goes to lie down on Meggie’s bed, feeling a hundred years old. Dozes. Dreams about a bungalow in Venice Beach and Meggie and a girl. That was a long time ago.
There was a review of a play Meggie was in. Maybe ten years ago? It wasn’t a kind review, or even particularly intelligent, and yet the critic said something that still seems right to the demon lover. He said no matter what was happening in the play, Meggie’s performance suggested she was waiting for a bus. The demon lover thinks the critic got at something true there. Only, the demon lover has always thought that if Meggie was waiting for a bus, you had to wonder where that bus was going. If she was planning to throw herself under it.
When they first got together, the demon lover was pretty sure he was what Meggie had been waiting for. Maybe she thought so, too. They bought a house, a bungalow in Venice Beach. He wonders who lives there now.
When the demon lover wakes up, he takes off the T-shirt and cargo shorts. Leaves them folded neatly on the bed. He’ll have to find somewhere to sleep tonight. And soon. Day is becoming night.
Meat is cooking on a barbecue. The demon lover isn’t sure when he last ate. There’s bug spray beside the door. Ticklish on his balls. He feels just a little bit ridiculous. Surely this is a terrible idea. The latest in a long series of terrible ideas. Only this time he knows there’s a camera.
The moment he steps outside Meggie’s trailer, a P.A. appears as if by magic. It’s what they do. Has him sign a pile of releases. Odd to stand here in the nude signing releases, but what the fuck. He thinks, I’ll go home tomorrow.
The P.A. is in her fifties. Unusual. There’s probably a story there, but who cares? He doesn’t. Of course she’s seen the fucking sex tape—it’s probably going to be the most popular movie he ever makes—but her expression suggests this is the very first time she’s ever seen the demon lover naked or rather that neither of them is naked at all.
While the demon lover signs—doesn’t bother to read anything, what does it matter now, anyway?—the P.A. talks about someone who hasn’t done something. Who isn’t where she ought to be. Some other gofer named Juliet. Where is she and what has she gone for? The P.A. is full of complaints.
The demon lover suggests the gofer may have been carried off by ghosts. The P.A. gives him an unfriendly look and continues to talk about people the demon lover doesn’t know, has no interest in.
“What’s spooky about you?” the demon lover asks. Because of course that’s the gimmick, producer down to best boy. Every woman and man uncanny.
“I had a near-death experience,” the P.A. says. She wiggles her arm. Shows off a long ropy burn. “Accidentally electrocuted myself. Got the whole tunnel and light thing. And I guess I scored okay with those cards when they auditioned me. The Zener cards?”
“So tell me,” the demon lover says. “What’s so fucking great about a tunnel and a light? That really the best they can do?”
“Yeah, well,” the P.A. says, a bite in her voice. “People like you probably get the red carpet and the limo.”
The demon lover has nothing to say to that.
“You seen anything here?” he tries instead. “Heard anything?”
“Meggie tell you about the skunks?” the P.A. says. Having snapped, now she will soothe. “Those babies. Tail up, the works, but nothing doing. Which about sums up this place. No ghosts. No read on the equipment. No hanky-panky, fiddle-faddle, or woo woo. Not even a cold spot.”
She says doubtfully, “But it’ll come together. You at this séance barbecue shindig will help. Naked vampire trumps nudist ghosts any day. Okay on your own? You go on down to the lake, I’ll call, let them know you’re on your way.”
Or he could just head for the car.
“Thanks,” the demon lover says.
But before he knows what he wants to do, here’s another someone. It’s a regular Pilgrim’s Progress.
There was a review of a play Meggie was in. Maybe ten years ago? It wasn’t a kind review, or even particularly intelligent, and yet the critic said something that still seems right to the demon lover. He said no matter what was happening in the play, Meggie’s performance suggested she was waiting for a bus. The demon lover thinks the critic got at something true there. Only, the demon lover has always thought that if Meggie was waiting for a bus, you had to wonder where that bus was going. If she was planning to throw herself under it.
When they first got together, the demon lover was pretty sure he was what Meggie had been waiting for. Maybe she thought so, too. They bought a house, a bungalow in Venice Beach. He wonders who lives there now.
When the demon lover wakes up, he takes off the T-shirt and cargo shorts. Leaves them folded neatly on the bed. He’ll have to find somewhere to sleep tonight. And soon. Day is becoming night.
Meat is cooking on a barbecue. The demon lover isn’t sure when he last ate. There’s bug spray beside the door. Ticklish on his balls. He feels just a little bit ridiculous. Surely this is a terrible idea. The latest in a long series of terrible ideas. Only this time he knows there’s a camera.
The moment he steps outside Meggie’s trailer, a P.A. appears as if by magic. It’s what they do. Has him sign a pile of releases. Odd to stand here in the nude signing releases, but what the fuck. He thinks, I’ll go home tomorrow.
The P.A. is in her fifties. Unusual. There’s probably a story there, but who cares? He doesn’t. Of course she’s seen the fucking sex tape—it’s probably going to be the most popular movie he ever makes—but her expression suggests this is the very first time she’s ever seen the demon lover naked or rather that neither of them is naked at all.
While the demon lover signs—doesn’t bother to read anything, what does it matter now, anyway?—the P.A. talks about someone who hasn’t done something. Who isn’t where she ought to be. Some other gofer named Juliet. Where is she and what has she gone for? The P.A. is full of complaints.
The demon lover suggests the gofer may have been carried off by ghosts. The P.A. gives him an unfriendly look and continues to talk about people the demon lover doesn’t know, has no interest in.
“What’s spooky about you?” the demon lover asks. Because of course that’s the gimmick, producer down to best boy. Every woman and man uncanny.
“I had a near-death experience,” the P.A. says. She wiggles her arm. Shows off a long ropy burn. “Accidentally electrocuted myself. Got the whole tunnel and light thing. And I guess I scored okay with those cards when they auditioned me. The Zener cards?”
“So tell me,” the demon lover says. “What’s so fucking great about a tunnel and a light? That really the best they can do?”
“Yeah, well,” the P.A. says, a bite in her voice. “People like you probably get the red carpet and the limo.”
The demon lover has nothing to say to that.
“You seen anything here?” he tries instead. “Heard anything?”
“Meggie tell you about the skunks?” the P.A. says. Having snapped, now she will soothe. “Those babies. Tail up, the works, but nothing doing. Which about sums up this place. No ghosts. No read on the equipment. No hanky-panky, fiddle-faddle, or woo woo. Not even a cold spot.”
She says doubtfully, “But it’ll come together. You at this séance barbecue shindig will help. Naked vampire trumps nudist ghosts any day. Okay on your own? You go on down to the lake, I’ll call, let them know you’re on your way.”
Or he could just head for the car.
“Thanks,” the demon lover says.
But before he knows what he wants to do, here’s another someone. It’s a regular Pilgrim’s Progress.
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