Forward to Glory Read online

  Two late-middle aged ladies passed them.

  ‘He smells like cancer,’ said one to the other, aghast.

  Dumping him turned out to be easy. All of a sudden he wasn’t there. Butterbugs turned about, and saw him tromping the opposite direction, watched by two little Latina girls in church dresses, unafraid, and nothing but courteous to his blather, aimed at no one in particular.

  Energy, even his youthful reserves of it, was ebbing again from Butterbugs’ abused treasury. No Bripkins-dieter he! He swiped a bizarre sausage from a Vons at half past two in the AM, and almost vomited, due to its dry-peel husk. What if there were uncooked pork parts in there? Then came the irrational fear of trichinosis, that extended well past the spitty swallowing.

  His ‘search’ for opportunities had to entail survival, or at least an increase in the quality of life. But he had accomplished nothing, and he knew it. He had no intention of seeking asylum in a BurgerFlop or Roach-a-Coach job. Been there, done that (as if such a cop-out were any kind of explanation). He had no recollection of ever having worked in a scaffolding yard, either.

  Better to flounder in the gutter than to don the baleful (and much maligned) paper bakery cap, representative of assured humiliation-cum-failure, or succumb to submitting to the late evening tasks, dressed in the polyester primary colors of the acid-faced fry cook or beverage server.

  (e.g. ‘Hello, my name is Butterbugs, and I’ll be your busboy today. Kinna gitcha some ketsup packets? You didn’t care for your Cheerful Daybreaker Breakfast? Shall I take it away even though you only ate the whip’d butter in the little paper cup, today? Would you care for a handful of salt ’n’ pepper pouches? And by the way, how are you, today?)

  No frikkin’ way!

  And if he secured an even more promising employment, such as a line runner for Miller/Steveston, or a boardbender for Gilbert+Ziegler, that would even be worse, as he could have done that anywhere, like Carstairs, or even neighboring JudgePagetTown, for cripe’s sake.

  So why come to brutal, competitive LA for such activities?

  In a tiny moment of uplift, he’d mulled over the possibility of getting into the Industry via the tech side: grip work, gaffer stuff, liftin’ and totin’, and the like. Heaven knew, he had the build for it. Why, rigging fresnels, manhandling Super Troopers or Brutes, and doing load-out after a semi-large-scale pop concert would be easier for him than – rolling off a log. He’d even pondered picking up cigarette butts on any set that would have him.

  ‘I’d rather roll off a log…,’ he muttered to himself while passing the Chem Loong Gaytime-90s Chinese Cooked Food Stall. Its old crowd of regulars gazed at him with weary confidence. They always gathered at the little group of tawdry tables behind the big plastic representation of a popcorn ball, lighted from within, even at scorch-noon. It was a nightmarish image now very familiar to him. He tended to shuffle through this dreary ’hood quite a bit these days. That wok-fried chicken skin with cornstarch sure scented good. Could this be dignity, returning?

  But no, doing any sort of ancillary showbiz work was to be avoided at all cost. Such a use of precious time would ultimately be a dead end for his aspirations, and he would have to endure the yakkings of rock ’n’ roll roadies and their beery revelations about unions and benefits, whilst he, Butterbugs, would be hauling gaffer-taped speaker stacks for some whorish band, without even benefiting from what portfolio there was in groups like The Dead Kennedys, The Young Executives, Engine Kid, or The Presidents of the United States of America (all pretty big-time, admittedly…). The option of doing a Björk show, or even sweeping the stage before Andy Williams came on, would surely be an absolute improbability. An Eddie Cantor gig was out of the question. Seeing any performer out there, in center spotlight, while he himself unclogged their sewage in a putrid pissoir way back stage, and he’d be riven with – and probably destroyed by – jealousy. Envy, too.

  No, there was nothing for it but to survive as they who came out of great tribulation (not to mention the Middle West) did: by one’s wits and by one’s talents, combined with the game of chance.

  The hours of depression were adding up. The tedium was reaching a Code Orange (Crush) sort of level.

