was. I never loved that screeching bitch. I never even liked her. In fact, I
could barely tolerate her. I was acting, plain and simple. She used to give me
migraine headaches on the set like you wouldn't believe. Cooper hired her for
her piercing scream, which as far as I can tell was her only talent. And she
made up for her inadequacies by burrowing into the Hollywood social scene like
some pathetic maggot. Who was Cary Grant dating and was Hepburn as good an
actress as everybody said and was Fitzgerald going to be at this party or at
that one? Christ, she made me want to puke!" Instead I belch, which suits me and
my mood just fine.
Granwell just sort of shakes his head. I can see it in his eyes: This won't do
at all, he's thinking. He's already put his notebook away. He says, "Paul
Johnson wrote an appreciation of you in the New Statesman back in the sixties.
It was brilliant. He called you a creature of intelligible rage, nobility,
pathos. He called you a prehistoric Lear. And he was right, you know. You're
America's only king."
They all come to this realization sooner or later. Elvis won't cut it because of
the drugs and some of the ugly things he did and stood for which just won't go
away, and they've learned too much about Kennedy, and the world is too hard and
cold and jaded now to come up with anything better. America may be a land of
riches and excess and (some say) even self-made royalty, but it is not a land of
monarchs. No, there's only one king. Me. The ape. "I'm sorry I don't live up to
your expectations."
Granwell sighs. "So if we just leave you alone, if we let you pass your time
quietly here on Earth, we can take comfort in knowing that your myth will
survive."
I nod. "Don't sweat it, Parker. Most people have already forgotten about me. I'm
out of the loop, man. All the golden anniversary celebrations for that stupid
movie -- I didn't get a single engraved invitation. Not one. De Laurentis never
called to consult with me about the remake. I didn't even get an invite to that
White House thing back in '75. But she was there, kissing up to Jimmy and
Rosalyn Carter." This time I can't hold back the growl. "She wouldn't have
missed it for the world."
"Don't you think you're being a little tough on her? She was one of the most
popular actresses of her day, worked with every major male lead in the business
-- and then, to be frank, you ruined her. After your film, the monster-movie
offers came pouring in, and nobody would give her the serious roles she
deserved."
Granwell's no different than the rest of them. By the time they finish talking
to me, they wish they never found me, and so do I. "Look, man, I'm just a
gorilla. I don't share your sense of tragedy."
Granwell sets his beer down, slides off the banana crate, and walks to the door.
"Thanks for the chat."
