The Three Muscatels

CW: Substance abuse, Physical violence, gore or abuse, Sexual violence

Actor Rip Roaring swigs from a bottle of Dom Perignon, pinching his co-star.

“Cut it out, you garden gnome, or I’ll have H.R. on you so fast the only job you’ll be able to get will be at an Oz adventure park.”

Rip points to a nearby table.

“See that, Blaze? That’s my Emmy. You’re in the presence of greatness.”

“Well, give me a call when you get an Oscar,” Blaze Bofors replies. “But don’t be surprised if I don’t pick up the phone.”

Rip blows a kiss at Blaze. Despite being three feet, ten inches tall and seventy-eight pounds, Rip has managed to be a colossal pain to his co-stars on “Paradise Ballroom,” the number one show on television.

“How about a little drinkee-poo?” Rips slurs.

“I’ve had enough of your poo all season,” Blaze returns.

Blaze plays the role of the show’s wholesome, brunette beauty. After enduring Rip’s sexual innuendos for twenty grueling episodes, she has no problem showing Rip that she’s nothing like her character.

“C’mon, babe, you know what they say, good things come in small packages.”

Snatching the bottle from Rip, Blaze dumps the champagne over his head.

“You’ve got a lot of growing up to do, and I’m not just referring to your height.”

Watching from the other side of the room, Otto Kemp’s agitation rises. He downs half of his scotch and water in the hope of calming his nerves.

The beetle-browed power broker is known throughout Hollywood as its most efficient fixer, and he’s mad that his services are about to be needed.

Marcelo Merino, the distinguished, silver-haired Castilian star of “Paradise Ballroom,” spots Kemp moving toward him.

“Getting Rip that Emmy was a big mistake. It’s gone to his pinhead,” Otto scolds. “And I told you it was a bad idea to have the cast party at your house.”

“I owed it to my co-stars. They worked very hard,” Marcelo replies, watching Rip chase after the caterer. “Well, most of the cast worked hard.”

“That little guy’s been a big problem all year. He fired a pistol at his wife when she asked for a divorce, then pushed her into a lit fireplace. The studio settled three sexual harassment suits against him. He insults or harasses every actor on the set. You’re the only friend he’s got left, Marcelo. Peel him off the ceiling, or he’s going to be fired. I can see to it that the next camera he looks into will be taking his mug shot.”

Marcelo moves toward Rip.

“Well, if it ain’t Ricardo Montalban’s clone.”

Rip points at his Emmy. “You see that baby? That’s my ticket to stardom. From the circus to ‘Paradise Ballroom’ to James Bond flicks!”

“Slow down, Rip. You should savor your accomplishments. And the best way to do that is sober.”

“Nice segue, Marcelo.”

“Maybe you should call it a night. Don’t you have an early flight to catch to audition in Rome for the Bond movie?”

“You really are one of the few friends I’ve got, Marcelo. You throw a nice shindig, but the girls are too uptight. Tell you what… Come with me while I drive home. Then you can drive my Mercedes back here and use it while I’m in Rome.”

Rip staggers toward the door. Spinning around, he ambles back to the table, picking up the Emmy.

Those are the last words Rip remembers until he finds himself behind the wheel of his beloved Mercedes. The car is smashed against a telephone pole. Steam rises from the car’s crumpled hood.

Rip feels blood trickling down his forehead. A sharp pain shoots up his left side, and he realizes he’s broken several ribs.

Marcelo is seated in the passenger seat. The side of his caved-in face is bloody, and he’s staring vacantly ahead.

A tap on the window jolts Rip.

Rip rolls down the window.

Otto sticks his pugnacious features into the car.

“You’ve really screwed up this time, you ossified imp. Your so-called career is toast.”

***

The chauffeur lines up Queen Farah’s luggage in front of the Passages to Recovery Rehabilitation Center.

Queen Farah is his photogenic equal, with almond-shaped violet eyes, flowing dark hair, and a model’s physique. Ruggedly regal with a dark beard and mustache, King Darius Florian looks as if he could win a bodybuilding competition.

