Dystopia

by Richard Christian Matheson

  Sometimes, I find myself staring at the handwritten invitation, which I saved, though I have no idea who really wrote it. I stare until the words lift from the paper and fly away, scattering grammar into sky; an image Vittorio De Sica might have sparked to.

  After considerable search, I finally found a copy of City of Dreams at a specialty video store, which had to track it down for me. When I watch Aubrey, despite her astonishing beauty, I keep thinking she looks trapped; not by bad dialogue or plot, but an apprehension of her life to be. Its imminent ruin.

  Today, I tried to tell my agent why the dumb script I've been working on is late, and when he heard all of what had happened, he sighed and said writers were always getting themselves in crazy messes. He said he thought I'd probably seen Isabella's movie when I was a kid and forgotten about it.

  He nearly accused me of drinking, again, and wondered if maybe I'd had too much one night, wandered around the Royal's house and seen the poster; decided I had to have it, succumbing to stupid nostalgia. To bring back my only good childhood memory; going to the movies. The rest had been loveless, terrifying; an ordeal that lasted for endless seasons of pain.

  I'm sure he's right. I do drink when I get lonely. I could take many evenings out of your life failing to convey the dread and hurt I often feel. I've had nights where I stared pointlessly, out at the world, and thought that no one could ever love me, just as, it seems, Isabella watches it from her lurid, heartbreaking poster, searching for the one face out there, in a heartless city, who will truly care.

  Bunuel said every life is a film. Some good, some bad. We are, each of us, paradoxes in an unstated script; pawns who wish to know kings, souls divided, hearts in exile. We're all tragic characters, one way or the other; the vivid Technicolor glories, the noir hurts, the dissolve to final credits.

  Fellini believed movies were magic, itself, awakened by light. That theaters were churches, dim and velvet; filled with incantation.

  All I know is that when you feel lost and wounded, movies always welcome you, like a friend, inviting you to forget the painful truth; embracing your most lightless fragilities, the sadnesses which bind you.

  To dream of better things.

  Life pales.

  Vampire

  Man.

  Late. Rain.

  Road.

  Man.

  Searching. Starved. Sick.

  Driving.

  Radio. News. Scanners. Police. Broadcast.

  Accident. Town.

  Near.

  Speeding. Puddles.

  Aching.

  Minutes.

  Arrive. Park. Watch.

  Bodies. Blood. Crowd. Sirens.

  Wait.

  Hour. Sit. Pain. Cigarette. Thermos. Coffee.

  Sweat. Nausea.

  Streetlights. Eyes. Stretchers. Sheets.

  Flesh.

  Death.

  Shaking. Chills.

  Clock. Wait.

  More. Wait.

  Car. Stink. Cigarette.

  Ambulance. Crying. Towtruck. Bodies. Taken.

  Crowd. Police. Photographers. Drunks. Leave.

  Gone.

  Street. Quiet.

  Rain. Dark. Humid.

  Alone.

  Door. Out. Stand. Walk. Pain. Stare. Closer.

  Buildings. Silent. Street. Dead.

  Blood. Chalk. Outlines. Closer.

  Step. Inside. Outlines. Middle.

  Inhale. Eyes. Closed.

  Think. Inhale. Concentrate. Feel. Breathe.

  Flow.

  Death. Collision. Woman. Screaming. Windshield.

  Expression.

  Moment. Death.

  Energy. Concentrate. Images. Exploding.

  Moment.

  Woman. Car. Truck. Explosion.

  Impact. Moment.

  Rush.

  Feeling. Feeding.

  Metal. Burning. Screams. Blood. Death.

  Moment. Collision. Images. Faster.

  Strength. Medicine. Trance.

  Stronger.

  Concentrate. Better.

  Images. Collision. Stronger. Seeing. Death.

  Moment. Healing. Moment.

  Addiction.

  Drug. Rush. Body. Warmer.

  Death. Concentrating. Healing. Addiction. Drug.

  Warmth. Calm.

  Death. Medicine.

  Death.

  Life.

  Medicine.

  Addiction. Strong.

  Leave.

  Car. Engine. Drive. Rain. Streets. Freeway. Map.

