Myra Breckinridge (17 page)

40

The room is filled with the smell of Randolph's pipe. Across the floor, burnt-out cinders indicate his various maneuvers. He was in good form. So am I, despite constant headaches and the odd sensation that my legs are filled with burning pins. Fortunately the cast will be removed tomorrow. To my surprise, Randolph did not think me paranoid when I told him my suspicions. "It crossed my mind, too," he said, sucking at his pipe. "It could very well have been Rusty's revenge." "Or Buck Loner's. He would do anything to remove me from the Academy. Even murder." Yet as I gave voice to my suspicions I cannot, in my heart of hearts, really believe that anyone in his right mind could wish to remove me from a world so desperately in need of me. I prefer to have faith in my fellowman. I must even have a certain tenderness for him if I am to change, through example as well as teaching, his attitude toward sex. There was a time in our evolution when hate alone was motor to our deeds. But that age is ending, for I mean to bring to the world love of the sort that I have learned from Mary-Ann, a love which, despite its intensity, is mere prelude to something else again, to a new dimension which I alone am able to perceive, if dimly. Once I have formulated it, the true mission will begin. But for now I must be cryptic and declare that nothing is what it seems and what nothing seems is false. "I would suspect Rusty more than Buck," said Randolph, plunging his thick paws into the huge get-well basket of fruit sent me "with love" from Uncle Buck and Bobbie Dean Loner. Randolph crushed a peach against his jaws. I looked away. "The motive in the case of Rusty is more profound psychologically." Randolph's teeth struck the peach's pit with a grating sound that sent shivers along my spine. "Well, it's done and past. And I'm willing to forgive whoever it was." "Are you really?" Randolph sounded surprised, not prepared for the new me. "Of course. Suffering ennobles, doesn't it?" I had no desire to confide in Randolph, particularly now when I am assembling an entirely new personality with which to take the world by storm. "But I do wish you'd talk to Dr. Mengers and ask him to give me a hormone cocktail. I'm sprouting hair in all directions." Randolph wiped his lips free of peach juice with a banana which he then unpeeled. "Yes, he told me about your request. Unfortunately, it's medically dangerous at the moment." "But I can't let Mary-Ann see me like this." "I'm sure she'll understand." Before I could remonstrate with Randolph, he was launched upon one of his monologues whose subject, as usual, was Randolph Spenser Montag. "... office in Brentwood, a quiet neighborhood. Many of my patients live nearby which makes things easy for them if not for me. I've already made the down payment on the house, which is Spanish-style ranchtype, and so I should be ready for business in a few weeks. Culturally the Los Angeles area is far richer than I had dreamed, with many extremely stimulating people..." I was spared Randolph's rationalizations by the sudden opening of the door and the nurse shouting, "Surprise, surprise!" The surprise was an incline board on wheels which the nurse rolled backwards into the room, to my amazement. Was I expected to get on it and be wheeled about like a sacred relic or Pharaonic mummy? The mystery was solved when, with a flourish, the nurse spun the thing around to reveal Letitia Van Allen in a neck brace, strapped to the board. "Darling!" Letitia was exuberant, despite the strangeness of her position. "Thank God, you're conscious! We were so worried!" "I'm Dr. Montag," said Randolph gravely, never one to be kept for long out of a conversation. I made the introductions. "Sorry I can't shake hands." Letitia was intrepid. "My neck is fractured and two spinal discs have fused. Otherwise I'm in a great shape." The nurse agreed. Obviously she worships Letitia. "Miss Van Allen is just bursting with energy. It's all we could do to keep her in traction." "How long have you been here?" I asked, suspecting what had happened. "Two days after your accident, I took a header on the stairs at Malibu, and here I am, getting the first real rest I've had in twenty years." "Except she's a naughty girl and not resting at all." The nurse was adoring. "She has moved her whole office into the hospital. You should see her room. It's a madhouse!" "Sweetie, will you mix us a nice martini? Beefeater gin, no vermouth, on the rocks, with just the tiniest dash of rock salt." "Oh, Miss Van Allen, you know hospital rules... "And a glass of champagne for yourself. Hurry up now! Letitia is parched." The nurse departed. Letitia beamed at us. Then she frowned. "Angel, what's wrong with your face? It looks like you're... growing a beard." I sighed. "Well, I am. A result of some sort of hormonal imbalance caused by the accident. Isn't that right, Doctor?" Randolph blew sparks at Letitia, and agreed, at convincing quasi-scientific length. All the while, Letitia was studying me with a thoughtful look. I cursed myself for not having used a thick foundation makeup. "You know," said Letitia, when Randolph had wheezed