Chapter 6
For Laura the week had been wonderful at work, except for George’s persistent phone calls and computer e-mail messages. Anne-Marie had also called her repeatedly wanting comfort and advice and reassurance about her crisis with her missing daughter. She didn’t have either the time or the energy or the ability to deal with George or Anne-Marie’s needs.
For a publicist, there are one or two times in a career when all the rules are reversed. Instead of being the relentless, implacable pursuer, one became the relentlessly, implacably pursued. Offers! Offers! Offers! Pick me! Pick me! Pick me! Everyone wanted Anthony Holtz. Everyone wanted Laura’s attention.
She had gathered the 185 pictures of Anthony and his wife at the fountain, the funniest of which had made papers worldwide. She had some blown up and framed for her office wall, and she liked to look at them while she talked on the phone. Her favorite newspaper cutline was from a British newspaper that said simply, Divorce, Canadian Style under the picture of Anthony warding off a blow from his wife’s life-size cut-out. Various lawsuits were afoot, and video crews and flashy female interviewers were coming and going from Anthony’s house carrying Laura’s permission slip to enter and speak to the suddenly interesting, famous old poet. Anthony, of course, was loving it!
He had a poet’s ability to distill his wife’s personality into cruel little cut lines, and take incidents from their marriage and make them into juicy stories and sound-bites that were so much more interesting to everyone than the dense, complicated verse that had made his reputation.
“This fountain incident with my wife was better than sex with her. At least I got her attention.” he said with a great echoing laugh. “Why does everyone want to know how the goldfish are doing?” he would reply to the one constantly repeated question. “Goldfish are used to sucking up crap. It’s time my ex-wife got a taste of it.”
The war escalated daily. Their grown children were dragged in and prodded in interviews like tender newts that had lost the cool shelter of the great rock of anonymity. The children did not react well. The war had started to get truly ugly.
When Laura touched base with Naomi Oliver, the voice of the Hot Times radio program, Laura was sure this was going to be a very interesting opportunity. When she had asked if Naomi knew anything about Anthony’s work, she cut her off immediately.
“I have absolutely no interest in what people do. I’m only interested in who they are. Let’s face it, the only reason I’m interested in a greasy old poet is because he’s made an international fool of himself.”
“Never underestimate an old fool, Naomi.” Laura replied, honestly.
“Please! He’s a has-been poet, for God’s sake. This is going to be fun.”
Naomi made no pretense about her condescending attitude. She believed that condescension had made her what she was, and she was right.
Laura hung up the phone and was looking forward to the next evening’s radio tete et tete. The one pleasant diversion she allowed herself that week was her regular lunch with her friend David Orser. She had heard from him often that week about how Anthony’s collected works were flying off the bookstore shelves.
“Everyone is being reminded of what a wicked old man he really is.” David pointed out gleefully. Then he got very serious. “Do you think it’s possible that you might want to leave your present job and work full-time for us? Aren’t you tired of contract work? It would involve a substantial raise.”
“Suddenly I have offers. It’s funny how one insane picture could make and remake two careers. I’m talking to other people. I don’t want to make any decisions while I’m riding this wave.” she told him, honestly.
Then she brought up something that she had been thinking about whenever she had a spare moment’s time. She gave him a brief background on the farm and Eugene’s fatal disease and all the adopted children, the cars and the money and the unbelievably fascinating movie of the week story of the Van Fleet family. Then she told him about the letters between Arthur and Laura Lee. She pitched David on the incredible potential for a youth market book that explored the emotional range and experiences of famous and ordinary people when they were young. She told him how profoundly the stories had affected the Van fleet children, and how powerfully she was affected by the one story she had heard.
“I don’t know if I can get permission to use them. I don’t know if Eugene would think they were just too personal and private, but my instinct tells me that there is a tremendous bestseller in those letters. I want to know if I’d have your support if I explored the idea.”
“I’d always go with your instincts, the problem is that letters between two teenagers is just a little too archaic a form. Modern teens aren’t interested in reading letters. It’s so Pamela and Shamala. At best, you’d have to turn them into short stories and, except for Canada, you know how short stories sell. They don’t.” he replied, unenthusiastically.
“You’re probably right, but something tells me that those letters may just change my life.”
“You think I’m wrong?” he replied.
“I guess I do. If I get my hands on them, will you at least look at a few?” she asked. It was her turn to ask for a favor, and he knew he could not refuse.
The four martini, two our lunch was a thing of the past as far as Laura was concerned. David Orser understood when her cell phone rang and she had to go, leaving her half eaten lunch.
