Posted by TangoMania at c1866799-a.sttls1.wa.home.com on November 03, 2001 at 03:43:06:
The Life and Death of Mark Wahlberg's Wife Beater
The facade he was living was one he no longer wanted a part of. Lying back in his lawn
chair, he knew it was time to end his life. Such a decision doesn’t come easily, especially when
you’re on the roller coaster ride known as fame. With a heavy heart, Mark Wahlberg’s Wife
Beater slowly made his way to his car, hopped in, and drove to his lunchtime date. He hoped it
would be his last.
He arrived first, as usual. Even when he tried to be late he couldn’t. Somehow whoever
happened to be meeting him was always one step ahead, and knew to make Mark Wahlberg’s
Wife Beater wait. He never felt more alone then when he sat in a crowded restaurant, all alone at
his table, wishing he had thumbs to twiddle. So much sound and none of it intended for his ears.
Normally this was his definition of hell, but he was so sure of his decision that he calmly sat and
took note of the strange goings on that always accompanied a trip here. And waited for his dear
friend, who owed him one hell of a favor.
Across the room were Jamie Lee Curtis’ testicles, chatting quietly with one of Charlie
Sheen’s many venereal diseases. He lowered his head. He didn’t recognize anyone anymore.
Back in the early nineties, when Marky Mark and The Funky Bunch ruled the charts and
the hearts of America, he was important. He was more than a piece of damn cloth. He was an
icon. Marky Mark wouldn’t be caught dead without his trusty Wife Beater. Together, they made
lots of money and lots of love. But then, out of seemingly nowhere, change came: George
Clooney decided the kid could act without his Wife Beater, and Mark Wahlberg’s Wife Beater became increasingly less
important to the now respected actor. This dilemma was made all the more painful by the fact that Mark Wahlberg’s Wife
Beater and George Clooney’s Stethoscope were at one time great friends. He frowned at the memory, certain that George
Clooney’s Stethoscope was at the same restaurant, just waiting to come out and show off his new plastic surgery. George was
loyal, and had Stethoscope molded into a shiny prop gun after he left ER. They still worked together on nearly every project of
Georges.
When Mark left the Funky Bunch, it was the worst day of his Wife Beater’s life. For a long time, there was nothing. He
got in on the action in “Fear” in 1996 and was really close when the boss banged that girl from Pleasantville. He smiled at the
memory, smiled for the first time in a long time. He’d nearly forgotten: She wasn’t acting in that scene. Mark and his Wife
Beater on a roller coaster honestly brought her to orgasm. The final cut of the film was much more like a documentary than a
fiction film. And he was there. He saw it all.
But that was years ago. Before Three Kings. Before Planet of The Apes. He’d been forgotten, cast aside like Michael
Jackson’s white glove (who was having a drink, alone, at the bar.)
It wasn’t just the lack of funkiness that disturbed him; it was the sense that he’d been a tool for years, a trendy device
used to sell an image that he himself had believed in. “Good Vibrations”, he thought, couldn’t ripple forever. At some point the
pond turns still, and life goes on as it was until the water is disturbed again. It’d been so long since he’d stuck his finger in, since
he’d mattered. Not just to the world. Not just to Mark. But to himself.
His lunch date wasn’t going to help his ego. Mark Wahlberg’s Wife Beater had nearly cancelled, but if he did so it would
have been clear to both of them that it was done out of bitterness. Besides, it was his last day to live. And she was his way out.
He wanted to say goodbye to his old friend, and congratulate her on all her critical and commercial success.
She strolled up as casually as someone of her status can. Mark Wahlberg’s Wife Beater noticed the jaws agape, the
jealous eyes. They followed her every move, watched her even when she was still. When one sees someone they admire in
public, it validates their choice in the place they have decided to patron. It makes them feel special in a unique and wonderful
way that can’t be described by words. It has to be felt. It’s the feeling of fame on its purest level.
Star power. Plain and simple.
They used to look at him like that. The awe. The questions that couldn’t make it to the lips. The ugly wanting so
desperately to know what it’s like to be wanted, to be desired, to be in total command of each and every little thing. The
shameless worship
All of that from the eyes. He remembered it well. It was once his life.
But no more.
She sat. They laughed, the unspoken tension released in spontaneous bursts of awkward laughter. And then James
Gandolfini’s Cigar, obviously sensing something wrong with her dear friend, finally broke the dead air with a voice that made
angels dance and devils cry. No wonder she was a star, he thought.
Pure star power.
“What’s wrong, love?”
“I need to…” He stopped. It was too much, too much to ask someone you love. To abuse her position, at this crucial
point, it could sink her. But…if they could get away with it, there might be no connection. Nothing. His pain would be over, and
she wouldn’t even have to know. His mind was racing. It was now or never. This was his one chance, his chance to get back
on top, even if only in death. And when that hit, suddenly everything slowed down.
He smiled. “You owe me, kiddo. Big time.”
She flicked her head into the ashtray and met his gaze. “Sweety, just ask. Anything. You know that.”
