Brief Pose

by Wesley McCraw

  It’s not that I’m desperate for some horrible pain to end. It’s just, numb drifting isn’t enough to sustain me. I am out to sea, treading water. I can’t keep it up anymore. I’m too tired. I’m going to drown.

  FADE TO:

  9.3

  WHITE:

  Ocean sounds fill the bright light around me. Seagulls CAW and waves CRASH. The soothing soundscape is so vivid, and the white is so blank that picturing the idyllic beach all around me is automatic.

  Waking pulls at me.

  No. Let me stay in this peaceful state. Let the world be blank.

  Just a bit longer.

  9.4

  FADE IN:

  I wake in my bed, beside an open catalog. I stretch.

  My mattress, no longer in my room, is in the middle of paradise. Waves roll onto a gently sloped beach face. Cumulus clouds streak the sky to my left, but the rest is a vast blue that hugs the horizon curve of an even bluer ocean. Cerulean, bright, and luminescent. Behind my bed, palms wave in the breeze, and in the distance, volcanic mountains make a dramatic, verdant, green wall. This could be Hawaii, but there aren’t any signs of civilization.

  I stand in the sand. I’m only wearing BP boxer briefs. The sun warms my skin. My displacement, more than my lack of clothes, makes me feel exposed. How did I get here? I have to be dreaming. I pull the sheet off the bed to wrap myself, and I reveal a naked man. He’s lying on his stomach on my mattress. I recognize Dan’s perfect ass from the catalog. Seeing it in real life is different than seeing it on the page. I look away. This isn’t happening.

  In my peripheral vision, he stirs and gets up, subtly grunting with the effort. I can’t look. He’s too real. He shouldn’t be this real. I see his dangling uncircumcised penis, which I’ve only imagined before, and he puts his arms around me. It’s not a “guy hug” where you keep your ass out so your dicks don’t touch. It’s a full body hug. I struggle against the sheet but can’t get my arms free. He smells like the catalog and the BP store.

  “When was the last time someone gave you a hug?”

  He doesn’t feel like a stranger, and it feels ridiculous fighting him, and so I relax. He releases me. He looks a little concerned but mostly just friendly.

  Over his shoulder, I see through a doorway into the inside of my apartment, but there’s no building; viewed from the side, the doorway is just a doorframe on the beach.

  He smiles as if he understands what I’m thinking. Damn, his face is gorgeous with that grin! I can’t quite remember how long we’ve been friends, a decade at least, but I don’t think his smile has ever affected me like that before.

  The air is warm, the sand is soft, and this perfect man stands in front of me, wanting me to stay with him. “I should go. I need to go. I’m sorry.” I feel guilty for deciding to leave so soon.

  “You always beat yourself up,” he says. “It’s okay. You’re not ready. You just need a little more time. Here.” He puts a SEASHELL into my hand. “We'll be waiting.”

  The bungalow from the catalog is fifty yards away. Somehow I didn’t notice it before.

  Adam, the white sales associate at BP into Rugby and getting drunk, struggles with a pack mule. As he pulls on the rope, two other white models from the catalog, BEN and GARRETT, cheer him on. I’ve imagined Adam here before. He fits with these perfect people more than I ever could. JOE, also from the catalog, and Fiona (maybe she finally made it as a model), sun themselves on wooden lawn chairs. The sun has brought out more of Fiona’s freckles. On the balcony, KEITH and DAWN gaze out over the railing onto the beach. They kiss, just like they do in their photo spread. I’ve imagined joining them before. I’ve fantasized about sharing Dawn with Keith, working together to fulfill her every desire.

  Fantasy is safe. I fantasize all the time about my films, about having friends and lovers, about being in the catalog (especially after seeing the hallway to paradise in the dressing room).

  Fantasy isn’t the same as actually being here. Actually being here is insane. This can’t end well. Be careful what you wish for. You just might get it. I back away.

  I brush past Dan and hurry through the doorway and into my apartment, still wrapped in the sheet. For a moment I fear the beach, the people, the water, the bungalow, is all chasing me. Maybe my fantasy won’t let me go. Once in my cold, stark room, I’m not sure from which way I came. Everything seems normal here. There’s no sand between my toes. A distant car alarm and traffic have replaced the sound of the ocean. The catalog pages still cover the walls.

