This Book Does Not Exist
Page 11
Kirsten: But wait, how are you? What’s been going on? Why are you up? That thing on Facebook-
The call cuts out.
I start to try her back when I get a text:
Kirsten
Jul 28 6:42 AM
I keep trying to call but can’t get through.
I forgot to say I have a layover – in Clevlnd!!
Does a layover in Cleveland between DC and LA even make sense? I pull over, lock my doors and write back.
She responds quickly:
Kirsten
July 28, 6:45 AM
Do u have time? U could come to the airport.
We could hang out, get lunch…
I have time, almost an entire day, until the production stops shooting, and I can easily access the Door. Geppetto made an effort to connect me with Kirsten. I shouldn’t ignore that…
I text her back to say I’ll meet her at the airport.
SEEING SOUNDS
I’m inside a dusty Motel 6 on its last legs. At this location, near the airport, the chain’s old commercial slogan, “We’ll leave the light on for you,” feels more like a threat than a promise. The room I rented from the skinny manager on a (probable) cocaine high is furnished only with an unmade bed. No nightstands, no table, no desk. The off-white paint on the walls is ancient and accented with brown stains that match the beige carpeting. The most notable feature in the bathroom is the dirt on the countertop. All this for $39.99 plus tax. And, as a bonus, according to the Bank of America app on my phone, I have only $78 left in my savings.
I’m here to waste time. Kirsten suggested lunch, and I could use a place to stay overnight since the set doesn’t close until tomorrow morning. There has been no sign of the other world. For now, I won’t question why.
Entering the shower, I am pelted with water. The temperature is too hot, but I don’t have the energy to reach down and adjust the fixture. I can’t reduce the water flow either because the showerhead is broken. Giving up, I close my eyes and embrace what is an uncomfortable path to cleanliness.
Darkness takes over. I lean my forehead against the tile. I can’t remember if I pulled the shower curtain closed. I don’t care enough to check. The water tings off me, ricocheting into the bottom of the tub, and I imagine myself getting caught in an early summer thunderstorm somewhere in New York City, what looks like the Upper East Side, where Naomi used to live. A pleasant carelessness imbues me as the scene pops full of watercolor hues before transforming from imaginary episode to cherished memory…
Naomi and I walk out of a subway station and into the rain. We’re wearing clothes from the bottom of the drawer… When was it… I think we spent the day at Jones Beach. Yes, I have a crummy forest green Eastpak backpack on that I used in high school. When the first drops of rain hit us we look down at our hands and then at each other as if one of us should have an umbrella. We don’t. Naomi starts turning angry, but I just… I just smile at her and laugh a little and let the rain fall down on me. She begins to hurry away to avoid the storm, but I haven’t moved – and I don’t move – I keep smiling and I throw my arms in the air, comically opening my mouth to drink the rain. And finally… Finally, Naomi laughs. I pull her away from an overhang, ignoring the rain because I want to kiss her. By the time we slink apart we’re drenched. Something in my backpack is ruined, but that’s meaningless. What matters is the happiness we made for one another.
I open my eyes. The memory goes. I shut off the water and leave the shower. There is a puddle on the bathroom floor extending almost to the door, where both my dirty and clean clothes are propped up. I forgot to pull the shower curtain closed after all. Before drying myself off, I flip the fresh clothes into the hallway. My foot kicks my dirty jeans, and the corner of the brochure the PA gave me caroms out. It slipped my mind. I stuff it in the back pocket of my fresh jeans and grab a towel.
It’s 11:14 AM. Time to meet Kirsten.
THE AIRPORT
I jaywalk across the road to the terminals, of which there are only a handful, as American and Japanese cars and SUV’s and minivans drop off passengers. Luggage is yanked from trunks. Loved ones say goodbye. I think of my tear-filled farewells to Naomi at the airport, which I’ve mercifully condensed into a single, unified memory that bursts with impermanence and sadness.
I said goodbye to her at this airport once.
The past falls into the present and takes up residence in my mind. I stand on the curb, detached from the rest of the world, more in the way of the other travelers than anything else.
I bemoan my effort to get past the movie set. I could have tried harder. I could be planning a new assault on it now instead of meeting Kirsten. Am I purposely stalling? Subconsciously, perhaps I’m afraid to reach the Door because closing it could mean the end for me and Naomi in one way or another. At the same time, I have reservations about seeing Kirsten, as if it somehow equates to cheating. What will Naomi imagine if she hears I had lunch with another girl, or if she reads Kirsten’s comment on my Facebook status asking me to call her? I suddenly feel guilty for being here. I remember the picture of Naomi and the pilot. Forget it. I already decided Geppetto reconnected me with Kirsten for a reason. She’s important. I don’t know why, but she has to be.
I check my phone. She hasn’t texted me to say which terminal she’s at yet. My jeans are sliding off my waist, probably because I stopped eating. Tugging them back up, I feel the brochure from the PA in my back pocket. Thankfully, it’ll give me something to do while I wait.
THE BROCHURE
On the front cover of the brochure, there is a map of Ohio. A star marks East Cleveland. The map is overlaid with text:
UNTITLED POST-APOCALYPSE
Shooting Schedule
July 28 5 AM – July 29 5 AM
Thank you for allowing us to use your neighborhood to build our version of dystopia!
