Shape of the Final Dog and Other Stories (9781101600665) (12 page)

R. But the Dowlves do—is that right?

J. No! It's not. You don't know shit about the Dowlves.

R. I'm trying, Jim. But this stuff is hard.

Jim shakes his head. It is hard.

R. Come on, don't give up on me, we're just getting started.

Jim has a drink.

R. I love the way you drink.

Jim pours a little more into Ratty's dish.

R. So, you were saying, irreversible . . .

Jim nails Ratty with a look.

J. What is?

On the spot, Ratty, doe-eyed.

R. Cosmic evolution?

J. Here's what happens. The system fails because it can't survive what's outside it.

R. So what's outside it? The system.

A shrewd and telling grin from Jim. Ratty notices his mentor's eyes are crossed.

R. You mean death?

J. Ha! Death is nothing compared to what's outside it. Death is predictable as dirt, in a uniform. But what's outside it . . .

Ratty waits. Ratty can't wait.

R. Don't mean to be a pest, Jim, but what's outside it?

J. Not the Gorves and the Dowlves. We know what they are. You see where this is headed?

R. You may as well kill me.

J. It won't make a difference. Not anywhere is where it's headed. There is nowhere to go. There is no
go
.
Go
doesn't mean anything.

R. So what does?

J.
Stay
. It's the most important thing ever said:
Stay!
It's one thing we can never do.

R. That makes sense.

J. No, it doesn't. It never will.

R. You're smart, Jim. Excuse me.

Ratty finishes off his saucer.

J. I took a course in engineering, but I couldn't cut the math.

R. But I bet you do the crosswords, right?

J. My fallback was the dogs. Yeah, sometimes I do.

R. That's why you're so good with the words.

Jim fixes Ratty with a look.

J. You know what it means to rat on somebody?

R. Snitch on 'em, like Judas did to Christ?

J. He ratted him out.

R. I get it, but rats don't do that.

J. It's the rat who leaves the sinking ship.

R. Be a fool not to.

J. I smell a rat. What about that?

R. If you think I might not be reliable or loyal, you would be wrong. You could've kept this business about Penny to yourself if you really didn't trust me.

Jim looks away, stares at the wall.

R. Maybe we should go outside, sit in the garden.

J. We don't have a garden.

R. Looks like a garden.

J. It's just grass. Let's have another drink.

But Jim doesn't move; he's gone grim, just stares at the wall.

R. Snap out of it, Jim! We were talking about the heart, remember? Not the muscle, like you said, but that it's big and wants to help.

J. Help who do what?

R. Help us understand how come we're misunderstood!

J. You understand why you're misunderstood, then what?

R. Then you don't blame somebody else for it.

J. Somebody comes up behind you, hits you in the head with a hammer. You say, how come you did that? Whatever the answer is, two to one, it's bullshit.

R. That's philosophy, Jim—go on!

J. Then there's the
physithurisms.

R. What are those? Physithurisms.

J. The sound that the leaves make in the trees, in the breeze. But the parasites and the coffin flies make a sound too. Put 'em in a paper sack and pop it, have it for lunch. Or they have you. Then there's the other school of thought; save yourself so you can save something better. Which is like putting an armchair in your grave. Either way.

R. Lay down your life for a better Mexico?

J. This isn't Mexico.

R. It isn't?

J. No, it isn't.

R. Did it used to be?

J. Everything used to be something it isn't. Like a grasshopper in a cup of coffee. No matter how good it is to make a plan, it's always better when it's canceled.

R. That makes sense.

J. No, it doesn't.

At any second, Jim could have yelled
Knock it off!
and that would have been that. But he didn't, and now Ratty wants to kiss him, but lacks the lips, and if that weren't the case, he still wouldn't kiss him because Big Jim wouldn't allow it.

There is half an eggplant on the counter, a bowl of sugar Ratty sampled before he was caught, and two unwashed dishes in the sink. This is not the kitchen of his dreams.

Jim had counseled him to take none of it seriously. Yet Jim was struggling to set it straight. The Gorves and the Dowlves. Ratty wasn't born yesterday; he knew there were no such things. Keep drinking and pretend to teach is the thing. Ratty and Jim, narrowing the divide.

