Steven Hunley
06-07-2017, 06:19 PM
The Bigger They Come-
On the other side of the island was its true harbor, named after Arthur’s kingdom, but not nearly as peaceful or serene. On the surface it looked bucolic, even pristine, but beneath that boiled twin cauldrons of jealously and avarice. The harbor was visited by stylish yachts, piloted by the rich and famous trying in vain to escape notoriety on the mainland, just twenty-three miles away. Like plague, it followed them everywhere, and was enough to drive them to drink. The harbor was dominated by an over-sized casino, a sure sign of decadence, resembling a corpulent Medici tower complete with red tile roof, a dungeon or a debtor's prison, built expressly for unlucky patrons.
The Marguerita pitcher made a triumphant tinkle when Little Miss Perfect stirred it just right. And she kept it up, and kept it up, while humming a tune from a TV pilot she was supposed to approve called Malcolm in the Middle. Along with the tinkle tinkle tinkle she’d rhythmically wiggle her bottom.
Across the galley, sitting at a table with Chris, Bob saw the fringe move seductively on the hem of his wife’s little black Dior spaghetti-strap dress. It unnerved him.
“Why do you suppose,” he mused to Chris, “only petite women look good in so-called little black dresses?”
Chris was on his third Manhattan, but as observant and philosophical in a way only drunks can be.
“Because petite women do their best to help define the tradition.”
“You’re not the boss of me now. You’re not the boss of me now. You’re not the boss of me now, and you’re not so big.”
Little Miss Perfect stopped rubbing the lyrics in Bob’s face, looked up and smiled. The petite firecracker was about to go off.
“Nat, hold on there. We can get back together, I know it,” he pleaded, and loosened his tie.
“After I’ve found these letters?”
There was a stack of letters on the granite bar, drenched in perfume, and one held a lock of red hair bound with scarlet ribbon. The notes were XXX rated in content, dotted with lipstick prints and signed Jill in such a young hand it was like a grammar school girl was the authoress.
“You may be my husband, but you’re not my director, and certainly not my boss. How many budding starlets has it been? How many stand-ins? How many bit players? How many notches have you carved on your gun handle at my expense?”
She took a sip and put the glass down on the counter. A yacht with bright lights motored past having a party, you could hear the revelers making merry, and for a second light streamed through the brass porthole, illuminating her face while sweeping left to right. Her hazel eyes were downcast and only dimly reflected in the cold polished granite. She wondered, while absently wiping salt from the glass’s edge with her finger,
“How many more times?”
Bob had no idea, not even a clue. It’s easy for a man to divorce his intentions from his actions, especially for actors. They lead two lives anyway, and understand intrinsically the roles of both Jekyll and Hyde. As if their thoughts were connected, she looked up.
“You know I’m going to leave you, don’t you?”
“What?”
“I’m filing papers tomorrow with the clerk.”
Bob was up like lightning. Chris passed out next to him, unconscious, like he’d shot himself in the head. Bob blew up like a rubber Superman inflatable dummy and expanded his chest.
“No. No. No way. You can’t. You won’t. I won’t have it!”
“Oh, but you will have it, Jr. And there’s nothing you can do about it.”
She lit a Marlboro and tossed a gold Calibri lighter into the crystal ashtray.
Oh, he couldn’t stand it when she was severe. The coquette was alright. The sexy seductive mistress was his favorite flavor. But he didn’t care for her severe aspect when it growled at him directly. He feared it.
“You wouldn’t dare. What about our marriage? What will the public think?”
“I’m sick of the public. I’m up to here with the public. I’ve been working ever since I was four, and I’m tired. Tired of paparazzi, intrusions, interviews, I’m up to here.” She motioned to her throat.
“I’d rather live in a little grass shack eating fish tacos than in a mansion in Beverly Hills eating Kobe beef. You’re the new comer; the Johnny Come Lately. You’re the fresh beefcake. You knock ‘em dead in the isles for a few more reels. I’ve had it.”
“But what about me? My career? It’ll tank without you and your long-time studio connections, it will wither like stagnant grapes on a vine.”
“Junior,” she said flatly. “I couldn’t care less.”
She snapped the end of her cigarette and the cherry flew off like a red-glowing comet and nose-dived for safety into the ashtray.
“It’s not my problem. As Hardy pointed out in Mayor of Casterbridge, life is unfair.”
She took off her Prada high-heels and strode up the stairway to the deck. It was an Academy award winning performance complete with dramatic irony, but only because it was true.
Bob sat and stared vacantly at the table top. One by one, various emotions passed like cinematic shadows over his face. One of hopelessness, where he directed his eyes upwards as if to petition heaven, one of despair, where he nervously looked right and left to no avail. There were only two expressions left in his limited repertoire. There was one where his eyes became fixed, just a few inches in front of his face, the sign of fathomless thought. This was followed by setting his mouth rigidly, in firm lines of determination, and followed by a whispered secret soliloquy.
“If a star can rise, then a star can fall.”
Bob got up, straightened his tie, and climbed the stairs. There was a scream and a kerplunk, and it was over.
