Conscience

by John Skipp

  So how do I feel? Real goddam good about myself! I guess it’s pretty gratifying to know that you really can make a dead man come, not to mention fucking him so good he really has died and gone to Heaven!

  And, ya know, it’s really making me think twice about my fans. I mean, if a quarter of them were even half that much fun, I might never walk again!

  So does this mean that I’m going to start fucking nothing but nebbishy guys from now on...? Right! Exactly!

  ONLY AFTER THEY’RE DEAD!!!

  INTRO TO EMPATHY (1997)

  I’d like to dedicate this little number to every struggling, driven, gifted actress in the history of Hollywood.

  Because, ladies? My fucking God...

  I mean, I thought being a screenwriter was bad. And I was right.

  But I had no idea.

  Until I actually got to watch, first-hand, I could only guess at how weird your lives are.

  I suppose we all guess, while we’re watching the movies, and the endless errata that the tabloids distend. We hear all kinds of stories, from Cinderella to Black Dahlia, with acres of casting couches in between.

  But the truth, down in the trenches, is a subtler thing.

  Which is to say: it’s not necessarily the make-or-break moments that kill one deadest, but all those little moments in between.

  I’d elaborate, but that’s what the story is for.

  Bottom line: I salute you. Admire your strength. Love you to pieces. Thank God for you, daily.

  And wouldn’t trade places for all the money in the world.

  Final thought: I didn’t realize it, till long after the fact, but this is the story that paved the mental road to CONSCIENCE.

  Written in a 48-hour stretch – with a pair of two-hour naps, along the way – it’s just another case of me taking dictation. Typing as fast as I can.

  While another lost soul fills me in on the stats.

  EMPATHY

  Yes, you’re bad. You’ve done a horrible thing. And you’ll do it again. I know.

  If there’s one thing I understand, it’s that you will do it again.

  You are laying there, drenched in a spackle of sweat that is equal parts shame and relentless heat. 98 degrees in Hollywood. At least 110 in the Valley. There exists, at this point, no meter to gauge the level of shame you feel. A fan is blowing, its oscillation blocked, riveted by a pin to blast its blades straight at your head. It doesn’t matter. You have fallen, and you can’t get up: paralyzed with self-loathing, and the certain understanding that you’re right. It’s all wrong. You. Me. God. Everything. Wrong.

  At this point, I am just awakening. You feel the ripple as the veil of sleep parts, and choose that moment to enter me.

  I slide into wakefulness, and know you are there. Get up off the bed. Go down the hall. Take a long, exultant pee. Today is gonna be an extra-fine day, whether you wanna just fucking lay there or not. I am going to have fun.

  I am going to be fun.

  I go into the living room, slap on the yoga tape. Dixie Carter is just so sweet, and the exercises really help. I hear the growling in my tummy, and totally don’t care. I will eat when I’m done. Then I’ll go out and run. In the meantime, I stretch, feel my muscles spring to life. I am alive. I'm so alive it's almost stupid."

  Already, I am projecting ahead. My immediate future has been carefully planned. I prepare to inhabit it, one speck at a time.

  I just wish you would fucking get over it.

  My breakfast is lean; I am down to 118 again. I would say that that’s a good look for me. I can wear a bikini, or even less, without cringing. If I have a complaint, it would have to be that I’ve lost so much in the cleavage department. At this weight, I really miss my titties. But at least my ass is contained.

  I go back into the bedroom, peel off my sleepy workout garb. Of course, you are awake.

  “I can’t get up,” you say.

  “Uh-huh.” I nod, walk into the closet.

  “I must be getting old,” you say. “Three drinks, and I’m gone. Three glasses of wine. It’s fucking absurd. I’m twenty-seven years old. Used to be I could drink all night.”

  “You also drank rum,” I remind you. “And a margarita.”

  I feel you shrug. “Whatever. I could puke up a single lite beer. Doesn’t matter what I do. I get sick. I can’t deal.”

  “Has it occurred to you,” I say, “that you might have developed an allergy?”

  “Oh, yeah,” you say. “I’m allergic to alcohol. I break out in handcuffs.”

