"I can't imagine what Pandora's Box he might've opened, or what new 'evil' he unleashed, based on what we saw. It's all the old robe, and people are paying the same price and getting the same product they expected.
"First we've got to redefine some of these things and then make them new. After that we can think about what Pinsleepe wants from us."
My apartment smelled stale and familiar. The furniture and few doodads were old friends who silently said hello. The mail said I owed people money, that I didn't want to miss some terrific opportunities, that sad-faced children needed my help. A Cullen and Mae James postcard from Rockefeller Center said it was time we all went ice skating together again.
Cullen! That's where I'd begin. I called and luckily she answered. In a few short sentences I told her a little of what had happened in California and said I needed to see her as soon as possible. We made a date to meet later that afternoon at a bar near their apartment.
After we finished speaking, I spent ten infuriating minutes looking for my address book, which for some reason turned up under the kitchen table. I called two people and got two answering machines. I told both beeps something interesting was up and please call me back soon. That was all I could do for the time being (the third person didn't have a phone), so I got ready to go for a quick sandwich and beer.
Walking to the door, I passed the window that looked over onto the nudist girl's apartment. She wasn't there, but for the first time since I'd seen his tape, I thought of what Phil had said about the time he was me when I got out of the cab and bumped into her. The phone rang.
"Weber? Hi, it's James Adrian. I just got your message. You're back! What's cooking?"
"Hi, James. Want to go to California and be in a movie?"
"Are you kidding? Sure! What movie? Are you going to direct?"
"Yes. The latest Midnight."
"You mean like in Bloodstone Midnight?"
"That's the one. We want you and Sean and Houston to be in this –"
"Houston died, Weber. While you were away."
"No! Oh, God. What happened?" I knew what his answer would be – I'd heard it five times already – but I never got used to it.
"He just felt sick and weak and went to the hospital. What else is new? Tell me about this film."
I sighed and rubbed my forehead. "Finky Linky and I are doing it, and we agreed you – would be great. But Houston's dead. I can't believe it." James gave a small snort on the other end. Of course I believed it. "Anyway, you know, Philip Strayhorn was our friend and he'd almost finished this film before he died –"
"I read he committed suicide."
"Yeah, well. Anyway, we were asked by his production company to wrap it up for them and we agreed."
"You and Finky are going to do a Midnight film? Man, that's the most astounding thing I've heard in a month. You bet your ass I want to be in it. What are we going to do?"
"Can you come to my place tonight around nine? I'd like to explain it only once."
"Sure. Sean and I were going to the movies anyway, so I'll tell her when we meet.
"Weber, this is really fantastic. Thank you so much for asking me. It'll be the first time I've ever done any professional acting."
"It may not be the best place for you to start, because we don't know exactly what we're doing yet. But I think it'll be interesting. Look, I'll talk to you later. I've got to call Wyatt and tell him about Houston."
"Weber, I just want to say one more thing. Houston told me one time what you did for him was the only good thing that ever happened in his life. He knew he wasn't a great actor, but he said you were the only one who ever gave him a little pride in himself. I think he had it the worst of all of us – his life, I mean – but you know all of us, the whole group, are indebted to you for what you've done. We don't tell you that enough, and I'm not just saying it now because of what you're doing for me. You've saved our lives in a lot of ways. Even if we don't have that much longer to go with them."
I called Wyatt and told him about Houston Taff. We talked for a while and agreed on someone else. Either because he was in the same relative situation as Houston, or just because he took things more calmly than I do, Wyatt seemed unfazed by the sad news. "He died looking forward to something. Lucky him. He had a main role in the play. You gave him that, Weber. You gave him his last future."
I was early for my date with Cullen, so I stood outside the bar, enjoying the New York cold on my face. Looking the other way, I felt someone tap me on the shoulder and say, "Nice jacket. Where'd you get it?"
