Larry Brody's "Live! From Paradise!"

One of the most reassuring aspects of life is its regularity. Regularly recurring events like the phases of the moon, the seasons, and, in Paradise, the cresting of the Buffalo National River give me feelings of dependability and reliability. Kind of a, “Hey! The chiggers are back! All’s right with the world!”

Turns out that my life also has its recurring events. In fact, one of them raised its not-insignificant head just three weeks ago.

Not, however, in what I think of as a reassuring way.

Thirty-two and a half years ago, when I was just a lad, I had the massive heart attack I’ve written about in this space before.

And in mid-January of this year I had another one.

Thirty-two and a half years after the first, give or take a few weeks.

On one hand, this is horrifying. On the other it’s just plain cool. If not for the pain and other consequences I’d be spending delightful hour upon hour analyzing and puzzling and trying every which way to figure out why I’m getting these regularly scheduled wake-up calls.

Who or what has set up the timer?

Why?

When?

That kind of thing.

All right, I admit it. I am putting in those hours. Can’t help myself. It’s how I’m wired. I’ve gotten some answers to my questions too. Mostly in dream time, where I’ve found myself confronting my past, present, and future, my dead parents and former friends and lovers, my enemies too.

The result of all this introspection is that I have a whole new outlook on life and reality … and what may be a genuine inkling of the true nature of the Secret of the Universe itself.

Or not.

Doesn’t matter, not really. What matters is that I’m alive to throw myself into the search.

My heart attack occurred over a period of four days. Started when I was picking up trash some not-so-friendly neighborhood dog or coyote or bear or whatever had strewn all over the Cloud Creek driveway. Chest pain for 20 minutes, then the all-clear. Then pain again, until at last I wised up and told Gwen the Beautiful what was going on.

Gwen made the right call, and soon I was in an ambulance, heading for the emergency room, receiving a life-saving supply of oxygen and morphine and nitro pills. Two days after this particular race for life, I underwent quintuple bypass surgery.

Four days after that I was home.

Two days later, I was in front of the computer, trying — and failing — to work.

The aftermath of the surgery has been “interesting,” à la the ancient curse, “May you live in interesting times.”

Some of the time has been horrific, infused not only with pain but also with a sense of helplessness that has left me afraid to take the next breath.

But some of the time has been wonderful too. Peaceful. Filled with powerful emotions … and with a true awareness of the old saw about wherever there’s life there’s hope. I find myself more hopeful than ever, and filled with excitement about facing the challenge of recovery and the re-assumption of the mantle of ambition/aspiration that has always been my defining characteristic.

This time around, I find my surgery more meaningful than the heart attack itself. My moment-to-moment activity is, for all practical purposes, a response to having been cut open, messed around with, and then closed up again.

For example, I’m now terrified of lying on my back. Because it’s unsafe to use my hands to pull or push myself up (might strain my carved-up breastbone and keep it from healing properly, as well as hurt like hell), I’ve got to struggle into the next position using only my abs.

And you’re not going to catch me using a knife for awhile. Because I keep thinking I won’t be able to control it and, snick!, it’ll end up in my chest.

I’m not too keen on showering or bathing either. Because, “Aargh! The water, it’s beating on my chest wounds! And on my torn-up left leg, where they took out veins to make into arteries replacing those that were blocked!”

But this will pass. Each day gets exponentially better. Today, so far, has been pain-free. And Gwen and Burl Jr. are taking good care of me and the ranch.

Even as I get better I ponder about the future and what’s in store 32 1/2 years from now.

Wonder if I’ll be able to report on it here.

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer. He, his wife and their dogs, cats, horses and chickens live in Marion County. The other residents of the mythical town of Paradise reside in his imagination, however, and any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Originally published February 5, 2010

I’ve written before about our dog, Emmy the Bold, Queen of the Cloud Creek Ranch pack.

Her puppy adventures running up mountains and merrily crashing down have left her with bone spurs, arthritis, and pain.

For awhile, Emmy’s condition slowed her down, but meds and her own internal fire have combined to keep her alive and continuing to play-play-play till she drops.

Most of that play is with the other dogs in the big yard behind the main house, but each dog also gets some alone time with Gwen the Beautiful or me.

For Emmy, that means playing football. Actually, it’s more of a game of Keep-Away with an under-inflated youth football. I take Emmy and the ball outside. Emmy allows me to punt it…and then she runs, catches the ball in her mouth, and prances around, daring me to snatch it away:

“C’mon! Yank this out of my mouth!” Followed by her battle cry, “I dare ya!”

I always do my best, but the only time I get the ball is when the dog gives me a break so I’ll keep playing. And after one kick she catches it and starts teasing all over again.

If you’re a dog person, you understand: This is fun.

Especially for Emmy.

