The Bones (20 page)

"How're my two stars doing?" says Orson Dubinsky, arriving from the craft services table with a dripping taco (traces of which
can be seen in his voluminous beard) in one hand and a prop harpoon in the other. Orson has unsuccessfully been trying to
forge a bond with Frank since the start of rehearsals and has availed himself of his company at every opportunity, something
that has led Frank to install a lock on his dressing room door.

"We're great," Honey tells Orson, whom she regards with respect born of deep gratitude.

"Frank? Feeling good?" Orson asks, laying an unwelcome paw on Frank's shoulder.

"The world's my oyster, babe," Franks says. "Cold, slimy, and oozing botulism."

"Okay," Orson replies, laughing and trying to sound engaged. He had attempted to banter for the first couple of days but after
falling to get any reaction quickly gave up, consigning Frank to the tortured-artist category of performers who did not put
a premium on interhuman communication.

At this moment the tortured artist shifts his attention from Orson's harpoon to his metallic mouth, where Frank briefly pictures
an assortment of brightly colored fishing lures hanging from the orthodonture, to Pam Penner, who is heading toward them,
her squat body angled forward on high-heeled boots.

"Got frostbite?" she asks by way of an entrance line. Then, turning to Honey: "After I watched you during rehearsals yesterday,
I went back to my office and called Harvey and I told him I think you're going to pop." Before Honey can respond to this extraordinary
piece of intelligence, Pam asks Orson, "So, Dubinksy, what's with the walrus?"

"Performance anxiety."

"I hope he can get it up for the show," Pam says, showing no fear of repartee in Frank's presence. "So, Mr. Bones, are you
ready for your close-up?"

"You gotta trust the material," Frank responds.

"We love the script," Honey assures Pam. At that moment, the costume design person approaches, a pale young woman with blue
hair and a Hp ring.

"Honey, we need to make an adjustment on some of the jewelry. It's reflecting the light." Honey excuses herself to go look
at some new pieces as Frank turns his attention back to the script, hoping Pam will take Orson and his taco elsewhere. After
a few seconds of silence Pam speaks.

"Frank, we're a little concerned."

Frank looks up, as if surprised to find them still there. "Everything all right?" he asks, trying not to sound patronizing.

"We're worried you're not committing completely to the character," Orson tells him.

"Really?" Frank looks away from Orson toward Honey, who is now happily autographing a DVD of
Hot Ninja Bounty Hunters
that had been handed to her by a crew member, as the costume woman looks on, impatiently tugging her Up ring.

"You're the star," Pam reminds him. "We want you to be into it. When the audience is here tonight, you need to take it up
a level."

"When the lights come on," Frank says, "the Bones delivers."

After assuring them at great length that he can be counted on, Frank retreats to his dressing room and locks the door, reaches
into the pocket of the jacket he has hung on the back of a chair, and removes a vial of rock cocaine and a pipe. Frank unscrews
the cap from the vial and taps a crystal into the stained silver bowl. Producing a Zippo from his pocket, he flicks the lighter
on, places the pipe to his lips, and ignites the crack, which goes from an opaque, grayish white to burning orange-blue. As
Frank inhales deeply, filling his lungs with smoke, and feeling the almost instantaneous rush from the drug, his cell phone
rings. Holding the smoke in, he picks up the phone and checks the caller ID: Nada. Frank exhales slowly and presses the phone
to his ear.

"So, Tessa," Frank croaks, his voice scratchy from the smoke, "when are we flying to Hawaii?"

Laughing, Tessa replies, "What are you smoking, Frank?" After the briefest of paranoid flashes, Frank realizes she is playing
with him. "Hold for Robert."

Robert gets on and says, "How's it going over there?"

"I can't believe you couldn't get me Lloyd Melnick."

"Hey, I tried, but the guy doesn't need the work. Nothing I could do. Meanwhile you're starring in your own pilot so stop
bitching."

"I'll never stop."

"I have a favor to ask."

"Sorry, babe. I'm incurably hetero," Frank says, looking at the ember of crack smoldering in the bowl and wondering if it
will stay lit until the end of the conversation.

"Listen, my wife is doing a benefit for Save Our Aching Planet and they'd like you to emcee."

