The next few days of shooting went well.
Thad was footloose and headache-free. The meds, whether contraband or prescribed, didn’t interfere with his work. He was a pro as always, bringing wildly interesting touches to his work when he might easily have slipped into rote. Clea was definitely getting loaded again, something she couldn’t hide — not from me, anyway. The first sign that a reformed addict has lost her sobriety is when she starts dropping clues about the amazingly powerful effect an over-the-counter anti-itch pill had just the night before on her “virgin system.” An even stronger indication of a slip is when said addict volunteers how the synergistic combo of, say, Robitussin — for that nagging, three-week-long cough — with Wellbutrin (Clea and I were of the non-Nazi sobriety school that didn’t consider drugs for depression or OCD to be taboo) managed to produce actual stumbling and slurring of words. Incredible but True! AA’s Believe It or Not… By making such faux-naïf observations public, the dope fiend craftily seeds the ground — or clouds, if you will — to justify the coming shitstorm.1 So it was with extreme skepticism that I greeted Clea’s casual announcement that she’d tripped on a rug and fallen down the night before (hence, the subtle limp) due to the totally bizarre and unexpected effect of mixing Zoloft, Benadryl gel caps, and Allegra-D. She caught my glance — really more of a grimace — my palpable displeasure giving her enough of a reason to cease and desist our get-togethers at the Sepulveda gym. Brunch at Hugo’s was out as well.
I took a deep breath and told myself to stop the judgy, codependent nonsense. I could barely manage my own life and had no right or reason to micromanage hers. What was all this about, in the last analysis? Residual jealousies vis-à-vis Thad? Or maybe I was the one who wanted to get loaded — and resented her easy, guilt-free indulgence. Maybe I was the one with the death wish.
Then I told myself that was bullshit. She was fucking up big-time and I wasn’t going to be there to pick up the pieces.
1 I always find it amusing when actors maintain they got hooked on painkillers because of bone breaks, neuralgia, and herniated discs, or began using speed to cope with the punishing hours of film shoots. Why is it that no one ever comes out and says, “I love the way it makes me feel! Stronger and prettier, smarter, sexier, luxuriantly numb! I hate myself less! I’m not afraid of terrorists! I can even love you, and the whole god-abandoned world!”
~ ~ ~
WARDROBE WENT ALL OUT: CLEA wore a diaphanous tunic, a madcap yet demure rip-off of a widely publicized haute couture design which had appeared on Parisian runways just two weeks before. How strange, seeing Thad and Clea stand together with transformed, angular faces that, while not exactly gruesome (perhaps I’d grown accustomed), were still within shout-out of an atavistic nightmare. It was as if I had donned special glasses, affording a view of the ordinarily imperceptible “alien” dynamic that lay just beneath the surface of any chemically complex, long-term, passionately erotic alliance. I wondered how Miriam and I would look, through the same magic spectacles. Probably nowhere near as interesting.
We were pondering whether to have the strawberry shortcake or peach cobbler à la mode when Nick Sultan, our properly English director, arrived with a tray of meat and potatoes. He diffidently asked if he might join us (directors always seem to begin their meals just as everyone else is finishing). Not wanting to be rude, we obliged.
“That was such a great scene,” he said.
He referred, of course, to the moment in which it was revealed that our own Ensign Rattweil was none other than a Vorbalidian prince in exile. See, Thad’s father, the king, was near death; hijacking the Demeter was the family’s way of bringing the runaway royal home to take care of unfinished business — i.e., the sticky wicket of succession to the throne involving his nasty twin, Prince Morloch.
“I was in tears. You were brilliant.” Gentleman that he was, the helmer hastily included Clea and myself (glimpsewise) in his encomia. “I’m so glad you’re doing the show,” he said, now strictly addressing the famed guest star. “You wouldn’t believe who’s addicted to Starwatch. It’s bizarre.” The last, accompanied by a fuller glance in my direction, as I must naturally be the residing expert on the cult franchise’s global appeal.
“I know,” said Thad. “I read somewhere that Rumsfeld’s a fan.”
“Yes!” said Nick, gleefully. “I’d heard that! And Dylan! Dylan’s supposedly obsessed!”
“Wow,” Thad said, without irony.
“David Sedaris is very big on it.”
“Really.”
“Oh yes. And the girl who wrote — not Adaptation but… The Orchid Thief. And who’s the Atonement writer?”
“Ian McEwan? You’re kidding.”
“McEwan! Yes. Big, big fan.”
“Well… I’m shocked!” said Thad, in dismay.
“By the way, I hadn’t told you, but I thought you were absolutely amazing in Quixote. Brilliant!”
“Thank you. Working with Terry is an ‘experience.’ ”
“Gilliam! There’s a wild bloke!”
“He’s very wonderful.”
“A mad boy but a wicked talent,” said Nick. “And great good fun. We worked together ten years ago, in Scotland.” Thad didn’t bother inquiring further. “Did your father ever see the show?”
“I don’t think so. Dad didn’t watch much TV. But you never know!” he exclaimed. “I could be wrong — Jack Michelet may very well have been a closet Starwatch fanatic! Right up there with Ben Stiller, Naguib Mahfouz, and Susan Sontag! Could’ve been”—this, à la Charlie Chan—“Numbah One Fan!”