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Carrying his load? I tried.
That was on Cliff’s mind when he managed to push a full luggage trolley into the airport hotel lobby, when Rick was trying to negotiate with the hand-waving Italian receptionist. Nine months in Italy certainly contributed to Rick’s growing waistline, but not to his Italian. Cliff steadied the cranky trolley, then turned to look at the lobby bursting with angry PanAm passengers.
They were on their way from Rome back to home. Everything was fine. Weather was nice, Francesca was laughing at Rick’s jokes, and home sweet Hollywood was just waving at them. Then the goddamn Pan Am flight got delayed. Air traffic control, they said. Apparently Italians, after eight years of grand opening, still haven’t figure out how to manage flights in the new Leonardo Da Vinci airport. Leonardo himself probably will turn in his graves if he knows this fact.
The airline insisted to settle everyone, that is everyone no matter you are in economy or first class, in the nearest hotel from the airport. “Senor Dalton, please understand, it won’t be long. And you will be the first one to get back on flight when we fix this…piccolo mistake.” The next thing they know is that they ended up in a cranky hotel room , with one shaky queen bed.
Francesca had declared she wouldn ’ t tolerate this farce and went back home in Rome. “ I am going nowhere until that damn flight made up its mind to take off. ” The receptionist declared that the hotel was “so damn full” that Rick and Cliff needed to share one room. Cliff didn’t understand much Italian, but the way that receptionist giving out keys and shoveling people into rooms reminded him of a skilled worker packing Italian sausages. Nice and tight.
Now when Cliff is again busy unloading suitcases from the luggage cart, Rick sat down heavily on the lone queen bed that gave out a squeaky sound. He pulled out a cigarette and looked up to Cliff. “Man, this is bad. The moment I decided to go back to Hollywood, everything just goes wrong.”
Cliff knows Rick. Hell, they have been working together for almost a decade. More than his stunt double. More like his bodyguard, driver, butler and handyman. More than a brother, a little less than a wife. Cliff doubts the second part though, as he clearly knows Rick better than Francesca who, just to prove his point, conveniently is not here. He put down the last suitcase, yelled at the bellboy downstairs to get the trolley, and turned back to check on Rick. He saw Rick pulled out a cigarette but he didn’t smell the good old nicotine and tar. This ain’t good.
When Cliff turned he saw one sobbing Rick Dalton, with cigarette between his fingers, looked just like the day he got off meeting with Marvin Shwarz. The confident grinning Jack Cahill now furrowed his brows and looked like a puppy that was dumped onto streets. “Buddy… What am I gonna do? Italy treats me well but wh-h-at if damn Hollywood just won’t take me back? Before I was just doing the heavy, but man I wa-a-s still there! You know what they think about spaghetti westerns… I may not even have a career back there, when I am now officially a spaghetti western has-been! This damn flight delay, I am telling you, is a bad o-o-men.”
Cliff sighed and sat down besides Rick. He found his own lighter and lit the cigarette for Rick. “Now where does all that come from? You are fucking Rick Dalton. Don’t you forget about that.” He knows Rick. He knows the very man who played both nonchalant cowboys and stone-faced heavy can throw an impressive temper tantrum sometimes. Now Cliff felt Rick’s head on his shoulder, warm with the other man’s breath, just like the time in the parking lot of Musso & Franks.
Rick lingered on his shoulder a little longer this time. When he pulled back, he looked as red as the tomato sauce on a fine slice of Margherita. “I am sorry, bud, I am sorry…A-a-after all these… and we might have been at the end of the road here… I appreciate what you did, I really do.” Rick’s stutter definitely got worse when he was nervous. “Anything for you, buddy.” Cliff heard himself saying. Now Rick was feeling better, they just need a little booze to make through the hot summer night in Rome.
They had 19 Negronis that night. Each of them. Cliff managed to carry Rick back to their room and put the drunken mess used to be known as Jake Cahill on the queen bed. He took off Rick’s turtleneck (despite Rick’s disdain about Hawaiian shirt, Cliff still thought that man wearing turtleneck in summertime Rome has no right to judge) and laid Rick’s head gently onto the pillow. Rick made a soft grunt through his drooling mouth and went back to his slumber quickly.
Rick Dalton ain' t nothing close to Hollywood' s golden boy. But to hell with that. He was always Cliff' s golden boy. Cliff waited nine years, saw his boy went from treading water to making a blast on the big screen, only to be told that they had reached end of the road here.
But that doesn’t matter. He tried.
What do you do when you lost the anchor of your life?
Well, Cliff just lit his acid dipped cigarette and took Brandy out for a walk. He has his own way of coping. He always copes, be it flying over a bridge in stunt scenes, taking care of fallen antenna or consoling a tearful has-been Western star in the parking lot. But he won’t be doing any of these anymore. The train has left the station called Rick Dalton and is going to god knows where.