It was Cullen, wearing the same jacket as I. I'd given it to her as a surprise in the beginning of our relationship as a spur-of-the-moment I'm-crazy-about-you present. She looked a lot better in it than I did.
"I've been in the house all day with Mae, Weber. Would you mind if we just walk down to the river and get some fresh air? Maybe after, we can come back and drink some rum or something?"
We walked down to the park along the Hudson and kept going because the cold was breezy and insistent.
Cullen likes to talk and often interrupts without thinking. It can be exasperating, so I told her to hear me out completely before asking questions or making any comments. It was a long story and would be hard enough to tell anyway. "It's a little bit like Rondua, Cullen."
She put her arm in mine and pulled tight. "Give me a kiss before you start. A good one." She put her hand behind my head and pulled that to her too. Her kiss was strong and loving.
"That's the first time you've ever kissed me like that."
She shrugged and gestured with her head to keep walking. "I can't help it, you look so sad and tired. Are you going to tell me now or keep making ground rules?"
"Now. Remember the day Phil died and I came over to your place?"
We walked for two hours and I talked straight through. Although she'd promised not to interrupt, she did. We got cold and went into a diner for coffee. Stomachs warm, we went back outside and walked down Broadway. I saw a dog that reminded me of the dog in the ocean. I saw a girl who looked vaguely like Pinsleepe. We passed a used bookstore that had – copies of Bones of the Moon in the window. Next door was a place that sold the same chocolate-chip cookies Dominic Scanlan was eating the day we met Blow Dry. It was a walk where everything reminded me of something else and thus helped make my description to Cullen sharper and more intricate.
Nevertheless, it's impossible to tell someone about extraordinary or scarifying experiences in your life after they're over. It's like describing a smell. I once went to a lecture by a writer who was famous for having written about exotic places. After the lecture, someone asked why he always went to these places before writing about them. Couldn't he just use his imagination? "No, because if you don't go, you won't catch the invisible smell of the place, and that's its most important feature." The same is true about the high or low moments of your life; invisible smells permeate these important times, and if other people are not there to smell them too they can never really know or understand.
It was frustrating and enervating to try and explain, but I wanted to hear what Cullen, more than anyone else, had to say about my last days. She was my best friend now that Phil was dead. Because we would never be lovers, I could listen to the angular, interesting logic of a woman while generally disregarding the sexy sword of Damocles that usually hangs over such conversations.
When I was finished we were once again having coffee at a Chock Full O' Nuts somewhere in the fifties. Cullen was eating a donut and had powdered sugar all over her upper lip. When she started to speak, a white fall of it dusted her jacket. I reached over and rubbed it into the leather.
"Did you ever listen to Bulgarian music? While I was with Mae this afternoon it came on the radio, and I listened to the whole show. Very strange and mysterious, sad, but I kind of loved it too. Something in you recognizes it, you know?
"What are we talking about here, Weber? Angels and devils: they're Bulgarian music. You have contact with them and it t
hrows you off, but you also recognize them. Not as themselves but as part of you. I think any person who has visions –"
"I didn't have a vision, Cullen. Wyatt was with me when I saw Pinsleepe."
"And you were with me when I saw Rondua. Let me finish what I was going to say. What you saw and experienced is Bulgarian music. At first you pulled back and made a sour face because you never heard anything like that before, but then you started tapping your foot and thinking, This stuff is all right! That was me with Rondua. But do you remember the last words of my book? They're the only ones I can still quote because I still feel that way: 'It's hard convincing yourself that where you are at the moment is your home, and it's not always where your heart is. Sometimes I win and sometimes not.'
"You should've seen your face while you were talking, my friend. Whatever is going on now fascinates you. It's everything you love – ghosts, movies, helping other people. You've just never heard it played like that before and it sounds fucking weird.
"You want me to tell you something practical? Okay, get back there fast and see what you can do to help. I think the angel wants you to make a scene that so derides horror and evil that people will only laugh when they see it shown like that in a movie. Sounds like, whatever Phil did, he made bad look good – too good – and that was what let all the cats out of the bag.
