The Man Who Cancelled Himself Read Online Free Page B

Essex House, but all I ever do is crash there for a few hours. Studio’s where I live.”
    “I have to know some things, Lyle.”
    “Sure, pal,” he said easily. “Like
    what?”
    “Like what the hell you were doing in that theater.”
    He made that popping noise with his lips. “You don’t waste any time, do you?”
    “It’s what everyone wants to know, Lyle.”
    And absolutely couldn’t figure out. After all, the man was living with a major sexpot. After all, the man could have rented an X-rated movie and masturbated in the privacy of his own home if that was what he felt like doing. What was he doing in a Times Square theater with his entire career in his fist? It made no sense. And had been the number one subject of speculation, wonderment, and psychobabble in the tabloid press for months.
    “I have to know, Lyle. I have to know you’re prepared to deal with this thing openly. Because if all you want is a whitewash, then I’m out of here.”
    “Fair enough.” He considered his reply carefully before he ran his hand through his stubby red curls and said, “I had a headache.”
    “I understand they have aspirin for that sort of thing.”
    “Not that kind of headache. I get terrible, terrible migraines. My head feels like it’s being cut open with a chain saw. I can barely see. Strictly from doing the show. Fighting with the network, with the writers, with the cast. The pressure’s enormous and it’s all on me. For years, I coped by snorting coke. Couple thousand bucks’ worth a week. But I was trying to get off it, see? On account of Katrina said she’d break it off with me otherwise. She said I was killing myself. Just like Beloosh did. That day … that was a bad, bad day. I was stressed out, hadn’t slept in three days. Never did, unless I took sleeping pills, and I was off of those, too. See, I was strung out on Halcion for two years. Which they now say can cause major nutsiness. Like I need a drug for that, right?”
    “That day, Lyle … ?”
    “The show wouldn’t work,” he recalled. “The Munchkins had the flu. The toilet was stopped up. There was a blizzard. I couldn’t get hold of the plumber. Sis was coming down with the flu, too.”
    I tugged at my ear. “You mean in the show.”
    “Yeah, but it always carries over into real life. I know that sounds weird, but it’s true. I was feeling … trapped. Like my head was gonna explode. I had to get away. Had to.” His voice was insistent and strangely high-pitched over the surf. He sounded almost desperate, like a man who was drowning in deep water, not walking on hard sand. I would think of that often as I got to know Lyle better. “I could just as easily have walked down to the Tenth Street Baths for a shvitz. Believe me, I wish I had. I walked uptown instead. I don’t know why I went in that theater. I—I just needed a release. It just happened. That’s the truth. The absolute truth.” He plowed along through the sand, his eyes out on the sailboats. “I still can’t believe how pissed the public got. I really can’t. I mean, people went crazy. Some parents’ group in Alabama said I ought to be castrated. That was my favorite. No, no—my favorite was that shrink in the Daily News who said I wanted to get caught. Like I was trying to commit professional suicide. Like I’d actually cancel myself. I mean, Christ, why would I wanna do that? Chubby’s my whole career.” He glanced over at me uncertainly. “That open enough for you?”
    “Still have these headaches?”
    “Haven’t since I went on this diet and exercise regimen. Of course, we’re not in production yet. That’ll be the real test. Whew, let’s take a blow, huh?” There was a driftwood log ahead of us, bleached white as bone. He flopped down on it heavily, puffing, drenched with sweat.
    I stood there watching him. In some ways he reminded me of the neighborhood fat kid, the whiny one who always got picked last when you chose up sides for baseball. In some