It was a late-night Discovery Channel documentary he’d seen while lying in bed, too wired from pills and coke to sleep. It was about dinosaurs. Normally such programming wouldn’t hold his interest, but for some reason this was different – it was fascinating and engaging, almost beautiful. The names, the hunting patterns, the mating rituals, even the meteor that would wipe them out: watching had been … well, pleasurable. The faint memory of the evening holds a warm, rosy aura, brings a slow smile to Ryan’s lips. That was weeks before the whimpering began, he recalls; he had been taking some time off work, slowing down his pace, trying to get back in shape with some basic cardio and circuit training. It was a good time, even if it wasn’t perfect, and at least he was dreaming normally, despite the odd nightmare.
Still grasping his new green penis and staring into the bathroom mirror, Ryan begins to feel the faintest glimmer of relief. That today, of all days, there’ll at least be no need to perform. That the suit will be a stand-in, eliminating the need to actually work. All he’ll have to do, he realizes cautiously, is thrust and mimic, allow the suit to work its low-budget magic. Simply recall those beautiful creatures on the television, imitate how they moved and mated, and focus on why they were so lovely. Why those days were so lovely – days before the nights went black and dread turned him into a puppyish mess.
He lets go of the plastic shaft and tries on the headpiece. A red forked tongue lolls between two bottom fangs. The eyes are huge yellow orbs with black, cat-like pupils, set high on either side of the cylindrical head. Once on, it almost entirely obstructs his field of peripheral vision. He’s able to stare straight ahead through the meshed mouth, between rows of stubby plastic teeth that are supposed to look razor-sharp and fearsome.
A fist thumps against the door.
‘We good?’ Don asks. There’s a hint of exasperation in his voice.
‘Yes,’ Ryan says, pulling off the mask.
Silence.
‘We start shooting as soon as you’re finished. The girls are ready.’
Ryan dabs the sweat from his forehead with a ball of toilet paper. He is determined now to make things work, buoyed by the hope that he won’t need to perform, that it will all be over soon. Things will be fine, he thinks. Just focus on the Discovery Channel. He picks up the mask, fumbles to unlock the door with his gloved hand and steps out.
Ryan’s route to the set takes him between cubicle dividers and around snack tables. He is careful not to knock over plates of sandwiches with his bobbing tail or dangling penis, wary of low-lying glasses or potted plants. He passes from shadow into light, fluorescents giving way to halogen. He is forced to walk slightly bowlegged, to take short, cautious steps. At one point he almost trips into a divider. Crew members make way, scurrying before him like scattering woodland creatures. He reaches the murky surrounds of the jungle clearing. The fog machine hiccups and coughs, obscuring the set with vapour.
He steps out of the shadows and onto the raised platform. Then, between laughs and sudden yelps, scattered claps begin to trickle forth. Within seconds, the applause rises in a wave-like roar, a tidal wave of joining palms – the sound like rushing water from within Ryan’s mask. He blinks in the glare of the bulbs. In shadow-obliterating light, supported by giant green pillows, BJ and Chelsea Starr sit and kneel, respectively, by his feet, staring up and smiling and languidly bringing their hands together. Shading his eyes with the flat of his hand, Ryan spots Don and David standing side by side, out in the murk, looking pleased. Men drop their mics or cords to join in the whooping applause.
Ryan grins with the left side of his mouth. He drops the T. rex head on the platform and rakes his fingers through his hair.
One more hoop, he thinks.
V
Chelsea Starr is a twenty-nine-year-old brunette with an ambling scar running lip to ear. The scar has prevented her from pursuing any non-industry modelling or acting, so she claims, but it has granted her a kind of grungy, debased allure in the world of adult entertainment. She wears a leopard-print bra top and wrap skirt with thread tassels. An identically patterned armband is wrapped loosely around her left bicep. Gigantic, bone-white ‘sabre-tooth’ earrings dangle from her lobes. BJ Stephenson, early twenties and blond, who has only ever worked one non-industry job (at a Dairy Queen in Sacramento, for three months) wears a one-piece, polyester-furred cavegirl outfit, bought (with Chelsea’s two-piece) at a Hollywood Halloween costume outlet by David Yost, who insinuated that his two girls needed the outfits for a school play.
