Reality Redux

[keith]

OK Dave, I like it but I have no idea why and also no idea what to make of it.

[Dave]

And I have no idea why I wrote it! It's just a story. If you like it. you like it. That's all a piece like this kind is supposed to do.

There were a few versions, one darker and one lighter.

[Dave]

Reality


This time you've a choice of endings.

Richard kept an eye on Jackie and on each party guest who spoke with the diminutive man. Jackie may have been short and rather ordinary looking, but he should be the most important man at the party and Richard was happy to see the other guests act accordingly, treating the fellow not only with respect, but also with an easy friendliness that Jackie was thoroughly enjoying. When a small man in a professor’s threadbare herringbone jacket spoke glowingly of Jackie’s famous ability in college to write funny send-ups of the faculty, Richard congratulated himself on his inspiration to alert the guests to a few personal aspects of Jackie’s history.

The afternoon was gorgeous, blue sky and temperature at 70 degrees. And the house, yard and deck where the party took place were exactly what Richard thought they should look like … solid middle class, with shrubs set out and inexpensive flowers planted near the foundation. A Sears power lawn mower of recent vintage sat out in the back corner of the yard. He’d always felt he’d like to live here in Monterey Hills if he couldn’t afford better. Just another section of Los Angeles, a metropolis the writer Dorothy Parker had described as “72 suburbs in search of a city.”

Richard turned back to the crowd and watched as a blonde woman came out of the house and crossed the deck to where Jackie stood talking with Bert Fuller, a man of fifty with blazing good looks who had some success on stage and screen. Willomenia, a blonde, walked up to Jackie and while effusively saying hello put her hands first on his forearm before reaching out and giving him a chaste hug. Perfect. She was the youngest woman at the party and ordinarily a chaste act was not in her repertoire. Richard looked forward to seeing her afterward.

The crowd in the driveway began to separate as a large grey limousine slowly inched into the back yard and came to a stop just on the edge of the grass. The driver’s door opened and out stepped a familiar looking alumnus of the University of Chicago; 35 starts, 194 tackles, 13 sacks, six foot, three inches; 253 pounds and a dark ebony finish. Wearing a meticulously groomed gun metal grey suit and wrap-around dark glasses, he moved slowly like the largest cat in the jungle. Indeed, he was the biggest cat in this jungle. The giant named Franklin slowly gazed around the yard, not searching but gathering. His eyes stopped on Willomenia, moved on to Jackie, then resumed their survey and in a moment came back and locked on the guest of honor. When Jackie touched his nose, the big man stepped toward the rear of the limousine, ready to open the passenger door. Jackie began to walk toward the car while Richard moved in a line to intercept his route.

The crowd was now milling around the guest of honor, allowing him to pass slowly from their midst, shouting well wishes and reminding him to come back next year. Jackie seemingly tried to shake the hand of everyone in attendance. When he came to Richard, the short man reached out with two hands to grab the hand of the man who had organized the party.

“Terrific, as usual,” said Jackie, and Richard smiled winningly.

As Jackie reached the car, the ex-football star pulled open the door and the two of them were quickly inside, the sound of locks popping like guns in the distance. Everyone was now waving to a man they couldn’t see behind the darkened bullet proof glass, but that didn’t seem to diminish their enthusiasm.

The limo backed out onto the tree lined street and swiftly glided away toward the expressway a mile distant.

The party had lasted exactly ninety minutes. As soon as the limousine rounded the corner at Blythewood and Gordon Streets, the cheering abruptly stopped and the raised hands dropped out of the air like fallen birds. The party-goers wordlessly looked at each other. A few smiles could be seen throughout the crowd, but most of the faces were sober and a few thoughtful.

You now have a choice between two endings (so far). I really couldn’t make up my mind. Let me know if you prefer A or B.

A. Richard rolled a large residential plastic trash can from behind the bushes into the center of the driveway and hefted a leather brief case atop the impromptu paymaster’s desk. He opened the case and took out a small stack of envelopes, arranged in alphabetical order. The actors began to arrange themselves into a rough line as Richard called each of the 23 names and handed out checks from an agency none of them had ever heard of.

Later at the bar, Willomenia asked, “How much does he pay your agency for that show every year?”

“About thirty grand for salaries, the food, rental of someone’s house, touch up, staging, clean up …. it all adds up,” said Richard.

“And all because he has no real family?” she asked.

“What’s a real family?” said Richard. “When you go to their homes, they complain, ask for money, tell you you’re no good when you refuse their begging. Family isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

“I like the pay,” said the woman. “But it’s all so hard to believe that a man would hire a talent agency to stage a party with a fake family.” She slowly swirled the liquor around the ice cubes at the bottom of her glass.”

“You really think so?” said Richard. “If you were worth a lot of money and for a mere thirty thousand dollars each year you could hire the family and neighbors you always wanted? Who act happy to see you? And ask your advice instead of complain about what you haven’t done for them? Who remember the little things you did in life as well as the big deals and laugh with you at what you think is funny or smart? It’s a wonder more billionaires don’t do it.”

“But the “family” he hires isn’t real,” she protested.

“No, you have it wrong,” Richard said. “It’s the so-called real family who isn’t real. They just want your money. THEY are the fakes. You and I are more real than they will ever be.”

“Well, OK, but ….”

“Believe me, I know,” said Richard, as he slammed his drink down on the mahogany bar. “I know what it’s like to have a family that just wants a piece of what you’ve spent your whole life building, who couldn’t give a damn about how you fought your way up in the world, the cousins who have no idea what it was like growing up with a drunken father, getting beat up all the time, sleeping on the porch some nights, never given a goddamn thing but a fistful of knuckles in your face …”

“Richard, calm down!” said Willomenia, “You’re getting very upset … and a little scary.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s just that …”

A silence came between them while Richard took a breath, a swig of his drink and lit up another cigarette.