Brandy was almost dragging him down Cielo drive. They rambled down the driveway while Cliff kept looking back at Rick’s house. His knowledge of the house definitely improved gradually since he first met Rick. First he parked the car by the door and stepped on the front porch only. Then he left the car by that silly caricature of Bounty Law and started venturing into the living room. That’s when he knew how headstrong Rick can get: Rick glued himself to the couch when watching his shows despite always complaining about his head and his back the morning after.
Eventually one night the only blank spot on his “map of Rick Dalton residence” got filled in. They had one too many after Rick got the role in FBI. Rick was still quibbling about who is the best western star ever when Cliff decided he had had enough of this. He cupped the man’s face and kissed Rick. It was a light kiss, nothing like those heated ones Rick got to act on screen. But Rick’s face went blank as if he had just been hammered on the head.
Shit. Cliff was ready to blame it all on the damn bloody mary when Rick suddenly leaned forward and kissed him back. Now that was a hot one, Cliff thought when he felt Rick’s tongue sliding in and touching his own. Rick clearly learnt a thing or two from all those pretty female co-stars. Cliff responded by pressing harder and deeper, satisfied when he heard Rick getting a little breathless. He did not mind riding a wild horse, especially a pretty one.
From that night on he knows the house inside out, from the Egyptian cotton bedsheet in Rick’s bedroom to the storage house by the garage. Now, perhaps because he was tripping, in Cliff’s eyes the house has this strange charming yellowish glow to it, warm and fuzzy and all that. Brandy paused at the end of the driveway, waiting for Cliff to signal which way to go.
So this is it. The end of the road. Cliff has been on this road for so long that he barely remembers what his life was like before Rick. The only thing he recalls was a dreadful marriage, rumors that haunted him and a life that had nothing to look back on. Then he met Rick on set. Life took a strange turn on that particularly sunny day in LA, and threw him onto a track with someone shines even brighter than the California sun. He was always told that he was too pretty for a stuntman. But he was happy enough to be the one behind Rick. Cliff Booth never complains. He was not the complaining type. He likes to be Rick’s double, carrying his load and practically doing everything he can for Rick.
Rick is the man in the spotlight. He was like Caesar, man of the hour. Cliff doesn’t want to be Caesar. He just wants to be the man who can take care of everything else, the man who can pick up Rick Dalton when he finishes playing Caesar, and maybe the man who can take a knife or two for Caesar. He himself never had a career to speak of aside from being Rick’s squire. But he wants nothing like Rick’s career. Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesars. Cliff wants something else. Probably he can call it something like, render unto Cliff the things that are Cliff’s. He wants the side of Rick Dalton that only he knew.
Meanwhile, Brandy, his fine girl, was still staring at him with those gentle yet confused eyes. So Cliff pointed at a random direction and the next thing he knew was himself being dragged away by an overly enthusiastic dog. Any direction. Doesn’t matter. He hadn’t had the time to figure out his life post-Rick Dalton. Horseshit. He honestly never thought about his life without Rick Dalton. Rick Dalton was the one constant in his life. His anchor.
Brandy and Cliff walked down the road together. Cliff felt so light that he thought he could just soar and fly away. That’s what people do when they lost their anchor, right? They drift away. Or they set sail to somewhere new. Some places where the pastures are greener. Somewhere probably Cliff Booth can finally start a career of his own. You know, being his own Caesar, stepping into the spotlight and coming out of shadows or things like that. He would admit that this was never on his agenda, and was never something he wanted. But now with Rick virtually saying “Thank you for your service and you are dismissed”, what can he do? It actually pains him to even just consider become stunt double for another actor. He only knew one man he wanted to a double for. There is only one Rick Dalton in this world.
He knows he shared real camaraderie with Rick not just because they somehow clicked, but also because Rick was the only actual person he knew in this fake circus of Hollywood. Rick is the only three-dimensional thing when everyone else feels like the flat image they played on screen. Rick was not all glory and shiny. But that’s what Cliff loved about him.
So now does he get to do what Rick does? Maybe. People always say he has a face pretty enough to lead. Some even talked to him about opportunities, small roles to start off with and better castings to follow. He is not sure whether he can take real roles, like what Rick did, playing Caesar. But he knows one thing for certain: that trailer behind the drive-in theatre could get him nowhere close to Rick. Hell, he may finally save up some money, buy a house and even be Rick’s next door neighbor in Toluca Lake if he gets lucky and starts to do real acting from now on. Rick always told him you need to buy a house to belong. He laughed at it back then, because he knew he belong to whatever ground that Missouri boy was standing on.
Cliff finished that hippie cigarette and looked back once again at the villa up on Cielo drive. Cliff is not used to do Caesar’s things. But he will try. He always tried.
Brandy decided that this way-longer-than-usual walk should come to an end, since Cliff seems to be wandering off in thoughts and ignored Brandy’s usual dinner time. So Brandy took up the duty of being a good girl and started to lead the way. It took them a while to climb back uphill, and a longer while for Cliff to study dog food contemplatively.
