Flying to America Read Free Page B

players in a kind of skirmish line in front, the drummer spread out behind them, and the electric-piano player off to the side somewhat, more or less parallel to the drummer, and the happy m.c. standing in front of the guitar players, with his piece of paper in his hand, and the stage manager looking alternately at his watch and at the people out front. One of the musicians borrows a last cigarette from another musician, and all of the musicians are fiddling with the controls of their instruments, and the drummer is tightening his snares, and the stage manager says “O.K.” to the m.c., and the m.c. holds up his piece of paper and prepares to read what is written there into the bunch of microphones before him, and the houselights go down as the stage lights come up, and the m.c. looks at the leader of the first group, who nods complacently, and the m.c. shouts into the microphones (from behind the closed curtain) in a hearty voice, “From Rogers, Tennessee, the Masonic Temple Battle of the Bands, it’s Bill Tippey and the Unhappy Valley Boys!” and the band crashes into “When Your Tender Body Touches Mine,” and the curtains part, and the crowd roars.
    We filmed all this, for the film.
    9 April
    A brief exchange with Perpetua about revolutionary praxis.
    “But I thought,” I said, “that there had been a sexual revolution and everybody could sleep with anybody who was a consenting adult.”
    “In theory,” Perpetua said. “In theory. But sleeping with somebody also has a political dimension. One does not, for example go to bed with running dogs of imperialism.”
    I thought: But who will care for and solace the running dogs of imperialism? Who will bring them their dog food, who will tuck the covers tight as they dream their imperialistic dreams?
    “My group says I should not be associated with you or with the film,” Perpetua said. “They say you have no more political consciousness than a cat.”
    “But that’s what the priests used to say. They said I had no more religion than a cat!”
    “The group says you’re a skeptic.”
    In truth I am a monster or ex-monster. But ex-monstrousness however hard won is not a position entitling one to ride the first elephant in this particular parade.
    “I’ll work on it, Perpetua.”
    12 April
    Somebody knocked on my door (a rare event). I undid the various locks top to bottom — like unbuttoning a shirt. A man standing there. He handed me a business card.
    L. J OHN S ILVERMAN
    A TTORNEY-AT- L AW
    “Did you want to see me?”
    “Are you Mr. Rush?”
    “Come in.”
    Mr. Silverman was a large man with a red face who looked a great deal like the late Wallace Beery.
    “What can I do for you, Mr. Silverman? Have a seat.”
    “It’s about your picture,” Mr. Silverman said. “I represent some folks — a consortium, you might call it — who are very interested. The long and short of it is, we’d like to buy in.”
    “Why?”
    “From what we’ve heard you’re making a very peculiar picture. Idiosyncratic and kinky.”
    “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. Not exactly.”
    I thought: Isn’t consorting a crime?
    Mr. Silverman leaned forward earnestly.
    “You young filmmakers are the key to the whole situation today. The rest of the industry is arse over teacup.”
    “Mr. Silverman, I can hardly be called a young filmmaker. I’m thirty-nine.”
    “Don’t matter. Don’t matter. I hear your picture is solid gold.”
    “I’m just shooting a lot of raw material right now.”
    “The question is, will you let us come aboard?”
    “I’d rather not, to be frank. Brewers’ Natural is handling the whole deal and our relations with them are a little delicate and I’d hate to rock the boat at this point.”
    Mr. Silverman became agitated. He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a plastic vial containing yellow pills and popped one into his mouth without even asking for a glass of water. The pills were not hard to recognize — Valium, a tranquilizer I’ve