Chapter 60.5: Drunk & How Is This Orderly!?

Chapter 60.5: Drunk & How Is This Orderly!?

Anita’s Hacienda, Calabasas. January 2011.

Anita was sweating.

The end of her morning run could, in any other circumstance, provide a valid excuse. She toed off her sneakers, entered her house, and, “hello? Is anyone home yet?” found it remained conspicuously empty despite her hour long absence. No, it became readily apparent that her cardio wasn’t to blame for her impending cardiac arrest. 

As ever, Bas was the pre-existing medical condition exacerbating her fraying nerves. As if heart disease wasn’t bad enough, he wasn’t even here, and still giving Anita a neurological condition.

Six a.m. may conjure images of a farmhouse rooster crowing his lungs out, but when the binge drinking started as early as six p.m. the previous day, lateness took on an entirely different meaning. “I’m due for Hawaii any day now, and this asshole’s out from six to freaking six!” Anita’s hand darted to her side as a sharp pang of pain pierced her just under her ribs. “Little monster’s a stitch, alright.”

She needed to cool off. A shower might help. Marching over to her bathroom, she plucked her towel off the heated rack, but before she could get undressed, Anita heard the unmistakable jingling of her front door unlocking. 

She turned on her heel rather than the faucet and raced away. Although, there wasn’t a pressing need to, because by the time she got there, the door still hadn’t been opened. Evidently, she wasn’t the only one struggling with knobs.

“Are you sure this is the right house?” And there was the king of the knobs himself. Trying and failing to gain entry and whisper, both. “Wait- nevermind, got it!” The pins slotted into place and the lock unlatched- thump! “Shite!”

“You must push, Mr Rhys.” Federica’s speech, to Anita’s ear, wasn’t slurred, but it sounded tired nonetheless. Seems the both of them shared their eagerness in having Bas back home. 

“I don’t remember it being that way. I’m telling you we’re at the wrong place!”

Patience irrevocably drained, Anita raised one arm and used the other to yank the handle herself and threw the door open. Bas, predictably, stumbled in tripping over his own feet rather than the doorstep. 

Surprised at his own sudden, unexpected intrusion, Anita caught shock pulse through the veins of his bloodshot eyes. Several options of what to do with her hovering hand flitted across the forefront of her mind. Punch? No, she’d suffer more pain on account of that thick-shit skull of his. Slap? How can she? The sting of it would be satisfying, but the pinch to their wallet caused by a marred moneymaker wasn’t worth it. 

So she settled for clocking him with the watch on her wrist instead. Thrusting and halting it an inch from his nose until he went cross-eyed. Anita demanded an explanation for his tardiness. “Can you tell the time!?”

Bas blinked. His peepers bounced between her Bulgari serpenti and thoroughly bemused expression. He smiled, then. Relief to the untrained eye, but she knew him far too well to confuse a lack of sobriety with a lack of guile.

He stole her wrist and brought it close to his face for an inspection. “Okay, what would you like me to tell it?” He waggled her limb disarmingly, then abruptly flung it overhead. “Maybe recommend it set a reminder for your next waxing sesh? ‘Cuz that’s a pit of snakes if I’ve ever seen one!”

Anita retaliated by stabbing him in the precise spot he’d given her a cramp. “Shaddap! You’re grounded, you hear me!?”

“Hngh!” He crumpled instantly and sank to his knees. “That…” Anita took two hurried steps back when he relented to the full extent of his sloshed state, “actually sounds like a phenomenal idea.” Bas slithered his entire torso onto her stone tiles and spread out into a starfish. “Nice cool floor. Be a dear and fetch me a pillow, would you?” 

Sighing, Anita resisted the urge to curb-stomp her drunk idiot. Fed shut the door and retreated to the kitchen after hopping over his prone form, likely for aspirin and water - for all three of them. Anita squatted next to his flattened face. “All that’ll do is tempt me to smother you with it.” She reached over and snagged the one cheek not mushed into the floor. “Look at what you’ve done to yourself. Drunk as a skunk, and stinking like one, too.”

“You ain’t any better, pit stains.” 

“On second thought, I’m getting that pillow right now.” Bas just chuckled at her threat. 

It eased her. 

His laugh, his relaxed muscles pouring out on the tiles - his safe return home. Coupled with the booze on his breath, he was certainly in high spirits. 

