Some texts said it was best to die standing up. Some said it was best to die sitting, in full lotus. If one couldn’t manage either, the guidebook suggested one simply recline, in the posture of a sleeping lion. That was how the Buddha had died. Then it is good enough for me. As she lay on her right side, she punched at her skull with the gold-handled scissors in the complementary area of Kit’s surgical incisions. She stabbed to the cadence of measured oracular tones, and shouted out loud: “Listen, Lisanne! Now has come the time for you to seek a Path! As breathing stops, the clear light of the first phase of dying, as shown to you by H.H. the Venerable Kitchener Clearlightfoot, will dawn! This is primordial mind, empty and radiant, without horizon or center! See that for what it is! H.H. the Venerable Kitchener Clearlightfoot will describe it and help you!”
• • •
GUESTS SCREAMED, in revelry.
Becca locked herself in her room. Every now and then some drunk stumbled into her door or tried letting himself in.
She was checking out Us Weekly’s Celebrity Look-Alikes page, with its paired photos of famous people who supposedly resembled each other — like Kate Spade and Kate Beckinsale, or Tina Turner and Beyoncé Knowles. It was sort of a goof. There was also a famous/nonfamous section, and there she was: a picture of Becca beside one of Drew. Without her knowing, Larry and Annie had sent in one of Becca’s eight-by-tens — along with a link to the Six Feet Undergirls Web site.
If you’re like Drew double Becca Mondrain, a twenty-two-year-old actress, Internet goddess, and “Six Feet Undergirl” in Los Angeles, and people are always saying to you, “You know, you look just like…,” send your photo along with your name and daytime phone number to Letters, Us, 1290 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY, 10104-0298, or e-mail it to letters@usmagazine.com. If we run your picture, you’ll win a prize!
A body slammed dumbly against one of her walls, and she startled. She flung herself to the bed and cried.
“I will not leave this town a loser look-alike!” she exclaimed, then thought: I sound like a bad actress. (Out of some fifties film.) She giggled, then picked up the phone to call Annie. They talked excitedly about the Us Weekly piece, and Becca said she wondered what the prize would be. She told Annie she should get her horny ass up to Mulholland right here, right now, then hung up and went to the bathroom and did a line of coke as she peed. She washed the tears from her face, put on a thong, and looked at herself in the mirror. Flat stomach, belly ring, high ass. Tried on a short black Barneys skirt. Thought of Rusty, then pushed the thought away.
Ready to party.
Ground Luminosity
HOLLYWOOD, ONE YEAR LATER
The Eternal Return
COLD L.A. SPRING.
A luxe, hidden warehouse space just off Fountain.
An audience of twelve, each sitting apart.
Handsome pair onstage — young woman, young man.
The unkempt harridan in a mohair cape forbiddingly occupies an aisle seat. Pinches nostrils between thumb and forefinger as she focuses. Famous old habit. Reading glasses hang low on a long garish chain.
“Don’t you feel how good it smells?” asks the actress of her partner.
(Strindberg chamber play.)
Doesn’t “own” the scene — hasn’t cracked it. Running on fumes. Actor fumes…
“That’s from the palms that are burning,” she says. “And Father’s laurel wreath. Now the linen closet’s on fire — it smells of lavender — and now the roses. Little Brother, don’t be afraid! Hold me tighter! — ” Lurches into him.
Without moving a muscle, Jorgia Wilding screams from her perch, in full-tilt boogie nostril pinch. “You’re making emotional choices without physical commitment. Gerda ain’t just fidgety—watch your body, Toya. Choreograph the inner landscape, distill the gestures! Otherwise, it’s Strindberg Lite. It’s Nick at Nite.”
An intern approaches, votive before an altar. Bends and whispers into Ms. Wilding’s ear — the old woman flinches at his announcement — before receding into darkness.
She stands, commanding the troops: “All right — from ‘Don’t say anything bad about Father.’ ”
She exits. The actors softly rappel to the foot of the scene.
In the lobby, she cannot suppress her emotions upon seeing him.
(A large Fijian stands in the doorway blocking the sunlight.)
“Kitchener, my God! What a wonderful surprise!”
They embrace. She presses him close — he feels right as rain.
“How are you?” he asks.
She pulls back to take him in.
Right as rain!
“I’m well, I’m well!” Jorgia says, discombobulated. “But more to the point — how are you?”
“Gettin there. It’s a… long and winding road!”
Notes the smallest slurred impediment, and emphatic tone that she shrewdly ascribes to nervousness. The Henry Higgins in her thinks: Easily modulated.
What an effort his journey must have been!
“I cannot imagine,” she says, with mother’s tender grace. “But I’m right in the middle — Would you like to come watch class?”
He knows the sacred teaching comes first.
“No — not now. Thank you. But I have a question.”
She cocks her head expectantly.
“Jorgia, I would like to know… if you — would have the time… to help — me.”
• • •
TULA DRIVES HIM back to the bungalow at the Bel-Air.
He steps from the car with a slight lope but overall gliding gait.
Media hunters and gatherers have tread heavily since Turkey Day, when Kit and Cela made their move — since the Götterdämmerung ugliness of the Riverside decampment. Kit makes an effort not to be mobile before dark (Jorgia was an exception), so as to cramp the stalkerazzi’s style. While still lucrative, bounty for stolen images has suffered devaluation, the trouble being that Mr. Lightfoot looks much like he always did: a rough prince. There has not been captured, nor could be now, that pesky drooling onto stubble; no shambling Rain Man heart tuggers; no scary Chris Reeve telephoto rehab cum-shot. Glam, dignified, and amazing looking, he is nothing short of the hunky poster boy for neurological recovery. There’s a gold mine in the girlfriend, though, God willing: fourteen weeks pregnant. Shoot both in one frame — though the couple make sure they’re never together, outdoors — and the gross is around $400 K, worldwide. Tabloid-fueled rumors of incestuous scandale (was she Dad’s galfriend too?) goosed the price even further.