into silence, "you would make a marvelouslooking man. Really, Myra, I mean it." "Don't be silly!" I grew hot with anxiety, as well as rage at Dr. Mengers for not having done more to prevent this dreadful, if temporary, reversion to my original state. "Darling, I didn't mean it as an insult! Quite the contrary. In fact..." Letitia apologized at length as we drank the martinis the nurse brought us and watched Randolph break open a large pineapple and tear at its tallowy flesh. After what seemed an age of small talk, Randolph finished the pineapple and, with many a puff and wheeze and groan, got to his feet and said good-by. The moment the door shut behind him, Letitia flew across the room on her incline board, coming to a full stop beside my bed. "It was perfection!" She roared happily. "Total perfection! I have never in my life known such absolute and complete happiness. Such a... no, there are no words to describe what I went through. All I know is that I am now entirely fulfilled. I have lived and I have loved to the fullest! I can at last give up sex because anything more would be anticlimax." "Not to mention fatal." I must say Letitia's happiness depressed me mortally. "Just what did Rusty do to you this time?" "What did he not do!" Her eyes became glazed with memory and gin. "It all happened the day he signed the contract at Fox. You know I got him the lead in that series with top money, special billing, participation, the works. Anyway, after the signing, we went back to Malibu to celebrate." Her voice was dreamy. "It began upstairs when he tore my clothes off in the closet. Then he raped me standing up with a metal clothes hanger twisted around my neck, choking me. I could hardly breathe. It was exquisite! Then one thing led to another. Those small attentions a girl like me cherishes... a lighted cigarette stubbed out on my derriere, a complete beating with his great thick heavy leather belt, a series of ravenous bites up and down the inner thighs, drawing blood. All the usual fun things, except that this time he went beyond anything he had ever tried before. This time he dragged me to the head of the stairs and raped me from behind, all the while beating me with his boot. Then, just as I was about to reach the big 0, shrieking with pleasure, he hurled me down the stairs, so that my orgasm and the final crash with the banister occurred simultaneously. I fainted with joy! Without a doubt, it was the completion of my life." "And here you are, half paralyzed." I could not resist being sour. "Only temporarily. But I agree, one more go and I'll be dead, which is why we've agreed not to see each other again, except in a business way." "He no longer needs you, so he drops you." "You are a case, Myra!" Letitia tolled a great bronze laugh. "Actually the opposite is true. Since he's going to be a star he'll need me more than ever, in the business way. No, these things run their course. Frankly I don't think I shall ever again need sex. Once you have known the kind of perfection that I obtained at the moment of collision with that banister, anything else is too secondrate to be endured. I am a fulfilled woman, perhaps the only one in the world." I must say I can only admire (and perhaps envy) Ledtia. Not since the early Betty Hutton films has female masochism been so beautifully served. But I have my own problems. I come straight to the point. "Will Rusty go back to Mary-Ann?" "Never. He's playing the field now. He's taking a bachelor pad with that young stud who was just let go by Universal--John Edward Jane." "So you think he'll settle down to a life of promiscuity." I was relieved. "After me, where can he go? Don't worry. He's lost all interest in your girlfriend." This was said gaily. Even so, I felt shame, not so much for myself as for Mary-Ann. "She's not my girlfriend. She has a horror of Lesbianism." "That you don't share. Oh, come off it, Myra. You can tell your pal Letitia. Why, we've all gone that route one time or another--it can be a lot of laughs, two girls and one dildo." Nevertheless, I continued to protest our innocence, while Letitia, getting more and more drunk on gin, described in some detail how, many years before, she had been seduced by Buck Loner's wife Bobbie Dean who then, no doubt filled with remorse, got religion one day while buying Belgian endives at the Farmers Market and gave up diking on the spot to become a Jehovah's Witness. The story is not without its inspirational side. But I am more concerned with Mary-Ann's reputation, and our relationship which means more to me than anything in this world. I talked to Mary-Ann a few minutes ago, shortly after the dead-drunk Letitia was wheeled back to her room. Mary-Ann sounded happy. She can't wait for me to come home. I told her what the doctor told me just now: the cast comes off tomorrow and I will be able to go home by the end of the week. Unfortunately he refuses to give me a hormonal injection and my face looks a fright, with strange patches of beard. I also dread the removal of the bandage since, according to the nurse, all my lovely hair has been cut off. I hope Mary-Ann can bear the gruesome sight. I hope I can.

