HOPE FOR CHANGE... But Settle for a Bailout (19 page)

Larry clapped, and, after a few seconds of
his lonely applause, the filmmakers and Lori joined. December
smiled broadly and bowed.

“Is dis where your grandmother lives?”

“Yeh,” said Larry. “My dad and his bastard
children live in the floors below us. I lived with my grandmother
from when I was ten,” said Larry, as he crossed to December,
lightly took her fingers, and brought her across the room to show
her the picture of Emma with Herbert Hoover.

“I can’t read it,” said December.

Larry pointed to the little girl.

“Who’s she? the one who looks like Lori?”
asked December.

“My grandmother’ s mom,” said Larry, “and
that’s my grandma,” pointing to the little girl. Larry pointed to
the man in the white suit. “And that’s Herbert Hoover.”

“Who’s dat?” December turned away from the
photo, to the two filmmakers. “Who’re dey, and what’s with the
camera? Dat’s a serious unit.”

“Tres,” said von Sommerberg, approaching
December. “Tres von Sommerberg... from Denmark…”

“Dat’s the number three where I come from,”
said December. “Where’s Denmark?”

“.... Film director… it’s above Germany...
I’m a film director, from Denmark. We’re just a little country, but
we’re famous with the films.”

“Are you famous?”

“I’m here with my producer,” said von
Sommerberg, pointing to Lena. “We’re making a movie about his great
grandmother, the famous dancer and I’ve come back to ask Miss Lewis
here to star in our movie.”

Lori exhaled as though she had been punched.
“P-uhhh, what?”

December excitedly jumped up and down,
noticeably causing her sweatshirt to flop about. “Do it, Lori! Oh!
Do it! Can I be in the movie with my Baby?”

Lena stammered, “Tres, we have to....”

Von Sommerberg, seemingly hypnotized by the
flopping of December’s sweatshirt, weakly let out, “… well, I don’t
see why we can’t write another part.”

“No!” said Lori. “I’m not going to be in
some movie. I’m not your ‘star.’ No.”

“We, of course, would pay you,” said Lena.
“And we wouldn’t be shooting during this trip, as we need to
rewrite our story.”

December ran over to Lori and held both of
her hands. “Oh, hunny, they want you to star in a movie! We can be
in a movie together! Please say yes!”

“No.”

“Oh, hunny, please,” begged December. “At
least say you’ll think about it.”

Lori looked across to Larry. “Bix?”

“Basically, he’s an idiot,” said Larry,
“but, you know, maybe hear out the offer maybe, huh?”

“What’s your offer?” asked Lori.

“Well,” said von Sommerberg, “we have to
rewrite the story, so we are not sure how the part will play out,
but it will be a leading role. Dogme is not about the money, but we
cannot let this movie be made without you. I have never seen anyone
who more closely resembles Astrid Ullagård Can you dance?”

“Every girl can dance,” said Lori.

Lena smiled.

“No, can you dance?” von Sommerberg asked
again.

“I danced as a kid.”

“How long?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Seven or eight years”

“Why did you stop?”

“I didn’t want to be thought of as just a
girl.”

“What kind of dance?”

“Ballet, mostly.”

“That’s really lovely,” said Lena.

“I think you will be the right one,” said
von Sommerberg. “Will you please consider our offer?”

Lori sat on the sofa. December sat next to
her. Larry sat beside December, who scooted close to Lori, taking
her hand and setting it onto her own lap, and resting her own hands
on top. “You haven’t really made an offer, but, okay, yeh, I’ll
think about it.”

“Great!” said von Sommerberg.

“This is really great,” said Lena.

“You’ll be glad for doing this,” said the
director. “We will make sure.”

“This movie will be really something,” said
Lena. “We can tell our investors we really have something big.”

“Yeh, okay,” said Lori. “Whatever.”

“And me,” said December, “write something
for me.”

“I don’t know,” said Lena, as December
shucked her sweatshirt, revealing a tightly packed, clingy top that
could not possibly have hugged her curving lines any more
tightly.

“We’ll just have to figure out how,” said
von Sommerberg, lifting the camera to his shoulder and throwing the
red lamp on as he drew in tightly on Lori’s face, and December’s
face and then back, sweeping across their bodies. He lingered on
December, who did a slight shoulder shimmy.

Lena groaned.

