Fantasy bites

Coming to terms with the best of all possible worlds

by Chris Wright

It started out as a perfect day. Beyond my bedroom window, the sun was blazing -- mid October and the temperature was 78 degrees. I slipped out of my CK pjs and stood naked before the mirror. It was a good body. I ran my fingers down my repoussé abs, making a trup-trup-trupping sound -- a piccolo-drum roll.

As someone who effortlessly converts calories into muscle, I had no qualms about starting the day with a hearty feed. There was some penguin steak and Venus-flytrap salad in the fridge. "I'll make breakfast," purred my wife, Nina, as she plumped my honey-melon butt cheeks. "But not yet." With this, she hauled me back into the soft folds of our Marimekko sheets.

After we had gotten rid of the police, who were responding to reports of a woman's screams, I went to see how many phone messages we had. Picking my teeth with a $20,000 winning scratch ticket, I strolled into the lounge and let out a long sigh. As always, our answering machine was flickering double digits: 26, 26, 26 . . .

The first call was from a well-known actress. To spare her feelings, we'll call her Gwyneth Skaltrow. The message was hard to decipher -- Gwyneth was sniffling and affecting a Cockney accent. "Oi! Why dontcha return me bleedin' calls, old mucker, eh?" Silly woman knows I'm happily married. I called her back and told her as much. "Gorblimey," she sobbed. "Luvaduck."

Next was David Halberstam, asking if I knew a good synonym for "roister." I pressed ERASE. "Do I look like a bloody thesaurus?" I called out. "Am I a scullion for the philologically bereft?" Nina laughed so hard that bits of flytrap flew out of her nose.

I looked at the clock. 10:30 and I still had 24 calls waiting. When Carson Daly's nasal whine cranked up -- another drunken, 3 a.m. diatribe against the Backstreet Boys -- I switched the machine off and went to have my penguin. As a special treat, Nina had also prepared my favorite sweet: boiled grapes on a bed of marijuana leaves. Fortified, I went upstairs to add the finishing touches to my 700-page historical novel, Napoleon's Lip.

I eased into my Eames chair, flicked on my Mac Cube, and cracked my knuckles. Then I began typing. My fingers danced across the keyboard as though possessed -- whether by an angel or a demon didn't matter. I could feel genius welling up inside me. Tears mottled my Ikea desktop while words flooded out onto the screen:

As a crepuscular glow spread its golden shroud over the blood-soaked fields of Waterloo, the emperor sank to his knees. He knew at this moment that he was a man. Just a man. He laid a trembling hand on the brow of the dying lieutenant. "Vive toujours," the soldier whispered. Live forever. Napoleon closed his eyes and wept. "Mort," he said with a quivering lip. "Oy."

As I typed THE END, Nina, who unbeknownst to me had been looking over my shoulder the entire time, fainted.

All that remained was to call Spielberg, who owned the movie rights to all my novels. Spielie had already cast Hanks in the role of Napoleon. Josephine, he had told me over brunch a few weeks earlier, was "a toss-up between Julia and Jodie." I had been reluctant to work with Jodie ever since she grabbed my crotch on the set of Hegel's Brûlé. "Jodie it is then," Spielie giggled through a mouthful of escargot fritters. He can be such an asshole.

After lunch -- quail-cheek quiche washed down with a nice Latvian merlot -- Dicky Barrett from the Bosstones dropped by and we all sat back to watch a videotape of an upcoming episode of Friends in which I'd guest-starred. Schwimmer had sent it to me.

In the episode -- "Rachel Falls for a Cute Caffeine Addict" -- I play a cute guy who's addicted to caffeine. Rachel, who has a crush on me, faces a dilemma: does she ease my addiction by barring me from the coffee shop? Or does she satisfy her own hunger and keep me coming back for more?

It's a great episode, perhaps the best ever. At the point where Ross spills a latte into my lap, Joey wipes me down with Chandler's mother's headscarf, and I try to suck it dry, Barrett from the Bosstones laughed
so hard he bit down on his wine glass.
He was a good
sport about it. The $823,000 I got for the show should take care of any medical bills.

Friends over and the ambulance gone, Nina and I kissed. Yet as her lips warmed mine, I couldn't drag my gaze away from the phone. I knew one of those messages would be from Tina Brown, wanting to know what had become of my essay on the German Expressionists. I hadn't the heart to tell her I'd sold it to Harper's. Tina goes ape-shit about stuff like that.

As Nina rubbed my feet, my thoughts turned once more to my novel. Maybe casting Napoleon as a cross-dressing Jewish washerwoman wasn't such a good idea. I caught sight of Barrett from the Bosstones's blood on the Persian rug and vomited.

The phone rang. Skaltrow: "Oi, mate, yor gonna get yor fuckin' 'ed kicked in." I knew she meant it. One of her Hollywood boy toys was probably on his way over even as she spat out her parting shot: "Big Boy!"

Nina stopped kneading my arches. I could see what she was thinking. It was plastered across her face like a Nike logo: Big Boy? How does Skaltrow know that? "Schwimmer's bigger," Nina said, ripping up my winning scratch ticket. "And Barrett from the Bosstones. And David Halber-- " Noooo!

The phone rang again. I picked it up: "Piss off!" It was someone from Verizon. I pressed the message-retrieval button, wincing in anticipation of a Tina tirade, but the voice that greeted me was impassive, mechanical: "You have no new messages."

In the bedroom, Nina lay sleeping, her breathing muted by the patter of cold rain. I went to the kitchen and munched on a rind of toast. Scratching my soft belly, I thought about the day ahead. Later I would go out for beers with my friend Steve. First, though, I owed my editor an article. I already had an idea: the perfect day. Yes, the perfect day.

It was already starting to look as if it might be an okay one.

Chris Wright can be reached at cwright[a]phx.com.

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