As the scene begins, Chelsea and BJ fight over a fake bone. They act like Neanderthals. They grunt, shout and groan – no recognizable words, all animal savagery. Chelsea pulls BJ’s hair. They wrestle around the fronds and pillows until BJ is on top of Chelsea, straddling her, pinning her arms. Then, rather than delivering a coup de grâce, BJ bends to plant a kiss on Chelsea’s lips. From here, it’s up to the girls: during a cut, Don suggests some breast fondling, nipple licking, heavy petting, but really, it’s their scene to improvise. BJ agrees to one of Chelsea’s ideas and spits in her mouth.
While the newly turned cave-lesbians explore each other’s bodies, several cutaways reveal a strange and foreboding shape in the mist. Sound effects accentuate the tension: the sound of a heavy, pounding tread (also ripped off from Jurassic Park) punctuates the;rhythmic track looped throughout the entire scene (the closest anyone could get to ‘caveman music,’ downloaded from a YouTube clip of a Planet of the Apes sequel). The girls pretend not to notice Ryan’s approach – they’re lost in the throes of atavistic lust. Cutaways and footfalls become more frequent. Soon, Ryan’s cylindrical mask can be seen peering through a dense thicket of reeds, watching the duo writhe on the green pillows as if magnetized. Suddenly, the carnosaur bursts into the clearing, roars stiffly and slams its clawed foot onto BJ’s chest, pinning her to the ground. Chelsea beats at Ryan with the controversial bone, but to no avail; he merely swats her aside and again roars in triumph.
Ryan then abruptly penetrates BJ’s mouth with the dangling penis. It looks as bizarre as it sounds; everyone laughs at how unexpected the move is. Her eyes bulge and she tries to scream. It seems obvious that this isn’t enjoyable. But desire also seems to mount in her bloodshot, slightly glazed eyes (a side effect of the so-called super-weed she smoked before the shoot). Without warning, she grabs the base of the fake member and begins to suck in earnest, stroking and fondling. She rubs and kneads between her legs with her free hand, moaning and gurgling into the giant extension. Ryan is told to growl in appreciation. They ask him to cluck, to coo.
Chelsea comes to with a crazed look. Ryan and the girls then exchange a number of strained positions. Ryan’s apparatus is repeatedly swathed with lube between takes. The girls complain with livid streaks of profanity about its unbelievable length and width while splitting a joint of hydroponic B.C. weed. Ryan gives them a thorough screwing, from behind and from above. He is told to finger them and to be rough. Because of his headgear, he sometimes thrusts multiple times before finding easy passage into an orifice. BJ and Chelsea exchange positions, licking each other between the legs while Ryan plows the alternatingly vacant vagina. At the end of it all, Ryan pretends to orgasm, which means Chelsea squeezes the left ball, spraying both of the girls with a massive blast of purple semen. They lick it off each other’s breasts and spit it into each other’s mouths, complaining afterward of a bitter, acidic taste. David Yost assures them that the goo is non-toxic. According to just about everybody, Ryan’s orgasmic moan is Oscar-worthy. ‘Legendary!’ Don says, laughing, clapping David on the shoulder. It is part keening howl, part wailing lament.
Later, David, Don, Chelsea and Ryan sit together in director’s chairs, watching the unedited playback on a tiny monitor.
‘I screwed up,’ Ryan says.
‘Where?’ asks Don.
‘I don’t know. This one point. Like, halfway.’
Don fast-forwards. They watch the sped-up footage until they’re about two-thirds through. R
yan holds up his hand. Don pushes PLAY. Most of the crew has gone home, having stacked or leaned dividers and tables and chairs against the eastern wall. The warehouse is cavernous and dark. Those remaining keep their voices low, aware of the echo.
In the clip on the screen, Ryan’s talon disappears up to the knuckle into BJ’s anus. Her entire backside is slick with lube.
‘Here,’ Ryan says.
On the monitor, Ryan seems to lose his footing.
‘That’s it?’ asks Don.
‘Go back,’ Ryan says.
They push some buttons, review the footage. Now it’s clear: Ryan’s right foot slips on some spilled lube, making a barely audible squelching noise. His foot comes perilously close to slipping off the platform. He wobbles for a second, shifts his weight and regains his balance.