“After Clinton you couldn’t get arrested in this town. I made some calls, smoothed some of the kinks out. And now you
got a good job. A good boss. A white-hot show that everybody loves. You’re an icon, love.”
She suddenly turned dead serious. “I didn’t know this was going to be a lecture. I know what I did. I know what hole I
was in, and it stank. It stank big time. But I got out, to bigger and better things. And, yeah, sure, you had a lot to do with it. But
so did I, Goddamn it. You can’t Lord over me with your Goddamn self-righteous bullshit forever. You just can’t do it. I can’t
and I won’t accept it. Now, if you need something now, just ask, because you know I’ll do it. But don’t you ever, ever dictate
my history to me again at some goddamn fake Hollywood shit restaurant or I swear to god I’ll have you whacked.”
It wasn’t an idle threat. They were friends, but she knew people now. People the old Mark Wahlberg’s Wife Beater, with
his lily-white teenybopper rap pandered to homosexuals and 12-year-old girls, would never want to meet.
But that was, of course, before he wanted to die.
“I need to get on The Sopranos.”
“I can do that. James’ Wife Beater is sick. He was put in with a batch of colors. He’s going to be out a few days at best,
he’s all pink. Good timing.”
Good timing.
“Well,” she continued, her demeanor much more lovely than just seconds ago, “We’re filming down here in LA today. I
can bring you back to the set with me.”
Good timing.
“I’m not hungry anyway. Let’s go. I’m anxious to get to work.”
As he prepared himself to die, he was giddy. Never before had he felt the rush he felt in planning his own extravagant
death. Finally, at the end, he was totally alive. And where was Mark? Probably screwing Jennifer Aniston in some movie. Who
needs him?
They ran to her car, eyes following both of them now. No longer did they just sense it in her.
Star power.
The set was dark. A shirtless James Gandolfini was sitting in his chair, clearly freezing. His nipples were hard, alert and ready. Dominic
Chianese, the man playing his Uncle Junior, stood next to an AD going over some last minute details. Mark Wahlberg’s Wife
Beater said hello to Dominic’s Spectacles and waited to be called to duty. James Gandolfini’s Cigar was already being puffed
on quietly. She didn’t seem to mind.
Everyone was relaxed. Just another day on the set.
The end was a long blur of emotions mish mashed together like a kaleidoscope nightmare. So many feelings, all over the
place. Regret and joy. Love and a true lust for life. All at the end. And so very, very intense. Even in nightmares there is a rush
that is addictive. The thrill of knowing you are doing something you shouldn’t be, even in your mind’s eye. But this was real.
James put down Cigar and walked in Mark Wahlberg’s Wife Beater’s direction. They exchanged glances. She sensed
what was about to happen, but was powerless to stop it. And so was he. Accepting the fate he had chosen for himself was the
only option, the only way to go out as intended.
Suddenly Mark Wahlberg’s Wife Beater was in his fist. James struggled to find the holes that defined his side, and out of
the corner of his vision Mark Wahlberg's Wife Beater caught the sight of Robert Iler, who plays James’ son, selling cocaine to
a young girl.
The first tear hurt, but not as bad as he’d expected. A large arm raced through his right. Cigar screamed.
It was all happening, just as he’d envisioned it. After spending year after year on Mark Wahlberg’s chiseled physique,
James Gandolfini’s massive frame was no match for him. As the second arm seared through him, he finally allowed himself a
scream.For a moment, he was intact. James was confused, wearing this Wife Beater that clearly did not fit. Still. Quiet.
Confused.
And then Mark Wahlberg’s Wife Beater exploded.
Fabric flew in every direction. String floated in the air, slowly, bouncing off the light, dancing in death as it hadn’t in life for
so, so long. James Gandolfini’s Cigar began to weep. Her friend was gone, but not without leaving everyone in the room a
sense of beauty and grandeur that the props on the set would not soon forget.
Dominic Chianese’s Glasses saddled up to James Gandolfini’s Cigar. “You knew?”
“I didn’t…I couldn’t…”
From outside, a janitor with a dustpan approached the remains of Mark Wahlberg’s Wife Beater. He dutifully scooped up
the material and took it from their vision.
“It was a good death. A showman’s death.”
Slowly, the props gathered beneath one of the nicer Cameras. The chant began, first from behind tears, but then from a
place of pure joy and admiration. To celebrate the life they knew.
Ooh
Come on swing it
C-C-Come on swing it
Ooh
Come on swing it
C-C-Come on swing it
Suddenly they weren’t just saying the words…they were singing.
Donnie D's on the back up
Drug free, so put the crack up
No need for speed
I'm the anti D-R-U-G-G-I-E my
Body is healthy
My rhymes make me wealthy
And the Funky Bunch helps me
To bring you a show with no intoxication
Come on feel the vibration
As the actors took their places and pretended to deal with life and death, a real drama was unfolding right next to their
kneecaps.
“Cigar,” Dominic Chianese’s Glasses asked in hushed breath under the singing, “Will he and Mark meet in Heaven and be
together as one? Like the way it always was? Like the way it’s supposed to be?”
She looked up towards the sun and smiled. “Wouldn’t it be pretty to think so?”