41

Where are my breasts? **Where are my breasts?**

42

What an extraordinary document! I have spent all morning reading this notebook and I can hardly believe that I was ever the person who wrote those demented pages. I've been debating whether or not to show them to my wife but I think, all in all, it's better to let the dead past bury its dead. As it is, neither of us ever mentions the period in which I was a woman and except for my agent, Miss Van Allen, we deliberately avoid seeing anyone who knew me in those days. For over three years now we have been living in the San Fernando Valley on what they call a ranch but is actually just a few acres of date palms and lemon trees. The house is modern with every convenience and I have just built an outdoor barbecue pit which is much admired by the neighbors, many of whom are personalities in show business or otherwise work in some capacity or another in the Industry. Ours is a friendly community, with many fine people to share interests with. At present I am writing a series, currently in its second year on ABC. I would of course like very much to do feature films but they are not that easy to come by. Miss Van Allen, however, keeps submitting my name so who knows when lightning will strike? Meanwhile, the series is a good credit and I make good money. While cleaning out the attic, I came across this notebook along with all the manuscripts I wrote back in New York. Frankly I can't make head or tail of them. I certainly went through a pretentious phase! Luckily everything is now stabilized for me and I have just about the best wife and marriage I know of. Mary-Ann still sings professionally from time to time as well as appearing locally on television with her own children's program five days a week in the early A. M. She is quite a celebrity with the small fry in the Valley. It's been a long time since I've seen Buck Loner but he's doing O.K. with the Academy, I gather, and every now and then one of the students actually gets a job in show business. So my work wasn't entirely in vain. The most famous alumnus is Ace Mann who used to be Rusty Godowsky. After mopping up in that television series, he promptly inked a multiple nonexclusive contract with Universal and is now the Number Four Box Office Star in the World, according to Film Daily. He is also, I'm sorry to learn, a complete homosexual, for which I feel a certain degree of responsibility and guilt. But Dr. Montag, whom I ran into last week outside \Yil Wright's on Santa i\'lonica Boulevard, said he thought it was probably always in the cards for Rusty and what I did to him just brought his true nature to the surface. I hope he's right. Dr. Montag seems happy, although he now weighs over three hundred pounds and at first I didn't recognize him, but then he didn't recognize me either. Well, none of us is getting any younger. I am now almost entirely bald, which I compensate for by wearing a rather dashing R. A. F.-style moustache. Needless to say, it is a constant sadness that Mary-Ann and I can never have children. But ever since we both became Christian Scientists we tend to believe that what happens in this life is for the best. Although I nearly lost my mind and tried to kill myself when I learned that my breasts had been removed (Dr. Mengers had been forced to take this step because my life was endangered by the silicone which, as a result of the accident, threatened to enter the bloodstream), I now realize that it was the best thing that ever happened to me if only because once Mary-Ann realized that I was really Myron Breckinridge, her attitude toward me changed completely. Two weeks after I left the hospital where I spent my long convalescence and rehabilitation, we were married in Vegas, and so were able at last to settle down and live a happy and normal life, raising dogs and working for Planned Parenthood. Incidentally, I noticed a quotation scribbled in one of the margins of the notebook. Something she (I hate to say "I"!) copied from some book about Jean-Jacques Rousseau. I don't suppose it's giving away any secrets to say that like so many would-be intellectuals back East Myra never actually read books, only books about books. Anyway the quotation still sort of appeals to me. It is about how humanity would have been a lot happier if it had kept to "the middle ground between the indolence of the primitive state and the questing activity to which we are prompted by our selfesteem." I think that is a very fine statement and one which, all in all, I'm ready to buy, since it is a proven fact that happiness, like the proverbial bluebird, is to be found in your own backyard if you just know where to look.