Accidental Overdose
On the morning of August 4, Phillip Gregory rose from his custom-made, king-size pedestal bed and walked across the room to the large picture window that overlooked the sprawling rear yard of his famed mansion. Like a monarch looking out over his kingdom, the media magnate watched the early morning rays of the rising sun illuminate the marble fountains, terracotta patio, tennis courts, hot tubs and swimming pool.
By midmorning, the household staff would have the buffet tables and wet bar set up on the terrace. Not long after that, the valet parking attendants, bartenders, servers, caterers and musicians would begin to arrive. This type of Bacchanalian feast, which would be attended by entertainers, movie producers, directors, politicians, writers, athletes and hundreds of beautiful, scantily dressed young women, was an ordinary occurrence at the Casa Gregory. Its owner was world-renowned for his gala parties as well as his hedonistic lifestyle, and receiving an invitation to a party at the mansion was a sure sign of a person's achieving celebrity status.
Phillip could remember a time, not that long ago, when he gazed at the scene below with pride of ownership and a sense of accomplishment. Recently, however, he had grown bored with all of it. He suspected he was becoming jaded, having had far too much of a good thing for many years. He hated to admit, even to himself, that he was simply getting too old to enjoy gourmet food, top-shelf alcohol and the pleasures of the flesh.
* * *
Phillip Gregory was born into a lower-middle-class family from Paterson, New Jersey, more than eighty years ago. There was nothing particularly noteworthy about his childhood, except that he developed an early interest in pretty girls while other boys his age were still trying out for Little League teams, playing with Matchbox cars, swimming in the Passaic River or putting playing cards in the spokes of their bicycle wheels.
At an early age, the Garden State lad could appreciate a pretty face and a shapely figure like a connoisseur savored a fine wine. Although Phillip could not prove it, he was fairly certain that he had been the first in his class to kiss a girl and not long after that the first to lose his virginity.
After high school graduation, Gregory attended art school in New York, where he discovered a talent for photography.
"You certainly have an eye," his teacher complimented him. "I think you'd make an excellent photojournalist."
The artistically promising student brushed the suggestion aside.
"That's not for me. I don't want to spend my life taking pictures of war zones, crime scenes and natural disasters."
"What about fashion?" the teacher inquired. "There's a lot of money to be made photographing models. Take Richard Avedon, for example."
Phillip considered the option.
"That's not a bad idea."
Six months later, he was taking pictures for a New York advertising agency. The best that could be said about his job was that he got to meet a lot of beautiful women, whereas the actual process of taking photographs for lipstick ads, fashion spreads and jewelry catalogs proved to be tedious and not in the least bit gratifying.
Then one day, while he was photographing a seventeen-year-old model for a Lady Clairol hair color ad, Philip let his dissatisfaction with his occupation be known.
"What's wrong?" the model asked. "You look kinda down."
"I think it's time for a career change," he answered with a heavy sigh.
"Why? I would think this is a great job, taking pictures of sexy women all day."
"Most of the time, I have to concentrate on photographing the clothes, not the women wearing them. Besides, I think the female form is more beautiful with less covering."
"You mean like this," the model teased him, dropping the velvet robe she was wearing and standing half-naked before him.
After an initial moment of surprise, Phillip quickly recovered and raised his camera viewfinder to his eye. Those first impromptu photographs of the seminude model started Phillip Gregory on a career path that would make him a multimillionaire before he was thirty. He would eventually become the envy of men around the world, and his name would become a household word.
* * *
After leisurely showering and dressing, the former fashion photographer went downstairs to his dining room, where his personal chef had prepared eggs Benedict, exactly the way his employer liked them. No sooner had Phillip finished his breakfast than people—both workers and early guests—began congregating in his backyard.
Walking through the French doors, out onto his deck, he passed a popular television actress who was deep in conversation with a Cy Young Award-winning pitcher who had recently left the Baltimore Orioles and signed with the New York Yankees. There was a time when Phillip basked in the attention of the rich and famous. Now he barely took the time to acknowledge their presence.
As the men's magazine publisher made his way to one of the outdoor bars, two buxom blondes latched onto his arms. Both were former centerfolds who were hoping to pursue a career in the movies. They were but two among many such beauties who frequently flocked to Casa Gregory, believing the owner of Lothario magazine was the answer to their dreams, their ticket to stardom.
"Hello, ladies," Phillip greeted them, kissing first one and then the other on their ruby-red lips.
"We're getting together a few people to play volleyball," the taller and more physically endowed of the two blondes informed him. "Why don't you join us, Phil?"
"Maybe I will—a little later," he replied, giving each of their posteriors a playful squeeze. "But right now I'm expecting an important phone call from Marty Scorsese."
The name of the Oscar-winning filmmaker brought an immediate reaction from the two aspiring actresses.
"Scorsese?" the shorter one echoed excitedly. "Will he be here today?"
