For just over a week now I’ve been staying with a friend of Aud’s who reached out to me via direct message on my blog. “Audrey was a dear friend,” she said in a private email following our initial correspondence. “We’d worked together at a couple of clubs. She had her demons, but she was a good person and it’s clear she really loved you. She’d want to know that you were safe. My home is yours, should you need a place to rest.” The timing was impeccable; while my commitment to finish our story remains strong, my strength has been fading for some time now. For the first two days after I arrived on Aud’s friend’s doorstep – (“Call me Gwen,” she said, inviting me inside. “It’s not my real name, but …” “Anonymity,” I replied, to which she nodded, smiled and shut the door behind me.) – I slept on a futon in her spare room, a painter’s studio. It was filled with half-finished canvases and several plastic bins of squeezed and mangled oil paint tubes, and along the wall, hanging over the window looking out into Gwen’s backyard, was a white bedsheet speckled and splattered with a rainbow assortment of hues. Gwen was kind to me – it was more than I deserved. She made me three meals a day and I ate what I could. She even tried to convince me to go to the hospital. “You’re so frail,” she said as I picked at a chicken salad sandwich she’d prepared for me on our third afternoon together. “A hard wind might break you in two.”
“I can’t,” I said. “They’ll send me back home.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“There’s nothing for me there.”
“But … what is there for you here? Why stay?”
“There’s still a lot I don’t know,” I replied.
Gwen sighed. “I’ve gone back and read everything, you know. All your entries. It sounds to me like you’ve already gotten all the answers you’re going to get.” She tapped a painted nail against the Formica table, the sound an annoying click. “You … you’re not what I expected.”
“No one ever is.” I finished the sandwich and a glass of orange juice, and started coughing, hacking violently into the back of my hand. “Anyway, it’s not good enough yet,” I said once the spell had subsided. “I need to know how this ends.”
“You know, you’re a lot like she was,” Gwen said. “Audrey could be so stubborn sometimes. I loved her like she was my sister, but she also didn’t know when enough was enough.” She took the empty plate and glass away, put them in the kitchen sink to be washed later. “How it all ends,” she said, returning from the kitchen, “is up to you. Not him.”
“I know that.”
“You say you do, but are you being honest with yourself? Or are you just trying to shut me up?”
“No, I know it’s up to me. I’ll know when I’ve said enough. It’s just …”
“What?”
I shook my head. “I feel like so far it’s just been a bunch of noise. Like I’ve been wasting my time yelling at a wall that doesn’t want to – that isn’t going to talk back.”
“You told your therapist you didn’t care about getting an answer from him – you just wanted to be seen for who you really were.” She paused. “He doesn’t complete you, you know. He never did.”
“Yeah … Well, I guess when it comes down to it I’m better at lying to myself than I am to everyone else.”
“That, and avoiding things.”
“I haven’t been –”
“All this time, everything you’ve written, and still you’ve not said who you really are. You’ve refrained from putting yourself on the very stage you’ve created. That’s avoidance …”
“M_____.”
“Fine then, M_____,” she said, using my real name. “You’re still not clear of all this. And you won’t be until you see for yourself just how much things have changed since you started your blog.”
“I don’t see how that’s going to happen,” I said. “Not without stepping out into the open and dealing with whatever’s waiting for me – good, bad or ugly.”
Gwen turned around and grabbed a set of car keys from a ladybug-shaped hook on the wall over the kitchen counter. She dropped them into my open hand. “It’s Saturday night,” she said. “Take my car and drive out to the Galaxy.”
“I’ve already been there,” I said.
“Not recently. You’ve not seen it like it is now. If you want to see for yourself just how much you’ve changed things, you need to go back out there.”
“What am I looking for?”
“Trust me. You won’t be able to miss it.”