  I start to laugh.

  “It’s like Joe Bob said,” you continue. “Just because a woman sleeps with every man she meets, that doesn’t mean she’s cheap.”

  “Oh, that’s priceless,’I tell you. “‘Break out in handcuffs.’ You really need to write that down.”

  “You write it down,” you say. “I can’t get up.”

  “Oh, yeah.” At this point, a flicker of annoyance runs through me. I think, so much self-pity, so early in the morning. No wonder you puke.

  But I don’t say that. Instead, I say, “Sure, I’ll write it down. In fact, I’ll tell you what. I’ll get you up. Put you in the shower. Make your breakfast. Eat your breakfast. Drive you to work. Do all your work. Digest your food, and bring you home. Hell, I’ll even shit it out for you.”

  “That’s nice,” you say, and roll over in bed. So much for conversation.

  Whatever. That’s fine with me. I throw on shorts, socks, sneakers, and the t-shirt that says JESUS IS COMING. LOOK BUSY. Then I’m out the door, walking briskly up the hill toward the dog park. And away from you.

  It is now 8:45. The heat is almost stunning. It bakes the urine of a trillion dogs into a crispy nose soufflé. I wish I had time to drive to the reservoir instead, do three miles, stare at Madonna’s old house. But no. My first meeting’s at ten. Never make it. No way.

  By 9:15, I am hosing down in the shower. Every toxin my body has ever known has been caught up in sweat beads, now sluicing down the drain. I feel more than clean. I feel Zestfully clean.

  Which I come back out, it’s like you are not even there.

  Which is totally fine with me. I don’t even want to think about you. No offense – you know I love you to death – but you’re a total fucking loser, and you’re making me sick. You’re letting yourself get fat and ugly and, yes, even stupid. Laying there like a lump. Scintillating as mud, and sexy as a tumor.

  In my closet, there are clothes that I can finally wear again. One of life’s crowning glories: I can wear my own clothes. Which, of course, is more than you can say, oh Queen of Lard and Mopiness. I almost start to feel sorry for you, but then the thought just pisses me off.

  I dress and put on makeup in silence, sculpt a little ’40s flip into my hair. I love the glamour of the old Hollywood, feel entitled to a bit of it now. There’s a whole town out there that is crawling with money, with the privilege that comes from dedicated hard work. And I am working my ass off, not working my ass.

  Which is more than I can say for you.

  I show up for my meeting with five minutes to spare, spend them happily shmoozing with the receptionist. Her name is Allison, and she is a hoot. Very pretty. Just a little bit overweight.

  This town can be ruthless – in fact, it just is – and though I hate to be a party to it, I can no more shut it off than I can stop my own heart. While we talk, I can feel her measuring me, sensors gauging my anatomical stats. It’s subtle, but it’s sad, because I know she can’t help it. None of us can help it. It’s in the fucking air, a particulate component of the smog: five parts carbon monoxide, two parts bitchiness, with a lingering afterwaft of decay.

  I am here for a callback on a very nice part in a low- budget action thriller. Not another hooker with a heart of gold. Not another understanding girlfriend or wife. And not another teenage bed wench who gets to scream just before the knife goes in.

  The character’s name is Verona Gabor, and she’s a full-on psychopathic contract killer
. Shades of Romeo is Bleeding, but one could do worse. I think of Lena Olan, how empowered she was. How frightening and gorgeous, free of inhibition or remorse.

  I want to do that. Oh yes indeed. I want to go wallow in untrammeled ferocity. Show my teeth. Show my tits. Show my victims their spleens.

  I joke with Allison about that very thing, and she is right there with me. I can tell that she’d love to play that part, too. If only she lost ten pounds.

  The meeting goes well. I get to read; but more than that, I get to pace and stalk, to glower and grin and stake my claim on the turf that is Verona Gabor. The casting director and producer are impassive; but, of course, that’s their jobs. On the other hand, the director is cupping his nuts. Not only does he keenly appreciate my talent, he wants to fuck me so bad it’s coming out of his ears.

