Brief Pose
A Novel in Three Acts
Written by
Wesley McCraw
Copyright 2016 Wesley McCraw
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
License Notes
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Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
A note from the Author:
About the Author:
CHAPTER ONE
Opening Image and Set-Up
1.0
To establish narrative authority, horror films often start with text that either mimics nonfiction or says outright that the story is true.
Melodrama also uses this device:
“Based on a true story.”
Or “Based on true events.”
It helps the audience suspend disbelief when the plot takes an absurd turn.
The following excerpt is from the Introduction to The Archive by Brian Sartain:
Film critic Robert Stonewall stated in his year-end film retrospective, “Despite its shortcomings, no other documentary film has had a larger real-world impact than Brief Pose Exposed, this year or any year before. It illuminated the gravest public safety crisis in the history of the United States. It forced an overhaul of the EPA and the CSPC. It brought a Fortune 500 company to its knees. Some would say even capitalism itself was called into question.”
Despite this (I would argue exaggerated) impact on the zeitgeist, Brief Pose Exposed (BPE) is not an exhaustive exposé by any stretch of the imagination. It tries to pass itself off as cinéma vérité, but in reality, it’s closer to a contrived mondo film. BPE ignores the roots of Brief Pose’s failed business practices. The science behind the pheromone compound known as PXX is left unexplained. Even the basic timeline of events is muddled.
BPE’s effectiveness lies in narrative simplicity, not in reasoned argument. It uses an intimate portrait of Eric Loan and his close-knit social group to humanize the catastrophe’s inhuman scale and then zooms in on the grotesque. It simplifies a complex historical event into a digestible 90-minute human interest story that climaxes in shock and horror. In the process, it distorts facts for entertainment. (Sartain, ii-iii)
Brian Sartain’s The Archive goes on to reconstruct and elaborate on the original narrative of the film by describing raw footage not utilized in the final cut. In his zeal for the “truth,” he never contacted me to hear my side of the story. Instead, he chose to theorize and invent his own reality for the sake of controversy.
Well, I have my own reality to share, one that couldn’t be captured on film. Brian Sartain never seemed to grasp that the pheromone compound PXX was always more about an inner psychological world than an external reality.
To be frank, The Archive is a narrow-minded, pompous, and self-serving work, full of rightwing propaganda that turns my stomach. I’m writing this to set the record straight.
That said, it would be arrogant of me to dismiss a fellow man of letters just because I disagreed with his politics. No one is ever all right or all wrong. I don’t live in a black and white world, not anymore. Memory is malleable. Eye-wittiness testimony is notoriously unreliable. Just because I was there, doesn’t mean I have all the answers. The only way to recover from PXX is to make peace with doubt, and I have made that peace.
With permission, I’ll be quoting from Sartain’s work to supplement the more subjective sections of my account. He expands the narrative in provocative ways that balance out my POV. For that, I give him credit and my thanks.
1.1
Opening image: A tropical ocean. Water bends the light. Endless blue sky. Soft white sand. Two bent palms and one lonely coconut.
Breathe in paradise. Feel the relief of no people. Escape your life and live with no worries.
A hand rises. On its palm, a mound of red pills blocks the view.
Paradise is a ruse. It’s the opposite of an establishing shot. It’s a poster on a wall in a closet-sized bedroom.
ERIC LOAN, reporting for duty. My name is in all caps because this is my introductory scene. Think twenty-something. Think man-child about to off himself for reasons yet to be revealed.
In boxer shorts and a worn-through T-shirt, I sit on the edge of my twin bed. My bare feet are solid on the cold hardwood floor. The 100mg Seconals are piled high in my palm. The Matrix is the touchstone here. The red pill or the blue pill. Minus the blue pill and a whole bunch more red. No backing out. Judy Garland overdosed. Jimmy Hendrix overdosed. Thomas Lanier Williams III overdosed. These legends would become my peers with one performance, with one mouthful of swallowed Seconals.
Imagine me overdosing: Choking on my tongue. Skin gray, eyes bugging out. Not a pretty sight of course. Maybe I foam at the mouth a little.
Imagine me losing a war in my stomach that turns the whole world black. I can be a bit overdramatic given the right circumstances, and these conditions are a perfect storm.
In a determined whisper, I say, “You're alone. No one gives a shit. End it.” My voice sounds deceptively vulnerable and afraid as if I’m playing a character that has something to lose. The only thing I have to lose is the pain. You should be asking, how did Eric get here? What horrible tragedy led him to this terminal state? But you don't really care. I don't blame you; we've hardly met. I haven’t earned your sympathy yet.
Tough shit. I'm the fucking narrator. I say, “Flashback.” You say, “How far back?”
1.2
SUPERIMPOSE “One Year Earlier...” over holiday shoppers choking a subway station. The multitude is bundled in scarves, hats, and bulky coats. Expressions are grim, but a few faces display mirth despite the holiday stress, despite our fundamental human need to conform to the gray.
