He’s a man in the mask of another. Who he is beneath that visage is left mostly to conjecture. To this, D____ and I could both relate.
* * *
††
I’d thought the details of that day, when I saw D____ with her, had white-noised a long time ago. I thought I was past being hurt, but I was wrong. Time, apparently, heals only certain wounds; others it tears open and re-salts.
That moment, when Unknown 1980s Asshole told me to fuck off and let him get back to work … I remember at the time being more stunned than hurt. My immediate thoughts were: Was this another game? Was he in character? If that was indeed the case, I was at a clear disadvantage – I had no way of knowing who he was and what he had or had not already been through on set.
But I know now.
Donald Davies, stock trader. Bad deals, worse habits. He died later that afternoon from a cocaine overdose, his eyes rolling back in his head as a thick stream of bloody vomit veined down his left cheek, his neck, all over that expensive-looking I’m-better-than-you suit. Red, Victoria James – real name Leslie Bluth – she was there, too, by his side, bombed out of her mind while he pretended all-too-convincingly to swallow his own tongue.
The two of them went home together that night, after they’d finished filming for the day. Her home, naturally. She’d dressed herself again in the name on her birth certificate and driver’s licence; unbeknownst to her, D____ was still wearing Donald Davies’s suit, tie and imaginary expense account. There was no dinner, no dancing; just drinks until three in the morning, then he fucked her in the ass until eight.
She said in the comment she left on my previous blog entry that D____ was all over her like she was a grade school water fountain. He rode her violently, pulling her shoulders back as if he’d expected some amount of resistance. When she pulled forward, pivoted, tried to run a sweat-and-mattress-fibred hand through his still slicked down head of hair, he smacked it away. When she tried to do it again, he pinned her arms up above her head, pushing them into the headboard, and thrust so hard he bruised her. Inside. She says he looked away as he did it, too. Looked anywhere but in her eyes. When she called him by his first name – his real name, which she’d gotten off the call sheet – he rolled off her, picked his trousers up off the unfortunately rum-and-cum-stained Oriental rug at the foot of her bed, finished her half-empty vodka tonic and ran out of her apartment without saying a word.
My readership is growing. Donald Davies, Richard Thorn, Charlie the fucking Chin – whether he’s out there reading these entries or not, others most certainly are, and some have stories of their own they wish to share. As it happens, he’s not as invisible as either one of us might have thought.
It’s only fair this time we both be sheared to the bone.
12. Apocalypse Tomorrow
Posted: 01/07/2014
When I first started down this road two months ago, blogging my life story, I didn’t think it would be like this – I never imagined how exhausting it would be to put it all out there, to document every small, shitty moment on the path to enlightenment. No, enlightenment’s the wrong word. Acceptance. That’s what they call it in AA, right? You accept the path you’ve walked and every door closed off or kicked down along the way. You admit you’re powerless to do anything to change what’s already been done. It’s like when you start pulling off a bandage but you’re going too slow and it’s plucking out the hairs from your arm one by one, but you can’t stop, you can’t put it back on again because it won’t stick the same – you’ve already broken the seal between the adhesive and your skin. All you can do is keep pulling, a hair at a time, until you’re ready for that final tug. It will hurt – you know it will hurt – but you aren’t ready to get it over with, not just yet, because the moment-to-moment suffering is all a part of the healing process. It helps reveal, a little bit at a time, the shadows looking back over their shoulders at you, questioning how it was you got yourself in this situation in the first place. Those hairs you’ve been pulling out, they’re micro-judgments, hesitant shreds of trauma, fear and doubt.
It was early June, if I’m remembering the timeline correctly, just a couple of weeks since Donald Davies–you not-so-discretely told me to fuck off. We were together again on the set of a post-apocalyptic human drama: I was Claudette Winters, you were Garrett Winters, my brother-from-a-fictional-mother, older by a year and wiser by five – thank you, totally not-sexist liner notes. The role was more than just another walk-on; we were part of a convoy of refugees fleeing a disaster of Roland Emmerich proportions: forests aflame, volcanoes erupting on every continent, water levels rising, et cetera. Our basic survival was boxed in by a cathedral of green screens and off-set guidance – a constant string of reminders dictating the nature of the terror bearing down on us and from which direction(s) it came. Behind the scenes we called ourselves the Pity Party because every one of us – save our fearless, square-jawed, face-on-the-poster leader – was going to die, and die horribly. It was, for most of us soon-to-be-departed, a few days’ work – a week for you and me, the lucky final pair of hangers-on.
I’m not afraid to reveal, here and now, how on edge I felt being with you again. No, not on edge, that’s not right. Scared. Actually sort of terrified because I didn’t have the faintest idea what to expect. It wasn’t until recently I learned, via comments and private emails from your red-headed former co-star, the squalid details of your time as Donald Davies. So yeah, when I saw you that day, for the first time in weeks, I was less than comfortable in your presence. Confusingly enough, you seemed fine – better than fine, you were acting … well, “normal” might be a stretch, but it’s the tightest shoe, Cinderella.
