Actors Anonymous (22 page)

—(Stupid idiot).
⁹

That famous shit, talked about endlessly by the five earwitnesses, was probably caused by the nine-hour drive from Paris to Pamplona, eleven hours of carousing, the rude ingestion of tapas, churros, and Alhambra beer, and watching Spaniards and tourists being gored under the rising sun. It made things especially uncomfortable for her and
The Actor
later when they spent an otherwise romantic day at the Pompidou and ended up watching Paul McCarthy and Mike Kelley’s
Heidi House,
a video in which dolls were made to simulate prolonged shits into a bowl. While watching
Heidi House,
Diarrhea’s squeamish reactions (fingernail biting and audible groans), might have seemed normal if she hadn’t already proved herself to be the splatter queen of Spain.
The Actor
tried to ignore her reactions and pretended that the video was the most interesting thing he had ever seen, just as he tried to block out the memory of the echoing toilet sounds in Pamplona, which inevitably plagued him on a memory loop whenever he thrust into Diarrhea’s beautifully sculpted backside. During sex he was never sure if the shit smell was psychosomatic or real.
¹⁰

In addition to Diarrhea there was the smaller and less attractive “Cunty,” another sorority girl who was not quite as pretty as Diarrhea, but was the daughter of the mayor of Cunt Point in Palos Verdes. She had no qualms about letting everyone know who her father was and what a special position she was in as the daughter of such an illustrious man. “My dad is the most connected man I know.” Certainly, young Cunty.

Cunty was actually very good at French, and gave
The Actor
a few lessons in her room at the Hotel Excelsior Latin, where all the students stayed. After the lessons,
The Actor
would cuddle up with her on the
tiny cot provided in the cheap apartment-style accommodations. She was not great at much other than tutoring in French, but there was something nice about fooling around with her young body and having her say things like “You’re fucking the mayor’s daughter” over and over while they did it. Fucking her was also a turn-on because she was a friend of Diarrhea, and Cunty knew that
The Actor
was fucking Diarrhea too, so the late night French/sex sessions were an underhanded way for both of them to get back at the sorority queen. Get back at her for what was unclear, unless it was Diarrhea’s sorority girl air of everything being perfect, when everyone in the Pamplona hotel room had heard her take the shit of the century, that soggy full-bodied alarum cautioning that all was not well in Pleasantville.
¹¹

But Diarrhea and Cunty were nothing; they were easy, compared to the crowning fuck of the France trip. Not to say that the crowning fuck wasn’t easy, it was, but it was different in that the situation was unexpectedly, maliciously perfect. The crowning fuck involved a maneuver in which
The Actor
fucked the Angel’s sister. He took her virginity, and did so without anyone finding out. It is almost too great to contemplate. A young blond virgin, out in Paris, late night, right on the Seine.

The Angel’s sister was coincidentally studying French in France that summer. She came over to
The Actor’s
flat one night, under the pretense of spending time with her sister’s boyfriend. Maybe they would get some crepes or watch a movie in subtitles.
The Actor
knew that the sister (let’s call her the Virgin) must have liked him for a while, as many girls must love their sister’s boyfriends. The Angel had told him that the Virgin owned several of
The Actor’s
films, her favorite being ____________ , a piece of romantic schlock, which was particularly popular with teenage girls.
¹²
The Actor
knew when she agreed to come over that she was his. No matter how close the Virgin was to the Angel, how loving their family was,
The Actor
had the unbeatable charm of being a famous actor. The seduction of the Virgin was as smooth as a bullet through a birthday cake.

Within five minutes of the Virgin’s arrival at the rented flat, the
crepes and the movie plans had evaporated into kissing on the low French couch. The Angel’s sister wasn’t a bad kisser. Her legs were tight and firm.
The Actor
gripped them while kissing her. Her thigh muscles were strong, and there were light blond hairs higher up where she didn’t shave.
The Actor
slipped off her panties from under her dress and he put his face down there. Her pussy was hairy, like Courbet’s
Origin of the World,
which he had recently seen in the Musée d’Orsay.

The Actor
licked her hairy pussy for twenty minutes. It was hard to tell if it felt good or not because the Virgin gave little reaction. After twenty minutes,
The Actor
asked the Virgin if she had come, and she said that she had. He told her to hold him behind his neck, and when she did, he picked her up and carried her in front of him toward the dark bedroom. As he carried her, she wrapped her legs around his waist, and the slit in the back of her dress ripped upwards toward her back. He lay her down and unzipped the torn dress. Soon they were both naked.

He was looking down at her in the dark.

“Have you ever had sex before?” he asked. It took her a moment to answer, then she said no. She said that she never had the opportunity.

“What was the longest relationship that you’ve had?” he asked.

“Nine months.”

“And you didn’t have sex? Wow.” They were speaking softly. The room was dark, he was on his side and his face was close to hers. It was the first virgin he had been with since…

(Section missing)
¹³

If my knowledge of
The Actor’s
life story is accurate (I have read many magazine interviews with him),
¹⁴
the above sentence would have ended with something like, “the first virgin he had been with since his first girlfriend in high school.” He told me all about it that night in Paris. His first girlfriend was named Ariel. He said he called her “my Little Mermaid.”
The Actor
was never a regular devirginizer; he only started sleeping with women regularly after he became
The Actor
. But, unfortunately, he cannot tell you this, or finish this piece, because
The Actor
is dead. He was killed by a crazed fan on the UCLA campus. Well, she was not really a fan
anymore
, so much as a brokenhearted student whom
The Actor
slept with and then never spoke to again. She was nineteen years old; her name was Heart,
not
the Virgin! (
Anymore.
)
The Actor
was on campus; he was crossing the old quad, right in front of the library, on his way to the Humanities building to meet with his friend, distinguished professor of English, Professor Crane.
^*
The Actor
and Professor Crane were planning to go over Crane’s notes on one of
The Actor’s
recent stories.
This
story to be exact. Unfortunately, spurned and disgraced love stepped in the way and prevented
The Actor
from finishing his story (and his life). Never again would he get to write (or say) lines like, “You know, you are so special to me, Virgin. I just want to have sex because it would mean so much to both of us… The Angel? No, I love
you
… Yes, I
love
you.”

