Memphis Movie (10 page)

“Someplace,” Eric repeated, stupidly.

“Yes.”

“Ok, I'll drop you.”

“Just drop me at Huey's,” Sandy said.

“Huey's. Yeah, you know, it's almost lunch time. I could use a burger.”

Sandy looked at him with every single year of their being together knit into her brow.

“Right,” Eric said.

After she kissed his cheek on Madison Avenue and he had driven away, Eric felt like he couldn't make this movie. Not here in Memphis, not ever. It was all coming apart, he thought, though really it hadn't had a chance to come together.

He stopped at a Piggly Wiggly parking lot to check his calls.

There weren't as many as he had expected. The cast were probably happy about the day off, the crew probably pissed that they had to work. No further call from Dan.

No call from Hope Davis. Hope doesn't spring eternal. It doesn't spring at all.

There was, however, a call from Mimsy Borogoves. Eric got a particular buzz dialing her number, a schoolboy buzz.

“Hi, Mimsy, this is Eric Warberg.”

“So formal. I can see it's you, you see. It says so on my phone. And I chose to answer it unlike you who only call back later.”

Was she ragging him or flirting? Eric never knew. Eric never knew.

“I was in a meeting,” Eric said. Jesus, what a Hollywood answer.

“Uh-huh.”

“With a writer.”

“Uh-huh. I thought your wife wrote all your scripts.”

“She's not my wife. No, what I mean is, no, she does write all my scripts but there is always input from other writers. That's just the process. Do you know Camel Eros?”

“Camel Jeremy Eros?”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“No good? We're barking up the wrong dog?”

“No. I don't know. Camel. I haven't seen him in forever.”

“Oh, so you know him.”

“Well, who knows Camel? He was a friend of my father's. They went to jail together. This was, oh, I don't know, the garbage strike—was that 1968?”

“Yes, I think that's right.”

“Camel, huh.”

“So, what for you call me, Mimsy Borogoves?”

“Wanna get some lunch?”

“I do. I really do.”

“Huey's?” she asked.

“Um, no. Let's—I don't know—let's go someplace far away from Huey's.”

“Ok, Mr. Mystery. Do you know how to get to Gus's? Best fried chicken in the world.”

When they were seated in the large room at a small square table Eric couldn't help but think that Mimsy Borogoves was even prettier than he remembered. She was white like spirit matter, pale as ghost orbs, the backscatter in a photograph. She was positively lucent.

“What's good here?” Eric asked.

“Get the chicken.”

They laughed a mutual laugh, one of those that makes a bond, a warmth transmitted. He wanted to put his hand on her hand, which rested next to her water glass. The light through the water glass lit her hand, making it resemble fine marble, or glazed pottery.

He put his hand on her hand.

“Tell me things,” he said.

Mimsy Borogoves looked long into his face. She was deciding something but Eric could only guess what.

“It's true, isn't it, the Hollywood stereotype? The director who beds women left and right because every female has illusions about being in the movies. That's you, isn't it? That's who you've become.”

“Is that why you wanted to get together? To castigate me for my profligate ways without even knowing what those ways are?”

“I'm sorry.” Mimsy Borogoves lowered her gaze.

Eric removed his hand.

“What then?” he asked.

“I want to be in movies,” she said. Then, after a beat, a nervous laugh.

“You're beautiful enough,” Eric said, gallantly.

“He said gallantly,” Mimsy said.

“Well, really—”

“I don't want to act, Silly. I want to direct.”

“Ah.”

“So, can I sleep with you for
that
?”

Eric and Mimsy shared another laugh. Eric wasn't sure whether she was serious or not. Sleeping with Mimsy Borogoves would be about the best idea he'd had since coming to Memphis.

20.

Midday. Exterior. Medium shot.

Dan Yumont is buying lunch at a Stop'n Go. They sold the best gyros, he had heard. He carried the dripping sandwich to the parking lot where he ate it leaning against his rented car.

A guy on a Harley pulled up next to him, the din all but swamping every sense for a few seconds. Until he turned the hog off Dan was deaf, dumb and blind. The world was eclipsed.

In the silence afterward the two men made uneasy eye contact.

Dan never backed down from a staring contest.

“Hey,” the biker said with a head bob.

“How's it going?” Dan answered with a shit-eating grin.

“You're Dan Yumont,” the biker said.

“Who?”

“I must be wrong. Sorry. You look like someone.”

“I hope I am. I hope I am someone.”

“Right. Sorry.”

“Have a good day,” Dan Yumont said.

As Dan was finished his gyro the biker was re-saddling his bike and, with a cautious nod, off he roared. Dan stood in the dust and midday silence and squinted. As he squinted he was reminded of who he was and being reminded, he wanted to use
it to—do something. There was power there and power begged to be used.

Suddenly Dan was horny again and he wished he could remember how to get back to Dudu's house. It was in Midtown somewhere. But, he then reflected, she was probably pissed now that he had left so abruptly.

So he set out again. A knight errant.

Where else to go? A college campus. Dan Yumont was practiced in the ways of seduction. Ever since the Oscar, of course, it didn't matter whether he was practiced in those ways or not. Women came to him. Yet, still there was the thrill of the hunt.

Dan parked on Southern Avenue across from the campus of the University of Memphis, formerly Memphis State. A train separated him from his hunting ground and he stood smoking a cigarette and watching the cars rush by.

“Aren't you Dan Yumont?” he heard at his elbow.