Our first day together you came up to me and wrapped me in your arms as if you’d been waiting days for me to return to you.
“Claudette,” you said warmly, in yet another voice, one I didn’t recognize. You pulled away then, sensing my hesitation. “What’s wrong?”
“You don’t … do you remember me?” I asked, honestly not sure how you’d respond.
You smirked. “Of course I remember you. Don’t be an idiot.”
But who? I thought to myself, Who was it you remembered? Were you in character, speaking to your scripted sister? Or did you for a brief moment remember the bed you’d shared with Eleanor? Or were you, by some miracle, talking to the real me whose name you still hadn’t bothered to learn?
The director walked right between us then, shouting, “All right, everybody, let’s get this show on the road.”
You turned to me as Garrett and said, “Are you ready?”
It was with such tenderness, too, like how one might speak to their actual sibling or family member – tender, but altogether unearned. “I don’t know,” I said. “I’ve not had a whole lot of experience.”
“There’s nothing to it. Keep track of your lines and the timing, and you’ll be fine. It’s like being back in high school.”
“Just roll with the punches,” I said.
You showed me every white lie in your mouth. “Exactly.”
* * *
††
Filming was a disaster. I kept fucking up this one line: I was supposed to say to our hero, “You don’t know what the fuck you’re doing, do you?” but I kept going, “Do you know what the fuck you’re doing?” or “Did you fucking mean to do that?” In fact, I flubbed my dialogue so much our strong-willed movie star on his fresh from the D-list exile started accusing me of trying to derail his chance at redemption. He was afraid his Travolta-esque rise from mid-career obscurity was being jeopardized by some two-bit extra who couldn’t keep their eyes off the nobody with the Dick Tracy chin. By the fourth or fifth time I’d fucked up and failed to ask our dauntless leader what hope there was to be found in such dire circumstances, I began to feel my less-than-substantial paycheque fading into the darkness.
I should have had my mind on the job. Not on you a
nd the game you were so obviously … No, fuck it, I can’t do this anymore. It wasn’t a game and I knew that – I know that, and I’m not sure why I’m affording your actions even that much justification.
“What’s going on?” you whispered to me, as D____ and not as Garrett, when we cut for the umpteenth time. “If you’re not careful you’re going to get canned.”
“What do you care?” I snapped. I went to turn away and you grabbed my upper arm, spinning me back around to face you. I yanked free. “Don’t do that again.”
“I don’t get it – have I done something to you?” you asked, genuinely flabbergasted.
Yes, you said those exact. Fucking. Words. “Have you done something to me? Are you serious right now?”
“If I don’t look it, I’ll try a little harder.” You playfully furrowed your brow – the absolute wrong fucking timing for cute.
“How about telling me to fuck off? That ring any bells for you?”
“I don’t know what you’re –”
“Fine. How about sleeping with me and sticking me with a ‘Farewell cruel world’ goodbye letter?” My skin was on fire; I felt blistering heat blossoming just beneath Claudette’s ivory skin.
“Now wait just a moment –”
“No, fuck you, Richard, or Garrett, or whoever it is you want to be for the rest of this shoot. Find someone else’s head to screw with.” And I walked past you, leaving you slack-jawed and trailing behind. “Now hurry up and let’s go be brother and sister.”
* * *
††
Upon picking up my jacket at the end of the day I found a folded-over triangle of white paper poking out from one of the pockets. It was a note: Meet me at the Galaxy after midnight. You’d signed it, too – with just an initial, but it was yours, the genuine article, and it was more than I’d gotten so far.
I still have that note, you know. Sometimes I take it out and look at it, and I wonder what it must be like to be you and to be so unfairly forced into passport offices and filing your taxes like everyone else – to have to sign your identity to anything at all. It’s why you’ve never owned a car, right? Or for that matter a house, a credit card or even a mobile phone? For some people the idea of a social security number is cause enough for hyperbole – the government’s watching my every move, none of us are safe, all that pomp and lunacy. For you, though, it seemed personal. I’m almost embarrassed at how long it took me to see the obvious staring me right in the eyes: you’re happier skirting the belt of awareness because you don’t really want to be anybody at all, and this way you don’t have to.
I’d only been to the Galaxy Drive-In in Santa Barbara once, several years back with Aud and some of her friends for a triple-header of The Evil Dead, Evil Dead 2 and Army of Darkness. I remember the five of us crammed into a rusted autumn-orange Dodge Charger, smoking shitty skunkweed while the leather seats scratched white tennis racquets into my thighs. Aud loudly parroted every single one of Bruce Campbell’s one-liners like they were her own. I don’t think any of us were really paying attention to the films, but it didn’t matter.