Last week, though, I made a big mistake.

On one of her catches, Emmy punctured the ball. I couldn’t kick an empty rubber bladder very far, so I tossed it in the garbage and drove to Walmart, where I found something I couldn’t resist.

A pro, regulation model. On sale.

Its hide was much thicker than our old football’s, and it was filled solidly. And when I took it home and kicked it – wow!

I watched excitedly as the ball flew higher and farther than I’d ever kicked before. Emmy ran, leapt up for the catch —

And yelped as the football bounced from her grip.

Filled with her usual fire, Emmy pounced.

The ball squirted away.

Emmy circled, rushed from another angle —

And plain couldn’t hold on. The new ball was too big, too strong, for her to keep in her mouth.

And if that wasn’t bad enough, Dixie the Ditsy Lab picked that moment to pounce on the porch gate, jar it open, and rush out to join us —

Scooping up the football effortlessly and racing around the yard with her trophy.

Emmy sagged. Her ears drooped. For the first time in her life, she’d been defeated.

I’ve seen her posture on humans. It said, “I’m not who I thought I was. I’m not me anymore.”

For the rest of the day, Emmy moped and slunk. “You started this,” Gwen said. “Now you’ve got to fix it.”

My first attempt was a washout. I let some air out of the ball and went outside with Emmy. I punted…and watched as she ran to catch it.

And failed once more. She still couldn’t wrap her mouth around it.

I let out more air. Kicked again. This time Emmy didn’t even try to catch the ball. She just watched and whimpered.

The next day I went back to Walmart and bought exactly the model we’d played with before. Let out enough air so it was as soft and manageable as Ole Number One had been.

Emmy the No-Longer-So-Bold, the ball, and I went out to the yard. I kicked.

And Emmy ignored it.

I mean, she ignored everything:

The kick.

The ball.

Larry B.

Instead of trying to play, Emmy just turned her back and sat down.

“Nothing going on here,” she said with a yawn.

And went back into the house to sleep for 24 hours.

The following morning, Gwen woke me way too early. “Garbage pick-up today.”

“So?”

“So don’t you have something to do?”

I groaned.

But I knew what she meant.

I got out of bed, pulled on a pair of pants and three warm bathrobes. Drove down to the bottom of The Mountain, where I’d left the trash cans last night.

Twenty slimy minutes later I dug out what I was after, and that afternoon I took Emmy outside and showed it to her:

A punctured, empty, rubber bladder.

Emmy sniffed at it, watched as I kicked…

With a happy woof, she raced after her old pal. Plucked it out of the air. Ran off with a quick look my way.

“C’mon! Yank this bad boy out of my mouth! I dare ya!” she yelped.

Just a small victory, but that’s what she needed.

Emmy the Bold is back!

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer . He, his wife and their dogs, cats, horses and chickens live in Marion County. The other residents of the mythical town of Paradise reside in his imagination, however, and any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Originally published January 15, 2010

Like most people, I live a life where if anything can go wrong, it does.

Several months ago, though, the Universe took pity on this obscure inhabitant of the Milky Way, and I’m still trying to wrap my head around what happened.

Gwen the Beautiful and I were in China when creation itself seemed to reach out and touch me and say, “This is your moment, Larry B.!”

What a moment it was! Far from cosmic. Not especially significant in any broad sense. But oh — so satisfying.

Gwen and I were at a showbiz party. Surrounded by stars of the Chinese stage and screen. Our Generous Hostess asked if I played any musical instrument, and I’d had just enough wine to say, “I play the drums.”

At that, our Hostess grinned and clapped her hands together. Immediately, her Major Domo rushed to my side.

“You will like this,” he said and ushered me into the next room, which was set up like a bandstand, complete with instruments. Behind a line-up of guitars and keyboards was the drum kit of any drummer’s dreams. Drums, drums, and more drums. Big cymbals. Little cymbals. Everything and anything that went crash, bam, or boom.

“Music is Madame’s passion,” the Major Domo said. He pulled the drum “throne” out for me. “Please — rock on.”

I’ve played the drums for over 50 years. Started in the Junior High band. My parents got me my own drum kit, a Ludwig Buddy Rich Super Classic in “black diamond pearl” in 1958.

My high school buddy, tenor sax man Ron Tiersky (now an eminent political scientist teaching at Amherst), and I started a band that played at all the school events and gigged around locally as well.

For awhile I thought I’d make drumming my life’s work. Except that I wasn’t quite good enough for that. Had one tiny little weakness — keeping a steady beat.

I turned to the typewriter, and later the computer, for my livelihood. Still, over the years I’ve played with a great many musicians, both minor and major. I love doing it, but every session has been stressful at best … and a few have been outright terrifying.

For some reason, however, that night in China I wasn’t at all frightened or even tense.