  Drive. Relax. Safe. Warm. Rush. Good.

  Radio. Cigarette. Breeze.

  Night.

  Searching. Accidents. Death.

  Life.

  Dash. Clock. Waiting.

  Soon.

  Please Help Me

  So hot.

  Smells. Exhaust.

  Memorize the road. Curves, dips. Ruts. Draw a map in your mind. A way to trace everything for the police. Take them wherever the hell I'm going.

  Five left turns since the Stop 'N Go.

  Three rights.

  Over metal grating. A bridge?

  The tires buzzed for nine seconds. Maybe the bridge that links Canoga Park with Chatsworth. That narrow one. Remember? Used to fish off it with Dad.

  Dad.

  His smile. Those bad jokes. I'm glad this isn't him. Too old. So hot.

  Why didn't I run? Could've made it. Maybe they would've shot at me . . . but I could've gotten away.

  Hard to breathe. Gag chokes. Tape over it. No way to spit it out. Feel like I'm going to puke. I have to control it, or I'll choke on my own vomit. The ropes are tearing my wrists. Ankles.

  What are they going to do with me? Kill me?

  I saw their faces. Eyes bloodshot. Wasted on something. Bad skin on the tall one. How tall? The cops'll need details. Try to remember. They'll show you a book jammed with a million guys who look just like these three, and robbed a hundred other 24-hour markets, and shot big holes through the owners.

  Kids.

  When did they turn into fucking monsters? What the hell went wrong?

  Try to remember clothes. What were they wearing? Jewelry? Scars? All three wearing black head bandannas. Fatigues. One in those baggy, gang shorts. Those sleeveless shirts. What are they called? Flannel. Wool plaid? What the hell is it? Goddammit! I used to know that.

  Another left. Sharp. I roll to one side, hear them laugh. Bang on the seat.

  "Hey, man! Fucking alive? Don't get too used to it!"

  They laugh louder, turn up rap music.

  I can hear something metal at my feet. A jack? Guns?

  They can't kill me. But I did see their faces. I'll swear not to go to the police. Then, why try to remember the road, the clothes? How they looked. Smelled.

  I could lie. Swear I won't tell. But maybe they'll know. See it on my face. In my eyes. Smell it on me like dogs. What could I do? They'd kill me just like they killed that store owner.

  Right in front of his wife.

  The blood.

  Everywhere. Counter and cash register they emptied. All over the ice cream machine. The white dessert spattered with thick-red that sprayed from his face when they shot right into it.

  Two women. They ran. Remember? They made it.

  Why didn't I run? Could've made it. Why?!

  Pendletons. That's it! I can't believe I forgot that.

  So fucking hot. Middle of August. Must be a hundred out tonight.

  Makes people crazy.

  They're laughing. Deep. Vicious. My God, what are they going to do to me?

  A siren! I can hear a siren! Someone reported the car. Saw the three gangbangers throw me in the back, tied up, gagged. Took down the license. Called.

  Wait.

  If it was the police, the car would speed up. There'd be a chase.

  Or they'd pull over. I could kick at the trunk. They'd hear.

  We're driving fast. Going down a bumpy road.

  The car stops.


  What are they doing?

  Doors open.

  Footsteps. A key.

  The trunk is opening. The air is fresh. Sweet. I'm grabbed by strong hands. I smell tobacco on their clothes. Maybe grass.

  I can't speak. They're still listening to the radio. I hear a train whistle. Must be the one that cuts across Chatsworth, behind the drive-in. It's a long one, lots of cars rattling on track.

  "Leave him." A man. Young.

  "No." A girl. Maybe sixteen.

  She walks closer. I can feel her looking at me. She breathes, close by. Whispers in my ear. "What's your name?"

  "You like him. Why don't you fuck him? Huh?"

  She laughs. Breathes harder. I can smell her perfume.

  Then, she knees me in the balls.

  They're going to kill me. I can feel it. I can feel it so much.

  They want to watch me bleed. They'll cut me open and turn up the music and dance around my dying, bleeding body while I squirm.

  A gun cocks. They've decided to shoot me. Execution-style.

  I don't want to die.