  The window is open, cold air gusting in, and I kneel on my mattress and slam the window shut, the shell still in my right fist.

  I remember the warmth of the sun and Dan’s arms around me. His smell. Or am I smelling the catalog pages?

  I sit on the loveseat and pull a blanket over me. Paradise was warm. Here is like a freezer.

  “Just focus on what's real.”

  The nudity covering the walls creates a gray chaos of limbs and torsos and feels like a continued delusion. I’m so used to the catalog’s smell; I didn’t realize that I’ve been marinating in it all this time. If I look down, I’ll fall through the floor. If I go outside, the whole city will be empty like a Stanley Kubrick film. I call Victor, just to hear a real person.

  I try to sound like I’m fine. “Victor! This is Eric Loan…” He says something, but it’s hard to focus, and when he pauses, I struggle to speak. If I tell him what just happened, he’ll think I’m crazy. “I was wondering about, um, I was, the service for Loo. Do you know when…? Really? Yeah. That would be cool. I'll call you later with directions.” He said he’d give me a ride. He knows that I don’t do public transportation. Loo must have told him. The service is Friday. “Um, Victor… Is there a way I could see you sooner? I'm…” Going fucking insane, and I’m afraid I’m gonna lose it if I’m left alone. But I can’t say all that.

  “No, that's fine.” I hide my disappointment; he doesn’t want to see me. “I understand… Okay. See you Friday… Yeah, five days.”

  Loo’s funeral service is in five days. For five days I will be alone with all my BP catalogs and my wavering sanity. Even after Foster Mom and Dad’s death, I didn’t feel like this. This isn’t grief; this is desperation and panic. My heart is pounding.

  I examine the shell and try to control my breathing. One side is shiny like oil and smooth to the touch, and the other side is white and rough with long ridges. I turn the shell over and over in my hand, feeling the smooth and the rough, watching the oily, pinkish sheen change colors in the light.

  I tap the shell against the coffee table. I must have picked it up on the street or something. If this shell isn’t real, I’ve lost my mind.

  9.5

  It’s Monday. Work. Sleep. Repeat a few times. It will be Friday before I know it.

  We’re overstaffed because everyone wanted to cover Loo’s shift. Everyone loved Loo. They were happy to come in to support each other through this difficult time.

  I should tell some of them to go home, but instead, I study the BP catalog to decode its secrets. As the assistant manager, I can do whatever I want.

  Models frolic. Nothing bad ever happens. I’ve been to that beach. The memory of the sand under my feet is more vivid than the last time I talked with Loo.

  On the next page, Keith and Dawn kiss, or more precisely, it’s that tantalizing second before their lips touch.

  Tara, in her BP clothing (destroyed jeans, bohemian top, and draped sweater), leans over the counter and kisses JuanCarlos.

  “You okay?” she says. Customers are in line behind her.

  JuanCarlos nods. She kisses him again, this time deeper.

  I look away. Her bracelets click on the counter. Someone in line clears their throat to demonstrate impatience. JuanCarlos and Tara are a couple, and it pisses me off. I thought he was into Juliet.

  “Loo is a rabbit,” Tara says. “Suffering leads to enlightenment. Buddha blesses you.” What a load of BS. If I were grieving, religious p
latitudes would be the last thing I’d want.

  She kisses him a third time and leaves. No one is going to kiss me, and I feel pathetic for craving a kiss. No one is going to make me feel any better. I take care of myself.

  JuanCarlos gazes out the window as Tara crosses the street; he’s obviously smitten. He notices me watching him.

  “Hey,” he says as he makes the next drink. “You ever play Smash Brothers with Loo? She could really kick ass, huh?”

  “Loo and I never actually hung out.”

  His smile fades. “I guess you're lucky you weren’t that close. I didn’t realize how much we were around each other. I can't believe I won’t ever see her again. A few days ago she was the life of this fucking city. And now…”

  A GROUP OF FRIENDS at one of the tables laughs at something unrelated. Their happiness feels obscene.

