Read Online Westlake, Donald E - Novel 50 by Sacred Monster (v1.1) - Free Book Online
Authors: Sacred Monster (v1.1)
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the
curb and opened the rear door. Photographers took pictures. We made our way,
laughing and happy, through the laughing and happy throng. At the limo, Marcia
turned and threw her bouquet. One of the female well-wishers caught it and
squealed, and the other female well-wishers congratulated her with happy envy.
Marcia and I waved and turned and entered the limo. It was swell !
I
say to the interviewer, “We didn't know anybody on the Coast then, of course,
so we hired a crowd from Central Casting, and those
kids just did a super job. Later, some of them became personal friends."
The
interviewer stares at me. “You mean , the whole scene
was a fake?"
“Certainly
not," I tell him. These little nobodies never understand a thing, you ever notice that? “The emotions expressed that
day," I assure this little nobody, “were absolutely real. And if some real
nice kids, swell young talents struggling to make it,
could earn a dollar wishing us well as we launched ourselves onto the sea of
matrimony, what's wrong with that? Good for their income, good for our image,
good for the press, good for the people who read that
kind of thing—well, you know
that—good for everybody."
“I
never looked at it like that," the interviewer confesses. But he still
looks dubious.
“You
have to see the big picture," I tell him gently, trying to be kind.
“I
guess so," he says.
Well,
how can you explain it? You had to be there. You had to look out the rear
window of the limo the way I did as we drove away and see Buddy bring that big
wad of bills out of his pocket, and see the happy expressions on all those
swell young kids as they lined up on the church lawn to be paid. You don't
think they were sincere?
"Anyway,"
I say, nodding, my mind brimful of fuzzy drink and fuzzy memories, "that
was the best part of our marriage, the wedding. After that, it was pretty much
all downhill, though I didn't know it at first."
"You
didn't know you were having trouble in your own marriage?"
"Well,"
I say, brushing the back of one hand across my brow, feeling how the fuzzy
drink presses against my skull, called to by your friend and mine, Big Sol, old
Mister Sun, "well," I say, "I was pretty much concentrating on
my career then. Or lack of career, I should say."
"Things
didn't go well, at first, in Hollywood ?"
"You
could put it that way," I tell him, since he just did put it that way.
"I had my New York reviews, my regional reviews, but no movie credits, and I just couldn't
figure out what to do next, careerwise. Ever have one of those years where you
just can't seem to get started?"
"No,
sir," he says—of course he
says!—and looks solemn and wimpish, gazing at me over his notebook (how full that notebook must be getting) as
he says, "I don't believe I ever have had a year like that."
"Well,
I have," I say, and nod, and decide it's better not to nod, and stop.
"It's no fun, believe me," I say, and bring a shimmering hand up to
my shimmering forehead.
"I'm
sure it is," he agrees. Being polite, the little
bastard.
"If
I'd stayed in the theater," I say, and my hand waves in front of me in a
negative way, outward, in a stop-frame sequence, the individual shots
overlapping, the hand seeming to stay and to go, my life seeming to stay and to
go, the career . . . "But," I say, and let it go at that.
Can't. The interviewer leans toward me, button eyes alight
like a minor character in a minor sequel to The Wizard of Oz~ Tick-Tock and the Interviewer
of Oz. I must perform. .
"Oh, well," I say. "All right. I did some
curb and opened the rear door. Photographers took pictures. We made our way,
laughing and happy, through the laughing and happy throng. At the limo, Marcia
turned and threw her bouquet. One of the female well-wishers caught it and
squealed, and the other female well-wishers congratulated her with happy envy.
Marcia and I waved and turned and entered the limo. It was swell !
I
say to the interviewer, “We didn't know anybody on the Coast then, of course,
so we hired a crowd from Central Casting, and those
kids just did a super job. Later, some of them became personal friends."
The
interviewer stares at me. “You mean , the whole scene
was a fake?"
“Certainly
not," I tell him. These little nobodies never understand a thing, you ever notice that? “The emotions expressed that
day," I assure this little nobody, “were absolutely real. And if some real
nice kids, swell young talents struggling to make it,
could earn a dollar wishing us well as we launched ourselves onto the sea of
matrimony, what's wrong with that? Good for their income, good for our image,
good for the press, good for the people who read that
kind of thing—well, you know
that—good for everybody."
“I
never looked at it like that," the interviewer confesses. But he still
looks dubious.
“You
have to see the big picture," I tell him gently, trying to be kind.
“I
guess so," he says.
Well,
how can you explain it? You had to be there. You had to look out the rear
window of the limo the way I did as we drove away and see Buddy bring that big
wad of bills out of his pocket, and see the happy expressions on all those
swell young kids as they lined up on the church lawn to be paid. You don't
think they were sincere?
"Anyway,"
I say, nodding, my mind brimful of fuzzy drink and fuzzy memories, "that
was the best part of our marriage, the wedding. After that, it was pretty much
all downhill, though I didn't know it at first."
"You
didn't know you were having trouble in your own marriage?"
"Well,"
I say, brushing the back of one hand across my brow, feeling how the fuzzy
drink presses against my skull, called to by your friend and mine, Big Sol, old
Mister Sun, "well," I say, "I was pretty much concentrating on
my career then. Or lack of career, I should say."
"Things
didn't go well, at first, in Hollywood ?"
"You
could put it that way," I tell him, since he just did put it that way.
"I had my New York reviews, my regional reviews, but no movie credits, and I just couldn't
figure out what to do next, careerwise. Ever have one of those years where you
just can't seem to get started?"
"No,
sir," he says—of course he
says!—and looks solemn and wimpish, gazing at me over his notebook (how full that notebook must be getting) as
he says, "I don't believe I ever have had a year like that."
"Well,
I have," I say, and nod, and decide it's better not to nod, and stop.
"It's no fun, believe me," I say, and bring a shimmering hand up to
my shimmering forehead.
"I'm
sure it is," he agrees. Being polite, the little
bastard.
"If
I'd stayed in the theater," I say, and my hand waves in front of me in a
negative way, outward, in a stop-frame sequence, the individual shots
overlapping, the hand seeming to stay and to go, my life seeming to stay and to
go, the career . . . "But," I say, and let it go at that.
Can't. The interviewer leans toward me, button eyes alight
like a minor character in a minor sequel to The Wizard of Oz~ Tick-Tock and the Interviewer
of Oz. I must perform. .
"Oh, well," I say. "All right. I did some
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