I took Gwen up on her offer and that night drove out to the Galaxy Drive-In. And do you know what I saw, D____? Your greatest wish come true – though, I’m sure, not quite like you anticipated. The Galaxy has been resurrected with new life and purpose. The noisy, bustling parking lot was full of hundreds of people, most crammed three or four to a vehicle, with coolers full of beer and soda and green garbage bags of homemade popcorn on the seats between them. There were conversations happening, families and friends gathering, jumping between vehicles and groups like how I imagined it was back in the heyday of the drive-in, when this was the place to go on a Friday or Saturday night. When it was more of a party than any standard theatre today. The screen at the far end of the lot remained torn and badly stained in places, but nobody really seemed to care. At the rear of the drive-in, a replacement projector had been installed in the Galaxy’s old projection booth – a gift from the owner of a local independent cinema. It was running reel after reel of film – your films, to be exact. The entire scene had a carnivalesque vibe to it as people stood on the tops of their vehicles, or lounged on their backs on the hoods of cars. A small platform had been erected just below the screen, where audience members pantomimed your deaths one after the other. The entire thing was like a morbid fucking re-enactment of The Rocky Horror Picture Show, complete with bad homemade costumes and overzealous makeup. They’d made games of your many death scenes – taking shots whenever you died in the arms of another person, or when you’d been given actual lines to deliver. A pair of star-crossed whatevers, who’d probably never met before this night, collapsed into each other’s arms, silhouetted by the very same scene playing out on the screen above, and recited their love for one another before the poison took effect. And when you drove off that cliff with a trunk full of money in 31 Banks, the entire collective chorused, “Aww, shit!” in perfect synchronicity with your witless onscreen persona.
It was electric. The space was like a carnival that stunk of popcorn, beer and gasoline instead of popcorn, beer and elephant shit – a nominal difference, but a difference all the same. It was like I was there with you all over again, but also not. I joined in when I knew what lines were coming and stayed silent when all I wanted to do was marvel at the amazing sight of so many people gathered for one purpose and one purpose only: to worship you. If Gwen had told me beforehand what to expect, I don’t think I would’ve had the strength, or the courage, to come. I’d have thought that seeing all your deaths again would have been too much for me to bear, but I was completely swept up in the moment. I was your invisible chronicler lost amongst a veritable sea of adoring fans, all of whom had no idea who I was or what I looked like. Who wouldn’t have believed me had I jumped onstage and revealed myself for who I am. I looked for you then, wondering if you, too, had somehow heard about this phenomenon. I pictured you in a full trench coat and aviator shades, with a teamless baseball cap pulled down over your face, hiding as much of you as possible and totally not at all looking like a sexual predator out in full view of the world, just stalking silently between parked cars and the people sitting out in the middle of the lot in folding lawn chairs, completely wrapped up in the ridiculous joy of it all.
* * *
††
I don’t know how much longer I’ll be on the move like this. Gwen’s been good to me, but I know I can’t hide in her home for much longer. It wouldn’t be right.
That
night, after leaving the Galaxy, I took her car and drove past my old apartment. I parked just down the street, where I could see both the darkened square of my bedroom window and Ezra’s vomit-green Mini Cooper S parked on the other side of the road just outside my building. I didn’t know how long she’d been there, or if this was a nightly thing for her. I knew she was waiting for me – to call the cops to deport my ass or to send a pair of rent-a-goons after me to bust up my kneecaps I didn’t know, and I wasn’t too keen on finding out. I was there with just one final job to do, and then I’d be gone. God willing, she’d never see me again. Because the feeling was fucking mutual.
I parked around back, beneath the fire escape, and clambered up to my floor. I went in through the fire exit at the back of the hall – in all the years I’d lived there my landlord had never bothered to repair the fire alarm. For once I was grateful for his negligence. There were no attackers waiting for me outside my front door, no signs of recent entry. I quietly slipped inside.