Such was success. Laura was having the time of her life, she thought.
Laura didn’t know, and couldn’t possibly a guess that the great fountain picture was just the beginning of Anthony mania. Soon to come would be the incident that would make Anthony more than famous, it would make him another fifteen min. legend. And it would destroy the career of one rude young, pseudo-intellectual radio gunslinger.
The next night Laura accompanied Anthony to the live radio interview program Hot Times. They were like gunfighters walking down the long echoing hallway of the radio studio after Naomi Oliver had picked them up from her receptionist. Naomi was wearing painted on jeans and a hunter green silk blouse that showed off her high, trembling centers of attention. Anthony noticed. Everyone noticed. They were meant to notice.
Laura had extended her hand when they met, but Naomi had refused to take it.
“Hands really are the dirtiest things, you know. Take no offense.” she said coldly.
“None taken.” Laura replied, just as coldly.
“Good. Come with.”
“Delighted.” said Anthony, rubbing his hands together.
Naomi had purposefully forgotten to even recognize Anthony’s presence at the receptionist’s desk, an obvious snub she made worse by apologizing much too effusively in response to his remark. Anthony looked anything but angry. His eyes kept drifting to Naomi’s assets as they walked abreast.
They set up in the little studio, Laura and the technician in the control room, Anthony and Naomi, miked and seated on two soft leather office chairs.
The program was live and so there was some little tension as they counted down the last minute to air. Naomi ignored Anthony completely until she got her cue.
Naomi began the program by reading a scripted introduction of Anthony. It dripped with condescension about his age and his decades-old poetry prizes. Then she described Anthony’s water fountain adventure for her listeners, portraying him and his ex-wife as two fading lights trying to rekindle some spark of interest in a culture that had passed them by.
“And it worked, didn’t it Anthony?” she challenged him.
“Like a dream.” he replied, simply.
“So you admit the whole thing was staged.”
“No more than your attitude on this program.” he replied brightly. “I never miss your program, myself. It’s the absolutely perfect place for people who are so desperate for attention that they will trot themselves out like idiots to be insulted and humiliated by woman who’s never
done anything in her life, but put people down. I’m so glad you asked me to come.”
Naomi’s eyes got bigger. She knew she wasn’t dealing with some actor. She decided to sweeten the atmosphere.
“And I’m glad you’re here too. I love old poets. So, Anthony, tell me a secret. I’m told that people your age no longer feel they have to worry about keeping secrets.”
“That’s exactly so. And I do have a secret, and strangely enough, it’s about you.”
Naomi looked nervous, but took the bait. “We’ve never even met, how could you have a secret about me?”
“Because old poets sometimes have old friends who happen to run old radio networks. My secret, Naomi is that you are about to be fired. Your days are numbered. Unlike your breasts, you are being downsized.” Anthony said with unrestrained glee. Naomi’s face looked like it had been hit by an invisible pie. Shock dribbled off of her chin.
“That isn’t true.” she said with a sickly laugh.
“Time will tell, if it is or it isn’t. Why would I lie?”
“This is the only interesting program on this whole godforsaken network. I’ve got better ratings than any of those fat old,” She stopped herself before naming names.
Anthony appeared to be reassuring her when he said, “Naomi, it’s only radio. The entire audience of the entire day is smaller than the audience at a Newfoundland ballet. You’re wasting yourself in the backwoods.”
“Well, not for long. Enough about me.” She was clearly frustrated and angry. She went back to her prepared questions, but with much less enthusiasm.
“I believe your fountain escapade really was a fraud. I understand the picture of your ex-wife in whips and leathers is from an outfit for a costume ball. Don’t you think that’s rather ingenuous?”
“It would be perhaps if the costume ball had not been entitled, Come As You Really Are. I don’t know why she was so upset, she has already made her own public confession of her true peccadilloes. Truth be told, she likes to give spankings, and I think they are just great theater. You should hear me squeal.” This wasn’t going well for Naomi.
“I’m told you write a lot about sex. Did you write about it as much when you were younger and more sexually active, or is that all in the past?”
“With every beat of a man’s heart, he produces a thousand sperm, and this implies a certain need, a certain urgency. Pressure. You have to think of it this way; each woman who favored me with her attention has been bathed in tens of millions of my own little happy wigglers. And they still keep coming. What’s a body to do?”