The pair has been married for five years. Although she’s only twenty-eight, Queen Farah’s drinking makes her feel twice her age and has put a strain on their loveless marriage.

“But Darius…,” Farah pleads as he pulls her out of the back seat.

“I know you’ve tried to be a good Queen. Despite falling down the steps of the royal plane, passing out during an opera performed in your honor, and asking a priest for more ‘cookies’ at St. Patrick’s Church, the people still love you. But I can’t have you embarrassing the royal family anymore. You’ve got to put the bottle down.”

Darius sticks his foot in the small of her back, kicking her toward the door. “You’ve had your drinks. Now the drinks have you. Fix yourself, Farah.”

***

Farah plops some fruit salad on her plate, avoiding eye contact with fellow patients Rip Roaring and Dexter Davidson.

“You don’t have to be shy,” Rip says. “Do you know who I am?”

“You're Malcolm from ‘Paradise Ballroom.’ I’m Queen Farah Florian.”

“The correct answer, Queenie, is Rip Roaring. The long-haired, slump-shouldered guy pretending to be invisible is Dexter Davison. He’s traumatized and doesn’t speak much. He turns pieces of wood into artwork that resemble his dead sister. He wound up here after passing out and burning down his studio.”

“I’ve seen your work, Dexter. It’s impressive.”

“Are you really a queen?” Rip asks.

“Yes. My husband and I rule over Lichtenstein. I think we have more pets than people there.”

“Well, neither Dex nor I would be here if we weren’t tricked into it. A Hollywood troubleshooter is holding my career hostage. If I don’t complete the program, I’ll never work again.”

“My marriage is over if this doesn’t work. I think it’s over even if it does.”

“This is bull. You want effective therapy? Come to my room tonight at eight.”

Farah kneels, slapping Rip across his face.

“Ouch! That’s not what I mean!”

“It’ll be okay, Queen Farah,” Dexter says softly. “Rip and I have gotten together after hours a few times in the past few weeks. You’ll find that Rip has exactly what you need.”

***

The three patients stare at the bottle of muscatel on Rip’s table.

“We shouldn’t even be thinking about doing this,” Farah says, “We’re alcoholics.”

“I prefer the term abstinence challenged,” Rip returns. He opens the bottle, pouring the wine into three glasses.

“Where did you get it?”

“Church down the street. They have an afternoon mass. While Father O’Brien was preaching, I snuck in the back door and made off with a few bottles.”

“Your depravity knows no bounds.”

“Forget therapy. This is the magic elixir that can cure us. Alcohol loosens the tongue and sets inhibitions free. Here’s to the Three Muskatels!”

They clink their glasses together. Each of them takes a healthy gulp of wine.

“Here’s to ‘Paradise Ballroom!” Farah says.

Rip grunts. “Yeah, a real career highlight. I get to say, “Time to live, life is a party!” every episode. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve screamed at the actors or the director and walked off the set because I felt humiliated. Marcelo saved my career by convincing me to come back to the set and look how I repaid him. Here’s to Marcelo Merino!”

They raise their glasses, drinking.

“The irony is I’m going to die soon, too,” Rip continues. “Because I’m small, I’ve got more medical issues than real teeth. I have undersized lungs, so I can’t sleep lying down. I get pneumonia a lot, I’ve had three strokes, and I’ve got ulcers and a spastic colon.”

“I’m obsolete!” Farah blurts out. “I was born two hundred years too late. In the past, the royal family made important decisions. Now they’re made for us. Do you know what I do? I cut ribbons for supermarket openings, kiss babies, have my picture taken with celebrities, and here’s my favorite duty; I host the dog show. I don’t have anything important to do, so I drink. At first, drinking gave me the giggles. Then I needed more to keep my spirits up – no pun intended. Now it makes me sad. But my biggest reason for drinking is my marriage. My husband has a mistress, his assistant, my cousin Hortense. She’s not prettier or younger. In fact, she's eight years older than I am and looks like a mule. He doesn’t know that I know, and worse, I don’t think he cares.”