  My wife and daughter start filling my head like a movie. Smiling and waving to me. Calling to me with no soundtrack.

  What's that noise?

  Scratching?

  Digging.

  "Fast, man. We got no time."

  More digging.

  I'm sweating. Scared. I can't hold it anymore and piss my pants. They laugh. She comes over and knees me in the balls again. Asks me if she's making me hard.

  I can smell fresh earth.

  They throw me in.

  They've been digging a grave.

  Their voices are above me. A few feet.

  My daughter is swimming to me in our pool, with a big smile, front teeth missing. My wife is sitting, with her feet in the water, laughing.

  Something hits me. Again. Soft. Like heavy snow.

  They're throwing dirt on me. I can hear their music, pounding.

  Pounding.

  I'm on my side. Can't stand. The ropes tear at me.

  My daughter is swimming closer. Giggling.

  I'm almost covered with dirt. They keep shoveling in more.

  One takes a leak on the dirt. I can smell the urine. It gets on my face. They laugh. And then I can't hear them. They're up there somewhere, above all the dirt that now covers me.

  I feel the soft vibration of more dirt shoveled on.

  I'm in blackness.

  I can't breathe.

  The dirt gets heavier.

  The sun has disappeared over the swimming pool, and everything is black. I can't see my daughter. Or my wife. They're gone.

  . . . they're gone.

  Someone, please help me.

  Please help . . . me.

  Cancelled

  Zzz. . . (cough) . . . zzz . . . Jesus Christ! (cough, cough) . . . throat's dry as the friggin' Sudan.

  What time is it? (cough) Four-thirty. . . God . . . my tongue feels like the inside of Graceland; a coat of velveteen crud.

  Damned party went on forever. All those network putzes talkin' their pilots. . . Jesus. Love being a producer. Like livin' in a Gucci leper colony.

  Okay, head into the kitchen and grab a bottle of belch juice.

  Left, right, left, right . . . yawn. Christ . . . my head's a goddamned banana republic. That's what you get, pal. Keep better hours. Keep telling you.

  Yow! Kitchen floor. Italian tiles cold as a goddamn ice-rink. Jesus H.

  Okay . . . open-friggin'-sesame to the fridge and grab that little Parisian dew-drop container. Whoosh that sucker open. Tilt the brain box. Look out stomach.

  Oh, God.

  Yeahhh . . .

  Much better. Thank God for water with bubbles from France. Have ulcers like Marty, otherwise. So screw him. Deserves every one. Worst agent ever slithered from the bile. Couldn't sell free money with a loaded gun. May he drown in all the blood he sucks, including mine.

  Maggot.

  Okay, bottle in the trash and a quick belcherooney!

  Waaahhh . . . oh, yeah.

  Back into the bedroom, passing the marble table from the ex. Total nightmare; looks like a friggin' sacrificial slab. Appropriate, n'est ce pas? Only thing I got after the settlement. May she burn-up, along with the Radcliffe lard she jogs off, at that $5,000-a-week health camp in Hungaria.

  Hey, the trades sitting on top of her slab.

  Goddammit, Sam's new horror flick, Garbage Disposal Weekend, is on the cover of Variety. Doing boffo b.o., it says. So get a better deodorant, Sam.

  Christ, that inane sonofabitch couldn't write if he was a pencil. . . Garbage Disposal Weekend. Real class, Sam. Why not Pus Weekend? How about Cannibal Pope? Putz.

  And direct? Sure, Sam, you can direct. Yeah. And friggin' monkeys wear pants and smoke Panatellas. Fraudulent sonofabitch. Why don't you hop in that boffo b.o., bloody garbage disposal of yours and put yourself on puree?

  Ripped me off last season on that Krishna Squad movie of the week and you know it.

  Belch.

  Karma, Sam, karma. May you come back in your next life as a Xerox machine. Prick.

  Okay, pal, back into the bedroom and get some friggin' sleep.

  Must be close to five, and I'm taking that meeting with the network tomorrow. Those Ivy League stiffs are gonna die for the concept. Sheer brilliance.

  Nun Stalker.

  Nuns in a station wagon pick up some fruitcake hitchhiker on a desert highway, and he terrorizes them for 48 hours. Solid gold. Gonna pull the heartland viewers like goddamned Little House on the Prairie with genitals. People love that crap. Pure entertainment.