"Yeah, sure. Happy to. Maybe there'll be someone there who can put me on a real show," he says, tossing a spear in the direction
of his manager's heart.

"I'm sure there will be. Are you behaving yourself?"

"No, I'm sitting in my dressing room smoking crack. Of course I'm behaving," Frank says, surreptitiously sucking in a tiny
hit. "Why wouldn't I be?" The smoke causes a contraction of his throat muscles.

"You sound like you're choking."

"Because I have Orson Dubinsky's cock in my mouth. That's what a good boy I'm being."

Frank hangs up and takes a couple of more tokes on the pipe before exhausting its supply of fuel. He glances at the script.
With a brain swimming in crack, suddenly the travails of a middle-aged comedian having to play an Eskimo in
Kirkuk
take on a new perspective. Frank begins to laugh, softly at first, more of a chortle, but then louder and full-throated, increasing
in intensity until it becomes almost hysterical, a paroxysm of uncontrollable laughter emanating from Frank's dressing room
where he is doubled over nearly in tears. If the show clicks, he will forever be known as someone who had a first-rate future
but somehow wound up in an Eskimo suit, a puppet dancing to the mad rhythms of Orson Dubinsky. If it flops, he's back on the
road looking at an endless stretch of one-nighters, hotel rooms, and highways crisscrossed by a world of performers who don't
make enough money to spend more than a few nights a month at home. As the drug saturates his brain cells, taking them on the
Space Mountain ride of a crack high, Frank laughs until his throat starts to hurt, shoulders heaving, doubled over, gasping,
the drug momentarily shielding him from clear contemplation of a potentially baleful future. He's laughing at the thought
of doing gigs at seventy with shortness of breath and a balky prostate; laughing at the thought of his health insurance expiring
and the benefit that would be staged in his name in the event some disaster befell him; laughing at the realization that this
is where it could all finally implode, under the hot lights of a soundstage in Studio City, with him dressed as an Eskimo.

Slowly, Frank begins to discern a percussive sound emanating from the inky corners of his frayed consciousness.
Thump, thump, thump.
Is it inside his head? He glances around the room. There it is again.
Thump, thump, thump.
Of course! Someone's knocking at the door. "Frank, open up, it's me. What's so funny?" Honey asks. Frank instinctively looks
around for a window to climb out of but the room is without one. He swallows and clears his throat, doing everything he can
to make sure that when he opens his mouth normal human sounds emerge. "Frank . . . ?" No answer. "Frank?"

"Go away, I'm rewriting."

"Open up. I know what you're doing in there. I've got my cell phone and I'm calling Robert."

Shit!

Frank doesn't need a don't-do-drugs lecture from Robert. After a moment, the door opens a few inches and Honey slides in,
takes a whiff, Ms. Buzzkill.

"How could you do this to us?"

"To us? And by the way, I have to tell you, the northern look, the bulky-animal-skin thing? I like it on you. If you just
let me—" Frank reaches for her coat to make an adjustment and she swipes his hand away.

"Don't touch me!" She takes a moment to gather her thoughts and then launches a gale force onslaught. "Do you know how long
I've been waiting for something like this to happen? My whole life! Frank, they're handing us a network show on a platter!
Don't screw it up by acting like a drug-addicted tweaker asshole!" He remains silent, unmoving. She's not done. "Give me whatever
you have!"

Frank has never seen Honey like this. Certainly, he's seen her angry before; just never with this kind of laser focus. "Give
it to me," she repeats in a low growl that penetrates the crack fog and actually scares him. Thrusting her hand into his pockets
while he stares at her, she roots around and produces the vial and the pipe, shaking her head in disgust. Frank muffles a
laugh.

"You think this is funny?" As he looks away, she smashes her fist into the side of his head, causing him to fall to the floor.
His sniggers begin to sound more like whimpering. "Because it's not funny," she says, staring down at his prostrate form with
a primal glare that calls to mind the young Cassius Clay and shaking her hand, which is beginning to hurt. "Not after what
I already put up with. Now get up off the floor."

She watches as Frank rises up on all fours, then puts one foot on the floor and pushes himself into an upright position. He
looks into the mirror as Honey watches him. "Don't do this to me, Frank," she says, walking out. Frank stares after her, rubbing
his throbbing cheek and marveling at her bravado.