My apartment was still a mess, my bed and the floor were covered with the remains of the lives I’d pieced together, ripped into confetti and littered indiscriminately. I closed the door behind me and the small resulting gust of wind sent several personality traits and pieces of dialogue fluttering up into the air before they slowly drifted back down again. Tiptoeing over to the window, being sure to keep my face in the darkness, I could see Ezra’s bright-pink press-on talons through the windshield of her car, tap-tap-tapping on the rim of a coffee tumbler – probably emblazoned with her own damn name, written in glitter and gold – as she waited eagerly for some sign that I had foolishly returned. It’s still a marvel to me that she is after all this time refusing to concede defeat. You’re more popular than ever, D____, and I’m sure Ezra is receiving her fair share of the residuals. But this isn’t about money, and I’m beginning to think it never really was. She’s angry because I pulled you out of the shadows and finally, belatedly, introduced you to the rest of the world. Because, in doing so, I’ve taken away some of her control over you. But most of all, because you’re no longer the secret she needed you to be to remain your one and only. It won’t be long now, I imagine, before you get a better offer for representation, and a better cut than anything Bargain Basement Barbie has ever given you.
While Ezra sat with her eyes glued on my apartment, I crouched down and reached under my bed, retrieving a small hatbox I’d hidden up against the wall, behind a spare wool blanket. Inside the hatbox was something special, something I wasn’t willing to simply give up. You – or whoever had broken in – had missed it your first time through, in your haste to destroy all traces of our time together. I can only imagine how frustrating that must have been, knowing how we began, what we’d written together, our very first draft, but not being able to get your hands on it – not being able to wipe clean from existence our first moments as us.
Were I to hand the hatbox’s contents over to you now, though, it wouldn’t matter. You will never be able to erase what’s happened. Go see for yourself, every Saturday night at the Galaxy Drive-In.
You’ve been exposed.
You’ve been seen.
You have a small army at your disposal.
37. Rewriting the Past
Posted: 07/10/2014
COLD OPEN ON BLACK, THE SOUND OF TIRES SCREECHING TO A HALT. THE BRIEF ENSUING SILENCE IS BROKEN BY MUFFLED SCREAMS AND THE DULL THUD OF A FIST PUNCHING THE INSIDE OF A CAR'S TRUNK.
M_____ (V.O.)
You died the day we met.
CUT TO:
EXT: ABANDONED SHIPPING YARD -- NIGHT
CHARLIE ELLINGTON -- AKA "CHARLIE THE CHIN" -- (45-year-old White male) is pulled forcefully from the trunk of a LATE-MODEL BUICK CENTURY and thrown onto the rain-soaked ground. He lands hard on his hands and knees, WINCES. He looks up at his assailant, a tall, outhouse-wide brick of a human named MICKEY O' (late-40s White male).
M_____ (V.O.)
I remember it frame for frame.
(Beat)
I watched from afar as she flirted with you at craft services, as she smiled shyly with seeds in her teeth and you coolly responded by passing her a napkin and a bottle of water but saying nothing in return. She accepted, gratefully, but you weren't listening to her -- you were looking at me, your eyes on mine, and you grinned, seductively, like you knew what I was thinking and were telling me to wait, that you'd come see me when you were finished.
CHARLIE raises his hands up to his face. They're shaking, wet, covered in dirt from where he'd landed on the ground.
CHARLIE
I didn't do it, Mick! I ain't no stoolie, goddamnit! I swear on my grandmother's grave.
M_____ (V.O.)
It didn't matter that it was all lies -- coming from you, it was still beautiful. That was your gift, you know -- like you could steal any scene, so too could you turn even the rankest half-written shit into absolute poetry.
CHARLIE starts to weep openly. He drops his face into his filthy hands.
MICKEY steps in front of CHARLIE. He calmly slips a BLACK LEATHER GLOVE over each hand before reaching around to his back and pulling a HANDGUN from his waistband.
From around the corner of a nearby WAREHOUSE, MALORIE MARCELLO (32-year-old White female) watches as MICKEY screws a SUPPRESSOR to the end of his HANDGUN and presses it against the right side of CHARLIE'S head.
M_____ (V.O.)
My stomach clenched when Mickey put that gun up to your head. I kept myself steady, watching as you emptied yourself of all resolve. Because you were done. Because you were supposed to die. It is scripted and thus it is so.