Anita reflected on how long it had been since she’d felt the full force of his naughtiness. Not the forged version, but the bona fide Bas bubbliness. All combined, the tension seeped out of her. She stroked her thumb where she’d clenched his flesh between her fingers earlier. Her lips involuntarily ticked up when he leaned into it. It was refreshing seeing him like this again. Anita would let him have last night without any further complaint. “I’m glad you had fun last nig- this morning. Don’t make it a habit, though, yeah? You’re too busy to develop a drinking problem.”

“I know, I won’t,” Bas could only mumble as sleep began taking over. “Besides, who said I only indulged in fun and games?” he rummaged around his pocket, pulled out some sort of memory card, and handed it to her.

“What’s this?”

“My bender’s narrative. I doubt Migraine was the only one clicking candids of me all evening. Minus the shots we took for Uniqlo, and the ones he’s earmarked for his own collection. You’ve got full veto over every other snap taken.”

Anita quickly cottoned on to the implication of his explanation. “So you figure, what? We pick and choose your moments of underage drinking and general debauchery to piss off the big-wigs already braying over your rep?”

“Mhm.” Bas casually confirmed his nefarious ploy. “They’re sore about it, so we need to press it where it hurts to get them to act. Control the controversy. Plus, it’s good early promo for Limitless.”

Anita looked at the SD card resting in her palm for a moment; then curled her fingers around it. “Conniving little bastard.” A toothsome, sharky grin split her face in half.

“What about the ‘heart of gold’ part?”

Anita stood and surveyed as Bas splayed out, battling his encroaching catatonia. Marvelling at his hairbrained scheming, in direct spite of his hamstrung circumstance. 

The last sight Anita gave him before his eyes closed was her wiggling the card at him. “That entirely depends on what I find on this.”

Later, as she sat at her desktop and opened the picture files, she saw the first image, which she suspected was the last one of the night. Bas, on his back in a three-piece suite, on the grimy floor of a LA subway track, giving a double peace sign. It would’ve been tragic had it not been for the early morning commuters adopting the same pose right next to him. “I guess he gets to keep the moniker after all. Wonder if the rest will share the same view.”

–

Bas’ Old Foster Home, Cardiff. January 2011.

Mrs Stephens was serene. 

The children were back from school - via their private bus, no less! Washed up, and sat down in the main sitting room, diligently completing their day’s homework under the watchful gazes of the other matrons.

She took this quiet moment to make a dent in their laundry. As she ironed and folded each article of apparel, Mrs Stephens couldn’t help reflect on the days where the foster residents’ clothes weren’t quite so pristine. Never threadbare nor moth-eaten, but frayed collars and holey socks were common sights a decade ago. 

She lifted a sweater. This one had a chunk of its print fading. “Now this just won’t do. Off in the next batch bound for the church with you, I suspect. There are those worse off who could use you.” 

It was a strange notion. They themselves were an institute reliant (to a degree) on charity, yet here they were doling out alms to others, instead of saving for a rainy day.

Mrs Stephens didn’t dwell on it too long, though. She knew for a fact that any needs or even wants was a singular phone call away. 

Her boy was a critical reason for their enduring peace. Public news about Bas had been going so well, too. Currently, rather sparse - as the saying goes: no news is good news; preceding which, they’d weathered the media storm surrounding his generous donation to the Harry Potter film crew.

Bas’ prolonged physical absences oft left a hollow pit in her chest. Yet, how could she be selfish enough to pull him away from the wonderful things he was doing? Warm pride and affection flooded into that chasm. The phantom weight of his embrace rested on her bosom. All that ear twisting was worth it. She’d raised him right.

“Mrs Stephens, Bas is on the telly again!” Perhaps… she’d spoken too soon. A curious mixture of worry and excitement tinged Ellie’s announcement.

Her pool of fond remembrance suddenly sprang a cold leak of panic, and she felt his ghostly fingers tickle her sides.

Dropping her iron, Mrs Stephens rushed over. “Oh, dear, dear, dear. What has that fool boy gotten up to?”

“Pure monkey business, isn’t that right, Mojo?” Mrs Stephens was momentarily distracted when Ellie (and her stuffed chimpanzee) fell in lockstep with her. Ellie huffed, frowned, marched right alongside her. Demonstrably peeved, doubly so because it was Bas involved.

The tranquil hall of teaching she’d left it had instantaneously devolved into a zoo.

Normally well-behaved children had spurned their homework, choosing instead to hop on the furniture and roll on the floor while howling in peaks of laughter.

The matrons provided little help because they were engrossed in the media circus on screen.

