by Nick Cole
The Great Director moved through the tall uncut dry grass toward the trellis. He pulled at the long-ago painted woodwork of the lattice, wondering if he was really about to climb it and into the room of a young college student. If he got caught, the press would go nuts. But if everything went right, he would be one step closer to freedom. He knew he would have to take these kinds of chances from now on if he was going to escape. It had been just over an hour since he had started his escape, and there would be no way for THEM to have set their hounds to his scent just yet. But THEY would. Given time, THEY would.
He was halfway up to the roof when the ominous creaking started. He wondered briefly if the ascent had been his best idea, but he continued his assault, trying to think—no, to will himself to become lighter. Just as his eyes came level with the tarpapered overhanging roof, there was a heart-stopping snap and splintering of wood as the trellis gave up and fell away beneath his feet. For a sickening second he felt the nausea of mid-air suspension, and his arms instinctively flailed, grabbing for purchase on the graveled and grimy roof. He kicked his feet, trying to get them seated on the remaining trelliswork that dangled below him, still vaguely attached. There was no way it would support his weight, much less stay still enough for him to get his feet onto it.
In the ensuing silence, he wondered how loud the snap of wood had been. As if to confirm his suspicions, from inside the darkened room on the other side of the window came a rustling sound and a series of heavy thuds. Someone was approaching the window.
For a brief second, he imagined a young college co-ed appearing, only to see a pervert struggling to climb through her window. She would grab at the neck of her flimsy pink nightgown, attempting to conceal the curvy young body that would photograph ever so well for Channel 7 News, and yes, why not… Court TV. For a moment there would be shock, and then the scream that would come from those delicate, beautifully shaped pouty lips would reverberate through his career, and life, for years to come. He saw his obituary forty years from now: Well-known director of blah blah blah … responsible for films that defined and inspired a generation of blah blah blah … won the blah blah blah … died in his sleep at the age of blah blah blah … career never recovered from the arrest in blah blah blah … Pervert!
This was not the way he wanted to escape Hollywood. He was at least convinced of that. He’d probably have to wear one of those ankle things.
A bleary-eyed face appeared in the window followed by an excess of dyed green hair loudly bespeaking youth. But… it was the kid! His oldest and best friend’s son. And the Great Director could not remember his name.
“You here for the wasp’s nest?” asked the green-haired child-man.
WASPS! WASPS! I’m allergic to wasps, thought the Great Director frantically. Maybe. If they sting me I’ll go into anaphylactic shock and I’ll fall off this roof and break my neck, which really won’t help me to explain what I’m doing here as I swell up and lose the ability to communicate. I won’t be able to defend my actions. I’ll probably end up paralyzed from the fall. I’ll have to learn Morse code to communicate from my wheelchair in prison. I wonder how many dots and dashes “Please don’t rape me” is.
Will I even have time to tap it out?
“I’m not here about the wasp’s nest,” grunted the Great Director with the last of his escaping breath. “I could use a hand up… please.” He was starting to lose his grip on the gritty ledge.
The kid stepped through the window. He wore a black Bauhaus t-shirt, rumpled khaki pants, and large untied maroon Doc Martens that clumped on the moldy surface of the rotting tarpaper roof. He reached down with one hand and hauled the Great Director up. This was accomplished without care or concern for the precariousness of the Great Director’s situation. And with a total disregard for untied shoelaces, observed the Great Director as he began to realize he suffered from vertigo.
“Thanks,” whispered the Great Director, glancing over his shoulder at the height and suddenly becoming even dizzier. The kid stood on the roof and surveyed his domain with the ease and intensity of some nomadic barbarian warlord.
The Great Director quickly, and without grace, crawled through the window into the room. Inside, the cat sniffed and pawed at the remains of a sandwich, absorbed in dissecting what was left of the snack.
Two beds, one recently slept in, the other piled high with unwashed clothes, occupied most of the room. The walls were covered with flyers advocating and promoting various bands, some with vulgar names and others who didn’t mind a moniker that was blatantly incorrect, grammatically speaking. On the back of the door leading from the room hung a movie poster for the film A Clockwork Orange. And on the dresser, a burning patchouli incense stick, seated in a sleeping crescent moon holder, sent delicate wisps of smoke writhing into the air.
“So let me get this straight,” began the kid a few minutes later. “You’re researching a new movie, in which a famous man tries to disappear, right?” The Great Director nodded slowly as his lie was played back in real time. “So this morning you left home without any of your close friends, or family, knowing what you’re up to. To mix it up, you hired a private investigation agency to try to find you once you disappeared. Right?”
Again the Great Director nodded wordlessly. They were seated on opposite beds, facing each other.
“And now you want me, the son of your oldest and best friend, to give you a credit card, which, I might remind you, my dad gave me for, and I quote, ‘Emergencies only!’” The kid added a decent imitation of his father’s vocal propensity to sound like Kermit the Frog, or Yoda.
“That’s correct,” whispered the Great Director.
“Cool!” laughed the kid. “It’s so De Niro. Living your part, you know?” The kid got up and began to pace. “A man on the lam, pursued by faceless men. Make sure you use lots of shots of keys and boots, like in E.T. I love that movie.”
