Playland by John Gregory Dunne Page A

Alda. Click.
Geraldo
. Geraldo would have had them onstage, we didn’t do the dude, what’s the big fucking deal, man. Click.
    I contemplated the room-service cart. The iceberg lettuce salad was wilted, the Salisbury steak congealed in its gravy, the coffee cold, the creamer turned. The minibar would have to provide dinner. Macadamia nuts and house-brand vodka, no ice, the ice machine was not working. Why should it? Nothing else at the hotel seemed to work. Options. It was too late to get a plane back to New York. Anyway I would have to take at least a shot at mending fences with Maury Ahearne. Personally I hoped he had suffered a myocardial infarction, but in the event he hadn’t, Marty Magnin had said he would go to five large. He had actually said “five large.” As always trying to master the lingo. Until then I had a free night on my hands.
    To Maury’s tapes. Anything to make the time pass. “You got a wife?” I had asked. Getting personal. Dangerous territory. Because as usual I had avoided sharing confidences about myself, volunteering only my name, credits, and, reluctantly, my current widower marital status. I have discovered that my family’s history and the millions or the billions I am alleged to have as sole surviving Broderick heir tend to inhibit free discourse.
    “Two exes. And a cunt daughter doesn’t speak to me since I threw her mother out.” That terrible laugh. “She thinks I’m all broke up about not seeing her. Fat chance.”
    I pressed the Stop button and rewound the tape. It occurred to me that shock value had a law of diminishing returns, and I suspected that between Maury Ahearne and me that law was just about ready to kick in.
    I picked up the complimentary copy of the
Free Press
that had come with breakfast. Still folded to the obituary page. The obituaries were a new fascination since birthday number fifty. Five-oh, and the sense of days dwindling down, September, November. Most mornings I turned to the obituaries right after a cursory glance at the headlines. The obits were a relief. A first look to check the ages of the recently deceased. Fifty to sixty. Those hurt. Too close to home. Then cause of death. AIDS now, too often. Some people still hiding it: “39 … respiratory illness … survived by his mother.” More and more were to the point, like deaths in combat: “43, from complications caused by AIDS, his companion, Randy Smith, said.” Sometimes “long-term companion.” Now giving way to “lover.” “His lover, Dwight, said.” Cancer was a relief. Lung, liver, prostate, brain tumor. An automobile accident seemed a positive fucking blessing. Although maybe Lizzie wouldn’t think so. Screenwriter’s Wife. Elizabeth Innocent Broderick, 39. Erase that tape. Can’t think about it. That was what put me in Detroit in the first place. Forget accidents. Natural causes. The cardiac cases were the ones I really hated. Congestive heart failure, 52. Cardiac arrest, 50. Coronary artery disease, 57. Over sixty was a good time to check out. Closer to sixty-five, actually. Over seventy was even better. “In his sleep. Had not been ill. Two sets of tennis that afternoon.” And maybe a great fuck afterward. Even a lousy fuck. Jerking off, if that’s all that’s available. “Quietly, in his sleep.” That’s the one I would like to reserve.
    Happier stuff. There was something else, something I remembered from that morning’s quick read. Ah, yes. The page listing all that week’s singles’ get-togethers in the metropolitan Detroit area. Tonight looked busy.
“If She Fixes My Breakfast, Do I Have to Buy Her Dinner?”
(Discovery Singles, Haskell Unitarian Church, Admission $3.) Uh. Stay away from the Unitarians.
“Everything You Need to Know About Love Bugs—Sexually Transmitted Diseases.”
(Jewish Singles Connection, Newport Jewish Community Center, $4.) Jesus Christ. Under the circumstances perhaps not the most appropriate response.
“After Hello …”
Another