Please use this brochure as a guide to the filming that’s going on in your area!
Inside the brochure, I find:
Background
Please be quiet. Please do not talk to the production assistants. Please do not take photos. Please do not approach the set. Please do not ask questions. Please do not look at the actors. We are only shooting in your area for 24 hours. We will not inconvenience you. Please do not inconvenience us. This is strictly a closed set. This is a major studio motion picture. It will be released all across the world next summer. Unfortunately, we cannot give you any more details than that. Unfortunately, we do not accept unsolicited submissions. Unfortunately, we are not hiring. The world behind the Door is trying to re-shape you. It is trying to put you through hell. It does not care if you survive. It can kill you. Some day you will die either way. Naomi does not need to read this brochure. There is a girl named XXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXX. This movie set is not a part of your world. It is a part of the world behind the Door. Your mind defines this world. You would say it isn’t real. We would say it is. We tricked you. The world is coming back to get you. The End.
On the back of the brochure, there is a map of the entire United States, with stars like the one on the front cover, identifying various locations around the country – Los Angeles, St. Louis, Washington DC, New York City, Oklahoma City, Portland, Austin, Atlanta, and Detroit.
THE TRICK, THE TRAP
I read the brochure a second and a third time, trying to decipher the letters underneath the X’s, not wanting to believe what I think I’m seeing… But I can’t lie to myself – the name that has been obscured is Kirsten’s real name.
It was stupid of me to ignore the inside of the brochure this long. I was wrong about the movie set. I fucked up.
My phone vibrates. A text:
Kirsten
Jul 28 11:32 AM
I’m on united. Coming
through security to meet u!
Meaning I have to walk to the United terminal, and I don’t know where it is. But the bigger question, obviously, is whether or not I can trust Kirsten since her name is in the brochure.
I
start walking, thinking I can watch for her to come out of the departures area and gauge the situation then. Turning, I spot the signs for United a few hundred feet from where I am now. I head in their direction, putting the brochure away as I do.
Up ahead, the sliding glass doors to the terminal carom open, seemingly on their own. When I arrive at the entrance, they’re still open. I stop. I lean sideways and peer inside the airlock style space that bridges the terminal and the outdoors.
Standing there, staring at me, is a girl that looks uncannily like Kirsten Dunst, even more so than I remembered. She sends me a smile I don’t return, and I can’t stop myself from asking, “Do you know anything about the Door?”
The last two words destroy everything. For a moment I think she’s going to run away. But then her mood stiffens, and she says, “Where can we go?”
A RESTAURANT
Since there are no restaurants outside security, Kirsten and I head to the closest place we can find on Yelp. Of all places, it happens to be an Olive Garden I stopped at once before with Naomi while we were on our way to the airport at the end of Thanksgiving break. I was flying to LA. She was traveling to New York. Throughout dinner, neither of us spoke.
An equal amount of conversation takes place between me and Kirsten on the way to the restaurant now. At the airport, she told me she needed time to gather herself. In the meantime, my trepidation has soared into outright fear.
When we reach the parking lot, I back into an empty spot so it’s easier to pull out when something goes wrong.
Inside the restaurant, the hostess greets Kirsten and leads us to a table for two at the center of the moderately filled dining area. After she leaves us with menus, Kirsten breaks the silence.
“It’s nice to see you. I just wish... That the circumstances were different.” Sensing that I’m about to apologize, she adds, “It’s not your fault. I know as well as anyone. If it was your fault, or I had some reason to be upset with you, I wouldn’t be here.”
“The look on your face when I brought it up...”
“Mike…”
“Can I show you something?”
Right as I lay the brochure on the table, our waiter shows up. Abruptly, I cover the paper with my hands. Kirsten talks to him. She orders the cheapest bottle of red wine on the menu, and he goes away.
“Let me see,” she says.
I slide the brochure over to her. She examines the front cover. I tell her about the movie set. She opens it and reads. By watching her face, I can identify the moment she uncovers her name.
Starkly, she looks up at me and asks, “Can I trust you?”
“Absolutely. Of course you can.”
“How do I know you’re not part of this?”
“I could say the same thing about you.”
“I thought I ended this when I said I would never be that scared again.”
Before I can ask any questions, the waiter returns. I watch Kirsten as he opens the bottle of wine. I want her to believe everything will be fine. I can be stronger if I know she’s counting on me.
After she samples the wine, our eyes meet. Something like trust passes between us. Still holding each other’s gaze, we order our food so the waiter will leave us alone. Once he does, Kirsten asks me a question.
“Does it have something to do with a girl?”
Disquieted, I answer that it does.
Kirsten takes a long drink of wine and then sets down the glass. She sinks into her chair. I wait for her to speak.
“Let’s agree to trust each other, okay?”
I nod.
“Okay. Then I’ll tell you everything.”