  He even looked in the door of the local Peeper’s Porno Pleasure Palais late one night, in the vain hope that some corrupt producer, leading a double life (you know, big Associate Executive Producer at, say, Yurwyn Swilkins Productions by day, frustrated pervy porno consumer by night), would come shambling out, after one-stop shopping for sex toys, videos & DVDs, and would just happen to collide with him, thus scattering the voluminous collection of plain brown-wrapped parcels hither and yon. No doubt, Butterbugs would cheerfully restore all the messed-up sleaze to him, and in the process, said Assoc Exec Prod would gratefully accept such help, which might provide a minimum of embarrassment, and (with all the items safely packed into a deceptive Trader Joe’s shopping bag, accomplished without any sort of mutual eye contact), he would conscientiously dare to examine he who had been so helpful and charitable to him, and, beholding Butterbugs’ slightly disheveled but quite obvious eligibility for future stardom, he who had been helped would immediately click into Talent Spotting Mode and utter, without equivocation:

  ‘Have you ever done any acting, son? You would be perfect for the part vacated by the otherwise-employed Larry Gates on ‘All My Children, All My Abortions’ (XBC) – or was it ‘The Guiding Light’ (CBS)? There are so many… But, at any rate, you are a fine young fellow. Would you consider trying out for a part? I can make some phone calls from the nearest telephone kiosk in lieu of my lost cell phone/porta-office. You can have your SAG card by tomorrow afternoon. Leave it to me. This is not a solicitation for prurient purposes. It is a genuine offer for honest employment in the front ranks of our entertainment Industry’s nationally broadcast network television division. You can launch your career experience through the medium of ‘stage shows’ which others call soap operas. Here, son, is $200.00, which I think you can use. Hell, let’s make it $500.00. This isn’t Kansas anymore or wherever the hell you’re from. Get yourself some warm grub and a tin of your favorite soft drink. Or better yet, a box of milk. And here is my card. Please give me a call first thing tomorrow, and we can immediately get started on your career. I’ve got instincts, baby, and I may be a burnout consumer of pathetic diversions, but I can still sniff talent through my nosehair-clogged nostrils when it crosses my path…’

  Butterbugs looked at the two (not five, as promised) C-notes held out discreetly, and his mouth felt like it was going to foam. Then he gazed up at the face that proffered the cash, and the dividing line between hallucination and reality came into sharp relief.

  How many days since he had had a pukka meal? Things were fraying, that he knew. But it took a few seconds before he realized just what was going on. A gent in an East Coast-style raincoat. On an 86˚ F night, too. The keys to a ’61 Rambler hanging out of his pocket. The stains around the fly. The dirty fingernails and sallow, furry palms. The huge mulish belly. The collapsed ankles. The wet, blubbery lips. The stringy, dandruff-laden hair. The desire in the filmy eyes.

  Oh no. No. No. NO!

  If Butterbugs had been more fit in his mind and more robust in his body, he would have slugged this sordid dude right in the gut. Instead, he adopted a deer-in-the-headlights expression, declined the offer of money, and wandered out of the clinically-lighted sex emporium in monumental shock.

  A hustler! Is that what he had become?

  No, no! Nay!

  But surely that’s what others thought he had become.

  Speaking of nay, there he was, up ahead, emerging from the pollution-shrouded gloom on this particular night of sepia: Nayland Gribgrib himself.

  Nayland Gribgrib! Presenter of cocktail franks, pigs’ knuckles, and other Coker-Stoker MiniOven treats at demonstration stands throughout central LA’s Burkmarts!

  That Butterbugs had ever struck up a conversation with him at one of his Lil’ Grillers gigs at the Burkmart
near Century Blvd made sense, as Nayland was one of the few in such big-box environs who exhibited any kind of character, let alone talent. His dramatic voices and Catskill-type bits, flung in front of small groups of nibble-mongers, had certainly stood out in his hungry ears. Norman Panama could have scripted them! Melvin Frank or Hal Kanter might’ve provided ad-libs! And the fact that Butterbugs, during his halcyon Tailgate Performance days, actually hung for a time at Nayland’s product station and shared a few inquires with him once the shopping trolley crowd diminished, and before it grew again, was not lost on mere groupie politics.

  Nay, there were tactics to learn, as far as engaging the public was concerned.

  Nayland, ever the showman, nearly convinced the local store’s bald assistant manager to engage Butterbugs in his own product station, for to hawk a cheap, mealy-paper paperback edition of the works of the Bard, featuring Memorized Recitations, to be delivered while customers progressed down the Fun Crackers and Bagged Candy Aisle.