MICKEY shakes his head. He moves the HANDGUN down, points it instead at CHARLIE'S knee. He FIRES. CHARLIE SCREAMS and falls over on one side, starts writhing in place. Without saying anything, MICKEY walks around to the other side of CHARLIE and points the HANDGUN at CHARLIE'S left arm. He FIRES again. CHARLIE'S SCREAMS INTENSIFY as he flops around on the ground in pain.
M_____ (V.O.)
The crew around me watched gleefully as Mickey tortured you, prolonging your inevitable death. This was a moment they'd all been waiting for -- a key moment in the script where the tables were turned, where Malorie would see the price of crossing her mob boss father in the body of the man she loved. And all I wanted to do was run out from behind the camera, rush the set and tackle Mickey, giving you time -- not much but enough -- to run away.
(Beat)
If I could have, I would have stricken a hard line right through the next page of the script, cut it down, given you a chance to breathe again.
MICKEY steps back, moving in front of CHARLIE, and crouches down to face him. He holds the HANDGUN carelessly between his knees.
MICKEY
C'mon, Chin, take the righteous path here. Admit what you did. Accountability -- ever'thing's about accountability.
CHARLIE musters his remaining strength and lifts up his head. He stares menacingly at MICKEY. Says nothing.
MICKEY stands back up and once more points the HANDGUN at the right side of CHARLIE'S head. He FIRES a final shot and CHARLIE'S body falls limp. BLOOD pools from his mouth.
Out of sight of MICKEY, MALORIE clamps both hands over her mouth and retreats back around the far side of the WAREHOUSE.
M_____ (V.O.)
And then it happened and I watched, helpless to do anything, as blood flowed out of you like red paint staining your white button-up, caulking the cracks in the pavement with straight lines and ninety-degree turns.
(Beat)
I'd watched your life -- your light -- extinguished in less time than it took to shake someone's hand. It wasn't some stretched out life-before-your-eyes thing you hear people talking about when they drum up the event, making it into something big, into something other than shit. You didn't beg, break or even begin to crack. You took it like the man you were, the man I knew right there and then I was de
stined to fall in love with.
(Beat)
It was over before it had even begun, and all I could think about was what it felt like last night, when you kissed me -- not as was written in a scene we never actually shared, but in the darkness outside the studio, thinking maybe it'd make a new person out of me. And I wondered then when you'd kiss me next, and if, when that time came, I'd be able to step in and save you before you had to go and die all over again.
38. Letting Go
Posted: 07/11/2014
I stayed with Gwen another couple of days. I was silent that night when I came back from the Galaxy. Right away, when I stepped inside her home, she saw the hatbox under my arm and asked what was inside. I didn’t answer, and she nervously asked about what I’d seen at the Galaxy. “I told you,” she said elatedly once I’d finished describing what had transpired, the incredible scene I’d witnessed at the drive-in. “You’ve had more of an impact than you thought. Your story matters to people – you matter. You’ve changed a lot of lives.”
Though at first I fought the urge to admit it, Gwen was right. She was also right in one other area: it’s time I got clear of all this. There’s nothing more I can do – there’s nothing more to do. Before that night I’d been writing this blog in a bubble. It was about D____ and me, and about putting all our lies together one after another in a police lineup, where I could see clearly every character he’d played and point them out and say, “That right there, that’s the man I fell in love with.” And he’s the same motherfucker who broke my heart first and my jaw second. Now my bubble has burst and I’m seeing a lot of things more sharply than I have in a long while. It’s D____ who I’ve succeeded in making transparent, while I remain trapped in the shadows, waiting for my moment, a second-string player with whom he shared only pieces of who he really was. And in everything I’ve done and tried to do with my life, this blog – our story, not mine or any other one I’ve written, or any of the ones we wrote together, once collected in binders and now strewn across my bed in a rage, and in a hatbox you neglected to find – is the only story anyone wants to hear. The shittiness of the situation is not lost on me.
The Death Scene Artist Page 19