FIRST THERE WAS LOVE, THEN THERE WAS HATE
“You remember the night we met I mentioned my boyfriend. You had your girlfriend. It was similar. We discussed all that. About a week afterward… I’m sorry, this is hard for me… He flew out to LA to visit. We’d been in Silver Lake, at El Cid for dinner and then we were on our way to the Troubadour for a show – Lost On Purpose were playing – and I don’t know why this happened when it did, but he decided to launch into this, this tirade about everything that was wrong with me. ‘Wrong,’ that was the word he used, like I was sick or fucked up, I don’t know, permanently.
“He said I… That my face was a wreck. He said that because of this tiny scar I have along my cheek that I got when I was a little girl helping scrape the paint off my dad’s house and his scraper clipped me. Anyway, my boyfriend, or ex-boyfriend now, said my hair was ratty and that I needed to lose five pounds, that he wouldn’t sleep with me again until I did, and he bitched about the way I dressed… All of these just really horrible things to say to someone you supposedly love.
“I didn’t understand where any of it was coming from but obviously I was hurt – really bad – and I started crying, and I couldn’t stop, and he kept, like, berating me, and I tried yelling at him to shut up, and I asked how he could say all of this if he loved me, and he said – this may be the worst thing – he said it was to ‘make me better.’
“And to think, I thought this whole time I was pretty good, right? I mean, we talked – I told you I was working on my career, on my writing, going to grad school… No one’s perfect, but this was all just – it was vicious.
“I screamed at him to stop the car, and he wouldn’t, and I don’t love that I did this, but I smacked him on the shoulder and arms mainly, but maybe I got him on the face a couple times, until he finally stopped in the middle of an intersection. I got out without looking and ran to the curb and then just ran away to somewhere he couldn’t see me. This was in Hollywood on Fountain, I think. It was like I was a criminal running from the cops except he didn’t bother to come after me.
“I missed the show. His flight was supposed to leave the next morning. I called Jessica to pick me up and then I turned off my phone. I didn’t see him before he left. When I turned it back on there were all these messages from him, apologizing, saying he didn’t know what got into him, why he said everything he did… It was all bullshit, I thought, but I also didn’t understand what he did either. We had problems, you know, but… He was a loving person. Generally speaking.
“I figured it was over. I wanted it to be, I guess. But he kept calling from DC and eventually I talked to him. I listened mostly. He apologized profusely. But none of what he said really made any sense – his excuses were like, ‘I had a bad day.’ Really? That’s not a ‘bad day.’ That’s something deeper, scarier, all together worse. He wanted to stay together or get back together, however you want to look at it, but I was strong. I said no. After a few days he stopped calling.
“But then as time went on – and this is awful to some extent – I started to miss him. Even though I hated him, I missed him. Okay, I didn’t hate him, but I wanted to hate him. To be honest, at the time, I would have liked to talk to you about it because we had such an instantaneous connection, and I felt like, I don’t know, we had similarities and we got each other, but I didn’t have your number, and I knew you had a girlfriend and how was I going to find you anyway? Which is why it was so weird when I found you on Facebook through that random Geppetto person… But now I’m beginning to understand why.
“Later, I don’t know, a couple weeks, I was supposed to go to DC for a wedding. And it was for a really good friend of mine, so I had– Or I mean I wanted to go. So I’m heading back to DC and the whole time before I leave LA I tell myself no matter what happens I will not under any circumstances call him when I’m there. Then, of course, I’m on the plane and the movie is (500) Days of Summer… And my ex and I – do you like how I keep refusing to use his name? – we had tried making plans to see it on literally five different occasions, and every f’ing time they fell through.
“But on the plane I watch the movie, and it’s all about people breaking up and moving on, and c’mon, it’s not fair, right, but at the same time it just made me think about all the things I wanted to do with him that now I’d never be able to do… All of that was just crus
hed.
“I guess, you know, I could’ve or should’ve been angry about this. That he ruined it. It could have turned me against him even more… But instead it made me sad. It made me miss him, terribly. To the point that when the plane landed, I did exactly what I said I would not do – I called him.”
LOST IN THE DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA
“He didn’t answer his phone, so I left a message saying something like, ‘You know I’m in town for the wedding. I miss you. I know I’m being stupid, but I’d like to see you.’
“The wedding itself was the following day – I got to DC on Friday morning – so the whole time I’m getting off the plane I’m checking my phone, waiting to see if he’s going to call, and I do the same thing while I’m waiting for my bags, and I’m clearly distracted when my sister comes to pick me up. She asks me what’s wrong, but I’m not going to tell her because I’ve already gone on and on complaining and crying about him, everyone in my family hates him now… I’ve been trying to hate him... But now all I want to do is see him. And I realize this all sounds insane, but when it comes to love and relationships… I remember what you said that night about how often people, really smart people, want what’s bad for them… And the point – I believe there is a point, but…
“I spend all of Friday trying not to think about him and why he isn’t calling while I see my family, my friend who’s getting married, her friends, her fiancé’s friends, and he never calls me. No text, nothing. And all these different ideas as to why just barrage my brain – is he seeing someone else? Has he been seeing someone else? Is that why he flipped out on me? Because, really, there still wasn’t an explanation for that. And my whole day – all these interactions with people I care about – is just screwed up by this pain and this paranoia, which makes me even madder.