Laura rolled her eyes at the pun. Naomi didn’t get it. She was barely listening. She was planning what she would say and how she would attack her boss the moment the interview was over. No one fired Naomi Oliver! She would finish off this nasty old man and raise proper hell.
Naomi’s questions were meant to be ego prods to make her victims say something they wouldn’t have said if they hadn’t felt vulnerable. None of her prods seemed to be working. This old poet knew himself for the egotistical old fool that he was. Irascibility was the only real indulgence he had since he gave up the hard life addictions. Naomi wouldn’t give up. Everyone famous had an overly inflated ego. Everyone famous was absolutely terrified of pins. With Anthony, she was having to run through her questions looking for a much longer, sharper instrument.
Canadian poets have always been regarded as really second and third rate. Where do you think you stand among Canadian poets?”
Anthony looked definitely annoyed at the question.
“Dear heart, poetry can’t be measured like cuts of beef. There are no governmental standards for grade A, AA or prime cuts of poetry.”
“Isn’t that what people say who never made the grade?” she pressed.
“We could talk about poetic standards, I suppose, but you’d have to have some slight idea of what a poem is.” She was getting to him at last, it appeared.
“We don’t want to hear some tired old definition of poetry, do we?”
“Your breasts are poetry, Naomi, if they’re real.” he replied, “Is that a tired enough old definition for you?”
“They are real, and they are spectacular, but I think you’re trying to change the subject.”
“Not at all.” he interjected, “If it would not embarrass you, I think I can speak about your breasts and make you and your audience feel and understand poetry as they have never done before.” Naomi had been trying to take back control of the interview, but Anthony forged ahead.
“I’m absolutely serious. A poem, has form; a poem has structure; it has rhythm and movement that follow a particular pace, a sway, a timing, like your breasts move when you walk, like your breasts move when you turn, their firmness, their fluidity changing with every motion, every emotion you feel. When you are naked in your bath and you look at yourself, or when your breasts tighten before your lover’s gaze, they respond to your body’s language of movement. Being aware of poetry is like being aware of how your breasts move and change and react in the perfect symmetry of stimulus and response. But I guess you think they are just tits. And they are spectacular.”
“You really are a dirty old man.” Naomi replied, but her nipples had gotten obviously erect under her silk blouse. She was the only one who hadn’t yet noticed.
“I don’t think we should talk about my breasts anymore. I really don’t get it.”
“Of course you do. Look, your nipples are hard.” he replied.
“You shut up!” she screamed, realizing what he said was true. Anthony gently went in for the kill, his voice growing soft and husky as he spoke.
“And like your breasts, a poem is a private thing, a profoundly private thing that you can unveil so even a stranger can see and feel the most beautiful part of your mind and heart and body. Reading a poem is like reading a body. You make the reader your lover. A poem can take your breath away, just like a great lover. A poem is sensuality. A poem is intimacy. A poem is like your nipples erect.”
“I see.” Naomi said breathlessly.
“And what a poet does is what you would do if you unbuttoned your beautiful green silk blouse.”
Naomi realized what he was saying. “Don’t screw with me Anthony.”
His gentle voice reassured her. “I’m absolutely serious. Don’t you want to know what it feels like to create the sensual intimacy of a poem, to reveal your private , oh so personal beauty? I know you are afraid. That’s part of what a poet faces when she comes to the moment of sharing her most intimate beauty. I know you are afraid to do this.”
“I’m not afraid. What do I have to be afraid of. I’ve been to St. tropez for God’s sake lots of nude beaches. This is stupid.”
“But this is different. This is self-revelation. This is about how beautiful you are, the beauty you hide under fine silk. If you want to understand intimacy of a poem, the self-revelation of the poet, you must have the courage to simply begin, one button at a time, to reveal yourself, to show us your private loveliness.”
His soothing voice stroked Naomi. His eyes now focused on her breast. Her breathing was becoming faster, her nipples obviously harder.
“I’m not going to open my blouse.” she insisted, but her breathing was now loud enough to be heard on air. Anthony had gotten her into it. She was a shameless exhibitionist having to confront exhibiting yourself without shame. The excitement, the challenge, her secret personal pride made her feel excruciatingly sexy. Anthony went on.
“Feel how your breasts are rising and falling. Poetry, like desire, takes over your body. There are only four of us here. It isn’t modesty you feel, it’s the fact that this is about so much more than your breasts. This is about the courage to let someone else openly see how beautiful you are really are. Start with one button; it’s the first phrase of your poem.”