From both sides, stairs lead down to a landing and then another flight of stairs leads down to an expansive subway platform where people gather and wait for the next train.
Affluent FOSTER MOM and FOSTER DAD lug shopping bags and boxes down the steps, accompanied by their pudgy foster son. Yep. That's me in a college sweatshirt, fifty pounds heavier and a ton happier.
I have my future mapped out. After a few award winning documentaries, I’ll transition into fiction. My studied realism will take the indie film scene by storm. I’ve daydreamed about the polarized reviews. Some will call my films melodramatic and manipulative. My fans will deem them masterpieces of bold, unrestrained humanism. People might not know me yet, but perspiration multiplied by time equals my inevitable success. As with most artists, this robust optimism is far from constant.
While descending the steps, I tweet, “With fam. Consumer binge
. Happy times. #FYRE” The tweet reads sarcastic, even though I'm having an okay time. Most of my followers are fellow students undergoing the First Year Residence Experience. Everyone on my floor agreed to tweet about exploring the city using the #FYRE hashtag.
Even declaring me average seems generous around my classmates. I like most of them, but their effortless talent, charisma, good looks, trust funds, Hollywood connections, New York connections, social connections often make me feel pathetic and not worth knowing. Thankfully my foster parents don't care if I can further a film career; they just want to Christmas shop with me in the big city before heading back to provincial nowhere. I’ve made a lot of fast friends in the residence hall, but my foster parents are like comfort food. They make me feel okay in my own skin.
On the landing, a DIRTY SANTA with a pot belly swigs from a dented flask. The alcohol smell would be overwhelming if his pungent body odor didn't mask the fumes.
Next to him, in stark contrast, a clothing advertisement depicts half-naked lovers laughing on a beach. BRIEF POSE is a brand that targets horny, insecure college students. It’s something other people wear and not exactly on my radar yet.
People flow into the subway cars. If we don’t hurry, we’re gonna miss our train.
Foster Dad struggles with his boxes as he pulls out money. Altruistic to a fault generally, he’s even worse around the holidays.
“In Subway. Who wants to find the mole people with me? #FYRE”
At one time, a vibrant homeless community lived under the city, and I thought a documentary about them would be cool, but the crackdown on subway graffiti cleared them out. I prefer to think of them still living down here, though, a rare society independent from the mainstream.
Foster Dad drops a dollar into Dirty Santa's coffee can.
The subway train leaves as we reach the platform.
A crumpled newspaper blows by like a tumbleweed.
We line up behind the yellow lines: Foster Dad, Foster Mom, and me.
I snap a picture of the location--maybe we can film down here on the sly some time--pocket my phone, and take out a bag of M&M's.
Dirty Santa leans his head back against the tiled wall beside the Brief Pose poster and struggles to breathe. He might throw up. He pisses me off. I’ve been homeless before but never anything like him.
“He's just gonna use it to get wasted.”
Foster Dad shrugs. “It’s his money.”
“It’s your money.”
“Not anymore.”
“He’s a drunk.”
“Don't judge.” Foster Mom rests her bags down on the platform. “Sometimes people need an escape. Life can be rough.”
They‘re impossible. I crunch a mouthful of M&M’s. I go through a few bags a day.
“How's your diet going?” Foster Mom asks.
Ouch. They call it the freshman fifteen. In my case, it's more like twenty. It sucks. Everyone else in the residence halls is losing weight because of all the city exploration, while I’m packing on the pounds.
“You can start again in the new year,” Foster Dad says. “A new year, a new beginning. It's a real opportunity to--”
“Okay. I got it. Thanks.”
I pull out my phone, shove the bag of M&M's back in my pocket, and open Facebook as Foster Mom talks.
“You've had a tough time. We want you to know we're here for you. Even more than the junk food.”
“I know.”
Foster Dad says, “You say that but--”
“We want to adopt you,” Foster Mom blurts out.
They look eager and hopeful. They’re not sure how I'll react, and that hurts. Don’t they know how long of wished for this?
I post the word “Stability” on my Facebook page. My life has never been stable. I can’t look at them. My ears burn. I feel exposed and want to curl up like an armadillo.
“We know it's a little late in the game,” Foster Dad says. “But if you want, we have some papers for you to sign, and we can get the ball rolling. It will take some time, but--”
“Stop.” I wish we weren't in a subway with strangers crowding in around us. I want to be alone so I can cry. Pathetic, I know, but that's how I feel.