I
changed my name again. Last night I decided on a new one, a name that will stick. Cargot. Not like
got
; the last syllable should be pronounced like
go
, the French way,
Car-got
. A name to accommodate a big load of talent. No first name, just an initial. They'll say, What's the S for? Sam? Nope, guess again. And they might, but they won't get it, and I won't say it. That's it, I'm not going to change anything about myself again.

Lots of days and too many nights dreaming about what needed to be done, and now I'm doing it. Way back when he was big, I knew Troy Donahue. That's when I got the bug, but for some reason, fear maybe, I avoided the risk of actually taking the plunge, of making the commitment. I remember one day, Troy brought his agent over for a barbecue, a lawn party, not unlike this one I'm about to attend, and I had a chance, the chance to make an impression, but I was shy, I felt ugly, insecure, and I blew it. That agent died a long time ago, he got fatter and fatter and then he was dead. And now I hear Troy is gone, but I'm still here, and today I come out of my shell.

There comes a time when talent, no matter how much it's repressed, must come forth and claim its place with those others, the greats who've preceded me. I know it's a journey, but no matter what the obstructions that rise up before me, I'll get around them, over them, plow right through them if need be. It's a question of tenacity. No matter how high the peaks, the steaming swamps, the flat arid deserts, the insurmountables, I'll reach the goal. An actor worth his salt is a pilgrim to Mecca. (I don't like salt.)

O cunning Love! with tears thou keep'st me blind / Lest eyes well-seeing thy foul faults should find.
Shakespeare!
Yes, I have tricks in my pocket, I have things up my sleeve. But I am the opposite of a stage magician.
Williams! I love Tennessee. I've worked on them all and read everything that's come my way. The mystery of that radiant clarity that occurs when the inner identity of a thing shines forth and is about to break out of it's shell. I go forth.
To find in motion what is lost in space—
that's Tennessee again, God bless him.

In the past I was accused of being indecisive, fussy. My capacity to vacillate was boundless. I would suffer disaffection at the drop of a shoe. Labile as a douser's pendant, my coach used to say. He had the words. Pronounced
lay-bile
. I looked it up. But the slippery defect of my virtue was paranoia. Nothing clinical, of course, but if you persist in being disappointed in yourself for being unable to do the impossible you run the risk of becoming your own worst enemy, of devolving into something small, or driving into a lamppost. I don't want to think about it.

To be multi-amphibian is the thing, to live in many worlds at once. Ambition. I was afraid of it, or used to be. I was obsessive, I admit it, but an actor should be. I told my coach what he was teaching me was starting to feel like a wall between what I was and what I needed to be, and he told me to get out. I felt like a blind man on a roller coaster. At first.

I couldn't even afford a place to live, so I stayed in the big garage. Agent Barkus used it as a gym, at least part of it, but he never worked out, so he let me sleep there till I got on my feet. His wife, Gloria, has an SUV. Barkus has a Lexus, but for a while, there was room for me.

I used to live in a world of hypotheticals. If such-and-such happens, will the outcome be a benefit or a setback? But no more
to-be-or-not-to-be
. Action is all.
Whoso divineth upon conjectures may as well shoot too far as too short.
Too much thought and not enough doing is bad for the actor. But
I run before my horse to market
. Let me speak for here and now.

I'd seen it before, these Saturday afternoon get-togethers. I knew what to expect; flirty money worshippers drinking Pinot Grigio around the pool, getting up and sitting down. Squalor is what I call it. And if you refuse to convert your attention to the schemes and irrelevancies of their material concerns, you go unnoticed. That's the respect that makes cowards of us all. Not me; I aim to remain solid, but supple, the optimal state for an artist. Money means nothing to me. I'm as poor as Jesus.

I don't have much party cred and I'm no crasher, but invited or not, I'm making my move, managing my route in such a way as not to be seen.

The grass feels sharp, newly cut, maybe it's not Saturday—this must've been a gardening day. Trying to keep a cool eye on things, but I got to admit, I'm nervous, overheated. But screw it, he cast me out and now I'm back. Here to show Emperor Barkus that he's got no clothes. Here to have my way with his wife.