  ‘Shakespeare!’ the assistant store manager had fretted, ‘What’s a Shakespeare? Is that some kind of racy reference, like John Thomas?’

  (Or did he mean Clarence…?)

  There was no gig to be had there, but Nayland was a name and a face that Butterbugs remembered. So it struck him, way out here, at night, on this boulevard sidewalk, as perhaps not too outlandish to find this person committing showmanship in such a spot. Thing was, where was his product station? Where were the cocktail franks?

  ‘Butterbugs, man, what the hell are you doing down (and out) here? Heh! You look like you seen a ghost. Got news for ya: I’m still alive. But you seem sorta…’

  Butterbugs did not answer right away.

  ‘I have seen something like a gho–,’ he said, in a stunned whisper. ‘And maybe… maybe… it’s me…?’

  ‘Butterbugs! Cool it! We’re out on The Street now.’

  ‘Where are we?’

  ‘Man, what are you on, ’ludes? We’re on Miss Santa Monica. And it’s not too busy. Yet.’

  ‘I do not know what…’

  ‘Yeah, well, it’s kind of embarrassing, but now you know. Burkmart is Nowheresville. Sure, I turn tricks when the going gets tough. Like right now. I see you have the same idea.’

  ‘Who said I –’

  ‘I didn’t say anything. I just figured –’

  ‘So you – you do stuff. With…?’

  ‘Yeah. I do stuff. For money.’

  ‘With – who? Er, whom?’

  Nayland looked anxiously in both directions.

  ‘Well, you know…’

  ‘No.’

  ‘With…’

  ‘With… guys?’

  ‘Not… my personal preference…’

  ‘I –’

  ‘You look like you need a drink.’

  ‘I thirst.’

  ‘Here. Have the rest of my Mr. Bubbsy.’

  ‘I thank you, Nayland.’

  ‘Don’t mention it. Got a case stashed down on Thunderboard Blvd. Courtesy of Rod Burke!’ He winked.

  Nayland was a goofball, but a personable, even friendly goofball.

  Butterbugs drank greedily from the crumpled tin, then carelessly flung it onto the surface of this fabled sidewalk, which had seen so much similar drama, mottled by the particulate matter from the tremendous volumes of traffic that raged by so near.

  They reached a dun-painted pilaster that supported the impossibly inaccessible wall of the Sam Goldwyn studios, and it was like a haven of sorts to the wobbly Butterbugs.

  (Hell, Jerome Moross was about fifty feet away, behind the wall, putting the finishing touches on his score for Sam’s new production of ‘The Remembrance of An Unstructured Man’, for heaven’s sake…)

  Sustained from collapse now, due to the nutrition of the Mr. Bubb, Butterbugs steeled himself.

  ‘Nayland, how much money?’

  ‘Do I get? Or how much do I ask for?’

  ‘Can I make money at this?’

  ‘Whoa, time, time! Don’t go off half-cooked.’

  ‘Nayland, I need money.’

  ‘Course ya do. Course I do. I take charge plates, you know.’

  ‘Nayland, I, I cannot face men…’

  ‘That’s what they all say.’

  Nayland noticed the immediate crestfallen expression on Butterbugs’ already sad face, so he added, ‘But have it your way. Go for the babes. Hell, it happens. Sometimes.’

  He winced. He wished.

  Comforted somewhat by this token statement, Butterbugs straightened up and took a deep breath of unleaded atmosphere.

  Nayland sensed a rally.

  ‘OK, you’re in. Keep in mind, this is all acting, so it should be right up your alley. Say, have you ever done anything like this before?’

  Butterbugs was struck by Nayland’s failure to grasp the complete and utter lack of experience he thought he’d made crystal clear just a few minutes ago. But admittedly, it was a murky night, and he had been hallucinating his way along (at this point, there was nothing else to call it). And who knew what sort of pills Nayland himself had popped to rise to this occasion. So he decided to start acting again, right now.

  ‘Yeah, but I’ve never done it here, on Santa Monica, before…’

  The lying affected him. Acting was supposed to be Truth. Here he was, lying in the process. Nice thought, being conscientious and all, about the class act that acting supposedly was. But right now he needed resources, and impure acting was going to have to serve as one. Right now, and without further ado.

  ‘OK, just be cool. So. Car pulls over. We’ve got a big advantage ya know: passenger side.’

