he: A Novel(54)

A.J.’s son.

At the Glasgow Metropole, he stands on the boards and weeps.

And there is A.J. himself, stony-faced, as unflinching in his loyalty to his son as A.J. is unwilling to express it, staring out at the crowds assembled in honor of his boy, shaking his head as though unable to believe that people could be so foolish as to give up their day to catch a glimpse of men they can see ten times larger on the screen, and without having their toes trodden.

Bampots, says A.J.

Then A.J. tells the newspapers that he is a good boy.

Babe likes A.J., and A.J. likes Babe. He would never have thought it. Perhaps, he speculates, it’s because neither can quite understand what the other is saying, even when the words themselves are comprehensible. When A.J., thirsting, announces that he is spitting feathers, Babe, once the meaning is explained to him, thinks it’s just the funniest phrase that has ever been uttered.

All these moments he recalls as he drives the alien streets of Los Angeles, these sun-blanched stretches of palm and prosperity.

As he drives away from Lois.

As he drives away from Alyce Ardell.

If he stops in an effort to walk alone with his thoughts, he will be mobbed. If he goes to a restaurant, he will be mobbed. Even if he should secure a private table or booth, he will have to be polite to a stream of staff.

So he drives, though he does not find negotiating these streets conducive to relaxation or contemplation, until he spies an empty lot off Ventura Boulevard, and there he parks in the shade and thinks that it was not meant to be this way.

He speaks with Ben Shipman.

Why are you waiting? asks Ben Shipman. If the marriage is over, it’s over. Don’t get me wrong: I like Lois a lot, and I gain no pleasure from handling divorces. I find them depressing. I find many professional duties depressing, but divorces more than most. It seems to me that you want your wife to be the first to sever the bond, yet she doesn’t care to do so. But if you continue on this path, suddenly you’re sixty years old, still married to the same woman, and still not getting along with her. She’s told you that she wants a divorce, right?

– Yes. Or a separation, for a while.

– So separate. You like it, you get a divorce. You don’t like it, you go back to being unhappy together. That’s how it works.

He examines his hat. He tries to remember if it is one purchased for him by Lois.

How do we go about it? he asks.

– You tell Lois, then you tell the studio. The studio tells the newspapers, and it’s out in the open.

– What if we don’t tell the newspapers?

– Then you tell Lois, you tell a few close friends, one of the few close friends tells the newspapers, and it’s out in the open.

Or, says Ben Shipman, you could just save some time and tell the newspapers yourself.

He issues a statement. Under the terms of the agreement, Lois will keep their home, and he will be compelled to invest in two life trusts for her and their daughter. Ending his marriage, Ben Shipman estimates, will cost him more than $200,000.

It’ll be worth it, he replies.

Ben Shipman elects not to comment.

He tells the newspapers that it is ‘just one of those things’. He tells the newspapers that he and Lois ‘got on each other’s nerves’. When he sees his own statements in black and white, he marvels at the blankness of them, their poverty of meaning, yet still they are printed.

We’re separating because I’m sleeping with other women.

We’re separating because I cannot hold my wife and permit her to speak of her grief.

We’re separating because we consigned a child to the flames.





110


He and Babe make Their First Mistake.

They make Towed in a Hole.

They make Twice Two.

They make The Devil’s Brother.

They make Me and My Pal.

They make The Midnight Patrol.

They make Busy Bodies.

They have never been more popular. They are now the longestrunning comedy team in talking pictures.

And still Henry Ginsberg hates them.

Henry Ginsberg is convinced that he and Babe are deliberately wasting time and money, that they are slackers and spendthrifts. Henry Ginsberg spies on them, and when Henry Ginsberg is not spying on them Henry Ginsberg recruits others to spy in his stead. Henry Ginsberg drives everyone crazy. Some, like Beanie Walker, choose to leave rather than deal with Henry Ginsberg any longer, which suits Henry Ginsberg as then the studio doesn’t have to pay them a salary. And when Henry Ginsberg is not busy spying, or driving writers to quit, Henry Ginsberg is busy firing people.

Soon, the only person left on the lot will be Henry Ginsberg.

He goes to see Henry Ginsberg. A secretary in Hal Roach’s business office has given him some figures to work with, as long as he never reveals the source. The studio estimates that it will gross over a million dollars on The Devil’s Brother, and potentially even half as much again. The Devil’s Brother costs $200,000 to make. Hal Roach stands to turn a profit of anywhere between $300,000 and $600,000 on the picture.

So why, he asks Henry Ginsberg, won’t you let us make our pictures in peace?

Because you’re losing money, says Henry Ginsberg. Last year, your pictures posted a loss of – Henry Ginsberg opens a file, and finds the page he seeks – one hundred and sixty-six thousand, four hundred and forty seven dollars.