I’m Losing You (33 page)

Taj shifted in the puky tub; he would endure. Tomorrow, the rewards would come—Prada jacket from Maxfield's, vintage Rolex from Second Time Around, thousand-dollar gift certificate from Burke Williams—he was generous like that. Maybe Zev would bring him along next weekend when he sailed to Catalina with Dustin and the kids. Such a gift was precious and intangible, an investment in the great career unknown.

Taj Wiedlin, Associate Producer
.

This was his time. He would live it with infamy and with praise.

Chet Stoddard

The dentist and his wife finally took the viatical plunge. When Horvitz brought the cashier's check to Philip, the dying costume designer, Chet went along.

The bungalow on Cynthia Street had a Grecian façade. An Abyssinian slept through its sunny sentinel. Ryan, Philip's roommate, showed them in. The house was clean and bare, low-budget minimalist: in the living room were a few Noguchi lamps, a tulip in a tall vase and the requisite Mapplethorpe photo book. It sat on a low boomerang table like a stage prop.

Philip lay in a hospital bed, neck craned back, eyes closed, mustachy open mouth. A male nurse smiled at the visitors, lowering the volume of “The Flying Dutchman.”
The closest he'll get to Greece
, Chet thought,
is inside a fucking urn
. The lids fluttered and Philip coughed. Totally blind? Ryan handed him a glass, guiding the straw to his mouth.

“I knew you were awake,” said the roommate. “He always pretends to sleep.”

“The Great Pretender,” Philip muttered, clearing his throat while lifting himself up on sharp elbows.

“Stu and Chet are here,” Ryan said, pitched a little louder. “Looks like you won the lotto.”

Philip smiled broadly. Horvitz asked how he was doing. The lucky policy-seller coughed while Ryan answered for him.

“Not so good.”

“Not so good,” Philip echoed rheumily.

“Yesterday was better.”

He closed his eyes as the roiling clouds of a coughing jag loomed,
then passed, chased by merciful winds. “Yesterday was
definitely
better.” Cued by Ryan, the others laughed. “As David Bailey said”—eyes opening again—“there is nothing uglier than the sight of four men in a car. Well. Maybe four men with Kaposi in a car.”

“Forgive him,” said Ryan, with mocking affection. “He slips in and out of dementia.”

“Why, pastor! You
must
try Dementia, the new altar boy—I've been slipping in and out all day! It's
heaven
.”

“Now listen, my son—”

They went on like that until more cough clouds overtook their cabaret. “He might have pneumonia,” said Ryan, sotto voce. The elder viatical rep took this opportunity to remove an envelope from his attaché case. Upon Philip's convulsive recovery, the roommate placed it in hand.

“Mr. Horvitz brought us a little check.”

“Checks and balances,” said Philip, with that mustache smile; it made Chet forlorn. He fingered the paper. “Well, this is glorious. We must call the limousine company, at once.”

“When do you leave on your voyage?” asked Horvitz.

“Friday,” said the roommate, somewhat skeptically.

“Will you manage?” Chet thought his boss's grave, stagy modulation had belied the euphemism.

“Better believe we'll manage,” said the plucky invalid.

“Big boys don't die,” Ryan said.

“And white men don't jump—but boy, do they Gump.”

“So wish Jason and his Argonaut well.”

Just before dessert, Aubrey Turtletaub took a fistful of pills from a Kleenex. She pressed each to her lips as if to divine a code word before letting it pass—admitting them one by one, with slow, steady intimacy while Chet confessed. Well, half confessed, because there was no way he was going to discuss his short-lived career as a rising viatical settlement advocate.

He said that a Narcotics Anonymous buddy told him about her party—Chet knew it was for positives only, but hadn't been deterred. Aubrey smiled mordantly and called him a “singles night bottom-feeder.” Shamefaced, he apologized for misleading her on
his HIV status. It's just that he got so flustered when she asked,
How long have you known?

“How many years did you say you've been sober?”

“Four. Going on five.” That was the truth.

“People tend to get squirrely around that fifth chip,” she said. “I know I did.”

“I still feel like a jerk.”

“You just didn't want to disappoint.”

“Maybe. It gets a little twisted. You did dazzle me, though—I guess that was part of it.”

Aubrey smiled; she liked that. “Sure you're not one of
those
?”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, there was a chick who hung around forever—we finally had to tell her to fuck off. She was
desperate
to test positive, had no
life
. A huge chick—five-two, two-fifty. She was a
wall
. Her old man taught jumping. Parachuting. He was pretty strange himself. She started taking his AZT when he died. I mean before,
before
he died! She was always asking people for their Zovirax, so we finally said,
Here, bitch!
Everyone has shitloads of Zovirax. And she's
still
testing negative—although I heard she was pregnant by some hemophiliac, so maybe she'll get her wish. I know I sound terrible, but there's for sure some fucked up people in the world.”

Chet eyed the last of the pills. “They
do
look sort of appetizing. Mind if I—”

“Go right ahead,” she said, without missing a beat. “This one'll put hair on your liver.”