“Yeah, it’s brilliant,” replied the Great Director.
“Well it sounds like a solid plan to me. Then again, so was joining this stupid fraternity.” The kid pulled out his wallet and began to rummage through the contents, pulling out various receipts and movie ticket stubs. “For some reason I save all the stubs to the movies I go to, like maybe someday I’m going to start a collection and make a scrapbook. I never do. I just end up getting overwhelmed and throwing them all away.”
“Me too,” said the Great Director, telling a truth for the first time in his conversation with the boy. For a moment they stared across the years at one another. One saw power and freedom from authority and an opportunity to make a statement and have the world listen. The other saw youth and choice and the ability to be free from the cares of this adult life, and more importantly, the ability to not to be afraid of death, yet.
What happened to me? thought the Great Director. When did I stop being this kid?
And can I still get back there?
The kid handed him a credit card that looked as though it had spent some time in a washer, been left out in the sun, and occasionally used to test lock-picking skills.
“Thanks,” mumbled the Great Director as he pulled out his neatly organized wallet and tucked the card away.
“Also,” said the kid, “take this.”
He handed the Great Director a crisp twenty-dollar bill. It was the only one in his wallet. There was something incredibly kind about this simple act, and it struck the Great Director that maybe this was the kid’s only money until whenever his parents had mercy on him next. As though the kid believed in him even though he no longer believed in himself.
It also reminded him that he was lying about everything except the ticket stubs.
***
The train left downtown Los Angeles just after twelve thirty in the afternoon. He’d bought a ticket at Union Station bound for Las Vegas. Soon after he was safely aboard, the train was trundling through the vast urban sprawl east of Los A
ngeles, and by late afternoon it had reached the high desert silence beyond. The dry, open spaces and burning chromatic blue skies seemed made for thinking. From the small desert shrubs to the high windy passes of broken rock, all of it seemed to offer a pause. A moment to stop and question. For some, maybe a place to seek forgiveness. For others, a chance to disappear finally.
By now, thought the Great Director, everyone should be very worried. He experienced a momentary pang of guilt, but it passed as quickly as the landscape slid by the nicotine-yellowed windows of the train. People still smoked on trains.
He closed his eyes and tried to see if the aliens would let down the façade once more.
Chapter Three
The Great Director Meets Death: Director’s Cut
Four hours later, in the streets of downtown Las Vegas, gunfire erupted as a hotel casino robbery went terribly wrong. The Great Director had been walking along the broad streets, listening through the open arches of the casinos to the digital ditties, bells, and the too-short rush of coins into metallic trays. Occasionally the call of one human being to another announced a win. There was never a response.
Like post-production sound editing for the action thriller sequences he’d so often directed, the excitement started with the roar of a van’s engine being brought to full throttle and then the screech of sudden brakes applied violently. Next came a loud commanding, “Halt!” which was followed by the POP-POP-POP of pistols. For a moment all was quiet as passersby, pedestrians, casino workers, streetwalkers, and tourists looked at each other in amazement.
Is this really happening? they collectively wondered. Is this the twelve-thirty Bank Robbery Show? some might have asked. Or in a city where the unbelievable was the norm, could something suddenly real be intruding upon this crafted world of fun and prizes?
Next came the loud BRAAAAAP of machine gun fire. Then all at once the sounds of various weapons began to jump and cascade off the canyon walls of the surrounding mega casinos. It was seemingly everywhere, and in brief startling moments, realistically close.
The Great Director threw himself to the ground and tried to see where the gunfight was taking place. Farther up the boulevard a man began to curse and wail, ignored by the cars that continued to drive along the street, their passengers encased in air-conditioned, hermetically sealed vehicles listening to Jimmy Buffett and enjoying their weekend in Vegas. To the Great Director’s right an older woman stood in the street at the feet of her husband, who lay splayed-legged in the wide crosswalk, right hand clutching his chest.
“Please, Harry, not now!” she screamed at him desperately. She turned in a frantic, tight circle, looking for help, unsure how to ask for it amid the gunfire.
“Someone please help us!” she finally shrieked. “My husband is having a heart attack!” She looked into the darkened recesses of the gaming houses and at the prone figures seeking cover along the sidewalks and streets, imploring them with her eyes and ragged voice to save her husband despite the death and gunfire show. The desperate look in her eyes told the Great Director that no one much cared to save the love of her life right now.
For a moment there was a lull in the gun battle as the participants reloaded, or perhaps ran. On the sidewalk no one moved, and in the street the cars continued to pass, wide-eyed passengers gaping out onto the carnage.
The Great Director pushed his face as far as it would go into the hot cement and contemplated crawling away. The woman screamed again, her voice a wail of hopeless frustration. “Please, someone help us!”
The desperation in her words tore into the Great Director’s brain like a bunker-busting bomb ripping through his fear and self-preservation, seeking something below, something forgotten. Something that murmured, “Wouldn’t you want help if it was you?” Less than a second later he was pushing up and away from the burning pavement, feeling as though he’d deserve the death that stalked him if he didn’t do something. He could see security guards crouching behind pillars and aiming with one hand while steadying their grip with the other. Across the street a masked man appeared behind the bullet-riddled back door of a van, spraying the street with wild machine-gun fire.