A few minutes later, a calmer Honey stands outside the studio smoking a cigarette and trying not to feel guilty about it.
She huddles inside her costume, shifting her weight back and forth for warmth as she exhales a cloud of smoke. It had been
a good week for her until a few minutes ago. Right now she's doing a cost-benefit analysis regarding the value of remaining
with someone as unreliable and self-involved as Frank. She knew he'd had other lovers even if he wouldn't admit it; he was
self-centered enough to go on a drug binge the day their show was taping; but he was semifamous and proximity to him could
help her career as long as she could keep him from flaming out completely. It was a no-brainer, really. Certainly, Honey would
have liked a man in her life who could provide stability, money, and glamour, but those guys usually had wives
and
girlfriends and she is ready for a less complicated situation. For someone like Honey, who longs to be taken seriously as
an actress and regrets her extensive on-camera nudity in the ninja movie (while retaining a sense of humor about it), a man
like Frank is about as good as it gets.

As she contemplates this conundrum, she hears a familiar voice behind her saying, "I hope that's not real fur." Honey turns
around and nearly gasps as she gazes into the familiar visage of Bart Pimento. "Because if it is, I may have to throw paint
on you."

"It's a costume," Honey manages to squeak, trying not to giggle.

"That's no excuse," Bart replies, clearly taken with Honey, who looks vaguely familiar to him. "Have we met?"

"I don't think so. I'm Honey Call." She notices a female figure hovering twenty feet away, looking at them. Is she with Bart?

"Bart Pimento," he says, nodding his head and trying to place her.

"I know," she manages to stammer. "We're doing a pilot on the lot, my boyfriend and I."

"Sorry to hear about the boyfriend," Bart says in a confidential tone, fingering her faux-wolverine pelt. "Are you sure this
thing is fake?"

"It looks really real, doesn't it?"

"It certainly does. I should have my people test it. What is it?"

"Wolverine."

"Poor little bastard probably died a painful and terrifying death locked in the jaws of some rusty trap as the lifeblood drained
from his mangled leg," he says to the horrified Honey.

"I swear it's real!"

"It's real?"

"I mean, it's
fake,
it's fake. Fakefakefake!!!" she says, unnerved by her proximity to Bart and laughing anxiously. "Woooooo!" she says, for no
particular reason.

Bart says, "I was joking!" in that way he has of switching tones without warning.

Greatly relieved and suddenly serious, Honey asks, "What are you doing on the lot?"

"This completely brilliant pilot called
Happy Endings.
The guy who created it is a mastermind. At least that's what they tell me. So," Bart says conspiratorially, petting the wolverine
as if to confirm it is indeed not genuine, "how serious are you and the boyfriend?"

"I think that depends on how well the pilot goes."

"I'll check the trades to see what happens."

Jacy Pingree, ingenue du jour, moves out of the shadows and takes a few steps toward them, wielding a cell phone.

"Bart, the reservation at the restaurant was for five minutes ago. Should I call them?"

"I'm coming, I'm coming." Then, to Honey he says softly, "I hope your show goes great tonight and all your hopes and dreams
come true, pretty lady."

Hopes and dreams, Honey thinks. Did he just say "hopes and dreams"? Could it be possible Bart Pimento speaks her language?
Frank couldn't utter words like
hopes and dreams
without making it clear he was micturating on the very concept. Her insides swooned just a little more. Did Bart really call
her "pretty lady"?

Bart turns and walks a few paces before turning back to face Honey, who averts her gaze so he won't think she was looking
at him. "Are you sure we haven't met?"

Twenty minutes later, Frank has mustered the courage to leave his dressing room and is back on the set trying to work the
cappuccino machine at the craft services table. The problems with the walrus have been solved and the
Kirkuk
family is poised to make television history.

"Frank! How are ya?"

Frank, who is watching his latte drip from the machine's metal udder into a cup and trying to will the crack to last a little
longer, glances over and sees the lizardlike visage of Harvey Gornish, president of Lynx television. Harvey's presence on
the set of a pilot is the equivalent of a papal visit to a local parish. With his slicked-back hair and unnatural tan that
ceased an inch above his eyebrows where it became a strip of perpetually flaking skin whose effusions would reliably find
their way to the shoulders of his Italian suits, he looks like an aging gigolo disintegrating from the head down.