He'd give me advice and shirts he never wore or got tired of. And sometimes, if he had a beer or two, showing off for his buddies, he'd tell me to recite some Shakespeare. Just short little pieces—he didn't have the patience for more. It made me feel like a whore. See how I rhyme things?

The path is quiet and green. Shimmering blue of the pool, like a Hockney. No birds in the birdbath. Generally animals are not attracted to Barkus. Even his dog didn't trust him. With good reason. I make my way across the yard. Beach towel spread on the grass. In her white bikini, no top. She has oiled herself. She shines.

Feels like I've had a dose of actomyosin, whatever that is, whatever it is that's making my muscles contract and expand. Excitement, I guess. I'm trying to be nimble, but it's a struggle. I've decided if today I succeed it means I'll play the Dane. Not yet, but eventually I will, and in a brand-new way. I'm going to do it as a Mexican aristocrat, Old California. A Zorro-type Hamlet with a sword and a whip, and when Barkus gets the news that I'm in a hit he'll pull out what's left of his hair for not believing in me in the first place. I hear music coming from the house, but don't feel it, not like I once did. No need to hear music anymore; I feel constructed of it. Her body, closer now, makes me fizz.

Back when I lived here, I tried once and she made fun of me. Didn't even tell Barkus. Or so she said, but she must have because when Barkus tried to sell me on the hot dog stand, he accused me of it. He took me to the car wash so he could get his clean Lexus even cleaner. Barkus could never get clean. He owned the place, or so he said, the hot dog stand as well. He wanted me to buy it, said I could pay as I go. I told him I'm not a hot dog vender, I'm an actor. I should have a fallback, his wife was worried about me, then he says, I know you're fucking her. I told him I wasn't. I wasn't. I don't think he thought I was either. Just give me a down payment, he says, borrow it from Gloria. I sign it over, you hire somebody who knows what he's doing, doesn't mean he has to know much. Put a wiener on the grill, mustard on the bun, and you're in business. He thought that was funny, he laughed, trying to disparage me. He would like me to trade my dream in on a hot dog stand. If ever I play Mephistopheles in
Faust
I'll know who to model it on.

The Devil is a gentleman / he dances very neat / wears patent-leather shoes on his pointy little feet . . .
That's not Kit Marlowe, of course, but it fits, except Barkus has big stupid feet and footwear to match. He wears customized cowboy boots with fancy stitched dancing girls riding on the backs of wild-eyed longhorns made of hand-tooled fossilized eagle claws and kangaroo hide. He told me you had to have a license to wear them. Three grand a pair. His initials, W.B. (first name is Walter), engraved in white rhinestones at the top. Loud too—he's got taps on the heels. Truth was he didn't give a shit about the Old West, but he fancied himself some kind of gentleman cowboy. The only gentile to run a major agency in this town. Have your Jews call my Jews, he used to say. I heard him do it once, then he winked at me.

I've come from behind the hedge, from the raw and unruly into the refined, faultlessly crossed the grounds under the burning sun, but I must be early. She's out to get some rays before the party starts. Or do I have the wrong day? I'm confused.

Who knows what it all means, how things happen. Suddenly you just end up somewhere. You take the journey. Who was it, Pauline Kael, said Hollywood is the only town where you can die of encouragement? I hadn't been encouraged in a long time. I wouldn't mind a little dose of that kind of dying.

The sun is so swanky even the shadows shine. Up close every blade of grass is crystalliferous, but the distance is blurred, I'm nearsighted. I can make out the outline of two persons on the porch, one short and fat—that's gotta be my friend, the humble gardener, José—listening to the instructions of King Barkus. If I don't hurry, my duet could turn into a trio, even a quartet, but from the look of the lawn, I think José is done for the day.

I try to remember that people are odd and more fascinating than starfish. Miscellaneous points of kindness. Even Barkus had his loyalties. Not to Maxwell he didn't. Mainly to money. Maxwell was the dog. But I do have mixed feelings. Exasperating and selfish as he was, I had a soft spot for Barkus. He liked to take a walk after dinner, for instance. When I realized it wasn't for the fellowship of sharing a stroll beneath the stars, but to stimulate his bowels, I liked him even more. I admire a clever agent. He relaxes not to calm himself, but to be coiled and ready for the next deal. And sometimes he reminded me of a fat little boy, the way he laughed and clapped his hands when he was happy. I could understand how Gloria loved him. But it's a question of space I would think—people only have so much room to care about something else beside themselves.

