objective. Maybe a steady diet of porno flicks had softened his features, but I
couldn't begin to guess what had happened to his
clothes. Perhaps he had slept in his shiny black suit.
Several times. Badly. Certainly he had dined in it. Or
off it. A blossom of tomato sauce with a dried
mushroom bud served as a boutonniere, and his thin
black tie, tugged into a knot the size of an English pea,
as a napkin.
"What can I do for you gentlemen?" he asked as it
became apparent that we hadn't come to discuss the
state of the art.
I showed him my license and explained my business.
84
Before I could finish, he scampered to a 5 x 8 file, rifled
it, and came up with both hands full of cards, waving
them at the walls of his small apartment, which were
banked with file cabinets and shelves and stacks of film
cans.
"Animal Passion," he said, holding out his right
hand. "Animal Lust," he added with his left. "Take
your choice, gentlemen. Not a particularly imaginative
title, either of them, but damned popular. " He simpered at his own joke.
"Low, low budget," I said, "with a group grope for a
finale."
"Aren't they all," he said with his frail laugh. "Could
you give me an approximate date?"
"Late sixties maybe. "
"Major actress blonde or brunette?"
"Blonde."
"Right," he said, then replaced the cards into their
file, shuffled them again. "Perhaps this is it," he said as
he read a card, his narrow bloodless lips mouthing a
long number. He dashed over to a stack of film cans
and jerked one out of the middle so quickly that the
ones above it fell down with a neat solid thunk. "If I
remember this one correctly, it's simply trash," he said,
"without a single redeeming feature. Would you like to
see it?"
"You mind?" I asked Trahearne.
"Why should I mind?" he said, looking very confused.
"Your romantic illusions," I said, then laughed.
"Oh," he said, "oh yeah. Those." His confusion
seemed to clear itself up. For him, though, not for me.
"Roll it," he said crisply, and Richter threaded the
film.
It was basic, all right, perhaps even pitiful. It was
Betty Sue Flowers, too. No matter how often I looked
away, when I looked back she was there. She had
85
gained enough weight to make her figure more than
Reubenesque , and if she hadn't been able to move it
with some grace , she would have seemed grotesque and
comic as a chubby young housewife clad only in a frilly
apron, her thick blond hair gathered into two unbraided pigtails that framed her fat face.
At least the plot was thin. First, a little minor-league
action with a pair of bewildered toy poodles, then some
major-league work with the neighborhood help: a
postman, a milkman, two meter readers, and a grocery
boy with pancake over his wrinkles. Among the five
men, they had enough beer guts, knobby knees,
blurred tattoos, dirty feet, and crooked dicks to outfit a
freak show. In the finale, as they gathered in a carefully
arranged pile about the kitchen table, they looked even
more distraught than the poodles had, and their faces
contorted with pain as they all tried to come at once as
Betty Sue worked at all of them together. Everybody
was stoned blind, and the crew kept stumbling on
camera or into the lights or jerking the camera in and
out of focus. You could almost hear the sigh of relief
when they rim out of film. The whole thing seemed
about as exciting as jerking off into an old dirty sock.
But Betty Sue, in spite of the fat and her eyes, which
were as blank as two wet stones, had something that
had nothing to do with the way she looked. She seemed
to step into the degradation freely, without joy but with
a stolid determin,ation to do a good job. In spite of
myself, I was excited by her, which made the whiskey
curdle in my stomach. I worked on righteous anger but
only came up with quiet sadness and a sick sexual
excitement. I saw why Gleeson hadn't wanted to talk
about the film; I didn't either. No more than I wanted
to
couldn't begin to guess what had happened to his
clothes. Perhaps he had slept in his shiny black suit.
Several times. Badly. Certainly he had dined in it. Or
off it. A blossom of tomato sauce with a dried
mushroom bud served as a boutonniere, and his thin
black tie, tugged into a knot the size of an English pea,
as a napkin.
"What can I do for you gentlemen?" he asked as it
became apparent that we hadn't come to discuss the
state of the art.
I showed him my license and explained my business.
84
Before I could finish, he scampered to a 5 x 8 file, rifled
it, and came up with both hands full of cards, waving
them at the walls of his small apartment, which were
banked with file cabinets and shelves and stacks of film
cans.
"Animal Passion," he said, holding out his right
hand. "Animal Lust," he added with his left. "Take
your choice, gentlemen. Not a particularly imaginative
title, either of them, but damned popular. " He simpered at his own joke.
"Low, low budget," I said, "with a group grope for a
finale."
"Aren't they all," he said with his frail laugh. "Could
you give me an approximate date?"
"Late sixties maybe. "
"Major actress blonde or brunette?"
"Blonde."
"Right," he said, then replaced the cards into their
file, shuffled them again. "Perhaps this is it," he said as
he read a card, his narrow bloodless lips mouthing a
long number. He dashed over to a stack of film cans
and jerked one out of the middle so quickly that the
ones above it fell down with a neat solid thunk. "If I
remember this one correctly, it's simply trash," he said,
"without a single redeeming feature. Would you like to
see it?"
"You mind?" I asked Trahearne.
"Why should I mind?" he said, looking very confused.
"Your romantic illusions," I said, then laughed.
"Oh," he said, "oh yeah. Those." His confusion
seemed to clear itself up. For him, though, not for me.
"Roll it," he said crisply, and Richter threaded the
film.
It was basic, all right, perhaps even pitiful. It was
Betty Sue Flowers, too. No matter how often I looked
away, when I looked back she was there. She had
85
gained enough weight to make her figure more than
Reubenesque , and if she hadn't been able to move it
with some grace , she would have seemed grotesque and
comic as a chubby young housewife clad only in a frilly
apron, her thick blond hair gathered into two unbraided pigtails that framed her fat face.
At least the plot was thin. First, a little minor-league
action with a pair of bewildered toy poodles, then some
major-league work with the neighborhood help: a
postman, a milkman, two meter readers, and a grocery
boy with pancake over his wrinkles. Among the five
men, they had enough beer guts, knobby knees,
blurred tattoos, dirty feet, and crooked dicks to outfit a
freak show. In the finale, as they gathered in a carefully
arranged pile about the kitchen table, they looked even
more distraught than the poodles had, and their faces
contorted with pain as they all tried to come at once as
Betty Sue worked at all of them together. Everybody
was stoned blind, and the crew kept stumbling on
camera or into the lights or jerking the camera in and
out of focus. You could almost hear the sigh of relief
when they rim out of film. The whole thing seemed
about as exciting as jerking off into an old dirty sock.
But Betty Sue, in spite of the fat and her eyes, which
were as blank as two wet stones, had something that
had nothing to do with the way she looked. She seemed
to step into the degradation freely, without joy but with
a stolid determin,ation to do a good job. In spite of
myself, I was excited by her, which made the whiskey
curdle in my stomach. I worked on righteous anger but
only came up with quiet sadness and a sick sexual
excitement. I saw why Gleeson hadn't wanted to talk
about the film; I didn't either. No more than I wanted
to
Similar Books
