A Pagan's Nightmare

by Ray Blackston

  “You can’t know that for sure.”

  “There’s no evidence for it. So you’d better come to grips with how you can bypass hell altogether. If you would only trust—”

  And that’s when Larry dropped his sample and put his hands up. No.

  A turn of the head. No.

  A movement of lips. No.

  There would be no sharing of the gospel from Angie today. Larry had one firm rule for our free week on Abaco—no Jesus conversations.

  Apparently, Jesus was the line in the sand.

  * * *

  At lunch on Day Seven, the six of us gathered around Larry’s picnic table. Miranda and Carla brought out twin serving bowls filled with boiled shrimp and centered them between Zach and me. Mid-meal, Larry stood with a jumbo shrimp in one hand and pounded on the table.

  “I have some news,” he announced. “Well, actually it was a phone call I received earlier today, but that led to my news.”

  Miranda pointed a three-pronged fork at him and said, “Spew it, handsome.”

  “How many at this table have ever been to a movie premiere?”

  Larry scanned each face around the table. I shook my head no, as did Angie and Miranda, as did Zach and Carla.

  Larry picked five more shrimp from the serving bowl and arranged them in his hand, tails up. “Pretend these shrimps are tickets,” he said, and handed each of us a large, pink crustacean. “The producer gave me permission to ask five friends to attend the premiere.”

  The replies came quick and sarcastic.

  “I’ll be your friend.”

  “You can rent me.”

  “I take bribes.”

  “I just ate my ticket.”

  “Do I get to meet some actresses?” Zach asked.

  Carla reached over and took him by the arm. “No, you get to escort me.”

  Our last night on the island came much too quickly. After Zach and Larry fell asleep in two of the hammocks—Miranda and Carla had whipped them soundly in a game of Hand ‘n Foot—Angie and I stayed out on the porch to talk.

  “Funny how this week has been just what we needed,” she said, her head on my shoulder.

  I could barely mutter, “Mmm,” through my exhaustion.

  Long minutes and many breezes passed before she spoke again. “Ned, please tell me I’m not one of those musical do-gooders in Larry’s story.”

  “Nah,” I whispered, “you don’t even like disco.”

  We listened to the ocean and spoke between long moments of silence. Topics came and went like fleeting schools of tropical fish, colorful but brief. During a drowsy hour sometime after midnight, we even discussed the fleeting camaraderie between the escapees aboard Castro’s yacht. Angie called it a glimpse of community, though one that lacked a true nucleus.

  I didn’t sleep well that night. I remember her shaking my shoulder at 4:00 a.m. “What’s the matter, Ned?”

  “I was being chased by men in black fatigues.”

  She yawned at length and mumbled, “Yes, dear, and Marvin is hiding in the closet.”

  On the evening of the premiere, Mylan Weems stood at the entrance and greeted each invitee who strolled into L.A.’s Starlit Theatre. He held a silver tray in his hands, serving warm clusters of McScriptures in little red cartons.

  “Gracias, Mylan,” I said, and reached for a carton.

  “Only one per customer, Ned.”

  Larry entered behind me, arm-in-arm with both Miranda and Angie. He tapped me on the back and pointed to the theatre wall to our left. Someone had hung a poster of a Jaws-like shark coming up from the blue to nab a swimming pagan. Larry admired the artwork for a moment and said, “Ya know, Ned, if you ever sell the novel rights, that might make a good book cover.”

  Little black dresses abounded, and Angie did not disappoint. She motioned to the fourth row, where Zach and Carla were already nibbling away, giggling as they bit into each fry, pausing from their chatter to wave. Larry and Miranda sat directly in front of them;Angie sat next to Zach, and I next to Angie. I had barely settled into my seat when Larry handed a fry back to Carla, who passed it to Zach, who passed it to Angie, who passed it to me.

  “But I have my own….”

  “I wanted you to have an autographed one,” Larry said.

  I held it up to the white screen and saw that it was curled into the word Larry. “Ah, impressive.”

  “It’s not a stamp or a Wheaties box, Ned, but at least I got my name on something.”

  We toasted each other with raised morsels, and then the house lights blinked three times and everyone hushed. A waiter hurried in and served us soft drinks—which was a relief, considering all the salt in our mouths.

  After shaking hands with studio execs and their spouses, Mylan stopped by our row and asked everyone to please give him their honest feedback after the film ended. A group of actors—Mylan had cast unknowns for all major roles—summoned him back to the sixth row and he went and sat with them.

