You Don't Die of Love: Stories

You Don’t Die of Love: Stories

By

Thomas Thonson

Copyright 2011 by Thomas Thonson: All rights reserved.

Smashwords Edition

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

For Ellen, who lived it.

Please stop crying, Giulietta!

––Federico Fellini at the 1993 Academy Awards.

Useful Information

The light falls hard on the city. A blinding x-ray of sun that pierces you, irradiating your insides, exposing them, shadowy shapes jiggling beneath the grey film of skin for all to see. Hot on one side, cool on the other, like the surface of the moon. Put on sunglasses if you want. It's the land of sunglasses, something to ease the white-hot glare off the sidewalks, the sky leached to a smeary pale blue, saved by the twin blue of the ocean and a horizon that never ends.

Hide your eyes out here on the edge of the continent. Hide your eyes.

Change your name if you must. Become a brand new person, become the real you. Uncloak your desires, unpack your dreams, drive the streets, turn up into the hills ... see, the feeling of a tropical paradise; but step out of the yard, pull away from the street, and it’s the desert that auditions for every bare lot, the coyote that prowls. Hover above the Hollywood sign, staked to the hills, desperately signifying that the dream lives on: somewhere, somehow... Then move down from the sign; you'll follow Mulholland Drive to Ledgewood. Turn right on Ledgewood; it drops down steeply, down past those funny houses slabbed into space from ridge-tops on spindly supports. Down past the grand old haciendas with their great granite walls towering above the street. There it is, that house that looks like the house in Double Indemnity, the one with the steep steps, pointy-topped windows, and dark awnings canted out and held in place with spiked metal posts, like medieval lances.

Now you are passing the old Mary Pickford place, with the cast-iron fence running around it that the tourists have slowly picked at, stealing all the decorative metal that can be pried loose. See her as you drive by, America's sweetheart, all loose curls and little-girl smile …

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Western

Montage

Caper

Cast of Thousands

Two Noirs

Clips

Foreign Films

The Auteur Theory

Remake

You Don’t Die of Love

WESTERN

Every year on his birthday, Lee Rockwell would throw a party for the employees of Rockwell’s Western Wear and never get out of his pajamas. Lee considered the pajamas wickedly elegant; midnight blue and edged with gold piping, they displayed his graying chest hair magnificently. If Hugh Hefner could do it, why couldn’t he?

It was Lee’s idea of a perfect day. He was in his backyard, the pajamas on, a black cowboy hat on his head, a glass of tequila within reach, a hand-rolled cigarette smoldering between his lips, and all around him his loyal employees. They called him the boss, made fun of his PJs, and played croquet in his backyard all day long. Lee loved them all, considered them family, especially the sales-floor staff––gorgeous young guys, everyone of them. And why shouldn’t they be? He’d hired them. It was the only day of the year he let himself drink tequila (it didn’t mix well with his anti-depressant), and he would admire their bodies and get very, very drunk.

Of course they were all as straight as Clint Eastwood. And even if they had been gay, they surely wouldn’t have anything to do with a broken-down ex-cowboy actor whose oversized body had never been a temple and was now in complete ruin. Lee was still big in the chest and tall––he had an inch on John Wayne––but the battering he’d given his body in his hell-raising heydays had taken its toll. Used to be when he galloped his horse in for a close-up, his eyes glittering from the giant arc-lamps pounding light into the shadow of his hat brim, he’d look like he was cut from stone––a monument to all things masculine and rugged. He still had the sheared cheekbones and hawk-like nose, but the eyes had gone soft and indistinct. And now when Lee watched his old movies, he marveled at the discrepancies between the cinematic Lee and the flesh-and-blood version. Beyond a certain physical resemblance, it seemed impossible that the image bore any relation to him. That’s where the tequila came in: come six-o’clock, the sun fading away, embraced by youthful laughter, the old Lee would unreel before him, as big as a drive-in movie.

Lee tapped his ball expertly through a wicket, snuck a grin up the side of his face and taunted the competition. Just not your day, Jose, he said to the Aztec warrior god standing shirtless in the sun next to him, and whose name actually was Jose.

Hey, boss, just you watch, said Jose.

Lee straightened up, as best as his arthritic old frame would allow, and watched. Jose, just twenty-two years old, was a phys-ed major at the University, and could sell more Carhartt jackets than any man on the planet. In Lee’s younger days the two of them could’ve set off brush fires, but now it was pure fantasy. The band played on in Lee’s loins though, and that was the cruelest trick of all, because these days he was entirely celibate: too old to attract the younger crowd, too picky for the old farts that were available, and too cautious and proud to pay for it. His manliness swung uselessly in the hollowed-out spot between his skinny thighs, and even the tickle of silk against it felt as distant as a lightning storm in the next county.