"But I think you're right. I never found any of those Midnight films very scary. They creep up on you and make all the right howls and screeches, but in the end they're just so-so.
"Did Finky Linky ever tell you about his popcorn meter for films? No? It's really true. You go to the movies and buy a box of popcorn, doesn't matter what size. Even a candy bar. If the movie is great, you get so caught up in it you forget about the food and just hold it in your lap. If the film is only good you eat about half or a third. Et cetera. You know how much popcorn I ate when I saw your last film? Not one piece, so help me God. Ask Danny. You know what I ate when I saw the last Midnight? Two boxes of Raisinets, my own and most of Danny's. You know why I remember? Because when he discovered I'd taken most of his, we had a little fight in the theater and I had to go get him some more. Terrific film, huh? You eat two boxes of candy and have a fight in –"
"And you know what I say to that fuckin' shit, Larry? I say, Fuck you!"
A few seats down, a little Puerto Rican guy was sticking his finger in the chest of the big black man next to him.
"Well, eat my dick, Carlos, 'cause that's the way it is!"
This got louder, but what else is new in New York? I was in the midst of turning back to Cullen when the first plate crashed. Turning again, I saw the two men shoving each other. Then little Carlos fell off his stool and, getting up, punched big Larry in the face. Everyone nearby got up fast and moved away, including Cullen, who danced to the other side of the counter.
"Weber! Get over here!"
"I've still got my coffee."
I sat there and sipped while David and Goliath tried to pound each other. Carlos was little, but Larry kept missing.
"Weber!"
A saucer landed about a foot away, so I picked up my cup and walked over to join Cullen. When I got there she frowned and called me a macho ass.
A policeman came in and things calmed right down. When the – of them had left, Cullen blew up. "You were just going to sit there and drink that coffee! Two guys slugging it out a foot away from you but you don't move? I've seen you do things like this – times, Weber. It's not impressive and it's not courageous; it's stupid."
"I wasn't trying to impress you, Cullen. There wasn't any reason to move."
"That's why you and my husband get along so well: Neither of you know the difference between being brave and being dumb."
The meeting at my apartment that night was good. I told the two men and one woman what Midnight Kills was about and what direction we wanted to take with the scenes we did. Nothing else.
One asked why couldn't we just splice what was already there together and release it? No one ever paid attention to plot in a horror film anyway.
Because it was Strayhorn's last work and we wanted to do everything we could to save it.
Another smiled and said, from the sound of it, Wyatt and I didn't know what we wanted to do in our scenes. I agreed and told them it was extremely important they think very hard about what they thought real evil was and how – or if – it could be portrayed. Was cancer real evil? Was the pain and despair they suffered from the disease evil? I read them the dictionary definition – "something that brings sorrow, distress, or calamity" – and asked if that satisfied their own visions of what it was. Unanimously they said no. I asked them to tell evil stories; to talk about evil people they knew and why they thought they were evil; to tell about evil things they'd done.
We did this constantly in our work in the group. Theater is just group therapy with an audience much of the time, so no one was hesitant about doing it now.
Nothing astonishing came out of that first session, but I hadn't expected it to. What I wanted, and felt after several hours, was their hunger to begin again. Dedication and enthusiasm are important qualities, but what you really want is addiction to the work. No matter what else they're doing, you want them thinking about it day and night like drug addicts. Once you get that, you've started. Not before.
The – of them went out the door arguing about the difference between cancer and Hitler. I said good night but no one heard me.
The next day was errands and a general meeting with the theater group to explain why I had to leave them high and dry right before their first production. It wasn't a pleasant or comfortable scene. All of them knew this could well be their first and last production. They had worked very hard to get it to where it was. How could I just leave them at the –quarter point and waltz out to Hollywood? Didn't I think that was pretty selfish and shitty?