He turned to find a round, cheeky face under a mop of black hair. One pierced lip. Yet, underneath some scabrous clothing there was a body to die for. This was too easy. Too easy.

“Nope,” Dan said.

The little black figure eyed him as if he were a trig problem.

“You are,” she said. “You're here to make that movie.”

Now Dan turned fully toward her.

“Hi, Sweet,” he said. “Who are you?”

“Name's Candy,” she said.

“Ah, and I called you Sweet. Must mean something.”

He squinted at her.

She smiled an engaging smile.

Well, Dan thought, might as well.

“That must work on dipshits,” Candy said. “You're a bad man, Daddy.”

And with that she walked away. Across the tracks where there had been a train only moments before.

Dan laughed at himself. Some days the magic works and some days, well, it works less well.

Dan Yumont found the student center and parked himself on a bench in front of it. He lit another cigarette and surveyed.

The campus was so alive with humanity at this time of day that Dan could hardly see the trees for the forest. Then he saw her.

She was with a couple of other young women but she erased them. Her beauty, her confident beauty, positively swallowed up anyone else around her. She was tall, about six feet, with long legs, about which she was rightly proud because she wore a short, tight jean skirt. Her hips worked like a runway model's and her breasts were perfectly round eyes in the center of her body. They stared at Dan and he stared back. And her face—she was a Botticelli angel. She was white-blonde and looked a little bit like Heather Graham, whom Dan had dated briefly back in the previous century.

Dan stood. The angel had not noticed him yet. She was chattering angel-talk to her friends.

Dan stepped into her path like a gunslinger.

“Hi,” he said, ignoring Friend Left and Friend Right. “Can you tell me where Chemistry is?”

The blonde squinched up her face.

“Y-yes,” she said. Her voice was throatier than one would have imagined. “Chemistry,” she repeated.

“Yes,” Dan said and smiled.

“It's behind us, over that way.”

“Hm, I'm new—I don't—”

“Fuck me,” Friend Right said.

Everyone turned to her.

“This is fucking Dan Yumont. You are, aren't you?”

Dan looked at the blonde. And then—he squinted.

“Jesus,” she said.

“I'm Trudy,” Friend Right said and stuck out her hand. “Pardon my Franco.”

“Hello, Trudy,” Dan said, taking her hand and never letting his gaze fall away from the angel's face.

“I'm Ray,” the angel spoke. “Ray Verbely.”

“Ray Verbely,” Dan Yumont said.

Friends Right and Left cowered. The energy level approached the red zone.

“Will you take me to lunch?” Dan asked.

Ray Verbely spoke as if ensorcelled. “Of course I will,” she said.

“Wonderful,” Dan Yumont said and he slipped an arm around her waist.

21.

The call from Eden Forbes came as Eric and Mimsy were leaving Gus's Fried Chicken.

“Excuse me,” Eric said to Mimsy. “Gotta take this one.”

Mimsy smiled and walked a few paces down South Main. It was still a fairly bleak area.

“Hi, Eden,” Eric said.

“Eric! I hear you're taking a day off!”

“Yes, I did. I needed to talk to the Memphis writer you wanted to bring aboard.”

“I love nautical metaphors,” Eden said. There was a pause and Eric thought he was supposed to speak. Then Eden said, “So, how is that working out? This writer you talked to—can he deliver the goods?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Good, good. Throw money at him if you need to. Hammer it home to him that we want funk, right? Memphis funk?”

“Yes, Eden.”

“Good, good. Listen, I was fiddling around last night with the opening credits.”

Eric was stunned into silence.

“How's this sound and I'm just roughing it out here so, you know, we can spitball. Like this: An Eden Forbes Production, in
association with William Pilgrim Pictures and Chair Ass Productions, a Big Rear Crew Movie brought to you by Oust Berserk Book Pictures, a subsidiary of God Is Alive Magic Is Afoot Productions, a Thespis Slam Dunk Movie. How's that sound to you?”

“I'm speechless. Except to say that we haven't started shooting yet.”

“Yes, yes, I know, I'm just excited from my end and wanted to line up the ducks, so to speak. I think I got everyone in there, and elegantly, too.”

Eric didn't know who these mysterious production companies were except for Big Rear Crew, which was his and Sandy's company.

“As long as we don't say based upon,” Eric said, sardonically.

“Wha—”

It was Eric's contention that any movie that began “Based
upon
” rather than “Based
on
” was off to an unlucky and pretentious start, as in “Based upon Vladimir Nabokov's
Ada
. . .” Moviemakers that say
upon
probably don't read real books.

“All good, Eden. Got to get going here.”

“Right, right. You are gonna start rolling some film, right?”

“Yep. Second unit has already begun. Gotta get a few” (here he almost said “ducks in a row” but caught the repetition quickly) “things done first.”

“Yes, yes. You know moviemaking. I trust you're doing the right thing.”

“Thanks, Eden.”

After he hung up Eric scanned the sidewalk. About 50 yards away Mimsy was talking to a black guy with pants around his thighs and a jailhouse rag on his head.

Eric hustled toward her.

“Mimsy—sorry,” he began.

The black guy gave him a quick once-over.

“Eric, this is Sean Meezen,” Mimsy said. “He worked on
Hustle and Flow
.”

“Oh, nice to meet you,” Eric stuck a hand out, tentatively, unsure whether he would meet a soul brother, a businessman or a fist. Movie people everywhere, he thought. He might as well be back on Santa Monica Boulevard.