I sat down, picked up the sticks, and started wailing.

And as I played, party guests who were musicians made their way into the room, grabbed guitars, began playing. Guests who were singers joined in. We played together in various combinations, and as though we’d known each other for years, traveling a rocking road from ’50s rockabilly through ’70s psychedelia to 21st century pop.

We jammed for hours, and everything I did sounded … well, to my ear I sounded the way I’d always wanted to, for the first time in my drumming life. I was wild, but my beat was steady. I hit the heights I’d always aimed for but never came even close to before.

When it was over, and we’d all crashed from exhaustion, I looked around at the happy faces of my One Night Band Mates, and then I looked up at the ceiling, trying to see beyond it, to the stars.

Two thoughts leapt into my mind.

The first one was, “Thanks.”

The second was, “Why?”

Since that night, I’ve often relived the exhilaration I felt when, for a few hours, I got a taste of being someone I’d so much wanted to be when I was young.

And, each time, my gratitude immediately is followed by a search for the cause. Finally, I decided it had to be the drum kit. The quality of its components. The way they were set up.

If those drums were mine …

I checked out the price online and found that it was way out of my reach. But I saw another kit, similar but more affordable. And so, after 50-plus years with my original Ludwigs, I finally bought new drums.

They arrived a few days ago, and I spent the next several hours setting them up, tuning the heads, doing the things drummers do. I’ve been playing constantly ever since.

Do I sound the way I did that night in China?

Gwen says, “Of course you do.”

But my ear tells me something different.

I need to make sure.

To know, absolutely, whether the Universe handed me a one-nighter or intends for Larry B. to rock on.

Anyone out there have a band that needs a drummer? Or want to jam?

Give me a call.

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer . He, his wife and their dogs, cats, horses and chickens live in Marion County. The other residents of the mythical town of Paradise reside in his imagination, however, and any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Originally published January 8, 2010

Every night for the last three weeks I’ve had the same dream.

More than every night, in fact, because it comes back to me any time I relax or close my eyes.

For someone like me, who’s been trying to figure out the meaning of life ever since I can remember, this is a wonderful dream. A dream that comes thisclose to answering my questions.

And then — but of course — turns around and gives me about 50,000 new questions to ask. In the dream, I live in a small town. Like Paradise, it has two main streets. Unlike Paradise, the architecture of all the buildings is Victorian. Also unlike Paradise, the town is along a sea coast. What sea, I don’t know. What coast — east, west, north, south — I don’t know either.

I do know that it’s a beautiful place. One where, along with a Partner I can’t see and don’t really know, I run a business out of one of the buildings closest to the sea. I don’t know the name of the business, but its purpose is crystal clear. I — make that “we” — teach people of all ages how to live.

Specifically, we teach them how to live proudly and openly and with as much style and excitement as they can. In this dream, Shakespeare was dead right when he said in “As You Like It,” “All the world’s a stage, And all the men and women merely players.” (Except I’d drop the “merely” because I don’t see anything “mere” about this.)

That’s right. Everything we do is part of a show, designed for the entertainment and enlightenment of both an unseen audience of who knows who or what and also one consisting of ourselves. The school I share with my unknown Partner teaches everything you need to put on a show to everyone else in the world.

Now that’s cool.

In the dream, I divide my time between sitting in an office and working with other writers to write scenes for the actors to play as part of their lives (including scenes about writing scenes) and stalking through the halls helping younger students — children — and their parents grasp the general point of everything.

The writing part is a snap. I do it well and love every instant. But helping the kids and their folks grasp the general point is tough. Because I don’t know the general point. I’m clueless as to why everyone in the world is living this show business life. And totally in the dark about who the unseen audience is.

Because of my ignorance, I find myself turning more and more to the unknown Partner for help. Which isn’t so easy when you don’t know what he looks like, or even where she is.

It takes work, but I always manage to find him when I need to. Sometimes she’s able to help me. Most of the time, though, he’s as bewildered as I and the two of us just mush on as best we can.

But every time we “mush” we succeed.

When I was writing and producing television I learned that both jobs were about making decisions. It didn’t matter what you decided, just that you decided something. Making a decision, even the wrong one, meant the show could go on. Not making one brought things to a shuddering halt.

The dream reaffirms that. The dream tells me that it’s the mushing — the trying — that counts, and not whether what we try is right or wrong.

For three weeks now, I’ve been trying to dig down to a deeper interpretation of this dream. One of the main ways I interpret thoughts and feelings and dreams and events is to write them down and see what the act of writing turns them into, which is why I’m writing this.

And in the course of this writing I’m starting to understand that one of the points of the dream is that we’re not going to get any grand meaning out of life as a concept … because the meaning is in the actual living of the life. It’s in going onstage and doing our best. Getting totally involved in putting on that great, big, wonderful show.