"I don't believe so. I think he's shooting a film with DiCaprio back in New York. Why don't you two go ahead and play volleyball, and I'll join you in a bit?"
"Sure, Phil, sweetie," the taller one gushed. "You be sure to say hi to Marty for us, okay?"
"Will do," he promised with a wink.
There was no call expected from Scorsese, who may or may not be in New York for all Phillip knew. He only wanted to rid himself of the blondes' unwanted attention.
"Martini, sir?" the sexy female bartender in a tight, low-cut top asked.
"No, give me a beer."
The bartender covered her surprise and reached for a glass.
"Never mind that. I prefer to drink it straight from the bottle."
When the billionaire raised the imported German brew to his lips, he spotted a familiar face in the crowd and caught his breath.
It can't be her, he thought with disappointment. She'd be what?
Mentally, he tried to do the math.
She was around eighteen or nineteen then, and that was 1954. That would make her more than seventy years old now.
Phillip shook his head. There was no way that beautiful woman could be close to his age. Not all the Botox and facelifts in Los Angeles could work such a miracle.
When the woman turned and saw Phillip staring at her, she smiled—an open invitation for him to approach her.
"You look just like someone I used to know," he blurted out.
"How original! I expected something much more sophisticated and debonair from the world's leading playboy."
"That wasn't a pick-up line. It's the truth. You remind me of Bianca Langdon, one of my first centerfolds."
"You actually remember that far back?" she chuckled. "You must have featured thousands of women in the pages of your magazine over the years. I'd have thought by now, one naked body was much the same as another."
A melancholy look suddenly came over Phillip's aging face.
"Bianca was different from the rest. She was special. She was more than just a nice ass and a pair of silicone implants."
"Thank you," the woman said, dropping the playful banter. "That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."
Phillip was dumbfounded.
"But you can't be Bianca Langdon. It's not possible."
"I am, though. I've aged well; don't you agree?" she laughed.
It was clear from the expression of pity on her face that she did not think the same of him. While she was still youthful-looking and shapely, he had grown old beyond his years.
"I see you haven't lost your touch with the ladies," she observed. "I couldn't help noticing you had a blonde on each arm before."
"I don't kid myself. Women only fawn over me because of my wealth, or in the case of those two, they think I can help get them into the movies."
Phillip was surprised by his own confession. He had never been one for blatant honesty before.
"Not like the old days, huh? You were quite a handsome man at one time. All the women adored you."
"Enough about me, Bianca, darling," he said, not wanting to be reminded of days long gone. "What about you? What have you been doing all these years?"
"All sorts of wonderful things! I've traveled around the world and met so many interesting people. In fact, I'm leaving tomorrow on another extended trip to the Orient."
"And how do you stay so young-looking? I swear you haven't aged a day since you posed for me."
"Good genes, I suppose."
"I've got a great idea," Phillip announced excitedly. "Why don't you pose for me again? I can run a before-and-after spread."
"At my age? You must be kidding!"
"Who cares about your age; you're gorgeous! And think what an inspiration you'd be to the older women around the world."
Before Bianca could reply, the band began playing a Sixties rock classic, and further discussion was drowned out by the blaring music.
* * *
It was not until after midnight that Phillip was able to continue his conversation with Bianca. He had followed her into the house and cornered her in the library.
"Who are you hiding from?" he asked.
She turned around with a cry of surprise. A bottle of pills she had been holding in her hand spilled onto the carpet.
"Are you ill?"
"No," she admitted with a sigh of resignation. "This bottle is my personal fountain of youth. Just one pill in the morning and one at night keeps me looking young."
"You're pulling my leg, right?"
"No, I'm not."
"Where did you get them?"
Bianca lowered her voice to a whisper.
"In a little village in Tibet, where people live to be well over a hundred years old without aging."
"How long have you been taking those pills?"
"For about twenty years now. I was already turning gray and getting wrinkles, but the pills restored my youth."
"Can you get some for me?" Phillip inquired hopefully. "I'll pay you handsomely."
Bianca looked at the elderly billionaire and remembered the robust, virile man he once was. She popped a pill into her mouth and handed him the nearly full bottle.
"Here, take these. I have a year's supply of them at home. If they work for you, I'll give you the address of my supplier."
That night before he went to bed, Philip popped a pill in his mouth and swallowed it down with a glass of Scotch.
"I don't know if this is going to work or not, but what have I got to lose?"
The following morning, when he walked into the bathroom of his stately master suite, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the vanity mirror. He stopped and stared. Ten years seemed to have disappeared overnight. The thinning, white hair he had seen the day before was now thick and salt and pepper in color.
"I'll be damned!" he exclaimed. "Those pills really do work."
Not wanting to explain his sudden transformation to a house full of hungover guests, Phillip snuck down to his garage, climbed into his Lamborghini Diablo and headed north on the freeway to his mountain cabin.