Unfortunately I had no stirring Sydney Carton speech to give about far far better things. I was leaving them flat. Some of them would die before we had time to put up another show. When I asked if they wanted to delay The Visit until I was finished in California, someone laughed nastily and said sure, he'd be happy to delay but would his body?
When everyone had had a say, we all sat there and looked at one another. My eyes filled with tears. I didn't have to look closely to see many of theirs were too.
The garage where I picked up the rental car also had an "exclusive car wash service." While waiting for the papers to be processed, I asked a man how much the car wash cost. One hundred dollars. What did they do for one hundred dollars? Use toothbrushes. On what? Everything, man.
Driving downtown, the thought of men swarming around freshly washed cars with toothbrushes reassured me. A hundred dollars for a car that clean? I'd pay.
It was like those wonderful advertisements on television for toothpaste or vacuum cleaners where decay or dirt are semipersonified into funny/evil cartoon creatures that love to dig holes in your teeth or spread foul muck around the house. Suddenly the Tooth Patrol (fluoride in a police uniform) or Vacuum King comes flashing down like lightning and "kills dead" all the baddies. Where else was good so clear-cut, thorough, and effective?
Racketing through the lights and lead-thick fumes of the Lincoln Tunnel, I fantasized spirits you could hire to come in and give your self a complete cleaning, millions of brushes scrubbing white effervescent foam into every obscure or hidden corner of your soul.
Then I remembered a thought I often had about smoking cigarettes: If there were some kind of wonder pill that would clean your lungs out so they were like new, but in taking it you could never smoke again because you'd die, would you take it?
Inevitably my answer is no. Whether it's clean lungs, car, or soul, what happens when you have to breathe again, knowing the air is full of brown pollution? Or drive the car out of the garage, back into the filthy world? Lungs are prepared to breathe bad air, cars to drive on dirty streets
Maybe souls too were meant for hard wear and rough advent
ure. To make one "toothbrush clean" was a commendable goal, but unless you planned to live in hermetic seclusion forever afterward, it made little sense.
However, if Phil Strayhorn had done what I thought he'd done with his soul, he was inexcusably wrong. Some part of him decided he liked the taste of dirt (or shit, evil, pain) so he decided to see how much he could eat before exploding. That was the only Faustian element I saw here. Souls are made for rough adventure, but not such alarming and cruel ones. The warnings from Pinsleepe, the sexual Kabuki he'd played for Sasha . . .
Once past a certain point, he didn't want to clean his soul. On the contrary, he wanted it dirtier and dirtier, all along asking, like a child, "Will you still love me if I get this dirty? Yes? This dirty?"
Thinking about these things, I emerged from the tunnel into the afternoon light of New Jersey realizing something important: Magical and haunting as they were, I didn't fully believe what Strayhorn said on those videotapes.
Why should I, knowing only some of the things he'd done before killing himself? Had death given him redemption? It didn't sound like it, according to his plea that I straighten out part of his ongoing mess. He was calm and solicitous, but asking favors.
It reminded me of playing with a Ouija board. If it works, a board can be both disturbing and frightening. But whatever dead spirits you do raise are so easily accessible because they've been condemned to some ominous place between life and death where they are eager to talk to anyone who will listen – much like people in prison who, with so much time on their hands, learn to be both extremely eloquent and patient.
The car I'd rented shivered and shook if I took it over sixty-five, so we eased by the smoke and strong chemical smells of Elizabeth and the white and silver lift of planes taking off from Newark Airport.
It was a long trip to Browns Mills, and I had no idea what I'd find there. But something said it was necessary to go, even if only to spend an hour or two looking around and getting a feel for the place. That invisible smell again.
When Cullen and I had returned to her apartment the other day, I spent an hour talking with Danny about what Strayhorn was like on his last trip east. He had nothing new to add except to describe Pinsleepe in greater detail, but that only agreed with what I already knew.
A Child across the Sky Page 17