I could’ve written this just for myself and then put it away. Instead I’m throwing it out to everyone who comes to this space. To do otherwise would be to betray my part of the Partnership. To abdicate the teaching thing.

So that’s it, today’s class. The last class of 2009.

On to 2010 and the next awesomely mystifying Dream.

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer. He, his wife and their dogs, cats, horses and chickens live in Marion County. The other residents of the mythical town of Paradise reside in his imagination, however, and any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

There’s something about December…

How can I not love the month that gives us:

My birthday! (Chocolate cake every year I can remember. And, this year, genuine Chicago deep dish pizza, from the loving arms of UPS.)

Hanukkah! (Eight nights of gifts every year of my childhood, from the loving arms of my parents. And, this year, more Chicago pizza.)

Christmas! (The tree, the caroling, eggnog every year since I became an adult. And, this year, no pizza but the wonderful opportunity to communicate via this space.)
Cold weather! (Colder than any month but February at the least. Icy nasal passage cold in years my shiver-friendly self gets lucky.)

And, this year, an added bonus in the form of a healthy Gwen the Beautiful.

I haven’t written about Gwen’s medical problems lately, but that doesn’t mean she hasn’t had them. Especially over the last six months, when she was wracked with stomach pain that got so bad it was impossible for her to eat.

Lost 20 pounds the last two weeks of November, my wife did, and no one could figure out what was going on until a terrific M.D. named Simmy Goyle, currently residing in L.A. but formerly of London, New Delhi, and St. Louis, put us in touch with another terrific M.D by the name of Peter Warner, who practices within two hours of Paradise in Springfield, MO.

Shortly after my birthday, Gwen was hospitalized and Peter put her through a battery of tests showing that even though Gwen’s specific symptoms were unusual, the cause was an underachieving gall bladder, swollen, and up to no good.

Out came the insidious organ, and in came the December—Larry B’s Birthday, Hanukkah, Christmas, cold weather—miracle of no pain and edible meals for Ms. The Beautiful.

To misquote a Disney song I used to hate, “It’s a whole new world” for the Brodys.

And we’re not the only ones here on The Mountain affected that way.

A lowlight of this past year was the sudden and unexpected death of one of our horses, Rosie the Romantic Arabian, while Gwen and I were away on the other side of the world.

For weeks, my horse brother, Huck the Spotless Appaloosa, was deep in mourning. How bad was his depression? Well, from the looks of him he lost a lot more weight than Gwen did. I’d estimate about ten times as much.

He’d been alone in the corral — with a few side trips into our backyard and some interesting attempts to climb onto the porch — since mid-October, and a Huck who’s alone is a very noisy Appaloosa indeed. He would complain loudly and angrily, and then stop to listen oh-so-closely for a reply he clearly was hoping would come from the distance, from his lost mate.

So when Gwen and I drove back up to Cloud Creek Ranch after her surgery we were surprised to see the big guy standing calmly in the center of his area instead of galloping straight to the fence to horse-yodel his usual welcoming demand.

We were used to, “You’re home! It’s about time! Rub me! Nuzzle me! Brush me! Okay, yeah, you can feed me too!”

Instead, we got a little nod and a flick of the lips that I know (because Huck and I have been together for almost all of his life) is a smile.

“Look at that!” Gwen said. “Look at them all!”

I stopped our pickup at the top of the trail we call a driveway. Counted not one, not two, not three or four, but five truly beautiful women standing behind my favorite equine.

No, not human women.

Nor horse-type women either.

Deer.

Five full grown does.
Their eyes as big and as round and as sensitive as Huck’s.

The does’ posture shifted to that of wary attention, directed at us. Huck turned his head toward each doe, one after the other, and nodded again.

Then bucked, kicking out with his rear legs.

“Bye, ladies,” he called out. And, “Thanks for the fun!”

The deer scattered, leaping over the fence on the woodsy side of the corral, and Huck ran to the gate closest to where the truck was idling.

With a truly merry horse laugh, he greeted our return.

“You’re home! It’s about time! Rub me! Nuzzle me! Brush me! Okay, yeah, you can feed me too!”

Should’ve known a cool guy like Huck wouldn’t be alone for very long.

Merry Christmas, y’all, from all of us at Cloud Creek.

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer. He, his wife and their dogs, cats, horses and chickens live in Marion County. The other residents of the mythical town of Paradise reside in his imagination, however, and any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

I’m far from being the first person to observe that as our lives amble, zip, and sometimes sputter along paths we’ve chosen — or had chosen for us — many different milestones measure our passage.

First day of school.

First communion.

Bar or Bat Mitzvah.

High school or college (and, these days, junior high and preschool) graduation.