“Teva…,” Dexter mutters. “I should have saved her from drowning. I had her hand for a moment, then another wave hit us. I woke up on the beach. She was gone. They found her body half a mile away. I’ll never forget the look of terror on her face. That’s why I sculpt her face into almost everything I create… I’m trying to forget how she looked the last time I saw her and remember her when she was beautiful. Sometimes I see her when I’m awake. She gets mad at me for leaving her to die. That’s why I drink until I pass out.”

Rip downs his drink. “Looks like we have one thing in common… The search for a reason to go on living.”

***

Dr. Jenn Gold’s shrewd stare bounces between Rip, Dexter, and Farah. The tall redhead has the looks of a supermodel and the pedigree of a genius.

“Standard therapy is not going to help you three. I have a solution. The process is called Reversed Reality. I can send you back to the traumatic moment in your life when everything went wrong. Reversed Reality will give you a chance to fix your life.”

“Are you sampling your own narcotics, Doc?” Rip asks.

“I know it sounds far-fetched. Remember Clint Hill, the Secret Service agent who climbed onto the back of President Kennedy’s limousine after he’d been shot?”

“Yeah. He died a few months ago,” Rip replies. “He spent all of his life thinking that if he’d acted sooner, he might have saved the President.”

“I sent him to a reversed reality, and he did,” Dr. Gold replies. “He lived his life guilt-free. And because he saved President Kennedy, it meant that Lyndon Johnson didn’t become president, and Hubert Humphrey defeated Nixon.”

“Sounds like an alternate reality I’d like to live in,” Farah says.

“You can stay in the world your actions have created or return here and face whatever changes you’ve initiated by altering your life. Most people choose to stay in their reversed reality.”

“Let me try first,” Dexter says.

***

Dr. Gold straps Dexter down on the gurney, pushing it into the Reversed Reality machine.

She hands Dexter an Amber colored cube.

“This is a tracker and teleportation device. Press the button on the back of it, and the cube will bring you back here. Don’t lose the cube, or damage it, or you won’t have a choice whether to live in the present or the past - you’ll be stuck in your reverse reality.”

“I don’t care how many times it takes. I’m going to save Tova.”

***

Dexter wakes up on Montauk’s craggy shoreline. He’s pushing a rowboat into the water.

Tova smiles at him. “You’re sure I don’t need a lifejacket?”

He wants to scream, “YOU DO! YOU DO!” but just as he had twenty years ago, he says, “You’ll be fine.”

“But I can’t swim.”

“Did you forget I’m the best swimmer in Monmouth County? I’ve got you, Tova.”

Tova sits in the front of the boat, facing her brother, as Dexter rows out to sea.

Within minutes, the once blue sky blackens.

Tova looks up at the sky, shivering at the sudden change in the weather.

“Not exactly boating weather,” she says, as the wind gusts.

“I promised you we’d see a whale, so try to relax.”

A wave picks the boat up, slamming it down.

“Maybe we should go back,” Tova suggests.

“Okay, scaredy-cat.”

Dexter begins to turn the boat back toward the shore.

A massive wave hits the boat, flinging it sideways and throwing Dexter and Tova into the ocean.

Dexter rides the crest of another wave.

He screams his sister's name, spitting out saltwater as he swims in place.

“DEXTER!”

Tova is a few feet away, flaying fitfully against the water.

She disappears.

Dexter swims toward his sister. He grabs her hand, pulling Tova above the water.

A massive wave descends on them. Tova pushes Dexter away. The immense wave catapults Dexter toward the shore as thunder sounds and rain falls.

Dexter slams his head against a rock. He reaches into his pocket for the amber-colored cube, flipping its switch before slipping into unconsciousness.

***

Dexter wakes up in Dr. Gold’s laboratory.

“So, you decided not to live in your reversed reality.”

“…Tova… I didn’t abandon her…She saved me… She pushed me toward the shore.”

“As she did twenty years ago.”

“She sacrificed herself so I could live.”

“Instead of wallowing in unwarranted guilt over your sister’s death, you can now live your life as a tribute to her.”

***

Farah takes a deep breath as the gurney slowly slips into the Reverse Reality machine…

She’s back at the stables, hours before she’s supposed to meet King Darius for the first time.

