At the Oceana Apartments, he parses the year with Vera.
He remembers that Vera was a drunk.
He remembers that Vera couldn’t sing.
He remembers that Vera had a son, Bobby, although not by her first husband.
He remembers the peculiar color of Roy Randolph’s hair, which matched the peculiar color of Roy Randolph’s eyebrows, both of a blackness found only in bottles and the souls of certain men.
He remembers that Countess Sonia’s perfume smelled like cat piss.
He remembers that Vera wasn’t very good in bed, although she was soft, like fucking a marshmallow.
He remembers that Vera crashed his car. He remembers that Vera was not insured. He remembers that Vera was not insured for the very good reason that Vera could not drive.
He remembers fleeing the house wearing only his socks and underwear.
He remembers driving the wrong way down Reseda Boulevard, intoxicated and crying, and only Ben Shipman’s bamboozling of the jury keeping him out of jail.
He remembers Ruth having fire engines and ambulances maliciously dispatched to his home, the crews seeking to quell imaginary conflagrations and save non-existent victims, all to harrow him.
He remembers making Block-Heads, and how happy he was with the finished picture.
Except.
When he watches Block-Heads now he can see the effects of the alcohol on his eyes and skin, and how he is aging, and how Babe is aging. He sees Babe lift him in his arms to carry him, and winces at a metaphor made real.
He remembers Babe taking him aside on set and remarking, as of the weather:
She’s crazy, you know.
—Who is?
—Illeana. Vera.
Such candor is out of character for Babe, and is indicative of the seriousness of the problem.
—I thought you meant Ruth.
—She’s also crazy, but in a good way.
—You haven’t been woken by sirens at two in the morning.
Listen, says Babe, Hal has had enough. Hal is going to fire you.
—Says who?
—Blystone.
John Blystone is directing Block-Heads. Hal Roach likes John Blystone, who will die of a heart attack before the picture is released.
—Hal is always going to fire me.
—No, this time Hal means it.
And this time, Hal does.
He remembers Ben Shipman’s call.
He remembers that Hal Roach, in the absence of Henry Ginsberg, doesn’t even have the decency to fire him to his face.
He remembers the increasing oppressiveness of Countess Sonia’s perfume.
He remembers Roy Randolph grinning from a couch, his eyes devoid of all emotions but fear and avarice.
He remembers Vera pouring a drink for Countess Sonia, and a drink for Roy Randolph, and a drink for herself, but no drink for him.
He remembers the weight of the telephone in one hand, and the absence of a glass in the other.
He remembers apprehending that he has allowed vultures and thieves into his life.
He remembers thinking that he could bury Vera, with Roy Randolph and Countess Sonia to weigh her down, just in case she tries to crawl out of the hole.
Who was that? Vera asks.
—That was Ben Shipman. I’ve been fired.
It is Roy Randolph who speaks first.
—But what will we do now?
Countess Sonia proceeds to cry.