  No different than what Shakespeare was doing. Stories. That's what we're talking here, folks. Stories. Not goddamned penicillin.

  Screw that educational TV crap.

  Tribesmen getting culture. Kids with terminal diseases learning to love life again. Retarded people doing interpretive dances. Conversations with dolphins. Ballet.

  Booooorrrrrrriiiiiiiiinnnngggg! I'm in a friggin' coma here, folks.

  Now nuns in terror, with parched faces, genuflecting under the beating sun, talking penguin logic to some crazed rapist. That's television! That's drama! That's friggin' money in the bank. I goddamn love it! Gonna pull Nielsen families faster than that Lesbian Cheerleaders M.O.W. Jerry wrote last season. Another no talent sonofabitch.

  And cheap? Wouldn't write a get-well card to his dying mother if he had to do it on spec. Total hack. Buy friggin' Bel Air off the residuals from every idea of mine he's ripped off.

  Undercover Boy. I Dream of Mel.

  All my notions. And he stole every last one without flinching. My concepts!

  They bring back the holocaust, Jerry goes first. The slime. Send him to Hungaria with the ex. Friggin' vermin.

  Belch. . .

  Okay, off with the monogrammed robe and back into bed. Gotta get some . . . holy Christ! What the hell is this? A goddamned dummy in my bed! Who'd put a. . .

  Hey, you know the answer to that one. Marty, Sam and Jerry. The friggin' Putzola brothers. Anything for a laugh.

  Jesus . . . check out this goddamn thing . . . it's all dressed and made up to look like me. My hat's off to you, you putzes. You went all out.

  Unless . . . wait a minute. Wait one friggin 'minute. This is too good a gag for those pinheads. Must be Mickey and Andy. Ever since they created Future Waitress, it's special effects coming out the wrinkly-socket, day and night, everywhere I go. Rubber baked potatoes at Spago. Spring-loaded snakes in my Ferrari's gas tank, graffiti on the yacht.

  Okay . . . jig's up, fuckers.

  Alright, boys, get your goddamn dummy out of my bed! Got that meeting with the network tomorrow, gotta get some sleep.

  No reaction.

  Screw 'em. I'll move the bastard myself.

  (Groan) Je . . . sus . . . heavy sonof . . .

  Oh, Christ! Stand back, pal. Get away from the thing! It's warm. The friggin' dummy is warm! Hair feels real too.

  I think it's
alive. Gotta do something. Think, think. Okay, okay, grab the gun out of the drawer . . . easy . . . easy . . . got it!

  Okay, jerk! Outta the bed. Outta the bed, now! Come on . . . come on. Move, dammit! Wake up, man. Wake up!

  She-itt! The dummy who ain't a dummy ain't waking. Jesus Christ and I've got that meeting with the network first thing tomorrow.

  I'm gonna look like hell.

  Come on, man, wake up! This isn't happening. Goddammit. . . Wake up! Okay, creep, you wanna play? I'll play. And it's your crapper on a 14-karat platter, buddy.

  Hey, that rhymes. Nice.

  Okay, back to the kitchen and call the cops.

  They'll be here in a hot sec too, if they recognize the name. Especially after I created Robot Police Dog last season. Got a 45 share every week in third runs! I mean come on! Third runs! And I got full rights to the merchandising. Those friggin' paw-thongs cleaned up. And cops love the show!

  Okay, okay, stop pulling the pudola, schmuck, and tiptoe out of the bedroom already! Don't wake the creep while you're at it. Could be nuttier than the guy in the desert with the parched nuns.

  Christ, keep that stuff to yourself, huh?

  Bel . . .

  Not now. Quiet! Quiet!

  Okay, down the hall.

  Thank God, there's the friggin' kitchen up ahead. And there's the phone! Now you're talking. Safety, here I come. One call to the Bel Air patrol and it's sleepy time for old. . .

  What the hell?

  What gives here?!

  It's the same guy in the kitchen, next to the fridge, holding a bottle of my bubbly water from Eiffelopia. Bastard, how'd he get in here so fast?