After three and a half hours on the road, he stopped at a nondescript diner for a late lunch. Once he finished his hamburger and fries, he reached into his pocket for the plastic bottle, put another pill into his mouth and washed it down with a Diet Coke, wondering how long it would be before the medication took effect. When he finally got to his cabin, he immediately walked into the bedroom to examine his reflection in the mirror.
"It's incredible! There's not a trace of gray in my hair anymore. And my skin," he cried, rubbing his cheeks with his hands. "It looks like I've had a facelift."
His sudden youthful appearance posed a unique problem that he had not foreseen. How was he ever going to explain his miraculous rejuvenation to the world?
"Maybe I won't have to," he declared as a clever plan came to him.
Phillip picked up the phone and called his personal assistant.
"Something's come up," he told the extremely capable Harvard graduate. "I'm going to go away for a few weeks, possibly even for a few months. I want you to keep an eye on things for me."
"Shall I call your cell if something comes up?" the assistant asked.
"Only if it's a matter of life and death," the employer replied. "Otherwise, I'll leave it to you to put out the fires. But I promise to phone you regularly to keep a tab on things."
He then made a call to his butler, telling him much the same thing he had told his assistant. Feeling like a free man for the first time in more than forty years, Phillip ordered a pizza and went into his media room to watch a basketball game on his big-screen television.
When the pizza was delivered, he took another pill, his fourth that day, and washed it down with an expensive wine. Before two hours had passed, he looked and felt like a man in his early twenties.
"It's absolutely amazing!" he muttered to the handsome face staring back at him from the mirror. "This is the perfect age. Now I'll lower the dosage to two pills a day to maintain it. In a month or so, I can go back to L.A. and tell everyone that I owe my youthful appearance to cosmetic surgery and an expensive European spa."
* * *
The first indication that something was terribly amiss the next morning was that Phillip's pajamas were several sizes too big for him. The second was that his voice was almost an octave higher. The third was that there was no facial hair on his smooth, boyish cheeks.
"Oh, no!" he groaned when he saw what appeared to be a pre-pubescent boy in the full-length mirror behind his bedroom door. "I must have taken too many pills. I'll have to skip a day or two until I become a man again."
Yet the following day, the former octogenarian woke to discover he was even younger. The eighty-three-year-old mind was trapped inside the body of a five-year-old child.
Frantically, he searched his pockets for his cell phone. Frantically, he searched his pockets for his cell phone. Once he found it, he froze and stood, phone in hand, plagued by indecision. Who could he call? Who would be able to help him?
"My only hope is that if I stop taking the pills, I'll begin to age again."
Phillip spent the day watching CNN, despite having no interest in what was going on in the world. Global warming, the deteriorating economy, the presidential race and the continued fighting in the Middle East meant nothing to him in light of his current predicament. What would he do if the process could not be reversed?
"If I'm not any older when I wake up tomorrow morning, I'm going to call an ambulance and have the paramedics take me to the nearest emergency room. No doubt the doctors won't believe me at first, but I've got the pills as proof. A good chemist should be able to analyze them and find some way to counteract their effects."
Sadly, the next morning, when Phillip woke up, he was lying on his back, unable to sit up and unable to speak. All the three-month-old infant could do was cry.
* * *
Plump and jovial Juanita Lopez drove up to the six-thousand-square-foot luxury "log cabin" and parked her twelve-year-old Subaru in the driveway behind her employer's red Lamborghini. She was surprised that Philip had not let her know he would be coming up from Los Angeles. The cleaning woman smiled, wondering what well-proportioned señorita had accompanied him.
As was her habit when her employer was at the cabin, she knocked loudly before entering.
"Señor Gregory," she called from the doorway, not wanting to walk in on a private moment. "It's me, Juanita. I've come to clean up."
Receiving no reply, the cleaning woman assumed her employer was asleep. She started in the kitchen, working quietly so as not to wake him. When he failed to make an appearance by mid-afternoon, she knocked on his bedroom door.
"Señor Gregory, are you all right?"
She entered the bedroom and saw that it was empty, as was the master bathroom. She shrugged her shoulders and began changing the sheets on the king-size bed.
Juanita Lopez had no idea where Phillip was, and, quite frankly, she did not really care. She was paid well to clean his house, but in all honesty, she did not like her employer very much. A devout Catholic, she believed a man in his eighties should not be involved with women one-quarter his age. It was not only immoral in her eyes, but it was downright unnatural. And then there was that magazine! Juanita shook her head with disgust and tried not to dwell on the fact that she indirectly owed her livelihood to photographs of naked women.
After she finished vacuuming the bedroom, she carried the dirty sheets downstairs to the laundry room. When she turned the dial on the washing machine, she had no idea that she was washing away the last trace of her employer: the microscopic embryo that was all that remained of Phillip Gregory, the world-renowned creator of Lothario magazine.
Salem was once on the cover of the October issue of Lothario magazine. He wouldn't pose for the centerfold because he was afraid he would get staples in his stomach.