Besides, it had been so long, Lee wasn’t sure how he’d hold up in a full-tilt rodeo ride with somebody like Jose. He imagined that his old body might just shatter like a dried-up piece of kindling struck by an ax.

Jose slammed his ball and spun him out of bounds. "Not your day, Rockwell," he chortled.

Guess not, compadre, Lee replied.

He shouldered his mallet and reached for his tequila. It wasn’t his day, and it hadn’t been for a long time. He was seventy-two years old, had successfully parlayed his minimal fame into a western wear store just outside of Phoenix, had a son with a family that lived nearby, and a grandson that visited him often––all good things––but right now, none of that mattered, because he was grandly drunk and still felt as lonely as moonlight.

****

The big car ran up through the Hollywood Hills, climbing the dark streets. A fifties Cadillac convertible with space-age fins and chromed wheels flashing in the gloom. The body lay in the back seat, half-naked and pale as a ghost. The swirl of air tossed the lanky gray hair, gave it a hint of animation, a small promise of life with each jolt and shiver of the car.

Rory drove as if in a trance. A cigarette burned between his lips, a beer between his legs. It had all happened so fast: he’d taken the money, stuffed it in his back pocket and had hardly started working on the old guy before he seized up like a rusting Tin Man in The Wizard of Oz . He wasn’t sure what he was going to do. Maybe he would just keep driving until the fear in his belly eased up a little and he could figure something out. Death made him think about angels, so he conjured up angels. He thought about miracles. He thought that there must be such a thing. Somewhere. Somewhere in this world. That was it; he would drive until something miraculous happened. Until something changed.

A coyote flashed into his headlights, skittered by gray and ghostly. It thrilled him; it was a sign that he was doing the right thing. He turned up a steeper street, let the big car climb, the city falling away beneath him.

Straight up to the stars, he thought.

****

He’s dead, Lee.

It was Nora Dare, the daughter, on the phone. Lee was sitting up in bed, his pajamas still on, the last of the tequila banging around in his skull, and the glint of sunlight off the backyard pool searing his eyes.

I don’t believe it! he said.

Believe it. It’s amazing he made it this far.

Her voice was casual, but Lee knew that Nora loved her father, even though she had always been angry with him over one thing or another through the years. Lee found a glass of water by the bed, gulped thirstily. He was too old for hangovers––when was he ever going to learn?

What happened? he asked, and heard her sigh.

We think it was a heart attack. There was a long pause, and then her voice, all business again: It’s a blessing in disguise. Better than a slow death from liver failure, because that was where he was headed.

Lee took a breath. The news was just starting to penetrate, and he wasn’t sure if he was ready. A soft moan came out of him and then silence. A lightness in his chest as if he were floating right out of his body. He thought back to the last time they had talked––what was it, over a year ago? A late night call. It seemed almost dream-like the way that voice had come at him through the wires: drunk and strange and overwhelmingly familiar. Lee tried to remember the conversation clearly. Harry had decided to write his memoirs and was fishing for colorful anecdotes. Lee had told him he didn’t live in the past and hung up. But the irony was as soon as he had walked away from the phone, one colorful anecdote after another popped into his head with startling detail.

Nora was still talking: Everything is taken care of. There’s going to be a memorial of some kind, and you’re welcome to come.

The big man was finally dead! Lee was surprised that the world hadn’t tilted up on one side after his exit.

Have you run this by Grace? Lee asked.

There was a moment of silence and then Nora’s voice––kinder, less matter of fact. Lee, the statute of limitations has run out on that one, don’t you think? You have every right to be there.

Lee was thankful for that. Touched even. Unexpected kindness on top of a hangover can bring tears to a man’s eyes. He couldn’t speak for a moment.

Nora’s voice: Well anyway, you should let me know. We’ll understand if you can’t make it.

Of course he’d go. Harry and Lee’s romance had been legendary. It had broken up two families and scandalized Hollywood, and it played in Lee’s head almost every night: a flickering thing, silvery grains floating on a delicate celluloid ribbon, spun through gated light. A silent movie with confusing title cards and villains that got away with it all.

****

I don’t remember it being this hot in January. Is this normal? Lee asked.

The Taxi driver, a Jewish Moldovian with Buster Keaton eyes and limited English, eyed him in the mirror. Oh no. This here is special hot. Very hot. Earthquake weather they call it.

Lee tilted his head. Earthquake weather? He’d never heard it put that way.

