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An Evening with Cary Grant

J.D. Isip

    This is how he remembered it – just like this: an intimate locale, dark and smoky, open stage, a chair and mic, a tiny table with a bottle of scotch, a bucket of ice, and a single crystal glass. This was classy – just like Grant did it so many years ago.
    “It was the same year I did my first movie. Grant was old, but still handsome,” Charles looked over the crowd, didn’t recognize a face, not one, “He called it ‘An Evening with Cary Grant’ and folks paid a shit load of cash to hear him tell them how he became a success, how he met his five wives... loved his little girl. He used to say that she was...”
    “We love you, Jeff!” an anonymous voice bounced from the back of the room. No face.
    “Yeah, well, let me fucking finish, then!”
    “Show it to us, Jeff!” More voices join in, “Show us your big dick, Jeff!”
    He remembered that night in 1986. He remembered wanting to ask Cary Grant, “It’s a lifetime later, and just about everyone knows about Hudson – so, hey man, are you gay?” And it would have been just like that, respectful and classy, and he would have asked in private, after the show. But he couldn’t. He could fuck on camera for hours – ten, twenty people in the room, camera men, lights, and make-up - but he couldn’t do that to Cary Grant... no matter how much he wanted to know. Then that voice from the darkness, that bastard...
    “Hey Grant, I hear you’re a fag.”
    Grant was so cool, so graceful, “I’m not making a judgment, young man, but I wonder if you might have read something like that while thumbing through old Hedda Hopper columns – the kind of trash on the tables at ladies’ solons. I read I was an alien in one of those, too.”
    Charles watched the guy get escorted out, all shadows. He secretly wished Grant would answer the question, but he dreaded that he would, too. Grant just did what Grant did, he rose above it. Charles, in his own way, rose above it, too...
    “Yeah, that’s what you’re here for, right?” Charles put down his glass and took two steps to the edge of the stage, grabbed his crotch with one hand and started undoing his pants with the other, “Ladies and gentlemen, thanks for coming out to ‘An Intimate Evening with Jeff Stryker.’”
    The crowd roared in the tiny theater, whistles and shouts. Charles stood at the door in a loose robe to say goodbye to everyone who came. Some shyly glanced down and, every time, he would open his robe and tell them, “Don’t be shy.” Others were more aggressive, they wanted to grope him or kiss him – Who walks up to a complete stranger and wants to kiss them? – Charles remembered Grant and, best as he could, he deflected his fans with words like, “Maybe in my next movie” or “I wouldn’t want you to hurt me” (not “I wouldn’t want to hurt you” because, well, so many wouldn’t mind).
    “You knocked it out of the park, Jeff! This was a great idea,” John had known Charles since he was a 24-year-old kid. Just some dumb jock looking for a modeling job. He’s the one who christened him Jeff Stryker.
    “Yeah, but I never get to tell that last story – the Cary Grant story. I think that’s a good story.”
    John poured Charles a drink, “I think you should let the audience – and me – decide what’s a good story.”
    Charles grabbed the glass, tried to understand the logic of what John had just said, but what the hell – he was just some dumb porn star, what did he know, “You’re right, John. Let’s get out of here.”

...