I arrived the night of our encounter a few minutes before midnight. I was wearing a dark hoodie that hid my irritated true skin beneath the heavy fabric. The Galaxy was in ruins. It had shut down about a year and a half earlier; the entrance was blocked with a thick knot of chain, a DO NOT ENTER sign hanging from the centre. The lot itself was a debris field of beer cans, broken bottles, empty potato chip bags and discarded popcorn containers. The air was ash and gasoline, so thick you could almost taste it. All that remained of the actual drive-in was a large screen at the far end of the field that had been slashed and carved into a Swiss cheese shadow of its former glory. All was quiet, save the sounds of distant traffic. I ducked under the useless barricade and walked into the middle of the field. The entire time I was thinking that I should have told someone where I was going – I should have called Aud, begged her to come along and hide somewhere off to the side, to stick to the darkness unless I needed protection.
“I wasn’t sure you’d come.”
I spun, momentarily frenzied, trying to pinpoint from which direction your voice was coming – or which version of you I was even there to meet.
“I wasn’t sure you’d show,” I shot back at the dark.
“I set this up, didn’t I?”
“Yeah, but which one of you?”
There was silence. I’d struck a nerve.
“I used to come here all the time,” you said, sidestepping my prod. “When I was little. Every few weeks Mom would pick me up from school and we’d play hooky for the rest of the day, to give Dad some rest. He drove a truck cross-country for a soda company, and when he came home after being on the road … she said he needed time to himself, to sleep, so we’d come here and have ourselves a marathon, stay way past my bedtime; we’d see whatever they had on hand, sometimes more than once. Back in the day, this place was something else. They used to do these themed weekends where they’d celebrate a director’s new film by showing highlights from their back catalogue. It was a family place back then – not at all like what it became.”
“You talk about this place like it had a pulse.” I heard footsteps slowly circling, gravel crunching underfoot, though their source remained invisible.
“Didn’t it?”
“It was a drive-in.”
“It was a cultural pocket – this little piece of land, out here in the middle of nowhere, was a film nerd tent revival. Haven’t you ever thought about the greatness that a drive-in represents?”
“No, I really can’t say that I have.” I was getting frustrated. You were clearly attempting to spin a yarn for me but I’d long since lost the plot. “D____, why did you bring me out here?”
“I practically lived for this place when I was a kid.” You spoke as if I’d said nothing at all. “It was exciting, just getting lost in the dark for a couple of hours. Knowing that when the last reel finished and the screen went white, you’d find your way home again.”
“You know my name. I know you do.”
“Back then I didn’t know a single thing about making movies. I just knew I wanted to be a part of it all, somehow. It felt right, you know? Like destiny.”
“My real name. I want to hear you say it.”
“No,” you said suddenly.
“No?”
“No.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Because it’s not important. No one comes to this town to talk about their past – about who they were or the things they left behind. Names and faces, they don’t really matter here. It’s the story you want to tell, that’s what counts; not who starred in what or who’s making twenty million a picture. Movie stars these days are nothing without their names to protect them, whether they use their real names or not.” You fell silent for several seconds. I listened again for the sound of your feet, crunching gravel or trash or accidentally kicking a bottle – anything that might help pinpoint your location. “This place used to be a temple,” you said, sounding defeated. “Now look at it – there’s nothing left but a slashed up tombstone and a field of broken bones.”
“If you hate it all so much –”
“But I don’t. I love it and miss what it once was. That feeling you got before you became aware of it all, of the artifice of this whole thing – when you could sit in the dark with a hundred people, and you didn’t know them and they didn’t know you but you were all there together, experiencing the very same fiction … it was like nothing else. Now it’s so-and-so’s movie, and we care more about what it cost to make and what kind of box office it brings in than what the film is actually trying to say. Without realizing it, we’ve allowed ourselves to be saddled with extraneous stories, shadow stories we don’t need or want to know, and they distract us from the things we should actually be caring about. I subscribe to what this industry used to be, a
nd to the kind of storytelling you and I embody.”
“Oh, yeah? And what’s that?” I asked.
More silence. A hand cut through the dark, gripped my shoulder from behind. I jumped, nearly pissed myself. It hurt – my skin beneath the hoodie was tender, red and inflamed. I’d sweated inside the sleeve I’d worn earlier that day, and some of the solution used to treat it had seeped into my pores.
“Don’t turn around,” you said to my left ear.
“What is it we embody?” I asked again. “What am I to you?”
“We’re one and the same, you and I.” Your tone had grown mysterious, almost ominous. “We’re transient. I saw it in you the very first time we spoke, how easily you slipped into something new … Your desire to shed your skin, it’s the same as mine.”
“It’s not,” I said. “It’s … it’s just work.”
“No, it’s more than that. You and I are here to live a thousand lives and vanish just as easily as we first appeared. What we do, it’s the single greatest freedom in the world – if you embrace it. That’s what we embody, that’s what we bring to the table: storytelling at its most pure.” Your grip slackened then and I felt you pull away. There was an immediate wave of relief as your hand left my shoulder. I reached up to massage the now-aching spot. When I turned around to look for you, you’d vanished and I was left alone in the Galaxy’s void.
The Death Scene Artist Page 8