A lawyer phoned who’d heard about his case. Chess didn’t ask but figured someone on FNF had tipped the guy in exchange for a kickback. (Pretty much how the world worked.) The timing was good because he’d been thinking about getting some advice — giving Marj a jingle to find out who handled his stepdad’s legal shit (he didn’t want to bother Karen Knotts again) — so that was fine and dandy. Actually better, because when he called his mom he didn’t want to be coming from a needy place. Didn’t want her to worry. Just keep it simple and ask for bread. Though maybe now he wouldn’t have to. Maybe he wouldn’t but would anyway.
Chess was surprised when the caller said he had successfully represented “other folks” who’d been cavalierly mistreated (translation: grievously injured) by the unsolicited intrusion of reality shows. “I ain’t talking American Idol either.” He said they were “lower than the lowest tabloids,” and nobody ever had to have PSS therapy or surgery because of something written about them on Page Six. At least not that he knew of. It hadn’t occurred to Chess that an army of maimed, humiliated “contestants” was out there but when he listened to the guy, of course it made total sense. The litigator ran down some of the cases: the guy who was told by bogus airport security that he’d have to lie on the conveyor and pass through the tube along with his briefcase and computer (he got whacked by something inside); the honeymooners in Vegas who checked into their room only to discover a “dead prostitute” in the bathtub. “The newlyweds didn’t think it was so funny. Nor did I.” He went on to insinuate that these people were lavishly compensated for their physical and emotional stress, “made whole, and more so,” and for the 1st time since the Night of the Living Pantwet, Chess began to feel better.
They made an appointment for brunch. (Another “My Favorite Weekend” opportunity, and the meal would be gratis.) He told Chess to make sure he saved medical receipts and that he ended any contact whatsoever with the producers of Friday Night Frights. Henceforward, he should refer all calls to his representative — if, of course, Chess agreed to the offer, which he did on the spot. That pleased the lawyer, who then asked if the production company had “compensated” him for being on the show. Chess said yes but he hadn’t cashed the check. “That was smart,” he said. “Very smart. Keep it in the drawer for now. My mama always told me to keep it in my drawers!” Adding, “We’re going to be scribbling some zeroes on that 15. A whole lot of em.”
THE doorbell rang, and Chess was surprised to see it was Laxmi. She looked pale and distraught, avoiding his eyes. He invited her in. There was a haze of smoke. She asked if she “could have some.” They finished the roach and he rolled a fresh joint.
She was braless. She wore all kinds of layers and carried a bumpy, red rubber mat. Her nipples popped the fabric like pebbles, and she had post-yoga breath, like a dog’s. She watched him limp to the couch before bursting into tears.
“I am so sorry, Chester. I so didn’t think it was going to be like that! I never even saw that show before! I thought it was going to be totally innocuous. I am not even speaking to Maurie, I am so upset.” She started to cry again and he passed the reefer.
It was nice that she came over. Kind of brave. He never understood the allure Maurie held — maybe she was just dumb. Laxmi reminded him of that actress Heather Graham; he wondered if Heather Graham was dumb. He boiled water for green tea.
She settled down a bit then nervously said she had something for him. Laxmi pulled out 5 hundred-dollar bills, the amount she admitted to having been paid for being an Accomplice on FNF. He was tempted to take it but was mindful of what the attorney said, which made it easier for Chess to turn her down and even look gallant. The offer touched him though. She was pretty much a mess and he could relate. He sat on the couch and reassured her that he was OK. He downplayed the physical trauma side.
They smoked the weed and got mellow. It felt comfortable and right. About half an hour went by. Not much talking. A light breeze through the window. Suddenly she grinned ear-to-ear, like a kid with a fidgety secret; he thought it was one of those passing dope-flash insights but Laxmi said she had something else for him—“and this time, you’re not going to say no.” She reached into her bag to retrieve a silk pouch she had made herself. Chess uncinched the drawstring; a filigreed ivory elephant lay inside. Laxmi said it was Ganesha and she really wanted him to have it because that’s what he was, a protector, he’d protected her in that obscenely ludicrous moment. Standing between her and the moronic actor, Chess had remained vigilant, with full intent to guard her against all harm. She was really “hit hard” by that — Chester’s paternal instincts — and it tripled her guilt over being involved. He turned the sculpted animal over in his hand, inspecting it with a Chesshire smile. He thanked her. Laxmi asked about his back. She said that she didn’t live so far away; she could help with errands or take him to the doctor if he needed.
She left. There had been some awkwardness (for him) because he thought there was maybe a sex vibe going on, but if that were true neither was up for it just yet. Fine and dandy. There were lots of “layers”—still, it was very cool. Like the lawyer’s call, it gave him something to look forward to, to feel better about. Endorphins or pheromones or whatever had kicked in and for the moment he was cum-drunk and pain-free.
Chester held the elephant in his hand. It was nicked here and there but intricately painted and carved. It looked old, and made him trip on his mother and the trinkets she used to keep around the house. Maybe Laxmi’s dad had given it to her and she was passing it on, or maybe it was something she just wanted to get rid of. That would still be OK. The bottom line was she didn’t have much money, and any kind of gift would have meaning. Give it to me. Laxmi was the goddess of good vibes and good fortune, Ganesha the “remover of obstacles.” The whole thing was yummy. All was forgiven. All apologies.
He began to laugh at his crushy high school machinations, his paranoia and frisky wheel-spinning, and the laugh soon became a full-on hacking pothead jag.
XX.Marjorie
SHE went to the Travel Gals but Trudy was on holiday. Nigel said he could help. Marj told him she was interested in visiting Bombay and he got out the brochures.
Nigel was young and energetic, and “totally obsessed” with India. He said Mumbai — that’s what he called it — was “very cool but insane” and there were so many other places to consider: the holy city Varanasi (formerly Benares; he said they burned corpses there “24/7, except for the kiddies, who for some reason get wrapped, not burned,” before backing off, admitting that the 35-hundred year old mecca was probably an “extreme destination” for someone Marj’s age. But the old woman remembered it was where Jesus had taught. Bodh Gaya (“Hello, Dalai!”), Kerala (“fabulous ayurvedic spas”), and the Konkan coast, pearl-shopping in Hyderabad (“It’s like their Silicon Valley”), the “superdeluxe spas and 6-star hotels” of Jaipur, and of course, Agra, jewel of the Taj Mahal. (“Oh my God! They’ve opened it at night now, whenever the moon’s out. You have to go at night. That was so smart of them.”) He was literally all over the map. Goa was a Portuguese beach town with beautiful churches but “it skews a bit toward the ravers. Lots of crazy Israelis, and tons of Indians! But super friendly.” Nigel said it was he and his “husband’s” favorite place. She brought up Calcutta, which he said was “dirty beyond words” and a place to avoid “unless you’re into rasgulla and Mother Teresa.” If she was, he would definitely recommend the Grand (where Nigel and his spouse had bivouacked). Calcutta had an incredible zoo as well, “if animals are your thing. But careful! People still get eaten by tigers!” He laughed. “Actually, though, Calcutta — it has another name now but I am so burnt out on the musical name chairs; it’s like ‘cold cuts’ or ‘Katherine Kuhlman’ or whatever—Calcutta actually is supposed to have an amazing kind of intellectual/bohemian/café scene. We just didn’t have the greatest time there because Demetrius got sick.”