  I would never do that, of course. Better to keep him steamed up than to get intimate, let him dissipate the heat. On top of that, the fucker looks like Garry Shandling, who I love but wouldn’t bed if he came with four posters and a canopy.

  I leave with a really good feeling. I feel like I have rocked the house. The meeting went over by almost forty minutes; the next girl in line looks severely pissed. I check her out, as she does me. Fat chance, I think, though she is scrawny as a pole.

  I grab a bite at noon: broiled chicken, a little cottage cheese. It’s not nearly enough, but it will have to do. My next audition is at 1:45, in Venice. Corman film. Hooker with a heart of chintz, who befriends a psychic frog. He becomes a prince, of course, and marries me or whoever gets the part.

  There are roughly 87,000 girls in the office, the parking lot, the road leading in. If I didn’t need the money, I would blow this hot dog stand. You’ve never smelled so much Victoria’s Secret and bitter cooze. At least not since the last cattle call.

  Funny, how I find myself thinking of you.

  It’s the comparison test. The one-against-all. The pitting of beauty against beauty against beauty. I realize how many of me there are. How many diligent, arrogant dreamers, daring to think that they could ever possibly stand out. I hear the catty whispers as I stride to the desk.

  It makes me want a fucking drink.

  An hour and a half later, I get to read. It goes fairly well, but these people are numb, and getting number by the second. I try to imagine what criteria they’re going to judge on. Looks? Talent? Character? What difference does it make? This mecca for models who think they can act will go straight down to video and sink like a stone. Everybody knows it. And nobody cares.

  It’s almost five by the time I get home, what with traffic and bullshit and a stop at the store. Jason will be here at seven, which gives me just enough time to catch up on my messages and make some calls, keep the boulder rolling uphill.

  Of course, you are sprawled out on the couch, watching TV.

  I don’t even want to talk to you. You are fucking depression incarnate. On the screen, spineless women get up in front of millions, defend their utter servitude to ugly, stupid men. It is God’s will for them, they heartwarmingly insist, to serve their Bombo’s every need. Make his food. Scrub his hairy back. Chew the corns off his reeking feet, the second he gets home from the insecticide plant.

  I guess it makes you feel better, but it makes me want to scream.

  Where is your self-respect?, I wonder. Then I go oh, yeah. It’s in the toilet, with your lunch.

  I say nothing, stripping down and showering again. I am careful not to get my hair wet this time. Twenty-seven years old, and already the gray hairs are showing up. What the fuck is that? What is the matter with me?

  I can’t allow that kind of thought inside. It’s the kind of thing that you would say. I choke it back like day-old bile, think pretty thoughts exclusively.

  But that is my hell. I think too much. I live inside my head. Planning things out. Sculpting trajectories. Maintaining the fortress that is my flesh. I take a lot of maintenance, attention to detail, constant care. And above all, forward momentum.

  Because if I stop, for even a second, I start to turn out like you.

  And I would honestly rather die.

  Jason is fifteen minutes early, but that’s cool. I am ready freddy, and looking hot. Jason is duly appreciative, which is not a surprise. Jason loves me so much it is almost retarded.

  Jason is a screenwriter. A very very good one. He is also a fairly cute boy. Not drop-dead like Damian, gorgeous like Gary, breathtaking like Armando Bane (big sigh). But I am done with actor-boys, their vanities on parade. Actor-boys – celebrities, especially – always have to be the center, the pivot on which the whole universe spins. That doesn’t leave much room for me. And God knows, I need some, too.

  Which is what Jason wants to talk with me about. He is writing a new script, he says. And he’s tailoring it for me. It’s a perfect part. Lots of depth. Lots of courage. Lots of wit. A little bit of pathos, but nothing you could drown in. Just enough to let the inner strength and beauty shine through.

  Naturally, I’m interested. He has placed three scripts in the last ten months, and his career is heating nicely. There is talk of letting him direct one soon, which is where this script comes in. If he can actually hang on to control, he could in fact cast me, which would be really sweet.

  I am determined not to fuck him.

  He smokes a joint before we leave. I do not join in. I tell him dope makes me feel hungry and stupid, and I can do that by myself. He laughs very hard; he always gets my jokes. I really admire that in a man.