Marriage.

The birth of a child or two, or more.

Divorce.

Grandchildren.

The deaths of our parents.

The death of a mate.

A host of others, some intensely personal, others appropriate for us all.

Obviously, many of these moments are wonderful. And, just as obviously, many are 180 degrees in the other direction.

But just a few weeks ago I encountered the most terrifying and, yep, depressing milestone of all.

Like a whole lot of bad news, it came in the mail.

My Medicare card.

I’m not talking political-socio-economic philosophy here, I’m talking psychological reality.

Staring at that little card waiting to be separated at its perforations and slipped into my wallet, I could think of only one thing:

In less than one month — under 30 days! — I’ll be 65.

Yikes!

Was that for real? Could it possibly be true? Once upon a time various of my grandparents were 65. I remember them well. Doddering, deaf, terrifying when they were behind the wheel of any vehicle on any public, or for that matter private, thoroughfare.

And my parents. They both reached 65 too. Shriveled. Barely able to see. Terrifyingly driving each other to doctors and hospitals as bouts of illness became more and more frequent … and severe.

But those old codgers were from other generations. Immigrant oldsters born in Europe at the turn of the 20th century. Generation Gapped adults of what Time Magazine called “the best generation,” born in the Good Ole USA just in time for the Great Depression.

That’s not me.

It can’t be.

I’m a young, vital, physically fit baby boomer. I’ve trained with weights for over 50 years. Worked as a writer, a gig that demands the utmost in concentration and creativity for 40 …

Uh-oh. Wait a minute. There are things, some important, some not-so, that I’ve done for 40 or 50 years?

Friends I’ve had for that same length of time?

Stories I tell that begin not with “Once upon a time” but “Back in the day …?”

I am so … so … what’s the word? Back in the day I never had trouble picking the exact one I needed, but now …

Now I’m old.

Medicare old.

Social Security benefits old.

“Grampa Larry” old.

I may not be doddering — yet — but when I stand beside my children I feel nowhere near as tall as I used to. My doctor recently recommended a good hearing aid so I could appreciate all the now-missing “sha-bop-sha-bops” on oldies radio. The prescription that just a year ago covered the farthest distance of my “progressive lenses” now is too weak for even the middle …

And, difficult as this is for me to admit, I wouldn’t want to be in another car driving on the same road Grampa Larry was on, nosirree. In fact, just yesterday a neighbor young enough to be my son posted these much-too-true words to me on Facebook:

“Hey, Brody, stay on your side of the road!”

He added an “LOL,” but that was just an act of mercy, after a surprisingly close call.

“I grow old, I grow old. I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.”

So wrote T.S. Elliot back in the day long before the day I go back to. He was referring to fashion, a teacher of mine who had heard him speak about his poetry told our lit class.

“At the time Eliot wrote this,” she said, “the style was for young men to wear straight bottoms and for older ones to fold their pants into cuffs.”

I’m still wearing straight bottoms on my jeans, but even though I’ve beaten Fashion, Time’s got me on the ropes.

Having become a grandparent several times over has been wonderful, but what comes next doesn’t seem nearly so good. I’ve spent much of my life throwing myself at the future but fear that the best I can hope for next time I do that is that I’ll bounce groggily back.

What bothers me most is that after all these years I still haven’t figured out what the Universe is all about.

On the other hand, I’m pretty sure the Universe hasn’t figured me out either.

Hmm, whaddaya know?

Gotcha, Uni—dude.

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer. He, his wife and their dogs, cats, horses and chickens live in Marion County. The other residents of the mythical town of Paradise reside in his imagination, however, and any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Originally published December 18, 2009

Hollywood’s been feeding us a lot of remakes lately, filling theaters with new versions of stories we’ve seen before.

I’m no fan of this trend, but a couple of days ago I found myself taking part in a remake of my own.

My first meeting with the Old Billionaire.

Same place. (The Paradise Mexican restaurant)

Same time. (Lunch, of course.)

Same purpose. (“Time we got to know one another, don’t you think?”)

The Old Billionaire, however, had been written out in favor of a younger demographic.

His Son the Harvard Grad Genius, a slightly overweight man in his late 40s.

Unlike his father, who always seems to belong anywhere he is, HGG appeared completely out of place in his natty Armani ensemble. Not only was this the first time I’d seen anyone wear a suit in the Mexican restaurant, it was the first time I’d seen anyone who wasn’t a preacher wear a suit anywhere in Paradise.

HGG arrived half an hour late, entering with a frown and checking out the buffet as he walked to where I waited at my table. His handshake was crisp and professional. “Sorry. Business emergency. You know how it is.”

I shrugged. “Don’t have to worry about those things much myself. There’s something to be said for retirement, semi or otherwise. Hey, how’s your dad?”