It’s no secret that the foster care system can fuck a kid up. My living arrangements fell through the summer before I entered high school. I was out on the street. Foster Mom and Dad didn’t have kids and wanted to give back to the community, and so my social worker told them about my situation. They took me in on a temporary basis so that I wouldn’t miss the start of school. The whole time, we fought. I wasn't accustomed to structure and rules, and I tried to get away with whatever I could, just to test them. (I regret that. I was angry and took it out on them. They didn’t deserve it. They were just looking out for me.) A more permanent foster home never materialized. They helped me apply to colleges, encouraging me to include my whole sappy history in my essays, and before I understood what was happening, I’d already graduated from high school and was living in a residence hall in a massive building in an astonishingly large city, all so I could become a filmmaker. My wildest dreams were happening. I honestly believed, now that I wasn't living under their roof, they’d forget about me. Instead, they checked in on me every day the first week I moved into the dorms. They left sappy messages on my phone. They bought me a new laptop. They promised to pay my tuition. It couldn’t last. I mean, I lived with them while in high school, but I wasn't their kid. When a letter arrived saying that my tuition payment was late, I figured that was proof they were all talk. They acted as if they loved me, but people often act one way and feel another. When things get tough, nine times out of ten, they drop you like a hot rock. I assumed this Christmas would probably be our last holiday together.
Now they want to adopt me.
“Well, you don't have to say anything,” Dad says. (He really will be my dad.)
More people descend the stairs and crowd the platform.
He looks to Mom (she really will be my mom) and says. “Officially, we're waiting until Christmas to tell you.”
“As if you would’ve waited!” Mom laughs. “I just beat you to the punch.”
People don't adopt you not to seem like assholes. They adopt you because they love you.
While we talk, I'm vaguely aware of TWO COPS coming down the subway steps to the landing. I can't look at Mom and Dad for more than a few seconds at a time without feeling exposed, and so I look at anything else: my shoes, the rail, the crowd, dirty Santa, the cops.
“One term down!” Mom says, thankfully changing the subject and letting me off the hook. “Does film school still feel like a dream?”
“They were just intro classes. Once I shoot my own stuff, work on a crew, get into the real technical stuff, I’m sure it will finally sink in. We start shooting after winter break.”
“You found a project?” Dad says.
“Yeah, a few guys in my residence hall. It’s just a short, but we’re hoping to get it into some festivals if it turns out okay. The preproduction stuff should be finalized before I get back. I’ll be on the camera and lighting team if they can find financing.”
“You mean you’ll get paid?” Mom says.
“No, I mean we’ll actually get to film the thing. You guys are still okay with paying my tuition, right? I got a letter a few days ago.”
“We'll handle it.” Dad sounds as if he’s trying to convince himself more than me. “You focus on making a kick-ass demo reel.”
“We're so proud! Our son, the filmmaker.”
Our son. They really will be my mother and father. It’s still hard to believe. When things get hard, when I'm struggling to finance my independent film, or having relationship problems, or even if things go right, and I have a movie premiere, I’ll be able to count on them to be there. And just like that, people at school liking me doesn't feel so far-fetched. Mom and Dad are pretty great, and they want me to be their son. That's huge. That says something.
Far behind us, the cops talk to
Dirty Santa as more people pack the subway.
“When can we meet this boyfriend of yours?” Mom says over the growing noise of the crowd.
Did she just say “boyfriend?” I’ve mentioned that I might be bisexual, but I’d rather my fucked-up love life remain private.
“Shirin ratted you out,” Dad says.
Shirin is my best friend since forever, and I'm going to kill her for this. We both bounced around foster homes but never lost track of each other. Despite being a fairly strict Muslim, she was welcome in Mom and Dad's Christian household. I guess that's why she never kept anything a secret from them.
“You should invite him over,” Mom says. “You could invite him to Christmas dinner!”
“Mom.” People can overhear!
“He must have gone home to his family. He isn't alone in the city, is he? The city can be a lonely place for a gay kid out on his own for the first time. You didn't leave him alone for the holidays did you?”
“Mom, stop.”
“What? He isn't just a--what do you call it, a fuck friend?”
“Mom!”
Dad laughs at my embarrassment.
Dirty Santa yells harsh, caustic gibberish at the cops. It draws virtually everyone’s attention. My jaw clenches. Santa’s body movements remind me of a juvenile in a psych ward, of a teen boy throwing a fit. What’s the guy so angry about?
He pulls something out from his red and white faux-fur coat. A handgun!
The cops yell something as the next train rumbles in the distance. The crowd, a frightened herd of sheep, moves away from the disturbance.
A woman in a puffy plastic vest shoves against me and blocks my view.
Mom and Dad get pushed past the yellow lines to the edge of the platform.
I lean my full weight into the crowd to hold them back.
A man yells, “Careful! We're standing here!”
Dirty Santa SHOOTS into the ceiling. The sound startles nearly everyone. The SCREAMS and commotion cause a tsunami of panic to travel through the crowd toward us. I see it coming, but there’s no way to stop it and nowhere to go.
An intensifying rumble signifies the train’s imminent arrival. The people on the edge of the platform try to hold back the throng, so they don’t get pushed onto the tracks.
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