    “A team of commandos land in a far off jungle –” John has his hands in front of his face, thumbs and index fingers framing the scene à la DeMille.
     “Where?” Charles’s eyes are closed, he’s concentrating, trying to picture it.
    “I don’t know – China, Japan, Vietnam – does it matter?”
    Eyes still closed, jaw tightens. He’s irritated, “You got Asians? You want Asians in it?”
    “Maybe for background. Maybe. Not for the action – man, no one’s into Asians.”
    “I’m okay with Asians,” Charles opens his eyes, looks at John, “I can do Asians. Asian chicks are sweet.”
    “No, Jeff. No Asians, man,” hiding his frustration, John shifts his full attention to his desk, “Shit! Where is that legal pad? I just had it...”
    “I’m okay with Asians, John. Really.”
    Face still down at the desk, hands all over, flipping over loose papers, pushing aside VHS tapes, “I know, Jeff, I know you are...”
    “I mean whatever. It’s cool. Asians, blacks, guys, girls, whatever.”
    John looks up. Deep breath, gathering patience, “Hey, did you get a chance to see the final reel, man? Why don’t you go on down the hall and have Traci show you the final product. It’s a beauty. And, uh, I’ll join you in a bit. I just have to find that damn paper I was writing on.”
    “Oh yeah, sure,” finally aware of being unwanted, Charles stands up. A few loose hairs from his Ken-Doll-do glide over his eyes; he brushes them back, effortless, cool, “You take your time, John. Didn’t mean to bother you.”
    John rushes to his side, hand on Charles’ chest, patting him like a dog or a baby, “Nah, man, no. It’s cool. I just have to find that pad and I want you to see the final reel. The duplicate shop in Silver Lake already has a copy. You’ll be on shelves next week, Jeff. You’re gonna be a star!”
    Cheered, Charles smiles, “That’d be cool.”
    “For all of us, Jeff.”
    John meant it. An old pal at the ad agency called him the minute Charles came in for the modeling job. Loose fit, acid-washed jeans with pleats – cock-hiding gear if ever there was and you could still see that monster in the proofs. That alone... That alone could have made him rich. But, Jesus, it was like God was having a fanfuckingtastic day because he gave him that body and that damn voice.
    “People are gonna worship this guy, Traci! You mark my words. Worship him!”
    “I guess. I mean, yeah, he has a nice cock, sure, but you don’t think he’s, you know, a little stupid?” Traci noticed everything about Charles, but he didn’t reciprocate. Here she was, world’s most famous piece of ass and he doesn’t give her a second glance. He had to be mental.
    “All the better! I made my living off of stupid porn stars, darling,” John smiles wickedly at Traci, but the look and the long pause don’t help, the joke completely misses.
    “Well, as long as he listens to you when we shoot. That’s all I care about. That last fucker... John! You kept telling him to slow down...”
    “I know...” John was used to this – “Traci tantrums” – she had to find something, anything to nitpick, to find completely unreasonable, just to be a diva for a minute. He allowed it, even enjoyed it. She gets screwed a dozen times a week by a dozen different guys and still finds the energy to keep her end of the contract on the up and up with him; why deny her a little tantrum time?
    “Whole day shot! Motherfucker just had to...”
    “I know, Traci, I know...”
    “Anyway, is Tarzan gonna take directions, you think?”
    “You don’t have to worry about it. He’s doing fag films.”
    Cheered up, curious, “So he’s a cocksucker?”
    “Look who’s talking.”

...


    Charles and John were cruising down Santa Monica Boulevard, hood down. The city was alive, the club crowd was just emerging – everyone clean-scrubbed, bopping to the music of anticipation, laughing for nothing at all.
    “I’m thinking about writing a book. What do you think?” Charles threw this out like one of those suction-cup darts, hoping it would stick... but world’s not gonna end if it doesn’t.
    John tapped a bit on the steering wheel, as if the action helped him to think, “Sure, sure. That’s a good idea. You want me to get you a writer?”
    “No, man. I’m gonna write the book. About me, about my life.”
    “We can get you a writer and it would be in your name. People do that shit all the time. You think Oprah ever writes her own shit? How the hell could she? Celebrities are busy, Jeff. Stars like you, man, they don’t have the time to sit down and write and write and write. You know?”
    “I’m not that busy.”
    “You got this show! I got you booked for interviews on a few independent networks. You got stuff going on,” John looked over at Charles, a little concerned, “What are you saying?”
    Charles noticed that John’s carefree expression had changed. He didn’t want to make waves, “It was just a thought, man.”
    “Okay, whatever. You just let me know if I can get you a writer.”
    “Yeah, maybe,” Charles was silent through a few lights, finally, “Hey, John, you can drop me off at home. My son is calling me later and I want to make sure I don’t miss the call... like the last time.”
    “Sure thing, Jeff. Tell him Uncle Johnnie says hello.”

...


    Charles’s living room was pristine, unlived-in. He was here maybe two nights a week. Otherwise, he was on the road or shooting somewhere. His sofa, black leather, was brand new. Everything was brand new – and he had been here for nearly two years. He preferred the place off Obispo, where they lived before Chuck moved away for college.
    “Hey, dad, how did the show go?” Chuck had his dad’s deep baritone, sounded so much older.
    “It was good. It was fine,” Charles was enjoying the sound of his son’s voice.
    “You tell ‘em about Cary Grant, dad? You tell ‘em what he called his daughter?”
    “She was his best production,” Charles paused, “and, you’re mine, Chuck.”



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