Jack had run into Lipper a few months ago at a screening in the Brill Building. Leaving the plush, suede screening room, Jack introduced himself, said he recognized Lipper from Disco , and mentioned Clarence. Lipper had already heard. He expressed enormous love and grief for his colleague, as only an actor can, then added, “He wanted me to star in a serious film he was planning. It would’ve been a great role. This thing has killed yet another remarkably talented man.”
An actor’s self-serving hyperbole, but Clarence was remarkably talented. You could see it in his short films and even in bits of Disco, a feeling for image, rhythm, and mood. What he didn’t have was a feeling for story, or the ruthlessness that would’ve enabled him to steal a film from its cocky producer and bully a decent script out of a friend. He might have learned that ruthlessness in time, only then he might not have been someone Jack would want to know. Awful as it sounded, Jack had feared he was losing his best friend to filmmaking long before he lost him to death.
It was a selfish fear. But Jack had been spoiled over the years by his friend’s availability and lack of ambition. For the longest time, Clarence ambled through life like a tourist, seeing movies, listening to music, trying out different experiences, getting laid. He might hurt Jack now and then, but he was good, steady company. It was pleasant being around someone who enjoyed life without demanding too much from it. And such passive amiability made Jack feel very serious and successful in comparison. Jack had ambition—being a critic seemed a heroic goal during the struggle to achieve it—and Clarence had life itself; their friendship seemed to make a whole person. The lovers who passed through Clarence’s bed were only supporting players to that friendship. They saw each other at least three times a week and talked on the phone every day.
Then Clarence discovered filmmaking. He had always talked about making films, but in the vague, what-if way of anyone who loves movies, too intimidated by the expertise and expense to think it a real possibility. Shortly after he turned thirty, he took a filmmaking class, as just another new experience, and stumbled into the underworld of film gypsies: Super-8 productions, student films, more classes, film cooperatives, film labs—one of which hired Clarence as a timer. He made new friends, ambitious amateurs like himself, most of them straight, and made his own short films. Jack didn’t hear from him for weeks at a time. Then he met Michael, who was younger and more dependent than anyone else Clarence had been involved with, but who’d come along at a time when Clarence was too preoccupied to be fickle, or unfaithful. Nevertheless, Clarence suddenly had love and work. Jack felt like a failure in comparison, an unlovable grind, an unnecessary acquaintance.
When Jack arrived at the emergency room that night and heard the terrible news, beneath the thunderclap of what it meant, beneath his shock, disbelief, and fear, he had suffered the strangest feeling of satisfaction.
Even now, a year and a half later, he was ashamed and confused over that feeling. As if he preferred to lose his friend to death than lose him to work and success. It was not that Jack envied his friends their success. It was more an insanely possessive love—as if illness and even death might bring Clarence closer to him. Using friendship as a substitute for love produced emotions as grotesque as any that came from unrequited passion.
He looked around for Elisabeth Vogler, wanting to hold and stroke her a moment. The cat was nowhere in sight. A thoughtless, disloyal creature, she was probably curled up on the bed with Michael. Jack stood up, tiptoed to the door, and peeked in. Sure enough, the cat nestled between the boy’s legs, holding up her shoulders for the gentle hand that rubbed the scruff of her neck. Michael had stretched out on his back and was watching
An actor’s self-serving hyperbole, but Clarence was remarkably talented. You could see it in his short films and even in bits of Disco, a feeling for image, rhythm, and mood. What he didn’t have was a feeling for story, or the ruthlessness that would’ve enabled him to steal a film from its cocky producer and bully a decent script out of a friend. He might have learned that ruthlessness in time, only then he might not have been someone Jack would want to know. Awful as it sounded, Jack had feared he was losing his best friend to filmmaking long before he lost him to death.
It was a selfish fear. But Jack had been spoiled over the years by his friend’s availability and lack of ambition. For the longest time, Clarence ambled through life like a tourist, seeing movies, listening to music, trying out different experiences, getting laid. He might hurt Jack now and then, but he was good, steady company. It was pleasant being around someone who enjoyed life without demanding too much from it. And such passive amiability made Jack feel very serious and successful in comparison. Jack had ambition—being a critic seemed a heroic goal during the struggle to achieve it—and Clarence had life itself; their friendship seemed to make a whole person. The lovers who passed through Clarence’s bed were only supporting players to that friendship. They saw each other at least three times a week and talked on the phone every day.
Then Clarence discovered filmmaking. He had always talked about making films, but in the vague, what-if way of anyone who loves movies, too intimidated by the expertise and expense to think it a real possibility. Shortly after he turned thirty, he took a filmmaking class, as just another new experience, and stumbled into the underworld of film gypsies: Super-8 productions, student films, more classes, film cooperatives, film labs—one of which hired Clarence as a timer. He made new friends, ambitious amateurs like himself, most of them straight, and made his own short films. Jack didn’t hear from him for weeks at a time. Then he met Michael, who was younger and more dependent than anyone else Clarence had been involved with, but who’d come along at a time when Clarence was too preoccupied to be fickle, or unfaithful. Nevertheless, Clarence suddenly had love and work. Jack felt like a failure in comparison, an unlovable grind, an unnecessary acquaintance.
When Jack arrived at the emergency room that night and heard the terrible news, beneath the thunderclap of what it meant, beneath his shock, disbelief, and fear, he had suffered the strangest feeling of satisfaction.
Even now, a year and a half later, he was ashamed and confused over that feeling. As if he preferred to lose his friend to death than lose him to work and success. It was not that Jack envied his friends their success. It was more an insanely possessive love—as if illness and even death might bring Clarence closer to him. Using friendship as a substitute for love produced emotions as grotesque as any that came from unrequited passion.
He looked around for Elisabeth Vogler, wanting to hold and stroke her a moment. The cat was nowhere in sight. A thoughtless, disloyal creature, she was probably curled up on the bed with Michael. Jack stood up, tiptoed to the door, and peeked in. Sure enough, the cat nestled between the boy’s legs, holding up her shoulders for the gentle hand that rubbed the scruff of her neck. Michael had stretched out on his back and was watching
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