“-ats far from the only photo in the slideshow. Here we have Bas Rhys table dancing the night away in a conga line. We certainly have an extensive list of questions for our representative superstar, but even thirty-six hours after the reported time of this picture, we highly doubt he has recovered from his hangover!”

After taking a disbelieving look at the image plastered on the TV, Mrs Stephens felt the entertainment correspondent’s description didn’t quite do it justice. “Well… at least he’s making friends?” 

Patterned tie wrapped around his head, but only half as tight as his arms around the shoulders of strangers. A burlesque group of beer-bellied bar-goers banding around him, each with one leg on the bar top while the other high in the air. 

Ellie leapt on to the table, swung her toy ape like flail, and launched a discarded cushion. “Stop being pests! Last thing we need is another Bas bothering Mrs Stephens!” It socked another one of the boys, minding his own business dancing on a sofa, square in the face.

Mrs Stephens didn’t miss the fact that despite deriding him, young Ellie had subconsciously mirrored Bas’ position and emulated his behaviour in her own way. 

Younger siblings tended to do that. 

“Just because they are referred to as throw pillows, need not give anyone licence to fling them across the room!” 

Her colleagues, realising that conventional discipline would not be a sufficient balm to soothe the aftermath of Bas’ influence, promptly resorted to bribery. “If you promise to settle down, children, we’ll have a movie night this evening!”

Collectively, without missing a beat, they all shouted, “Harry Potter!”

Mrs Stephens sniffled - there was nothing ‘over’ about it, she was appropriately whelmed, thank you very much. When she inhaled, emotion alone wasn’t sucked into her nostril. There was a distinct smell of burnin- the iron!

Hastening back to her previous post, she frantically lifted the press that had seared its charred silhouette into a pair of trousers. Ruined - fit only for rags. 

Not that she needed one, but this provided her with the perfect excuse to call Bas. With or without the hangover, he desperately needed the earful, and she needed a fresh pair of slacks. “And I’ll be damned if I let him get away with a measly package. He’s going to have to take us all to the shops in person!”

–

Netflix HQ, LA. January 2011.

Reed Hastings was stressed.

Netflix was in operational turmoil, and as founder and CEO, it was his job to understand it. “What’s the sitch?” He marched with purpose to the tech department.

A harried cable-jockey struggled to keep pace with his stride and answered through an out-of-breath huff. “Servers are overloaded. Customers are experiencing extended buffering times. We’re doing everything to restore optimal function.”

“And what, pray tell, caused this fuck up? We’ll lose subscriptions like this!” 

“A-actually, sir. We’ve got the exact opposite problem. There’s been a sudden surge of sign ups and users using our streaming service simultaneously.”

That juicy little tid-bit brought Reed to a screeching halt. “Elaborate.”

The IT guy, or whoever he was, brought up telemetry on his handheld device. “Several movies are driving viewership through the roof. The Harry Potter franchise, for some odd reason, is fueling this. There are a couple smaller films too - something called Black Dynamite? Anyway, we’re looking into what the correlation is, if any.”

Reed didn’t bother providing the obvious solution. He knew exactly what the link was. His priority immediately switched. The nerd brigade was just gonna have to sort the server issue out themselves. He had other places to be far more urgently. “Where’s Sarandos?”

“I-in his office, sir…”

Patting the confounded lackey on his shoulder, Reed swerved to face his new destination. “Good job, keep it up. I want the service back up to max ASAP.”

By the time he reached Sarandos’ den, the smug grin on his executive was enough to get the conversation started. Sarandos tossed the newspaper he’d been reading on to the table between them. Taking up a full half of the entertainment section was Bas Rhys. Supine, shirtless, and surrounded by models and other assorted company picking slices of sushi off his naked torso. “Everybody wants a slice.”

“I don’t care how it gets done. We need that new flick of his released this year! Give him whatever he wants.”

–

Warner Brothers Studios, LA. January 2011.

Jeff Robinov was seething.

“A spokesperson for the star has stated that the escapade initially started off as preparation for a rol-” Click! Jeff thought he’d made himself clear to Bas. Yet here he was, embarrassing them all at an international level.

If that weren’t enough, that sneaky WME flunky Specter had effectively utilised the wake of the controversy to drum up interest in that pet project of his.

A pet project he learned Bas was flying a different studio flag for instead of WB.

The plastic of the remote in his hand audibly strained as Jeff applied every ounce of force his clenching fist was capable of. 

If Rhys wanted to captain his own boat, fine. Jeff Robinov refused to let it be smooth sailing.