some kind of connection between us, even if it's indirect. He's
very
fucked up, Vidra. I've heard weird rumors about him that I'm trying to confirm. I think his mother dying unhinged him; this thing he has with me
totally
relates back to her. He always tried to be low-key about Serena, but I think he was…
obsessed
somehow. Oh God, did I tell you his father's supposedly back in L.A.? That is so
freaked
. This old guy, trying to flog his zombie franchise! I think it's been a bit too much for Donny the Rib.

Adored your short story; envy your facility, freedom, mastery of the form. Loved “Desi”—it was Phylliss, through and through. All the nuances, conversational rhythm and then some—Phyll would shit in her DKNY! You're so good, you scare me, Sharkee…I get lost in your sentences the way I get lost in your cunny (and other places). Sometimes I'm angry at
les mots
for seeing more of you than I do (lately, anyhoo). I get possessive of your participles and subjugated by your future-perfects; your prose poems make me tense. Here I sit with my big dumb screenwriter crayons: “EXTERIOR. HOUSE. DAY.”s and “INTERIOR. AUTOMOBILE. NIGHT.”s. Retardo. So you're Susan Sontag and I'm Kathie Lee Gifford. Uh, like, I can deal. Goddammit girl, I want your fin inside me NOW. I'm a good Ethel Mermaid and I go where I'm kicked (splash,
splash). I wannabe your C-food (cock)tail. I yam what I yam what I yam: Sharkee's Machine.

Showbiz update: UTA keeps saying I'll be nominated for
Imitations
, but I don't want to think about it. The studio's supposedly gearing up for a big push behind Emma, so maybe I'll leech along. On the
Teorema
front, Phylliss heard about a young director (woman) who's showing a film at Park City called
Janie Wong Eats Cum
. (Promising title!) Her name's Pargita Snow (heard of her? Hard name to forget) and she's actually a known painter in NYC (kiss of death?). That was enough to make me instantly loathe her—you know your Dolphin Lung-Grin can be a heartless bitch—when I heard she hadn't done any rock videos, not-a-one, I softened. Phylliss said Pargita is supposed to be a combo of Jane Campion and Q. Tarantino and that sounded hot but I've since been puzzling over what the fuck it
means
. (How ‘bout Wim Wenders and Nora Ephron? Martha Coolidge and Todd Haynes?) Once we get a directress, Ms. Wolfe has convinced we'll nab our lead. I'm pressing for Jennifer Jason (as are Saul and Shelby) but Phyll's oddly resistant. Says whenever JJL appears on-screen, the audience begins a “tacit countdown to the rape”; that's glib and unfair—sometimes the Wolfe sound-bites more than she can chew (which makes for best-sellers, lucky you!). An unknown isn't being ruled out, if we can get exotic ingenues for the kid parts and a coupla international art-house heavies to play their folks. Shelby talked about reuniting Harvey Keitel and Holly Hunter; I thought that was a
way
cool idea. Anyhoo, Phyll's a soldier and a schtarker, every inch the sweet-fanged kike depicted in your towering prose Inferno!

Wish just wunst in a while you'd let Dolphina take care of you: let her book us some time at the Doral Saturnia—or SST to Gay Paree for a super-luxe R&R wkend between the sheets at the Montalembert (don't Frette). We could yacht to Capri for some clam (aw shucks. Nothing like a little sexual molluskation). Come on, Sharkee, what they pay me is
obscene
, so why not do obscene things? Seriously, Veed, whenever I give you things or even
want
to give, you resent it….I understand and respect your reticence and independence but sometimes I think you carry it too far. Par example, the Jag. I know I should have gotten something more practical, something you could drive from L.A. to the University—like the old Town & Country Wagoneer you had your eye on. Well okay, that
one was my big boo-boo. (My heart was in the right place; wish your head was.) I
see
now the error of my ways, and
why
I did it; it was obvious I didn't want you to go! So I got you something old and delicate and elegant and temperamental, like the Dolphin herself. So the damn thing sits in storage like Donny's damn Impala, waiting. I take it out for a spin, once a month. Just like my hole(s)…

Been re-reading the Keats letters.

Going to the Ivy again with Phyll (seeing too much of her lately) for lunch. It's full of fags, meaning everyone in the Business. I call it the H-Ivy!

Often, at the strangest moment {usually smack in the middle of reciting the Specials}, my mind toggles back to Vancouver and the friends and family I left behind; and I am temporarily sidetracked by that sinking homesicky feeling—penny dreadful! After five months, I was certain I'd be more inured. Today was a bad day in that regard. First thing off, I spilled sauce on my slacks and had to work the whole shift like that which I HATE; I cannot tolerate being unkempt, especially for the public. Kevin wouldn't let me go home and change. I don't know what he has against me. Coupled with the fact one of my heels is coming unglued and my cuffs were GRAY because the stupid dry cleaners could not find my other blouse—well, I almost broke down right there during an order. {No, Diary, it didn't help that I'm majorly PMS.} Instead, I had to swallow my emotions and focus on the matter at hand: the Soup of the Day {I'm trying to make that Soup of the Night. Jabba says the tips are so much better}.

Jabba's a complicated, VERY interesting girl who's lived a hard life—I feel privileged in comparison. Yet she's far beyond me in street savvy and SO beautiful, she looks like a combination of ALANIS MORISSETTE and that nurse from
ER
. She was almost given the lead in
Showgirls
or so she said; and I choose to believe her. I WILL not be cynical, like so many of my fledgling compatriots. Jabba's real name is Molly and she apparently took her nom de stage {a cute and exotic conversational icebreaker} from STAR WARS {CIRCA 1977, 1980, 1983}. Another interesting detail about Jabba
is that her father “is-was” a “personality.” CHET STODDARD, according to her, was a relatively famous talk show host in the early seventies. I've run this past Kevin and others and indeed they knew the name. That impressed me because GARRY SHANDLING, SHARI LEWIS, KELSEY GRAMMER and one of the FOO FIGHTERS aside {I saw them at Von's, within a one-week period!}, this is my first “personal” connection to somewhat of a blueblood. She said she doesn't talk to her dad much {“not because he molested me, which he didn't,” which I thought was a peculiar way of phrasing}. Jabba has modeled and lived in Europe—my first REAL friend since I came to this town.