Suddenly the radio silence was deafening. Dead air and tension in the two little ro
oms grew and grew, through long, drawn out seconds, and then Laura was shocked when Naomi’s fingers went to the top button of her blouse and opened it. It was like hypnosis.
“One button is open, a poem is begun.” whispered Anthony. And for Naomi, and for the audience, Anthony described the delicacy of her fingers on the shining pearl buttons, moving to the next one, and the next as her beautiful young skin appeared, her breasts rising and falling with an increasing pace. And then her fingers gently moved the fabric of the moment, and then she paused and stared into dead space, hanging onto a delicate precipice.
“This is what it feels like to create something beautiful, show us your breasts, Naomi.” Anthony asked her.
As if she was helpless to resist, Naomi’s eyes closed and she pulled open her blouse to show her high beautiful breasts, trembling excitedly, her breath now coming fast enough to be heard distinctly on the microphone that still hung on her open lapel. She sat there transfixed, as he described her breasts, their shape, the translucent whiteness, her nipples ‘like red engorged wild raspberries’. He described how beautiful she was and she could feel the excitement growing in her body from finally letting someone see her like this. “This is what poetry feels like Naomi; overwhelming, sensual, so real and terrifyingly erotic. Put your hands there.” he told her and she did as she was told, gently, tenderly.
“Oh, yes!” And when Naomi spoke those words, it seemed to let everything go inside her. Over the airwaves her audience listen to her ragged breath, and then everyone in the room was absolutely shocked when she repeated her “Oh, yes.” as her hands cupped her breasts and her fingers touched her nipples. It hissed out of her and then her body and her lungs took control of her and she groaned and gurgled and gasped trying to fight back the force of her orgasm. Her head flew back and then her eyes flew open, and then her head snapped down and she glared at Anthony. She covered herself in an instant. She was seething in shock and range.
“And you’ve never felt anything like that in your life, have you?” Anthony asked her softly, breaking the excruciating tension in the room. “That’s poetry, Naomi.”
This was too much. This was suddenly a nightmare. Secretly, she knew this was one of those rare electric media moments, but it had gone much too far. She looked in his eyes and she knew what he had done to her. This time, the humiliation was hers alone.
She screamed and dove at Anthony like a psychopath. His chair fell over backwards and they both crashed to the carpeted floor.
“Now you’re a real poet.” Anthony’s voice came from under Naomi’s body and screams. The female technician was finally able to gather herself and cut off the broadcast. Laura stood there grinning like a Cheshire cat as the poor technician ran into the studio and tried to pull Naomi off Anthony. It did not help that he was laughing like he was being tickled to death. Finally, with Laura’s help, Anthony was extricated from the fire-breathing, obscenity-spitting Naomi. As they stumbled down the echoing hall leading to the elevator, both Laura and Anthony could barely walk for laughing.
Back in the little control booth, the bare breasted Naomi had to physically force the poor technician into opening her microphone again. At first she tried to explain what had happened by describing it is just a comedy skit, a bit of performance art to challenge her more sedate listeners. Finally realizing the stage of her undress, she fumbled with the buttons of her blouse, as she tried to explain what had happened. Her fingers weren’t working, she was shaking so badly, and the frustration of her inability to button her blouse finally made her give up with a scream. Then she remembered what Anthony said about her losing her job, knew it was now inevitable, and she snapped completely. She went on an obscenity filled tirade about the way she had been treated, the second-rate people she had to work with, the lack of respect and support she received, the absolutely pathetic salary she was forced to accept because of her so-called fucking lack of experience. That was when the technician decided that her own job was also at stake, and cut off Naomi’s self-destructive explosion.
Outside in the limousine, Laura and Anthony were replaying the moment. Finally, Laura couldn’t help herself, and slid over beside Anthony and kissed him soundly on the cheek. As they rode through the busy streets, Anthony whispered to Laura that she would have to turn her head unless she wanted to assist him in satisfying a rather are insistent need.
“This is like a double Viagra.” he said, and proceeded to unzip his trousers. When Laura realized what he was about to do, she turned quickly away and stared out the window.
“This isn’t something that should wait.” he said to the back of Laura’s head.
Laura said nothing, and she wondered how and to whom she would tell this part of the night’s story. As she waited patiently, nervously, she replayed the scene in the radio booth, remembering his soft, husky voice and Naomi’s beautiful breasts heaving as she came.
She turned and looked at Anthony, his long white hair, his hand moving in his lap in the half light of the street light through the dark tinted windows. When he felt her soft hand touch his and then move it away, his eyes opened to see her lovely blonde head of hair falling to his lap. The touch of her lips was excruciatingly sweet.