“He and Mom are in Rome,” HGG said. “First leg of Dad’s Round the World Farewell tour.”

“Farewell tour?”

“That seems to be the plan. They’re going everywhere, doing everything either of them always wanted to do. Dad says he’s going to stay out on the road until he runs out of road, can no longer remember where the road is, or drops dead.”

HGG’s voice was warm, but I wasn’t sure about his eyes. They weren’t making contact with mine. His monogrammed cuff links seemed to interest him more.

The waitress—not Carrie, who’d made such a big impression on the O.B. when we’d first met, but her latest replacement—trotted over to ask what HGG wanted to drink.

He opted for water. “Agua fria,” he said. Then he turned his head back in my direction, although his gaze still went inward and not at me.

“I know you don’t like me,” HGG said. “You think I treated my father badly. Forced him out of the business. Well, I did force him out, but he earned that when he let his mistress embezzle for all those years.

“You think I’m ungrateful. Cold, calculating. But you don’t have a clue what it was like growing up as the O.B.’s son. For all of my life, Dad’s operated under one major, overriding principle. And I don’t mean, ‘Profit’s the name of the game.’ That’s only for the public.

“Dad’s basic game plan,” HGG continued, “boils down to, ‘Find out what the other person wants more than anything else. Make sure he knows you can give it to him. And then don’t give it. Ever. Because as long as he’s wanting, he’s yours. You own him.’”

HGG’s water arrived. He sipped it absently. “Dad applied that principle to his personal life as well as his business. To his family! Think about it a minute. Think about what it’s like growing up with that.”

I didn’t want to think about it, but I did. “That kind of thing never entered my relationship with your father,” I said. “Because I already have everything in life that I want.”

“Which is why you and he could be such good friends. Why you could respect each other. But as his son there was a lot I wanted. Needed. That the old bastard refused to give.”

“Why are you telling me this?” I said.

“Not because I want to. But I need to, yes.”

“Why aren’t you looking at me while you tell me?”

HGG’s breathing quickened. “Because telling you is like telling him. And I’ve always been afraid to look at him.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

Willie Nelson’s On The Road Again blared from HGG’s cell phone. As he pulled it from his pocket, he stood up. His eyes met mine at last. “Gotta go,” he said. And, mouthing silently: Thanks.

I watched HGG stride out and get into an SUV much like his father’s.

I didn’t know if what he’d said about the O.B. was true, but I could feel my heart aching for him. I was glad I’d said I was sorry.

But still, I didn’t like him.

Nor was I so sure about my world-traveling friend.

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer. He, his wife and their dogs, cats, horses and chickens live in Marion County, Arkansas. The other residents of the mythical town of Paradise reside in his imagination, however, and any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Our first week in China ended with another Hong Kong party.

A little ole outdoor barbecue for 100.

Thrown by The Lovely Hong Kong Oscar-Winning Actress, the affair was about as far from a Paradise shindig as you could get. Hong Kong’s glitterati gathered at her mountaintop home to eat, sing, dance, chatter, and toast each other till they dropped, one by one, to the floor.

Hollywood Far East, no doubt about that.

And still we weren’t done with the social aspect of working on a Chinese film. We spent the next two days in Macau with The Boss and his Assistant. “You’ll love it,” The Boss assured us. “Macau is China’s Las Vegas.”

This didn’t mean much to me. When I enter a casino I don’t so much see the place as the people inside it. Tense. Unhappy. Desperate.

The casinos in Macau were more of the same. “I haven’t spotted one smiling face since we got here,” Gwen said.

The second day wasn’t exactly filled with smiles either. So the Boss came up with another, more joyful plan. “You must see my wife’s flat.”

“Will we be seeing your wife too?” I asked.

“Sadly, no. She is working in Hanoi.”

“Shouldn’t we start working too? Macau is part of the film, right?”

“What? Oh no, not at all. Come. You’ll love my wife’s flat.”

We took a taxi to The Boss’ Wife’s place. Made our way up the stairs to her sixth-story walk-up. The Boss opened the thick, steel security door, then the wooden inner door, and we entered a small, high-ceilinged, immaculate space.

“See how perfect it is?” said The Boss. “She keeps it like this even when she’s here.”

As The Boss spoke, his Assistant reached back to close the door behind us. Immediately, my body stiffened. A voice that only I could hear said, “Don’t let him close that door!”

“Wait — !” I started. But it was too late. The security door thudded shut. The Assistant regarded me curiously. “Did I do something wrong?”

I shrugged. Half an hour later, when we’d finished the tea The Boss made for us and started to leave, we all discovered how wrong The Assistant’s door move had been.

“This door is locked,” said The Boss. “It must have locked automatically when it closed.”

“Can’t you unlock it?” said The Assistant.