  Mylan said, “Roll ‘em,” and the theatre went dark.

  The members of our triple date peered anxiously at the screen—until Angie shared her speculation on what Hollywood had done to the ending.

  “They kiss in the surf,” she said. “I just know it. They’ll ruin it with a big kiss in the surf.”

  Miranda, who had opted for the black strapless dress, turned to us and asked. “ Who kisses in the surf? Will somebody please tell me who gets kissed in the surf?”

  On the screen a small circle of light appeared. It slowly widened, revealing at first a section of stained glass, then the top of a baptismal, then the brown hair of a thirtyish man in jeans and a T-shirt. Then we saw that the man was on his knees, on hardwood floors, in front of the baptismal, leaning forward. And finally the circle of light expanded to the full size of the screen—and in the young man’s hands a Craftsman cordless drill whirred to life.

  Everyone laughed, and the actor who played Lanny shouted from behind us, “That’s me!”

  The film moved quickly: Lanny confused at the BP station, perplexed at McDonald’s, aghast at seeing the first billboard. Waiting to merge on the interstate, he turned on his radio—and there was the voice of Paul McCartney, singing “I Wanna Hold Your Tithe.”

  “How did they do that?” Zach whispered to no one in particular.

  Larry turned and gave me a thumbs-up, and I returned the gesture in kind.

  For two hours and five minutes we sat in silence, absorbing the scenes at Cocoa Beach, inside Fence-Straddler AM, at Abaco, and in downtown Havana. Particularly good was the guy who played DJ Ned Neutral, though I thought him a bit too pudgy. Mylan showed his flare for irony when the soundtrack dubbed a gospel rendition of “Free at Last” during the escape scene, where Lanny, DJ Ned, MC Deluxe, and the Former Donald ran past graffiti-sprayed buildings at midnight, on their way to steal the yacht.

  Throughout the screening I snuck glances at Miranda, looking for a reaction. I never saw her blink. She just held Larry’s hand and stared zombie-like at the screen, giggling at the funny parts, smiling whenever she heard her name.

  I had figured that when Miranda found out Larry had used her name and likeness in his story she might immediately bolt from the theatre… or slap him and bolt from the theatre… or sue him, slap him, and bolt from the theatre. But that’s not what happened at all.

  Perhaps I just don’t understand how the female mind works.

  Watching the scene of Lanny leaving Puerto Rico, crushed and despondent, she stood in the third row and pulled Larry to his feet. “You looked all over the Caribbean for me? You cared that much?!” By the time Ned Neutral and MC showed up below the high-rise, confessing that they were posers and yelling for Lanny not to jump, Larry and Miranda were a silhouette against the screen—and in front of us all she kissed him smack on the lips.

  “Down in front,” said Mylan. “I wanna read the credits.”

  “Yeah, down in front,” Angie echoed. “I wanna see my husband’s name scroll.”

&n
bsp; The film ended with the hippie van rolling through Arizona, dust flying up behind the tires, DJ Ned driving and singing “Born to Be Wild,” MC begging him to switch radio stations, Lanny searching a map for something called Area 51. Then the credits ran against a still shot of the long, dark room in Cuba. The room was empty, and light from the partially opened door slanted across the center. There was no one inside, just a row of reclining lawn chairs set against moist stone walls. The slanted light revealed what was propped against the fourth chair—an old album cover of the Bee Gees, plus a black-and-white photo of Lanny and Miranda seated on a picnic blanket.

  I heard Zach whisper to Angie, “I wanna be in the sequel.”

  “Me, too,” she said.

  I leaned forward to make eye contact. “Same here, son.”

  I remained in my seat and watched Larry’s name scroll with the credits. He turned in his seat and caught my glance. “Me, too,” he whispered.

  The screen light faded and the theatre went black.

  Applause began immediately. Zach even whistled.

  To say that the ending spurred talk of the afterlife would be to minimize the thrust of it. As soon as Mylan stood and asked, “Well, what did everyone think?” I could feel the tension in the theatre.

  The house lights came up.

  A lean, boyish actor who had played the BP station cashier was the first to speak. From the row behind me he explained that God was everywhere, especially in nature, and that the making and marring of our destinies was nothing to lose sleep over. Whether we viewed the afterlife as a kind of heaven or a kind of hell was irrelevant;we would all possess bodies of light and live forever.