But Brandy is a fine girl. Brandy does not complain. Brandy waits. And Brandy protects. Just like her master. Except that Brandy did not take a knife for her master, while Cliff certainly did.
It was 7:15AM in the morning. Cliff was awake in his hospital bed despite being told he needs to rest. Old habits die hard. He used to be the one dragging a half-awake Rick Dalton out of bed and onto the car by 7:15AM. Every morning, always with a sleepy dribbling Rick by his side. But today was not like any other day. He woke up to a sharp pain in his hip rather than Brandy’s gentle grunting. Everything feels extra acute now when the effect of that hippie cigarette wore off. Everything hurts. His eyes hurt from the pale white walls. The pain from his hip, together with all his old injuries, are hammering his body like it is a goddamn bass drum.
He tried to reach for the painkillers on his bedside stand, but almost fell from the bed when sharp pain shot up his spine. Someone caught his arm and helped him sit up against the headboard.
I t was Rick. 7:15AM. Awake. With a brown bag and a cup of coffee in his hand. Cliff smelled bagels. Blueberry bagels. No shit. Rick actually remembers what kind of bagel he eats.
“I…I got you bagels. You might w-a-a-nt to take those pills later if you want coffee.” Rick looked surprisingly sober. After a hellish night of torching intruders, having his best friend stabbed, and sharing (just a few) drinks with the wife of Roman Polanski. Cliff winked and took over that brown bag. “Did you actually drive here?” He asked with a mouthful of bagel. So good.
“Yes and no. Francesca drove me here.” Cliff blinked when he took a sip of his coffee. Rick forgot to ask for cream. “So where is she now? Did she drive back?” Rick paused for a moment before he responded somewhat hesitantly. “She… she drove straight to the airport.” He took a look at his watch. “She should be boarding her flight back to Rome now.”
What? Cliff almost choked on his bagel, getting Rick to stand up and pat him gently on the back. “Francesca s-s-a-i-d she does not feel safe here. She said she is going back to Rome before I figure out how to make sure our house is safe.” Cliff was puzzled why Rick did not look particularly sad for someone whose wife has just left him. “Man. Sorry to hear that. I am sure you will fix this.” He swallowed down the last bit of that blueberry bagel and gave Rick a smile so bright that seemed impossible from someone just been stabbed. “ Nothing bad gonna happen to goddamn Rick Dalton.”
Rick turned his head and looked sideways. “I am sorry buddy. I really am. I am sorry I got you into this hot mess.” Rick stood up and walked to the windows. Outside the golden LA sun shines brightly on breezy palm trees, plating everything in warm, carefree light-brown glow. Everything and everyone. The sun shines on every big star and every no-name in land of the limelight, on every aspiring talent of tomorrow and every erstwhile bygone of yesteryear. It certainly shines as well, onto the two men that thought they had reached the end of their years together.
Before Cliff could say anything cliche like what are friends for, he was cut short by Rick. “Don’t you give me that old shit, mate. I can’t fix this. We both know that. I can’t face all these shit just by myself. I don’t need your pep talk, Cliff. I need you.” Cliff thought he heard thunder somewhere. But last time he checked there was not a trace of cloud outside. “Eh… Ok?” That was the best thing he can mutter. “You are calling the shots.” He added. He swallowed the part of “I am always here”.
When Rick spoke he had again the sad tearful puppy look on his face. “It just doesn’t feel right, you know? The car was there but nobody was in it. Nobody would watch my shows with me. Shit, I can’t even order pizza - how the fuck am I supposed to finish a whole pizza myself?” He took a deep breath to continue. “I-I can’t do this. I was with Sharon last night-you know, Polanski’s wife, nice enough to invite me for a drink after all the shit happened-and she told me the director may have some projects that I may be interested in. It’s worth a shot, man. But I need you with me. Toluca lake would be nice b-b-u-t I still want do this. This.” Rick gestured at the outside. Land of the dreams. Land of ever shining neon lights, silver screens and champagne bubbles in grand parties.
Cliff chuckled softly. “That’s a good plan. But man… I don’t know how much stunt I get to do after this.” He glanced at the wound on his hip. Now Rick suddenly looked very nervous. “I-I-I didn’t mean stunt double - I know that’s what you do - but Polanski’s roles probably don’t need stunt doubles - no that’s not what I meant - I-I-I-I-I still need a driver, you know?” Cliff was very sure he was facing one desperate Rick Dalton who, contrary to all the eloquent and audacious roles he played, was clearly too lost to say it out loud that he just wants Cliff all the way along. It doesn’t matter. Cliff knows. And Cliff wants Rick Dalton as well. So he will call it even this time.
Fuck Toluca lake, Cliff thought. The world can have its fair share of Jake Cahill, Caleb DeCoteau and the eyepatch-wearing Sgt. Mike Lewis with a blazing flamethrower. Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s. Cliff just want what’s left of Rick Dalton when he is done being Caesar.