“No. There is no mechanism.”

“What about the key you used to open it from outside?” Gwen said.

“There is no keyhole on the inside.”

“Are you telling me we’re stuck here?” I said.

The Boss and The Assistant pulled and pushed and prodded. They pounded and kicked. The door didn’t budge.

“We’re stuck,” The Boss said.

We were trapped by a security door that somehow managed to open only from the outside — which didn’t seem like such a secure idea to me. Stymied, The Boss used his cell to tell his Wife In Hanoi what had happened and ask for help.

We could hear her laughter from across the room.

The Boss broke the connection. “Ah,” he said. “The crisis is at hand. Now we shall see what we’re all made of!”

He looked at his phone as though expecting it to ring. It stayed silent.

The flat had seemed stuffy and hot to me from the beginning. Now that I knew we couldn’t leave it became ultra stuffy and hot. I felt my throat tightening.

“I have an idea,” The Assistant said. He pointed out the window. Across the street was a property management company, its sign giving the phone number. The Assistant called and in Chinese explained our problem to the person who answered.

He asked The Boss for his keys, wrapped them in newspaper. Through the window, we saw a man emerge from the office and dodge his way through traffic to our side of the street. The Assistant tossed the keys out the window, the man scooped them up, and a few minutes afterward the security door opened from the outside.

“We are saved!” The Boss announced.

Gwen put her face close to mine. “You don’t suppose this is why he brought us here, do you?”

“To test us with a crisis? Why would anyone do that?”

Gwen pointed to where The Boss was taking his keys back from our rescuer with a look so knowing it made even Barry Bonds look humble.

“Not us,” Gwen said.

“Then who?”

The Boss pushed a button his phone. Began talking to his wife again. Quickly and loudly.

“Never mind,” I said.

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer . He, his wife and their dogs, cats, horses and chickens live in Marion County. The other residents of the mythical town of Paradise reside in his imagination, however, and any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Originally published November 27, 2009

The way I look at life and the work we do in it boils down to this:

The reward for doing a good job is you get to do it again.

Whether you want to or not.

A couple of years ago, I went to China as a consultant to a Hong Kong production company. I must have done a good job because they asked me back, as a writer and producer this time. The company supplied the concept and source material—the true World War II story of the sinking, in the East China Sea, of a Japanese ship loaded with Allied prisoners who had to fight against desperate odds to survive. Once I agreed to take this on it was up to me to build the premise into a film.

The first step was for Gwen the Beautiful and myself to return to the exotic East so I could talk to survivors and visit the places where the events occurred.

I figured this would take about a week. The Boss of the company disagreed.

“We need you here for at least a month,” he said over the phone.

“A month? I’d love to stay a month, but I’ve got a zillion responsibilities at home. No way I can be gone that long.”

Beside me, Gwen was listening closely. She whispered, “A month in China and you’re saying no? Remember what a great time we had there before?”

“It won’t be the same,” I said. “Consulting is…consulting. Writing is work.”

The Boss laughed from 9,000 miles away. “I understand marital compromise. I’ll set the trip up for three weeks.”

A month later, after a travel time of 27 hours, from our front door to Hong Kong Airport, Gwen and I arrived and learned why The Boss needed us to be there for so long.

Turns out that in China, just as in Hollywood, socializing is a major part of the job. And the socializing began the first night, when Gwen, The Boss, and I attended a charity show at the largest venue I’ve ever seen, a live theater-music multiplex in one of the smaller buildings on the formerly pastoral island of Kowloon.

By which I mean it was “only” 50 stories high.

After two hours of professional entertainers from all over the world doing Broadway song and dance, we went back to our hotel and collapsed.

The Boss roused us the next day. Lunch at the Hong Kong Jockey Club, where they had a buffet spread in a room so vast it looked as though the entire racetrack would fit inside it. And after that we were off to see the last day of shooting of The Boss’s current film, the project on which I’d been consulting two years before.

That night The Boss, The Boss’s Assistant (who also happens to be one of the major directors of TV commercials in that part of the world), The Coordinator Who Got Her Start On Enter The Dragon, The Cute Accounting Intern About To Leave To Study For Her Ph.D. In Urban Planning At Cambridge, and I went to a party given by Hong Kong’s Most Important Entertainment Attorney In A Restaurant He Owns.

To her disappointment, Gwen couldn’t make it. She fought bravely but couldn’t fend off her body’s need for more sleep. The only reason I can give for my ability to stay awake is my insatiable curiosity. Was this really going to be just like the L.A. Scene I’d so happily left behind years ago? I had to see.