  He asks me where I would like to eat; and for some perverse reason, I think of Acapulco’s. It’s Dollar Margarita Night. And I would really like a drink.

  So away we go, amidst much glittering conversation. I love the way Jason expresses himself, the strange twists and turns his logic takes.

  And he’s fun. I think I like that most. He’s smart, and he’s fun, and he gets my jokes. He is also refreshingly honest: about the biz, about himself.

  About his feelings toward me.

  This is the part I’m least itchy to hear. I order a margarita. Jason sticks with red wine. I send him off to scarf up goodies from the happy hour buffet. Meanwhile, I head for the Ladies’. Pee. Then stare at myself in the mirror.

  I wish I could just stop thinking so much.

  I wish I could just stop thinking.

  A margarita later, it’s a little bit easier. I promptly order another. There are more calories at the table right now than I have consumed all week. I joke about it, and Jason laughs, but I watch him appraise me in a surreptitious second.

  His conclusion is but she’s not fat.

  And I find myself thinking if you only knew...

  More food. More drink. More hilarious distraction. We talk about movies that we both love. Quote Monty Python, chapter and verse. Quote Waiting for Guffman, which Jason insists was the best horror film of last year. Quote Fargo and Sling Blade and Dead Alive. Quote Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf, which Jason insists is the best horror film ever.

  Jason launches into a hilarious story, and I feel myself ballooning underneath my dress: fat cells long dormant, reawakening with fervor, like a cancer of insulation between myself and the world. I catch a stray clever line, and it makes me laugh my ass off. I say it over and over, then can’t remember what it was.

  Life, at this point, becomes a dull blur, punctuated by moments of obscene clarity. His eyes are aglow in the candlelight. He was beautiful eyes. They are aglow with love.

  Oh God, I think. I don’t need love. I’m sick of love. I believe in love. I believe that love is the firmament, the thing both above and between all things. I believe that love is the soul of forgiveness, the heart of charity, the essence of faith. I believe, in fact, that God is love; and that God loves me, no matter how stupid I get. How stupid or selfish or grasping or vain.

  I believe these things, and I want to cry, because now I am thinking of you. Thinking of you, on the bed or the couch: the only two places you live. I am thinking of a God that could
possibly love you. You mattress tramp. You fucking whore. You blimp. You slug. You feeding machine. You worthless deluded heartbreaking blob of bullshit masquerading as a human being.

  I try to imagine a God that could love you. It’s beyond my power.

  I am really fucking high.

  Then I look in the general direction of Jason, say some things I will never remember in a million fucking years.

  At some point, we wind up back at my apartment. Jason has purchased a bottle of wine. He kisses me, and I guess I let him.

  We do some things that I forgot before they happened.

  And the next thing I know, I am awake in the bed. Jason is gone, but you are there. So are the handcuffs. Did we use them? Did we not? Did I want to be pinned to that fucking headboard, as if to say it’s not my fault? I didn’t do it? I wasn’t there? And did he say no, I want your hands? Or did he say hey, I got you now?

  I’ll never know. I will never know. Even if he tells me, I will not know for sure. Because I was gone, and all my painfully painstaking maintenance of the fortress went right along with it. Right out the fucking window. Out the window that probably echoed with my cries, although the odds are equally good that I never made a sound. Not wanting anyone to know. Anyone to know I feel.

  But I feel. Oh God, I feel. I feel for poor stupid lovestruck brilliant Jason. I feel for poor stupid hungry me. I feel for you, who has laid here so long, and never once gotten up long enough to live. Or if you do, you wind up here.

  You wind up here like me.

  And I cannot move. I cannot move. The heat is astonishing. It pins me to the mattress, as surely as my mind. As surely as the pin in the oscillating fan, which locks the force of the whirling blades upon me.

  I have fallen, and I can’t get up. But you are there beside me.

  I somehow find my arm, make it find your ass, make a finger probe its crease.

  You awaken as I enter you. Get up. Find the bathroom. Pee.

  And I lay here, listening to you live. Approach the new day with confidence. You move to the living room, put on the tape. Fucking Dixie Carter. I hate her ass.