Her matronly cousin, Hortense, squeals, “Aren’t you excited?”

“I hear he’s a heel.”

Reaching into her riding jacket’s pocket, Farah feeds her horse, Kismet, a few sugar cubes. Without looking, she feeds Kismet the Reverse Reality cube.

Kismet bites down on it. Whinnying in pain, Kismet spits the amber-colored cube out. It hits Hortense between the eyes, stunning her.

Farah quickly picks up the cube.

Hortense rubs her head. “What's wrong with Kismet?”

“I think it’s her rear right leg. It’s been bothering her. Would you be a dear and check it for me?”

Hortense kneels, looking at Kismet’s leg.

“…Sorry, girl, but I’d like a little revenge,” Farah says. Taking her keys out of her pocket, she jabs one of them into Kismet’s neck.

Kismet neighs, kicking Hortense in the head. Hortense staggers away, collapsing against a bale of hay.

“Yes, something’s wrong with her,” Farah says. “I’d better take her into town to see the vet.”

Hortense struggles to stand. “But what about King Darius?”

“Why don’t you entertain him until I get back?”

Farah leaves her cousin sputtering, “…But…But…”

She presses the button on the cube.

***

Dr. Gold straps Rip to the gurney, feeding his information into the Reverse Reality computer.

She hands Rip the amber-colored cube.

“What chapter in your life would you like to rewrite, Rip?”

“Marcelo’s death.”

Dr. Gold sighs heavily. “Why not pick the moment you realized you were an alcoholic?”

“I’m still waiting for that.”

Rip studies Dr. Gold’s guilt-riddled expression.

“If you know something I don’t, Doc, I’d like to hear it.”

“You didn’t kill Marcelo Merino… Otto Kemp told me you blacked out when you were about to leave the cast party. Marcelo drove you home. A deer jumped out in front of the car. Marcelo tried to avoid it, but in doing so, wound up crashing into a telephone pole. Otto had followed you. He and a few other people moved Marcelo’s body into the passenger’s seat and put you in the driver's seat, so that you and the police would think you killed him.”

The blood drains from Rip’s features. “Otto hated me that much… I want to go back to that night…”

“But why? Now you know you’re innocent,” Dr. Gold says.

“But Marcelo’s still dead, isn’t he?”

***

Otto grabs Rip by the collar, lifting him off the ground. “You drunken lout. When I say get in the car, you get in the car!”

Rip bashes his Emmy Award off Otto’s forehead. Otto drops him, wiping away a trickle of blood.

Marcelo steps between them. “Easy, you two. I’ll drive Rip home and come back.”

“And miss your own party?” Rip replies. “Otto wants me gone, and I’m willing to leave. I’ve got an idea. Since you’re so hell bent on banishing me, Otto, why don’t you drive me home?”

Otto rubs his forehead. “I’d drive to Guam to get rid of you. Get in.”

Rip gives Marcelo his Emmy. “Hold onto that for me, will you?”

“You should take it with you.”

“It’s more yours than mine anyway.”

As Marcelo admires the Emmy, Rip reaches into his pocket, throwing the Amber-colored cube into the bushes.

Getting in the car, he says to Marcelo, “Everything’s going to be all right now.”

***

Farah places her single suitcase next to the receptionist’s desk.

“It was nice having you here, Farah,” the receptionist says. She staples Farah’s discharge papers, handing them to her. “Did Dr. Gold’s treatment help you?”

“Yes, it was a success. You could say I lost a lot of baggage.”

“Are you going back to your job as King Darius’s assistant?”

“Yes.”

A limousine pulls up to the door. The chauffeur jumps out, lining suitcases up on the sidewalk.

Hortense steps out of the limousine.

King Darius sticks his foot in the small of her back, kicking her toward the door. “You’ve had your drinks. Now the drinks have you. Fix yourself, Queen Hortense.”

The two women approach one another, smiling politely.

“Cousin Farah. I knew there was another woman. I didn’t expect it to be you.”

“What’s a little adultery among relatives?”

King Darius holds the door of the limousine open for Farah.