  JuanCarlos and I are not suddenly friends because Loo died. We still have nothing in common. He has no clue what I’m going through, and I don’t even want to understand his surface level grief. Loo was my last chance, and I didn’t even realize it until it was too late. JuanCarlos has friends and a girlfriend and a life outside of work. He goes to classes and has a future. I have nothing and no one.

  I walk into the back, plop down at the desk, and watch the clock on the wall. It's six P.M.

  Now it's midnight. I remember the time passing, my coworkers leaving in pairs until the noise from the front had died away. I was angry and thinking endlessly, my mind a raging sea, but for the life of me I can’t remember what I was thinking about.

  That clock keeps ticking as if everything is still okay.

  I have nothing left. What’s there to think about? What’s the point? I put up walls with everyone and still I was gutted. Loo's death isn't fair.

  I pull up on the desk until it SLAMS to the floor on its side. The family portrait SMASHES. The whole childish act feels futile. Even if I bombed the whole fucking store, what would I accomplish? I’d still be at the mercy of random fate. I’d go to jail or get away with it. Some innocent would probably be an unintended casualty.

  Out front, Loo is everywhere: the Lovecraft carvings in the chair legs, a group photo altered to include a ghost in the background, a spiky blowfish on a high shelf, Day of the Dead salt-and-pepper shakers… She’s part of everything, and she’s gone. All of this is pointless. Worse than pointless. She romanticized death and evil gods and a dark universe. And now she’s a part of that hopeless abyss.

  I take out my keys and squeeze them in my fist until it hurts. The coffee shop keys are on a separate ring from the rest, and I pry the ring apart and rotate it until the store keys are free. I gently place them on the front counter, trying not to make a sound. The trash still needs to be emptied, and the counter needs to be wiped down better, and the floor needs to be swept and mopped, and I don’t give a flying fuck. If I don’t do it now, someone else will do it in the morning. JuanCarlos can do a better job than I can. There’s no reason it has to be me. He’s industrious. People love him. He can be the assistant manager. No reason I should ever have to come back here again.

  I stand in the center of the front room among the tables.

  “Goodbye,” I whisper. To Loo. To my job. To my life.

  I walk out, leaving behind my keys, leaving behind what little I have left to live for. I’ll get fired for this, and I don’t fucking care.

  I walk home through the city, past the architecture I have seen so many times before and the advertisements that are always changing. Another farewell walk. Like the time I got kicked out of Shirin and Mindy’s apartment and I walked around to take one last look at the neighborhood. I won’t be making this walk ever again. Ads plaster the plywood that hides the construction. Billboards seem to be on every building, posters line the storefront windows, and chalk messages mark up the sidewalk.

  I try not to think, but rent is due in a few weeks. I’ve been homeless before, and I’d rather be dead. I picture Dirty Santa begging for change.

  Goodbye, city that never cared if I lived or died.

  I stop at a twenty-four-hour bodega, still only halfway to my apartment.

  “Do you have a rope?”

  A Middle Eastern man behind the counter shakes his head. I’m not sure he knows much English.

  “Do you have an extension cord? You know, long, orange, plugs into a wall.”

  He understands and points to the back left corner of the store.

  I buy the cord. There’s nothing else I want.

  He tells me to have a good day even though it’s the middle of the night.

  A drop of rain pricks my forehead as I continue through the city. I thought I was leaving Shirin and Mindy for a chance at a new beginning, and all I’ve found is another dead end.

  The drop becomes drops, and the drops become rain. Nope, I’m not going to get out of this unscathed.

  My calm contemplation degrades to physical misery as the icy downpour chills me to the marrow. The weather is a bit on the nose for how I’m feeling, but I forgive the cliché. Rain is rain. It doesn’t have to have a deeper meaning.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Real Life

  10.1

  INT. ERIC’S APARTMENT – NIGHT. My last location. No more scene headings for Eric Loan.

  I lean into my door and relock the deadbolt. The STORM rages outside. Rain pelts the windows. My teeth won’t stop chattering. I remember Loo visiting me without her coat, sopping wet in that simple Mary Sue dress.