On the way back to Oakhurst, they drove to Roxbury Park. He'd been to AA clubhouse meetings there. Aubrey pointed to an apartment building with a Frank Gehry penthouse floating above the trees like a tiled post-modern elysium. Chet never noticed it. They walked in the darkness and sat on a bench in front of the lawn where retirees did their Sunday-bowling.

“I was married. He was a lawyer. We weren't rich, but he did okay. You know, the Tom Hayden type, public-interest. We tried having kids, for six years—nothing. That turned out to be a good thing, though, I guess. It ended. He has two now, boy and a girl. Then I met this guy through my brother. I wasn't really looking. My brother works in film, does
rather
well. Anyway, this guy was an
editor and I wound up apprenticing. It felt good. I never really had a vocation—God, that sounds dumb! ‘Vocation.' White-trashy. But I
liked
editing. That sounds dumb too, I know. I guess what I
really
liked was the idea of cutting something together, having to make
sense
of something, be in that kind of control.
Some
kind of control. I decided I was going to ‘edit' my life. Hey, why not? Naturally, I fell in love with the man who was teaching me. Women are like that.” She laughed. “Jake—the editor, that was his name—he was a sweet man and I was needy, to put it mildly. Sexually, I was
starved
. Not to mention emotionally. I mean, at this point if it wasn't for the fertility stuff—having a kid became an
obsession
—I don't think my husband (the lawyer) would have ever
touched
me. And most of the ways we tried, he didn't
have
to! I mean, it was bad. I got pretty out there for a while. Anyway, we divorced. I got pregnant right away with Jake—of course, right? He was
ecstatic
—I mean, Jake was. Am I confusing you? I look back and…Jake used to sweat at night, I mean sweat a
lot
. I thought it was just the sex—he was
so
attracted to me. There was never a question about that…and I just wasn't thinking in any other terms. This was a good, gentle man. Never used drugs. Zephyr was negative—that's our son—so
something
went right. Jake got sick a few months after Zeph was born. Six months later, he died. Wanna see something?”

Aubrey searched her pocketbook while the wind gusted the trees outside the designer aerie. She stuck a snapshot in his hand.

“Isn't he beautiful?”

“I saw him at the party.”

“That's my Zephyr.”

“Beautiful boy.”

“My American Zephyr—we named him after a train, you know.”

When Chet got home, there was a message from Horvitz. He turned off the machine; he would listen in the morning. Then he'd call and quit—death takes a holiday. He fell fast asleep and dreamed Aubrey was a guest on the old talk show. The theme was “People Who Have Recovered from AIDS.”

Troy Capra

Troy got a curious phone call from Quinn, the gaffer.

They'd worked together on scores of X-rated productions and Troy planned to use him for lighting on
Skin Trade
. An occasional performer, Quinn saw most of his action off-camera—as a bisexual pretending to be straight, he was a crossover hit.

Quinn was eager to talk about a recent “scene” with Moe Trusskopf, the well-known celebrity manager. They had been joined by Trusskopf's beau, a studly stud and nicely knight with the moniker of Lancelot who happened, in actuality, to be none other than the famous Rod Whalen. Ring a bell? Troy blinked, trying to place the name. Quinn reminded him of the young dancer in
Guys and Dolls
who gave him his big directing break.

“Jesus, how do you even remember that kid?”

“You told me about him. I became a fan of his work. You forget I'm an aficionado.”

“I thought he'd be long dead.”

“Just long.”

“How did my name come up?”

“I made the connection. You know, I never forget a pretty face—especially one I've sat on.”

“Don't start talking like a queen. Please, Quinn, not you.”

“Listen, I got this idea, right? You have a copy of that, don't you?”

“A copy of what.”

“Your first film! Come on, Troy, I
know
you.”

“I may have it somewhere.”

“You
have
it, Troy. What was it called?”

“
Up in Adam
.”

“
Up in Adam!
Right! Okay, here's what's happening: Trusskopf
really
wants to see it—he's like, been
looking
for it, right? He's
burning
, he would
kill
for a copy. And the kid is, like, game. I said I'd talk to you and arrange a little screening.”

“At the Directors Guild. Have it catered.”

“You should
do
it, Troy. They're having a party Sunday. We should go over with the tape.”

“You go over.”

“This could be good for you, Troy.”

“Yeah. I can have a scene with Moe and Curly.”

“Moe Trusskopf's a
heavy
, okay? And he's
smart
, Troy, he'd
like
you. You'll like
him
. The movie's just an entrée.”

“And your dick's the aperitif.”

“You want to do
Skin Trade
, don't you? I mean, you want to exploit it, right? To be in that position once it's done? Just get into a
conversation
with him, Troy, and tell him what your plans are, right? Or
whatever
. You don't know where this shit leads, he could fucking
sign
you. Tell him all your theatrical bullshit, he's
from
that world. And he
knows
all those guys, he knows
everybody
, right? I'm telling you, man, you should do it.”