The taxi was rising up out of the basin, edging its way into the Hollywood Hills. Lee was crumpled in the back, dressed in the famous Rockwell western style: a cowboy shirt with pearl snaps, jeans with creases, and pointy-toed snake-skin cowboy boots. His hat sat on the seat next to him due to clearance problems with the roof of the cab. Lee’s eyes covered the smudged blue sky and the familiar palm-dotted landscape.

Oh yeah, hot like this, dry, dry, dry. No wind. Stay hot all night. Earthquake weather, said the Moldovian driver, his mouth fissuring open with a grin, displaying a spectacularly bad set of teeth.

Lee nodded. He had grown more and more morose on the drive from the airport, grumbling to the driver about the jammed traffic, the filthy smog, the general overall tackiness of the buildings, and the shocking predominance of brown faces. He had remembered it all much more vividly: in his version the sky was always and forever a heavenly blue, the streets were half empty, and Hollywood was nothing more then a rural neighborhood filled with white Mid-westerners slumbering beneath weighted citrus trees.

Moments later, Lee was standing on a steep and winding street, the taxi pulling away. His eyes drifted up and down the block––a riot of sun-bright color, pastel hues, flowering vegetation. A lurid bougainvillea climbed a towering pine and draped across it, splashing it with color like a tango dancer around her stoic partner. Lee surveyed the twenties Spanish Revival stucco house before him–– two-stories high, red-tiled roof. He stood for a moment, fighting off the instant gloom of nostalgia. Finally, he heaved up his bag and started up the steps.

The key was under the mat just where Nora said it would be. He opened the door, dragged his bag in, stood in the living room: hardwood floors, tasteful throw rugs, big French windows opening out to a tiled patio, the blue sky invading every crevice––light and airy and lived in.

Lee made a quick tour. Every room was neat except for the den, probably the one room the maid had been barred from. Compared to the rest of the house, it was in spectacular disarray with papers and books stacked like so much cord wood, ashtrays with cigar butts, and a half-empty glasses with the sticky dregs of hard liquor. A small tin with some Humboldt County bud, and a package of rolling papers completed the picture. Lee could imagine Harry holed up in here, fueling himself with every possible pain killing substance while he worked on his so-called memoirs.

Christ, did everybody have to write a memoir?

In Lee’s view, private was private and mostly not that interesting. If you wanted to tell a story just make the damn thing up. Create yourself and then have the guts to stick to that version to the bitter end. That was Lee’s motto.

His eyes drifted out the window to the swimming pool, a pale blue rectangle held uncertainly at the edge of a cliff by a sagging retaining wall. Down in the basin, Hollywood was going sepia in the setting sun and suddenly Lee felt the acid pain of regret. He sighed. Here he was again. After the scandal he had fled the business, but Harry had stuck it out. Harry had lived the life to the end, Lee thought, good for him.

****

Lee had talked briefly to Nora about the memorial plans, ordered Mexican take-out and went to bed––air travel took it out of him at his age. Now he lay there, covers pushed down, eyes wide open, feeling the after-burn of the jalapenos, and listening to the sounds of the night. A siren went off in the distance. He turned over on his side. Despite being bone tired, it seemed a long journey to the land of slumber. Every time he closed his eyes, a big hole seemed to open up beneath him and he’d start falling, and his eyes would jerk back open. Earthquake weather, he thought, and laughed into the dark.

A key scratch at the front door caught his attention. Then the creak of the door opening. Footsteps. Alarmed, Lee got out of bed, hoisted a robe from the dark jumble of his suitcase and moved out of the bedroom. He edged cautiously down the stairs, looked around. A light came from the kitchen. He padded across the living room towards the door. The refrigerator opened and closed, a chair squeaked. Lee moved to the doorway. A young man sat at the kitchen table, a beer in his hand. He raised his eyes and looked right at Lee. Lee stared back––boot-camp stubble of hair, black leather vest over a bare torso, an earring in his ear and eyebrow, smeary tattoos. They both looked startled, though in the young man's case it was barely a flicker of surprise, running through him so slowly you could almost see the nerve endings struggling to link it all up.

Excuse me? Lee said.

Who the hell are you, man? the kid asked.

Lee drew himself up, indignant. How did you get in?

The kid lurched from the chair, his movements a little blurry. How'd I get in? I came through the door like any other human. How 'bout yourself?

You don't understand; I'm supposed to be here. My name is Lee Rockwell––I’m a friend.

Oh yeah, well so am I!

Lee studied him. You’re a friend of Harry’s?

Right, the kid said. They stared at each other. The kid’s snarl transformed itself into a grotesque grin. You don't have a cigarette, do you?

Sorry.

Bummer. The kid’s eyes drifted away.

And you are? Lee asked.

The kid seemed