  I strip off my wet clothes and want to stay naked for the poetry of it, but it’s too cold, and so I pull on boxers and the medium shirt Loo gave me. All this time I've been buying large, but a medium shows off my muscles better. I'm not fat anymore. Loo saw me better than I see myself.

  I get ready while trying not to think about what I’m getting ready for. I pull on my favorite jeans, socks, and my shoes. I tie and re-tie my laces.

  Emotionless besides the uncontrollable shaking, I fashion a noose from an orange extension cord. You can learn anything on YouTube.

  I put the noose around my neck and pull it until the knot is tight against my Adam’s apple. It’s like a tie, like I’m getting ready for a formal occasion. I want to think my trembling is from the cold, but I know it’s from fear.

  I open the window, letting in the storm, and step outside.

  FIRE ESCAPE

  In screenplays, sometimes the separate places within a location are in all caps, so you don’t have to interrupt the flow with a scene heading.

  I tie the other end of the extension cord to the railing. Suicide is wrong if it hurts other people. It’s just me here. This is my right and my choice.

  The alley is four stories below. I should gain enough momentum in the fall to snap my neck. This is how it ends, in the rain and bluster. This is how the pain stops.

  I’m not gonna lie. Death, even if it’s the only thing you’ve wanted for a long time, is fucking terrifying.

  I look back into my apartment, thinking I still might need further resolution, but there’s no reason to say goodbye to this cold, hollow place. I said goodbye to the coffee shop, the city even, but this apartment, this location of isolation and despair, was never home. I was fooling myself ever to think it could be a fresh start. And it is so freaking cold, all the time. If I knew I was going to off myself, I’d have turned on the heater once in a while.

  A single LAMP highlights a BP catalog on the floor. I unplugged my electronics so they wouldn’t leach power while they were off. To leave on that one lightbulb would be tragic. Who’s gonna turn it off, if I don't? Maybe my landlord sometime after I don’t pay rent, but that could be a long time from now.

  I step over the sill back inside with the noose still around my neck and go to turn off the light. The cord pulls taut, tangled on the railing. I stretch but can't quite reach the lamp’s knob.

  I take off the noose. I’ll put it back on; I just need to turn off the lightbulb.

  With thumb and forefinger pinching t
he groves tight--the knob has always been a pain to turn--I hesitate to plunge myself into darkness. I don’t need to open the catalog to look through its pages; the pages are all over my walls; the pages are all over my mind.

  And yet.

  I sit cross-legged on the floor next to the still shining lamp and look through the catalog one last time. One last time and I can go.

  What about the long series of photographs of perfect people draws me in so completely? I have a theory. Somewhere in my fucked-up mind, I think perfection is the only thing worth loving. I’m a disappointment to everyone because I’m weak and flawed. If I was perfect, people could love me. It’s warped, I know, but I can’t help it. And be honest: Who wants to love a depressive?

  The distant sound of an imaginary OCEAN replaces the noise of the storm. I knew this would happen. I’m sure part of me was counting on it. Somewhere nearby, a seagull CAWS.

  My front door is open, and a light shines in from the hall. It’s too bright to be some hideous florescent. It’s light from the sun up six hours too early.

  I'm delusional, but isn’t delusion better than suicide?

  I tip-toe slowly toward the light. I pass through the doorway and out into the hall. Drifts of sand cover the carpet instead of cat hair. The imaginary beach has invaded my apartment building. The hall ends in a bright light like before, when I was in the changing room. As I walk, the light blooms and grows until nothing but WHITE shines all around me and everywhere.

  I close my eyes, fearing I’ll go blind if I keep looking. I grope for a wall to either side of me but just grab air.

  Maybe I've killed myself. The light at the end of the tunnel is warm. A gentle breeze caresses my face. This is how love feels.

  I open my eyes a fraction and then blink my eyes open as the brightness fades to reveal--

  10.2

  EXT. IMAGINARY TROPICAL BEACH - DAY

  I step out of the hallway onto the beach, take a deep, shaky breath, and wipe away tears.

  I crouch and run my hands through the sand. The grains stick to the wetness on my fingers. I don’t have to live in the real world. I don’t have to kill myself.