Chelsea dabs a towel at her hair, streaked with purple goo. ‘I didn’t even notice,’ she says.
‘It’s fine,’ Don grunts, pressing FAST-FORWARD, eager to watch the finish.
‘Are you sure this fucking gunk is safe?’ Chelsea asks.
‘I thought it was real bad,’ Ryan says. His eyes feel as dry as marble. His lips quiver. ‘It just seemed … I don’t know … just long and bad.’
VI
Twenty minutes later, Ryan is the last to leave the warehouse. He uses the washroom again while the others slip out. He tries to hurry, not wanting to linger, then jogs to the exit and steps into the sudden lancing light of the afternoon, the humidity of late July. He walks the fifty feet to the parking lot and his waiting Subaru. Inside, he finds the seat belts too hot to touch.
Once home, Ryan kicks off his sandals and tosses his baseball hat into his closet. He pours himself a glass of water. The kitchen is blue-grey, the curtains drawn over the window to reduce the white-hot glare of the city. He drinks the water quickly, his muscles contracting. He opens his freezer, staring at frozen dinners, leftovers, icy hunks of meat and vegetables. Something still rumbles in his bowels, but barely.
Ryan picks up a bottle of dark Jamaican rum and unscrews the cap. He pours two fingers into a stout tumbler, adds a few cubes of ice and a splash of almost flat Coca-Cola. He grabs a package of cigarettes, opens the sliding door to his balcony and sits on a lawn chair on the ledge, looking over southern L.A.: other apartment buildings, condominiums, and in the distance the reflective glitter of a freeway. Although Ryan has lived in L.A. for twenty years, he cannot say which freeway it is. It could lead anywhere, he thinks.
He drinks the glass of rum quickly. He takes long, deep hauls on his cigarettes, then grinds them out into a rusty Folgers Coffee can, overflowing with other butts. The sun begins to set somewhere out of sight. From where he sits, the sky looks like a mixed palette, a riotous smear of blue and orange and yellow. He thinks for a moment about his dad, whether he’s watching him from somewhere in that swirl of colour. It’s vaguely beautiful, he thinks: the thought of being watched, however unlikely. He feels as though the sky is following a script, written a long time ago. He feels somehow relieved that it is only vaguely beautiful – that any extreme display would seem somehow embarrassing.
He moves to his room for a better view of the setting sun. He figures there is nothing else to do, so he sits down on his bed with his glass of rum. He stares at his computer monitor, sitting on a coffee-cup-cluttered desk in the far corner. An undersea-themed screen saver pierces the early evening murk with exotic fish and coral and billowing oxygen bubbles. A sperm whale courses by in the far distance, gazing toward the ocean floor as if caught in the throes of a catastrophic sadness. Ryan closes his eyes, thinking back to the afternoon’s shoot, listening to his screen saver imitate the ocean.
It was just so weird. That moment during the shoot when he thought he’d fucked up. He thought it was somehow longer than it turned out to be – it was just a second of film, but at the time, it seemed like an epic mistake. He’d leapt onto the platform almost laughing, moving with the exaggerated jerks of an animatronic dinosaur instead of the natural movements of something flesh-and-blood. He’d seen enough theme-park attractions and low-budget movies to know how to imitate something robotic. It was all a joke, anyway, he thought. Why not have fun with it? But after several minutes of miming a machine, he could tell he was screwing up – Don kept cutting, trying to get him to act more naturally, more fluidly. ‘Like a real-live Tyrannosaurus!’ he yelled, as if this were the most natural thing in the world.
Ryan’s face felt microwaved in the mask. Sweat dripped between his eyes, over his nose, into his mouth. He hauled in great, ragged belts of hot air, panting, spitting beads of sweat from his upper lip. Sweat gathered and chafed in the crevices of his joints. But though the heat was punishing, and his vision hampered, he was decidedly calm: wielding the fake penis meant he had no need for even the barest prickle of desire. It was as he imagined it would be. He could perform as a vehicle: locked into the suit, going through the motions, obeying commands from the pitch dark, with Don’s metallic rasp telling him to ‘take it easy’ or ‘slam it in’ from the shadows.
