Chapter 7
To a casual observer, the scene may have looked as though an enchanted princess had just been kidnapped by a bridge troll. In actuality, the lovely Jordan was seated opposite the desk of one Chester Bloomfield, an ogre of a man who was over a hundred pounds overweight. His face was shrouded by three weeks of unkempt beard growth, his belly spilled over his belt and he reeked of flatulence.
As he spoke, he wheezed as though his lungs were having difficult processing air. “Blumpkin.”
Jordan clutched her existent pearls. “I beg your pardon?”
“Yeah,” Chester said. “I’m going to need a blumpkin.”
“A what?” Jordan asked.
Awards, props, and movie memorabilia littered the executive’s office, all shiny reminders to the world of his Hollywood pull and prowess. The big wig licked the back of his hand, then used it to straighten one of the three strands of hair left on his head. “You know, a blumpkin.”
“I have no idea what that is,” Jordan said.
Chester opened his desk drawer. He pulled out a can of sardines and a box of crackers. He tossed a tiny fish onto a crunchy disc, then popped it into his mouth, allowing the stinky juices to pour out all over his chin. “What are you, a nun? You have no idea what a blumpkin is?”
“I do not,” Jordan said.
“Yikes,” Chester said. “Boy, you good lookin’ broads live sheltered lives. Look, we’re going to go into the bathroom, I’m going to sit on the toilet and you’re uh…going to uh…”
If Jordan could have shot lasers out of her eyes, she would have.
“…you’re going to uh…yarble my narbles.”
“What?” Jordan asked.
“You know,” Chester said as he popped another sardine on a cracker. “Play the skin flute.”
“Huh?” Jordan asked.
Chester gobbled up the revolting snack. “Spit shine the piccolo.”
“Gah?”
“Polish Mr. Winky.”
“Zah?”
“Gargle the sausage.”
“Dah?”
“Down the DNA milkshake.”
“Now you’ve lost me.”
“Slurp the snake?”
“Speak English.”
Chester made himself another sardine cracker, then ate it. “Honey, if you want the part, I’m going to need you to perform felatio on my while I’m taking a shit, OK? Simple. Don’t make a Federal case about it.”
Jordan sprang to her feet. “This conversation is over.”
“Fine,” Chester said as he made another sardine cracker. “Adios, loser.”
The actress marched for the door, then stopped and turned around. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you either roll my smelly dingle donger around in your yapper for five to ten minutes, fifteen tops, until I release my happy juice or you’ll never work in this town again,” Chester said.
“No,” Jordan said. “No, there’s way you have that kind of power, not anymore.”
Chester threw his feet up on his desk, then clasped his hands around the back of his head. “I’m in this chair, aren’t I?”
Bile rose in the back of Jordan’s throat. “Please. I’ll go. I won’t tell anyone about this.”
“I can’t take that chance,” Chester said as he chomped on his sardine cracker, letting the crumbs spray all over. “I can’t keep coming up with phony twin brothers to take the fall forever.”
Jordan returned to her chair. Her legs were wobblily and she felt as though she might faint. “Why do you do this?”
Chester smiled. “Now there’s a question. I could answer that one for hours, but I’ll give you the short version.”
“Please do,” Jordan said.
“Look at me,” Chester said. “And look at you.”
“What of it?” Jordan asked.
“Hard work,” Chester said. “Dedication. Talent. It’s all huey. Truth is kid, the better looking you are, the better off your life will be and well, when you look like me, life isn’t so kind.”
“You’re the head of a major movie studio,” Jordan said. “You’re worth millions.”
“True,” Chester said. “And if I looked like Guy Kincaid, I could have farted my life out in my sleep but since I look like me, I had to beg, borrow, steal, blackmail, connive and harass my way to where I am and you know why I did it?”
“I’m sure you’ll tell me,” Jordan said.
“Pussy,” Chester said. “Not just any pussy. The primo kind. The top shelf stuff. See, when you’re born looking the way I do, you grow up and you realize you have one of two options. The first option is to accept the limits that God gave you and find some other ugly broad who also knows her place. Work a regular, boring job for shitty pay. Make a couple of ugly kids and continue the cycle. The other option is to get rich, so rich that you can offer a beautiful woman anything she wants, so rich that she’ll overlook the way you look.”
“You have that,” Jordan said. “I’ve seen your wife on TV. She’s quite fetching.”
“She is,” Chester said. “But you know how it is. Tell someone their entire life they can’t have a cookie and pretty soon…”
Jordan finished the sentence. “…cookies are all you can think about.”
“You got it,” Chester said.
Jordan found her strength. She stood up. “I won’t do it and if you besmirch my name to other studios, I’ll sue.”
“Good,” Chester said. “Save me the trouble.”
“What?” Jordan asked.
“Either I tell every suit in town that you’re a big whack-a-doo who makes false accusations of sexual harassment, or you hire an attorney and put out an all points bulletin, alerting every other studio head that you’re just a lawsuit waiting to happen. Either way, I win and you lose.”
“Whatever,” Jordan said. “I’ll figure it out later.”
Chester sighed. “Oh, how the feminists have warped your mind.”
“I’m not listening to this.”
“Honey,” Chester said. “This is the way it has always been. Casting couches have existed in Hollywood since the film industry began. The first time some prick put a camera together, I have no doubt he told some chick that she’ll have to tongue bathe his dingus for a one-minute walk-on in a silent picture.”
“That’s not the way it is anymore,” Jordan said.
“Jesus,” Chester said. “Do you have any idea the kind of deal I’m offering? A few measly minutes of displeasure, followed by an entire lifetime of getting paid millions of dollars to play pretend. Your face will be projected on giant movie screens all over the world. Your adoring fans will hang on every word. Awards. Accolades. Fame. Fortune. You’ll go wherever you want. Do whatever you want. Marry whoever you want. No man will say no to you. And when you die? People will remember you. Film students will study you. Authors will write books about you. You’ll be remembered. Revered. You’ll live on as a piece of American pop culture forever. Eh, I know it seems gross now but trust me, when you’re seventy-years old and dying alone in a cheap nursing home bed after working the Fatty Burger drive-through for the next fifty years, you’ll kick yourself for not smoking the pole. You really will.”
Jordan sat in defeated silence.
“Hell,” Chester said. “When I was your age, if some Hollywood big shot had offered me this deal, I would have gobbled that knob, cupped the balls, swallowed the baby batter, offered a reach around and a second go-around. Oh well, some people don’t know a good thing when it’s staring them in the face. Go on. Get out of here. Go find out I’m right the hard way.”
Jordan felt disembodied, as though she was no longer inside her own skin. She couldn’t believe the words that came out of her mouth next. “Just tell me one thing.”
“What’s that?” Chester asked.
“Why does it have to be on the toilet?” Jordan asked.
“It’s a power thing,” Chester said.
Bookshelf Battle 