BRAAAP BRAAAAP… BRAAP.
POP-POP-POP, came the reply.
The Great Director stepped off the curb and into the street, moving toward the woman. Tears were streaming down her cheeks. His legs felt weak, and he was sure he should be running away instead of running toward, but his feet wouldn’t comply.
“Get down!” he croaked at the woman.
He crouched over Harry, checked his vitals, and ripped open the green polyester shirt. He had learned CPR when making his first low-budget films. It had helped to save on the cost of a having a medic on set. The Great Director began chest compressions after clearing the airway, watching for any sign of life. Harry’s eyes, gray and distant, saw something else, something awe-inspiring, his mouth hanging open as if to confirm this.
“Please, Harry. Don’t die now. Not now, please!” the woman pleaded, half-crouching.
They were tourists. The Great Director could tell by their chain store leisure wear and plastic cups full of coins, one in the woman’s hands and the other lying in the intersection, its shiny contents spilled out across the blacktop. They were retired, or getting near to. The lines in Harry’s face showed he smoked a lot and worked in weather. To look at them was to cast two Midwesterners: a hard life of pennies, not dollars; cold winters and survival by the sweat of your brow; back-breaking work and church on Sunday.
As the Great Director worked on Harry, sweat began to collect and sting his eyes. He wiped it away and continued, noticing the heat from the pavement beginning to burn through the knees of his trousers.
“Please, Harry! This is the beginning of our lives. Not the end,” she pleaded at the dying Harry.
Harry said nothing and continued staring into eternity.
The gunfire crescendoed with a cataclysmic statement on the nature of existence that roared in and around the streets. At times it seemed far off, as if it were a part of some joyous celebration in a South American village, not with guns, but with firecrackers. Then it would be so close the expended brass shells, dribbling like falling silverware, could be heard dancing along the pavement. Across the intersection, a panicked motorist decided to drive through the gun battle as fast as he could. He mashed the accelerator to the floorboard of a caramel-colored Chevy Caprice and bent forward, trying to watch the gun battle over the steering wheel and stay low at the same time.
The Great Director saw the oncoming car and its driver, who either did not see him or did not care. In just moments the Great Director was going to be run over, along with Harry and Harry’s wife, who had her back to the speeding hunk of metal.
This is it, he thought. This is the end.
But he continued to work. He stopped looking at Harry. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe Harry had performance anxiety. Like he was embarrassed or something about dying in the street. The Great Director looked up at the sky. It was a brilliant blue, so bright that it turned the yawning walls of the casinos all around a deep gray. An almost blue. Somewhere nearby he could hear a car rushing at him. He closed his eyes to feel the sun on his face. Goodbye, he thought. Goodbye everything. I tried to run away from death… and it found me anyway.
A split second before his eyeballs should have adorned the grille of the Chevy Caprice, the sun went dark. His eyes were still closed, but he noticed the change in light through his closed lids. Then he heard a loud voice that was more sonic boom than human.
“Stop!” the voice bellowed over both gunfire and shattering glass.
Brakes squealed and tires screeched.
When the Great Director opened his eyes once again, he saw the shadowy figure of the largest man he’d ever encountered. A human mountain stood between him and the sun, and for that matter, the formerly oncoming caramel-colored Chevy Caprice. The large ma
n was holding the car with both hands as though at the last second the brakes had not been applied quickly enough and a little help had been needed. It was like seeing Superman stop a locomotive right in front of your face.
Then the big man looked down at him and said, “Keep trying to save him… if you can.”
Without realizing it, the Great Director had stopped working on Harry. He started again, wondering how long he had been trying to resuscitate the dying man. The dead man. He checked the vitals again—still nothing. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and eyes and started again. The woman on her knees whispered in Harry’s ear, most of which the Great Director could not hear, but some of which he did.
“Harry,” she cried. “There wasn’t enough time. Thirty-four years isn’t enough. I had so much more to tell you.” She was crying softly now and stroking his hair. Running her long fingers through it slowly. “Please come back to me. I love you.”
It was quiet now.
No gunfire.
No breaking glass.
Just the Great Director’s wheezing breath and the woman’s gentle sobs. He was overexerting himself as he pumped Harry’s chest. He could hear his own gasps sucking at the hot, dry Vegas air.
Inside his mind for the first time ever, to an unknown recipient, the Great Director quietly asked, “Please.”
Moments passed.
Maybe it was time to give up.
He looked at Harry’s wife. Just one minute longer, he thought, and then that’s it. He’s gone. I tried.
Harry gasped to sudden life. His eyes blinked, no longer seeing the other side. Now they were filled with fear as he realized he was back. He coughed loudly and spit gushed from his mouth onto the pavement. His wife began to cry, babbling hysterically, as though Harry had just won the lottery, or hit the game-winning home run, or lived for another day. Harry looked into her eyes as she held his face. He would be okay.