.

“Are you ready?” said December, to the
mirrored wall of the studio.

“Larry, close your eyes,” said Lori. “Please
don’t look.” Lori stepped out of a small dressing room set into one
of the mirrored walls of the studio, wearing only an extremely
small, olive green bikini, with the word “ARMY” printed in small
white letters across the backside.

“Yeh, baby,” said December. “Dat’s what I’m
talking about. Turn around, baby.” Lori did so. “Oh, yeh. Lookin’
good, Soldier Girl.”

Larry, with his hand over his eyes, asked if
he could look.

“I’m just wearing a swimsuit, Larry, but can
you turn the other way....,” said Lori. “Please.”

“Thanks, hunny,” December said to Larry, as
she got up and stood belly-to-belly with Lori, and put both of her
hands on Lori’s waist. “Fits good. See? I’m thinking of my soldier
girl.” She let her hands roam across Lori’s ass and down her
thighs, digging her fingers deeply into the tight flesh. “Oh
yeh....” December leaned into Lori’s chest and began to lightly
kiss her skin.

“Now?” asked Larry.

“No, Bixie, please,” said Lori, pulling
December by the hand to the dressing room, and closing the
door.

When Larry asked “now” again, Emma replied,
“Is Lori gone?”

He uncovered his eyes, turned and looked
around. Soft moaning, seemingly too faint for Emma’s ears, drifted
across the studio. “I think she may have just stepped out,” said
Larry, going to the Victrola and winding the crank.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The Golden Register

Emily Kashabara sipped from her
Jack-in-the-Box coffee, as Ed Lossé and Larry van der Bix ploughed
through the scattered wrappers on the table, searching for hash
brown sticks, curly fries, egg rolls or mini-churros. I watched
Lori sip her iced tea and thought back half a lifetime ago, when we
were literally kids, piled into Larry’s car, pooling coins to
afford gas and fast food. Her skin, then as now, flawless, never a
blemish, honey-colored from the sun. She was always the strongest
of the three of us, able to run, jump, throw, climb and anything
else demanding strength and dexterity. And always humble, always
gentle, always finding the way that something could happen, rather
then wielding the needle to burst a balloon.

During our marriage, I thought things were
going badly, when she thought they were going well. At first, all
we could afford were small apartments, never a house. She would
say, “look at how comfy we are.” Then as things finally started
going well, she began to sour on the direction of our lives
together. Finally a house, but she complained we were never
together to enjoy it. When I pointed out the pressures on us, she’d
say impractical things, like, “When we lock the door, we can lock
the worries outside, too.”

Now, seated across the table, she was as
beautiful as anytime I’d ever known her, her skin the color of
toast, her hair full and flowing freely, and her body perfect,
tight, muscled and youthful. It’s almost as though aging had passed
her by, to visit later perhaps, but taking nothing up front.

Inside myself, a voice kept repeating that I
needed her. My mistake always was telling her so. She wanted to be
wanted – everybody did, she said – but she hated to be needed. I
couldn’t see how there was a difference and the harder I tried to
keep her, the more difficult it became to convince her to stay.

“Do we have to do fast food each time we
meet?” asked Emily.

“Doesn’t matter to me,” said Ed, robotically
moving seasoned curly fries to his lips.

“I like this place, but, yeh, no, sure,
okay, whatever,” said Larry, popping a churro.

“There’s some decisiveness,” said Lori.

“We can rotate,” I said, alone at the table
having nothing to eat or drink. “But we do need to move through the
business here. Emily, you start…”

“Larry indicated his wish to create trust
funds for him, his grandmother, and a couple others,” said Emily.
Those are straightforward, and we can execute papers today and have
final documents ready to file in time for the disbursement
conference. While that may not necessarily cushion the initial tax
hit, it will protect those assets from future liabilities. Emily
drank from her coffee and, appearing to have spotted something,
reached and picked up a mini-churro. She held it up in Larry’s
direction, and, with his nod, ate it. “Much of the philanthropic
giving — not for… the… artists — can be done with a foundation.
I’ve drawn up articles of incorporation and by-laws for a basic
foundation structure. Don’t have a name for it....”

“I’ve been thinking a lot about this,” said
Larry.

“And…,” said Emily.

“Well,” said Larry. “I don’t know.”