“I’m sorry,” said Willomenia, “I didn’t know about all of that.”

“I’m the one who should be sorry,” he said. “It’s not your worry.”

“I wouldn’t have brought it up,” she said, “but I wondered wherever anyone would get the idea for a fake reunion.”

“It’s my idea,” said Richard. “I staged my own fake family gathering for three years until I got tired of it. Then I moved on to my next fantasy.”

“Do I want to hear this?” asked Willomenia

“Let me tell you a little secret,” said Richard. “Jackie and his bodyguard are actors. I told all of you they were real to disguise who the show is really for.

“Richard, this is getting creepy.” said Willomenia.

”I’m wealthy enough to treat myself,” Richard said. “My fantasy is to be the head of a talent agency. To be with actors, meet pretty women like you and hopefully date them. The backyard party is a lot easier and cheaper to pull off than a short film.”

“You’re not a real talent agent?” she asked.

“Nope,” he replied “just a very successful patent attorney living out his fantasy.” Richard wondered why he had said “patent attorney.” Did they make that much money?”

“Is anything real?” she asked.

“Not in this town,” he replied. “Would you like to go somewhere for dinner?”

OR

B. Richard rolled a large residential plastic trash can from behind the bushes to where everyone stood. He hefted a leather brief case atop of the impromptu paymaster’s desk, opened the case and took out a small stack of envelopes, arranged in alphabetical order. The actors began to arrange themselves into a rough line as Richard called each name and handed out the checks from the Thespedia Agency.

Cabs arrived and the group began to leave. In less than an hour Richard found himself alone. He looked at his watch and wondered if he should wait for the home’s owners to return. He decided it wasn’t really necessary. The cleaners would be by in the morning and he had already written a check to Bill and Fran, the agreeable owners.

He chuckled when he thought of his wife complaining about the money he spent on this charade. No doubt she’d rather have it spent on her, Willomenia. Why were young women always so self-centered? He placed a call on his cell phone, waited five minutes and then stepped outside into the cool night air.

A light rain had begun to fall and the cozy neighborhood street lamps were reflected on the surface of the wet street. A pair of headlights made their way toward him and pulled to the curb, the passenger door directly in front of him.
He reached down and pulled open the door to the executive grey limousine and got in.

“Did you get Franklin to the plane on time?” he said to Jackie, who sat behind the wheel.

”Yeah, she must be some hot property,” Jackie mused. “I think he’s taking a dame with him back to Frisco.”

“I thought Willomenia would be with you,” said Richard.

“Said she’d see you later at home.” Jackie replied.
“Something about her girlfriend’s sick dog. Or was it a cat?”

Richard was used to his young wife running off at all hours to comfort a friend or join a protest on Wilshire Boulevard.

”We have to get the limo back, too,” said Richard. “By tomorrow noon.”

“Why do we do this every year, Rich,” asked Jackie.

“Because they need the work,” replied Richard.

“They’re terrible actors,” said Jackie. “Maybe that’s why they need the work.”

“They’re old and no longer beautiful, that’s why they need the work,” said Richard. “Zach and Bert and the others were some of the first people to sign with my agency thirty years ago,” said Richard. “I owe them my career and my success, frankly.”

“Well, you’re paying for it,” said Jackie. “What’s this cost you every year, fifty grand?”

“About thirty,” said Richard, “mostly their pay. But there’s food, rental of someone’s house, touch up, staging, clean up …. it all adds up.”.

“Why not give them an annual stipend or something,” said Jackie. “Why the fake party?”

“Jackie, you’ll never understand show business,” said Richard.

“I’m not in show business,” said Jackie. “I’m your cousin, the plumber.”

“They need a SHOW!” said Richard. “They need to feel valuable doing what they spent their lives perfecting. To play a part and feel good about themselves.”

“I guess I can see that,” said Jackie.

“I guess you certainly can,” Richard replied as he stared out the window into the night. “You play John Randal Smith Yorkton perfectly.”

“I work at it,” said Jackie. “I want them to think they’re fooling me, that they’re great actors.”

Richard smiled to himself. In truth, his cousin was a pretty poor actor. But the overly sensitive man would have never been able to play his part if he knew everyone at the party understood he was a plumber, not an actor and certainly not a billionaire. That’s why Jackie was never told everyone knew he was Richard’s cousin. To the actors it didn’t matter. They thought it was just part of Richard’s annual silliness, so that he didn’t feel embarrassed handing out a little charity to his old clients. They didn’t care how he gave them money. Most of them were in financial straits beyond pride. The only people fooled at Richard’s annual party were Jackie and … this year … Richard. Franklin was by now in the air with Willomenia on their way to San Francisco.

copyright 2011 by David Griffin

[Dave]

I again modified "Reality." Part B and an antecedent in the first half of the story.

[keith]

I prefer B but the additional layer of unreality in A has an appeal.

[Dave]

I took A and B to one of the writing groups I belong to and Version A (the original) won, hands down. I was surprised, and liked B, myself. The group felt A was a proper comment on the unreality of Hollywood and therefore that particular ending made the piece more cohesive. They also felt B labored under too much explanation and I agree. So, now on my Essays page, I have used A and made a few other minor changes. Also, one of the group members suggested a new title and I liked it immediately because of its double meaning relative to the story. Richard has the essence of some kind of secret agent in the first half of the story and in the second part we find he's playing a talent agent. You can see the story, "The Agent," at:
www.windsweptpress.com/essays.htm

Scroll down for No. 136.