  ‘Passenger side?’

  ‘We’re on it. The diver’s on the other side, so he – uh, or she – has to work from the far side of the car. Gives us a chance to check everything out. And half the time, there’s more than one guy – er, people – in the car. Sometimes a car-full. Party!!’

  Poor cheerleader that he was, Nayland wiggled his arms over his head.

  ‘But if it’s full, where would I, you know… ride…?’

  ‘I’ve sat on a few laps in my time, buddy boy!’

  ‘… Laps…?’

  ‘Anyway! Car pulls over. You see who’s in it. After they ask what’s up, wait for their in-vite. You know what I mean? Then make your statement. You know, what you’ll do. Kinda ‘disguise’ it, in case the cops –’

  ‘C-Cops?’ Butterbugs interjected.

  ‘Oh hell, don’t worry about ’em! We’re too much of a bozo-patrol for them to bother. They go more for the Bev Hills destinations instead of the starting points, and…’

  Butterbugs looked intensely at Nayland, and almost gasped.

  ‘Boy… you’re really into this…’

  ‘OK, OK, now, back to what I was saying. I don’t wanna keep yakking and miss a gig.’

  ‘A gig is a show business term, Nayland, not a –’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, swell, yeah. Now listen, after you’ve made yourself… you know, ‘clear’, check ’em out, if you feel like you trust ’em (har, har!). Then go with the flow, baby. You might as well enjoy a chance to get off. Look at it that way! Just, uh, fantasize your way through it or somethin’, huh? How’s that for an angle? Got your Trojans?’

  ‘Why, why no. No I haven’t.’

  Butterbugs almost gasped again, but kept his act together.

  Nayland really must’ve been on something significant. Otherwise his inquiring mind and its verbalization mechanism would have impatiently ridiculed Butterbugs for not being cool enough. But in straitened circumstances, fellow sufferers often display a humanity that can be breathtaking, even beautiful.

  ‘What do I have to do, wipe your ass, too?’

  Nayland, in the style and manner of a big brother, who would of course help The Kid if he is in need, but doesn’t want to reveal his caring nature (he in fact had no siblings at all), then fished in his torn – fashionably torn – Kerwins, and presented a standard, no-frills Health and Human Service
s-issued condom to the actor.

  ‘Uh, ‘cool’. Most kind of you, Nayland.’

  ‘OK. Now, uh, don’t use my real name out here, huh? When on this surf, I’m Jonny Cool. And you just said it. Surfin’ comin’ up! You know, like on the Net, huh? So I guess you got it half right.’

  ‘Great…’

  ‘How about you? What be your ‘nom de street’?’

  ‘Where did you get that?’

  ‘Never mind. Some Ivy League school somewhere. Or some quiz show. So what is it?’

  ‘Well. How about Mark Fondell?’

  ‘Perfect. The geezers – I mean, the babes’ll be frikkin’ pummeled-crazy about it.’

  ‘Nayland?’

  ‘Jonny!’

  ‘Sorry. Uh, Jonny, what do you do when you… clean up? I mean, when you work out of Santa Monica? Here… that is.’

  ‘Same as you would anywhere, Señor Fondell. Baby wipes. I suppose you want some of those, too. I just kyped ’em from Swumpy’s, so they’re fresh. Medicated, too.’

  ‘Boy, you do all sorts of illegal stuff.’

  ‘You will, too. Comes as a package, ‘Mark’. Just don’t tell anyone. In fact, I’m surprised you recognized me.’

  He paused, and his face brightened, as if a bit of memory kindled and he was able to present an important bit of further information as part of his proudly-created survival kit for The Kid.

  ‘Whatever you do, don’t get venereal warts. They have to ream your rectum – which is already kind of sore! – Er, well, they have to drill, uh, it out, after a while. Not that I’ve had to have that done, or anything…’

  Butterbugs now realized that Nayland wasn’t that well known for wearing the ersatz junkie look, but at the same time, he gained new respect for him by doing what it takes to accomplish a role through method acting, and Nayland really wasn’t a very good actor, either. He’d probably be better at something like… a talk show host. Or whatever. Maybe, though, he was an excellent hustler.

  Cars, exotics, and SUVs whizzed by with characteristic LA-style self-absorbency.

  An odd-looking rig pulled over and stopped directly in front of Nayland/Jonny.