“Pure poetry.” he sighed, and for the first time in his long erotic life, he felt the delectable tugging of supressed laughter. It was delicious, wickedly wild and wet. When their eyes finally met, she looked absolutely lascivious and they both smiled and burst out laughing once more.
“You’re a sexy old fart.” she said, then paused and considered what she had done. “And I’m a completely certifiable slut.”
“Ain’t it great!” he chuckled.
“I don’t think so.” she said, seriously. “This was just one time, an impetuosity.”
“How will you ever keep up your standing as a certifiable slut?”
“That’s my secret.” she replied, “And speaking of secrets, is Naomi really going to be fired?”
“I haven’t the foggiest. It’s about time the press got a taste of someone telling them boldfaced lies about themselves.”
“You’re absolutely wicked.” she said with some obvious admiration.
By the end of the following day, there was another media feeding frenzy. Naomi’s gurgling orgasm was the talk at every water cooler on the continent. A morning shock jock in New York City had played Anthony’s entire lesson on breasts and poetry, and when it came time for Naomi’s orgasm, the control room turned up the volume so that her muffled moan echoed shatteringly in a million cars making their way to work. The shock jock added to the world’s inexhaustible erotic lexicon, the immortal phrase, ‘Hey baby, show us your poems.’ Unlike the infamous photo that had made Anthony famous which left nothing to the imagination, the replayed interview left everything to the imagination, which made it the stuff of legend.
Ian never loved Laura as much us as when she was happy, when her heart soared because the world was a successful meshing of desire and accomplishment. Laura was happy when work was going well. When she was frustrated at work, she was not much fun.
With Amanda once again on the back burner of her attention needs, and the nuclear explosion of opportunity that came with Anthony’s media performances, Laura was as happy as Ian had ever seen her. She was the fulcrum that moved the great boulder of Anthony Holtz’ fame, and its momentum was almost terrifying.
Yes and no were things she now said to others, not things she had to expect to hear. ‘What was it you said that you wanted? I’ll see, and get back to you. Got-a go. Sorry, I’m running behind.’
When George showed up at her office, she was surprised and annoyed to see him there. His attempt at charm quickly collapsed into bitter complaints that she was ignoring him. He wanted to know where he stood. When his voice started to rise, she thought it best to get him out of the building. They sat in his car and argued for the first time. She told him about her time constraints. She told him he was frightenin
g her with his sudden obsessive behavior. The car reeked of liquor and he was obviously losing control as he screamed at her about how she was ignoring the potential in their relationship; how she was ignoring and denying the potential in her own imagination that she could never satisfy without him. George had clearly lost control. Laura was enraged.
“You sound like an adolescent.” she told him coldly. “I’m not sure I ever want to see you again. I certainly don’t, if you’re going to behave like this. You should go home now, or back to work, or just go wherever you can think about it. If you can’t chill out, this is over. I’m done.”
Laura quickly popped the door of the Porsche and was out and gone while George shouted after her to come back. The irony was that success made Laura’s libido rise exponentially, and if George had played his cards right, she would’ve been prepared for a quick little nooner.
It was Ian who benefited from how her new hectic success hit her libido’s preamp, so when he came home with the news that he had plea bargained Amanda’s assault charge into six months’ probation, it resulted in a long night of erotic pleasure that they hadn’t experienced in years.
Strangely, it wasn’t George that Laura thought about in the small embers of afterglow, but rather it was the incident in the limousine with Anthony. She felt absolutely wicked and Ian was the one who was unknowingly rewarded because of it. The Anthony incident had been impulsive but real, while George felt more and more like an exotic wilderness tour of a place she knew she would never want to stay long. She lay with Ian, like spoons, as easy and as comfortable as two bedside books, resting against one another. She was a big bad erotic novel, ‘Going up-Going down’; he was a book on personal relationships, ‘Becoming the New Man of the House’.
For Ian, change was not long and slow like seasons turning, but was like the turning of the day from dawn to dusk and back once again. Anger and sorrow and impermanence gave way to happiness, love and commitment, which darkened once more to life’s unavoidable pain. The sun, the moon and the stars rose in the eyes of the two women he loved. For Ian, life was like weather he could never foretell, but was always desperate to anticipate. The balance never held for long. Change happened. It was good. It was bad. And like the weather, it was always in control. But, as he lay holding his beautiful wife, Ian was basking in what felt like the most spectacular evening of an Indian summer in a life.