Heart shot him with a .44 she got from a friend. Her friend’s father was a retired UCLA history professor (all these professors!) who had ridden motorcycles with Steve McQueen. The bullet had sprayed chunks of
The Actor’s
ribs through his back with such force that pieces can still be found speckled in the pillar to the left of the stairs leading up to Powell Library. Maybe tour guides will talk about it in the future.

“Life is but a walking shadow…”
¹⁵

The previous section was written by the young woman that identifies herself as Heart. She is currently incarcerated at an undisclosed psychiatric facility somewhere in Malibu.
The Actor
is indeed dead, but under what circumstances is not certain. He might have been killed by the young woman that calls herself Heart, which is certainly not her true name, just as “
The Actor
” was not
The Actor’s
name (nor was it really Shrimp).

I knew
The Actor
. He was my best friend. I went to Paris with him the last summer he was alive. (And yes, I heard Diarrhea’s famous splattering shit in Pamplona. I was in the bed with the three other girls. In fact, I was actually having very slow sex with one of them, in order not to disturb the other two. I was having sex with one of the ugly ones. I think
The Actor
described her earlier as ugly and brunette, with bad skin.)

My name is
The Villain
. I put my name in
red
because when
The Actor
used to write about me, he always put my name in
red
. I am not sure what that says about me. I guess I might be a little sleazy, but not as sleazy as
The Actor
portrayed me. Granted, I am ten years older than him, and I was in Paris sleeping with college girls literally half my age, but underneath I have a good heart. Just as
The Actor
had a good heart. Which is why it is so tragic and ridiculous
that some little cunt that calls herself Heart would be the one to destroy such a sensitive and unique soul as
The Actor
.

The Actor
once told me that he hated every movie he had acted in. Even __________ , for which he gained a loyal following of teenage girls. I think he was an incredible actor; unfortunately, he never had a chance or role that allowed him to shine. I always felt like there was a glowing genius inside him, but it never got to come out.

I suppose that the Virgin had something to do with his death. I am not necessarily saying that the girl he deflowered in Paris is his murderer, as I do not want to give such a disturbed little bitch any more space, but I guess it was her.

I have done a little investigation of dates, and it seems that the UCLA professor that
The Actor
was so fond of referencing in his work (namely, me, Professor E. L. Crane, PhD)
¹⁶
actually emailed
The Actor
on the night that he devirginized the Virgin. Not that there is any mystery about what happened that night, it is pretty obvious: They fucked. But this little email exchange might shed some light on who
The Actor
was, or at least on some other dimension of his life.

The following was communicated through a brief exchange of emails between
The Actor
and myself.
The Actor
owned an iPhone and read the following email and wrote his response at 1:25 a.m. Paris time, apparently walking the streets of Paris:

On Wed, Jul 23, 2008 at 5:47 p.m. (Pacific Time), Professor Crane wrote:

Shrimp,

I know you were a special friend of Joe Donuts and would appreciate hearing his daughter’s account of his recent, quick death. (Read below.)
E.L.C.

On Wed, Jul 23, 2008 at 4:31 p.m. (Pacific Time), Sarah Donuts wrote:

Ernie

I just wanted to let you know that my father died Sunday at UCLA Medical Center. As you know he had been shot in the head and was not in his right mind at the end. He had a rapid decline after being taken to the emergency room, and died six days after being administered. I saw him in the hospital on Saturday. This was the last day he recognized anyone. The following Monday he was in critical condition and from there I had a series of decisions to honor my father’s wish for no extraordinary measures. He kept calling me his angel, I guess he was already on his way to heaven.

If you would please pass the word of his death. I would appreciate it.

The service is this Saturday at 11 a.m. at St. Mary’s in Boston. I doubt anyone will travel, but that’s the info for anyone who asks. In lieu of flowers, anyone wishing to may donate to the UCLA Rape Crisis Center.

Best,
Sarah

On Wed, Jul 23, 2008 at 4:39 p.m. (Pacific Time), Professor Crane wrote:

Dear Sarah,

I’m sorry to hear about your father’s death. I think of him often, sometimes with fear, often with a laugh. I am glad he didn’t suffer much and that the end came quickly. Joe Donuts was one of our old men, one of our old-timers, and was precious to lots of us. His recent relapse into alcohol and drugs was disturbing, but it does nothing to supplant the legacy of guidance and love he handed on to so many. Unfortunately, many of us that go out never come back. I know under normal circumstances Joe would have never been involved in the kind of situation that ultimately took his life, but that is where the disease can take us. I loved Joe and remember crucial parts of his life—the disastrous effect of reading the Belgian mystery novelist Simenon. Rumi, an ancient mystical poet he grew to love later, was a much better choice for him. Please give all my best wishes to your family, and let them know he’ll be remembered by some of us for a long time. I’m glad to hear he was already with the angels.

Yours,
E.L.C.

On Wed, Jul 24, 2008 at 1:25 a.m. (Paris time),
The Actor
wrote on his iPhone:

I am walking through Paris at 1:30 a.m. As I type, I am passing the Pompidou, which makes me think of the MOCA in downtown LA.