İStevenHunley 2013
https://youtu.be/qJi8z4qTmIo The Bigger They Come The Harder They Fall -- Steve Marriott and Peter Frampton
On the other side of the island was its true harbor, named after Arthur’s kingdom, but not nearly as peaceful or serene. On the surface it looked bucolic, even pristine, but beneath that boiled twin cauldrons of jealously and avarice. The harbor was visited by stylish yachts, piloted by the rich and famous trying in vain to escape notoriety on the mainland, just twenty-three miles away. Like plague, it followed them everywhere, and was enough to drive them to drink. The harbor was dominated by an over-sized casino, a sure sign of decadence, resembling a corpulent Medici tower complete with red tile roof, a dungeon or a debtor's prison, built expressly for unlucky patrons.
The Marguerita pitcher made a triumphant tinkle when Little Miss Perfect stirred it just right. And she kept it up, and kept it up, while humming a tune from a TV pilot she was supposed to approve called Malcolm in the Middle. Along with the tinkle tinkle tinkle she’d rhythmically wiggle her bottom.
Across the galley, sitting at a table with Chris, Bob saw the fringe move seductively on the hem of his wife’s little black Dior spaghetti-strap dress. It unnerved him.
“Why do you suppose,” he mused to Chris, “only petite women look good in so-called little black dresses?”
Chris was on his third Manhattan, but as observant and philosophical in a way only drunks can be.
“Because petite women do their best to help define the tradition.”
“You’re not the boss of me now. You’re not the boss of me now. You’re not the boss of me now, and you’re not so big.”
Little Miss Perfect stopped rubbing the lyrics in Bob’s face, looked up and smiled. The petite firecracker was about to go off.
“Nat, hold on there. We can get back together, I know it,” he pleaded, and loosened his tie.
“After I’ve found these letters?”
There was a stack of letters on the granite bar, drenched in perfume, and one held a lock of red hair bound with scarlet ribbon. The notes were XXX rated in content, dotted with lipstick prints and signed Jill in such a young hand it was like a grammar school girl was the authoress.
“You may be my husband, but you’re not my director, and certainly not my boss. How many budding starlets has it been? How many stand-ins? How many bit players? How many notches have you carved on your gun handle at my expense?”
She took a sip and put the glass down on the counter. A yacht with bright lights motored past having a party, you could hear the revelers making merry, and for a second light streamed through the brass porthole, illuminating her face while sweeping left to right. Her hazel eyes were downcast and only dimly reflected in the cold polished granite. She wondered, while absently wiping salt from the glass’s edge with her finger,
“How many more times?”
Bob had no idea, not even a clue. It’s easy for a man to divorce his intentions from his actions, especially for actors. They lead two lives anyway, and understand intrinsically the roles of both Jekyll and Hyde. As if their thoughts were connected, she looked up.
“You know I’m going to leave you, don’t you?”
“What?”
“I’m filing papers tomorrow with the clerk.”
Bob was up like lightning. Chris passed out next to him, unconscious, like he’d shot himself in the head. Bob blew up like a rubber Superman inflatable dummy and expanded his chest.
“No. No. No way. You can’t. You won’t. I won’t have it!”
“Oh, but you will have it, Jr. And there’s nothing you can do about it.”
She lit a Marlboro and tossed a gold Calibri lighter into the crystal ashtray.
Oh, he couldn’t stand it when she was severe. The coquette was alright. The sexy seductive mistress was his favorite flavor. But he didn’t care for her severe aspect when it growled at him directly. He feared it.
“You wouldn’t dare. What about our marriage? What will the public think?”
“I’m sick of the public. I’m up to here with the public. I’ve been working ever since I was four, and I’m tired. Tired of paparazzi, intrusions, interviews, I’m up to here.” She motioned to her throat.
“I’d rather live in a little grass shack eating fish tacos than in a mansion in Beverly Hills eating Kobe beef. You’re the new comer; the Johnny Come Lately. You’re the fresh beefcake. You knock ‘em dead in the isles for a few more reels. I’ve had it.”
“But what about me? My career? It’ll tank without you and your long-time studio connections, it will wither like stagnant grapes on a vine.”
“Junior,” she said flatly. “I couldn’t care less.”
She snapped the end of her cigarette and the cherry flew off like a red-glowing comet and nose-dived for safety into the ashtray.
“It’s not my problem. As Hardy pointed out in Mayor of Casterbridge, life is unfair.”
She took off her Prada high-heels and strode up the stairway to the deck. It was an Academy award winning performance complete with dramatic irony, but only because it was true.
Bob sat and stared vacantly at the table top. One by one, various emotions passed like cinematic shadows over his face. One of hopelessness, where he directed his eyes upwards as if to petition heaven, one of despair, where he nervously looked right and left to no avail. There were only two expressions left in his limited repertoire. There was one where his eyes became fixed, just a few inches in front of his face, the sign of fathomless thought. This was followed by setting his mouth rigidly, in firm lines of determination, and followed by a whispered secret soliloquy.
“If a star can rise, then a star can fall.”
Bob got up, straightened his tie, and climbed the stairs. There was a scream and a kerplunk, and it was over.
İStevenHunley 2013
https://youtu.be/qJi8z4qTmIo The Bigger They Come The Harder They Fall -- Steve Marriott and Peter Frampton