Maxwell wasn't a purebred, but he wasn't a mutt. Usually the mutt is small; Max was built like a wolf. And he was smart too, more like a person, but better. He could have been a star back when dog movies were big. Maybe that's what bothered Barkus—not making money off him, but his agency didn't rep pets. One night he tells me, get rid of Maxwell. Take him somewhere, drop him off, and drive away. Where?

I don't give a shit, he says, just get rid of him. I was dumbfounded. If you can't do this one little thing for me, how do you expect I'm going to do anything for you?

He was talking about my career.

He wanted me to drive him to the desert, Newhall or someplace, push him out of the car. There was no way would I do that. I'd just take him down to Sunset, let him out there. For sure he'd get picked up by some babe in a Lincoln; the ladies loved Maxwell. But it didn't happen that way. Going down the hill we had an accident. And that was the last I ever saw of Max. I don't remember the details, blindsided I guess, but it must've been bad. I don't like to think about it, but I'm pretty sure that's when everything changed.

It happened sometime around then; I can't recall exactly, there was no face to it, just a memorandum slipped under the door. It said the gym was going to get expanded and that was that. I was out. José told me they were going to tear it down, the garage, but not so far they haven't. Before me, Barkus had another actor who lived here. A sadder story than my own.

I saw a photo of him. He was a raw, handsome young man. Some said if he didn't drink himself to death he'd be the next Jimmy Dean. But instead, on Christmas Eve he drove his Austin-Healey off a cliff. That's how come I got to live here. And for a Hollywood minute, which is about three or four months, Barkus talked like I was going be a star. One of those short-lived enigmas who flame out fast and become legends, I guess. Who knows? But I was never fast, never caught fire. Never even drank.

I admit, there is vengeance in this enterprise, but the tune of it is love. Not for her, but for the work itself, which is everything.
The Prowling Pilgrim
is a musical I'm planning to write, going to star in it too. Already I've got the first line to the opening song: “Dead birds in standing water don't fly away so fast, / because the Almighty ain't strong enough to make the future last.” Self-reliance is the theme. Destination? Broadway.

We all need attention to embellish ourselves. To suffer the setbacks without losing heart is the thing. When I wasn't working for Barkus, I studied the Bard. Oh, those words! But living a life of double-duty hyphenated me. Who was I? How is it I got like I am? That kind of thing. But the greats must be defiant in their willingness to be misunderstood. To persist when no hope can help and none is offered. I didn't even have a phone. Barkus was too cheap to install one. That actor who lived here before me, the one who drove off the cliff, was a dirty lodger. The area around my bunk stunk of bacon and nicotine, and opening the window didn't help. If I complained Barkus made fun of me, called me Mr. Sensitive. In the innermost meat of his being, what actor is not?

Here's what I call a correlation: How come we're fascinated by what we abhor? For fear of its power and the good it could do us. He's a major agent, no way around it, but I was never even an official client, no standing at all. His fancy friends, they all knew I lived in the garage. That I had no phone. But what about Gloria? She was a call girl before she met him. Not a streetwalker—she was high class—but still, what right did she have to look down on me?

Her foot! The pedicured toes, the polished nails. I'll cover the length of her before this is done. It's a tricky situation, though; if she wakes, what then? But it's not like she was always snooty to me. More than once, going to market or bringing in the mail, I got the sly look from her, I swear. Now here I am to claim the crown! Joking. Here to claim what? Not sure exactly. But great journeys are not for the cautious; still, distances have to be gauged. I'm not going back to check, but I think it was her knee I just passed.

“I can't breathe, come away and see me!” is what I dreamed she would say. She never did. But I know one thing, I'm no longer on standby, I've made my move.

But progress dresses in setbacks, we all know that. Something could go wrong, and I've never been good at what happens next; I must stay alert. Gloria's muscular and stuck-up, proud that she's not fat. Already I'm conveying myself along the ridge of her thigh. I'm moving fast.