And what I saw was about 40 people sitting at three large tables in a private room. At the head table were HK’s Most Important Attorney, his Fifth Wife, his three unmarried sisters, and half a dozen suitors for the sisters (and, I’m pretty sure, the Fifth Wife as well. At the other tables were various Hong Kong film luminaries, including a Lovely Hong Kong Oscar-Winning Actress, and, of course, us—The Boss and his entourage.

Wine flowed. Spirits splashed. And as the 14 course meal progressed The Lovely Hong Kong Oscar-Winning Actress explained its Prime Directive to me:

“If you raise your glass you must down it in one sip. And you must raise it every time someone makes a toast.”

Over 14 courses, that’s a lot of toasts.

Ah, Hong Kong, you are indeed Hollywood East!

I’d salute you, but after that night I don’t think I’ll ever dare to raise my glass again.

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer . He, his wife and their dogs, cats, horses and chickens live in Marion County. The other residents of the mythical town of Paradise reside in his imagination, however, and any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Originally published November 20, 2009

Huck is crying.

He hides it with a stallion’s squeal.

Last week in this space I wrote about the death of Rosie the Romantic Arabian while Gwen the Beautiful and I were out of the country.

Mostly, I quoted the e-mails about her illness, because I was too stunned to find my own words. It’s still difficult for me to separate my sadness at the loss of this fine young woman (who also just happened to be a horse) from my shock at it having occurred so suddenly.

Huck the Spotless Appaloosa, however, has no such problem.

He feels miserable, and he knows it.

And he’s angry. Testosterone-fueled sadness flaring as fury.

Although Huck officially is a gelding, he’s what horse people call a “proud cut,” filled with as much spice as many stallions.

“I couldn’t escape from the knife,” he once said to me. “But I’ve beaten it.”

And now, only a few weeks since his mare died of colic, he’s beating me.

“You weren’t here, Larry,” he whinnied this morning. “Rosie and I needed your help. But my two-legged brother who swore to keep us safe was gone!”

“I had work to do,” I said. “I’m writing a movie about something that happened far away. Gwen and I had to check it out.”

“How far?” Huck said.

“On the other side of the globe.”

“Is that as far as across the road? Or down the other side of The Mountain?” He regarded me accusingly. “Were you where those mares I smell are? The ones I call to but never get to see?”

“Farther than that, Huck. Much farther.”

He snorted. “You expect me to believe you could go way off like that with only two legs? And no hooves! How far can you get with no hooves?”

“You’re the one complaining that I wasn’t here. So it must seem to you like I got pretty far.”

Huck kicked out with his hind legs. Whirled as though trying to catch the kick in his own chest. “Seems to me you must’ve been hiding in a shed, or in some trees. Hiding from Rosie’s sickness and my pain. Doing whatever you could to not have to deal with that bellyache that killed her.”

“I wanted to be here, My Brother. I wish I’d been able to do something for her —”

“You and me both, Brother,” he said, making the word sound like a curse. He tossed his head, mane flying. Looked at me more closely. “I wonder … what you could’ve done.”

“No more than Billy did,” I said. “Maybe less.”

“Billy took her away,” said Huck. “He’s the reason I’m alone.”

“He took her to the vet. So you wouldn’t be alone. Brought her home, too. And buried her.”

“I smelled that,” Huck said. “I smelled it, and I heard it. But I didn’t see it.”

“Want to?”

Huck nodded. Hard. I went to the hay shed and got a lead rope. Came back and put it around his neck like a lasso. I took him out the far gate of the corral, and together we walked down the unpaved driveway to the pond, then up to the little meadow where Billy Morningstar and Delly the Interstate Trucker, with the help of a backhoe, had buried Rosie.

Huck and I stopped at the marker Billy had built. A round-capped fencepost with a crossbeam across which Rosie’s halter and lead rope hung. In the center of the crossbeam was a little metal sculpture — a horse’s head within a horseshoe. Everything was in the colors of Cloud Creek Ranch. Barn red with white trim.

“I still don’t see her,” Huck said. “But I feel her.”

“Is that better for you?”

“She feels beautiful.”

“How do you feel?”

Huck hesitated. Then:

“Empty,” he said.

He took a couple of steps away from the bare earth that covered his lost love. Lowered his head. Munched on the auburn Autumn grass. “This ought to fill me up fine.”

As I watched him I thought about other deaths of beloved ones Gwen and I have experienced here in the wilds of the Ozarks.

Dogs.

Cats.

Horses.

Chickens.

Humans too.

All these creatures are people to me, whether they were human or not.

Oh! So many people!

Here and then gone. And what do I do?

I write about them.

It’s what I’m best at.

My way, I tell you, Huck — and all my other Brothers and Sisters — of trying to help.

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer . He, his wife and their dogs, cats, horses and chickens live in Marion County. The other residents of the mythical town of Paradise reside in his imagination, however, and any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Originally published November 13, 2009