“Real leadership, Bixie,” said Lori.

“The Bixie Fund,” said Larry.

“Lame,” said Lori.

“It’s not lame,” Larry said, sounding
hurt.

“Not as a nickname, but c’mon…. How about,
like, the Sunshine Fund?”

“Yawn,” said Ed.

“What do you suggest?” asked Emily.

“Fantasy Foundation?” said Ed.

“Gross,” said Emily.

“Only cuz you know Larry has some weird
ideas of where to throw money,” said Ed, “but maybe his donations
will make things happen that no one thought possible?”

“And it sure doesn’t feel real,” said
Larry.

“I kind’a like it,” said Lori. “Fits
Bix.”

“Can you draw that up, Ms. Kashabara?” asked
Larry. “And please can tell me if I ever ask anything of you that
is distasteful. I don’t want to lose a talented, smart, young
professional just because you think I am being a pig.”

Emily appeared surprised. “I don’t think
you’re a pig. Actually, you seem very respectful. But, okay, I’ll
tell you if it becomes an issue, I guess.” She thought for a bit.
“Thanks. Thanks for that.”

“Good boy, Bix,” said Lori.

“Okay,” I said, “so trusts, a foundation…
anything more, Emily?”

As Emily outlined how Larry could avoid the
35% federal tax hit on all gifting over the $5.12 million level, I
watched Lori pucker her lips around her straw, to sip her iced tea.
It had been almost ten years since I last kissed Lori, and short of
first dates and a fling with a fellow accountant, it had been years
since I regularly kissed anyone. Never had I felt more secure, more
at ease, more fully loved then when I gave myself completely my
wife. And yet I could count on one hand the times during the
marriage when I had let go enough to feel loved that
completely.

“And so the parks gift might not be accepted
for this sort of tax-avoidance strategy,” said Emily. “We would
have to submit the question for consideration at the disbursement
conference.”

There was silence at the table. After a few
moments, I felt a glancing blow to my calve and, by her expression,
could see that Lori was reaching across to send me a subtle
message. “Thank you, Emily.... Ed, investment report….”

“I’m recommending a greater liquid
availability than most clients would normally feel comfortable
with, as Larry seems like he’s ready to start moving dollars out
the door,” said Ed. “This is going to mean there has got to be some
pretty strict signature controls.”

“Got that covered,” I said.

“I’ve got a range of portfolio options that
I’ve been emailing back-and-forth with Larry, Lawrence, and Emily,
and the consensus, tell me if I am wrong, is we all like the stock
index funds and bond mix.... Larry, yeh?”

“Uh huh, yeh,” said Larry.

“Okay,” said Ed, “we can put those
signatures down upon receipt of the asset and get the State to
route funds directly. He sat up and rubbed his hands together. “But
what I like is that even the liquid portions fit with where Larry
seems to be going, as we have sufficient reserves that we can work
with currency holdings… and so the Euro, the Yen, the Pound, the
Kroner and some others give us the chance at return and to park
assets, and then when we’re talking about investment into Larry’s
personal ventures…”

“Like with Ewa or Anekee,” said Larry.

“Anekee?” I said.

“… van der Velden,” said Larry.

“Some hot-blooded, furious Italian model,”
said Ed.

“Investing in her is to build a charismatic
personality cult that fawns over everything she says,” said
Larry.

“Mostly likely while they’re staring at her
tits,” said Ed. “Granted, not the typical business model, but also
not unprofitable, if done right.”

“She’s really opinionated,” said Larry.
“It’s really exciting.”

“Okay, yeh,” said Emily, “you’re being a
pig, kind of.”

“
Him,
maybe,” said Larry, pointing to
Ed, “but I know Ane. She’s way more than what people see up front,
but all people say is, “Oh, look at them…. Fake or real.”

“Piggy-ness is kind of a fine line, Larry.
Hard to walk next to it and not fall in,” said Lori.

“Have I been a pig about December?”

“Larry,” said Lori, “you shot a frickin’ web
cam show with her climbing on top of you.”

“W’ull,” said Larry, as Emily gasped,
“that’s how she makes her…. So if someone didn’t go to college –
and can’t, cuz she’s a Dreamer – and has other ways of making
money, legally… somehow that’s bad?”

“We’re not talking about Dee being bad,”
said Lori. “It’s about being a pig.”