But Don was right. Ryan was messing up his shots. This jerky shuffle was so far from a grade-A performance. And the buzz from the pot wasn’t going away, tricking him into thinking he had to sprint to the washroom and empty his bowels at least four times. It was so misty and hot, with no way to know how long he’d been grunting, pushing and squinting through the mesh of the mask, so he tried to recall the way the computer-generated dinosaurs moved on the TV documentary. Those were dynamic, graceful creatures: every rippling breath and heavy-lidded blink was rendered in beautiful, painstaking, CGI detail. So he tried to move his hips less robotically, tried to swing his stubby tail with a more sweeping rhythm. He tried to be more serpentine, to caress and be tender. It seemed to be working: Don quieted down, occasionally clapping when Ryan performed some especially organic manoeuvre.
As he began pushing his finger inside BJ’s anus and her sphincter muscle began flexing and relaxing, his thoughts drifted from his present surroundings, the way they could when he was engaged in anything menial. He began to remember scenes from the documentary – specific scenes he thought he’d forgotten. They had done this weird thing, he remembered, where an image of the Earth started spinning backwards. They showed animations of whirling clocks with reverse-spinning minute hands. The narrator asked him, in a thick British accent, How many nights in a lifetime? Ryan remembered lying dazed, drunk, trying to multiply 365 by the average 78 (or 42, his dad’s age when he died). How many nights in a generation? He couldn’t compute the figure, gave up trying. They were showing Asians in the next scene – Mongols, they called them – riding barebacked across moonlit fields. They showed a young boy adrift on a raft on the still waters of the Nile. They were suddenly spinning away before Christ, before any cities of Europe, before the pyramids were built with all that ripped skin and crushed cartilage. They showed him the first tribes of Africa, branching northward and eastward, tiny clusters of brown and black peoples that they said would one day become nations of kings and rich executives, turning life-or-death stone-and-field work into monstrous leisure, satellite dishes, the atomic bomb. And the porn industry, Ryan thought (in his heart, it was always porn, porno, fuchsia and pink – it would never be adult entertainment). They showed him the first man, an Adam with hirsute limbs, ragged teeth, sloping brow: the bent gait of a gorilla, top-heavy, the scream of his flesh as it was torn by a predator. Then they showed him a family of grunting apes, told him they had nothing of our imagination, only the seed or spark, though Ryan saw that they had our eyes – eyes that could gaze forever at a figure on the horizon, terrifying eyes that could be wax in a museum, or eyes that could convince a young girl of many sweet and fatherly things.
There were images of hulking, bleating mammals and shrinking rodents underfoot, the new dominion of post-catastrophic Earth, enough oxygen now for his dearest ancestors, the waters finally purged of toxins and radiation. He remembered the digitally recreated meteor impact that would annihil
ate all life save for that which was small enough to dig and despair, the tidal waves making clean the mountains, the walls of fire that ate away the woods, the rains of yellow sulphur and black bile that poisoned the waters and eroded the rocks. He recalled the last Tyrannosaurus roar, stuck in mud to its hips, calling out to the sky; the last triceratops as it folded into itself, great lungs collapsing from an air made vile and toxic; the last pterodactyl as it plummeted toward the face of one of the great oceans, a Cretaceous sea, boiling with monstrosities, with everyday leviathans with stadium mouths and penny brains. And it struck a chord of sadness, even though they were ignorant beasts, and even though they were CGI and obviously so, and even though it was over 65 million years ago, and even though without their dying there would be nothing to show for humanity. It was still sad. Those dumb eyes rolling up. Those dumb snouts opening and closing, trying to breathe.
He remembered watching the Jurassic and Triassic dinosaurs eat and mate and die, tearing leaves from 150-foot trees with mouths perched on telephone-pole necks, shaking the earth with the lightest, most delicate tread. He watched the landscape spin through millions upon millions of years, each year composed of sixty-second minutes, sixty-minute hours, twenty-four-hour days, thirty-day months, but bereft of calendar or clock, only the slow passing of sun up and sun down, the breathing and drinking and eating of the moment – no conscious acknowledgment of the earth’s shifting and reshaping and sailing across the sea to form super-continents, or its breaking apart, forming archipelagos and island reefs, punctuated by the pimple-bursting excess of volcanic eruptions.
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