  A young actress seated near the back—a redhead named Lauren, who played the counter girl at Detour Airlines—said the rut Lanny was in was very similar to how she pictured hell. But then she added that she was certain heaven was her own destiny, based on her contributions to UNICEF, her volunteer work with Hispanic immigrants, and the peace of mind she attained through yoga.

  Angie squirmed in her seat beside me.

  I nudged her and whispered, “Please don’t say anything…. We’re their guests.”

  “Ned, I have to.”

  “Please don’t.”

  Angie restrained herself so well—for about a minute. After a minute she was bursting with rebuttal. In fact, rebuttal was the very air that filled her.

  Perhaps her response came because there was no line in the sand like in Abaco. Or perhaps in California, one need not be ordained to preach.

  She stood and faced the back of the theatre. She leaned forward and gripped the back of her seat. “A year ago I was just like those zealots. I even led a protest in my own street—against my own husband for working with this very material. I was wrong, and since then I’ve stopped protesting Ned and begun praying for him instead“—a glance toward Larry—“and for his clients, as well.”

  Larry’s jaw dropped.

  Angie was just warming up. “You can’t earn salvation, people. Perhaps some of you think you can earn it, but there’s simply no standard to which any of us can point and say,’So and so has reached the standard of behavior that gets them in,’ and then turn and say, ‘but so and so is just a few niceties short… too bad for ol’ so and so.’ “

  Two brief giggles from row ten were likely as much nerves as humor.

  Angie paused, took a breath. “It doesn’t matter what religious name or symbols you attach to your surroundings, or what nickname you call yourself, be it DJ Ned Nazareth or Saint Crackhead or Spiritual Scooby-Doo… . It’s not enough. Even if you change every lyric to every secular song and make disco the object of your personal vendetta, then give every cent you have to UNICEF, it’s still not enough. You can call your art a ‘A Skippuh’s Nod to God’ or a ‘Bossa Nova for Jehovah’… but it won’t get you to heaven. Nor will it get you any true peace on this earth.”

  Another breath, a glance my way. “And by the way, plenty of people will nod to God, but what we’re supposed to do is bow before him, not nod as if he were just our domesticated neighbor out collecting his Saturday morning paper.”

  More giggles from row ten.

  Angie then picked up her empty McScripture carton and set it atop her head like a crown. “Tell me, everyone, does this earn me bonus points? Nope, all this gets me is recognition that I’m a crazy woman from Jawja with a French-fry carton on her head.”

  No one laughed this time.

  Angie gazed with compassion at the audience. “If anyone here would like to bypass hell altogether—whether or not the place involves legalistic do-gooders—then you need to place your faith in the one who conquered death.”

  Light gasps, one stifled chuckle.

  Then Angie uttered the word Jesus, and several studio execs and actors added winces to their gasps.

  Angie said, “Sorry to be so blunt—and I can assure you that I’m one flawed female—but I hope you’ll recognize that pure gold spilled from an imperfect package is still pure gold.”

  I’ll admit, within that setting, around all that diversity of opinion, I even winced a bit myself. But while Angie spoke I had taken out a fine-point pen and written a synopsis on the back of a business card:

  Larry, our options appear to be:

  1) Hope heaven/hell is irrelevant. (Weil all have bodies of light.)

  2) Earn it by being nice. (Who says hoYi much is enough?)

  3) Jesus on cross clears the May (for anyone riho accepts, even you.).

  P.5. To choose vJrong = riorst nightwiare?

  I handed the card up to Larry and he read it. For a moment he appeared pale, as if just now realizing the seriousness of what he’d composed, as if he’d never considered that his showing the triviality of legalism might point him the opposite way, toward the transcendence of the gospel.

  Angie’s conclusion to her sermon contained both a reference to Marvin and the phrase false prophets. This caused Larry, who was now standing behind her in row three, to point at himself and mouth “Is she talking ‘bout me?”

  I shook my head no. Larry may have been the only screenwriter in the Bible Belt to write a non-Christian’s comic allegory of hell, disguised as apocalyptic spoof, but he was hardly a false prophet. Confused, sure;a victim, maybe—but nowhere near prophetic. Except of course for that first day in my office, when he dropped his manuscript, thwack, on my desk, and told me we would soon sell the film rights. Nailed that one.

  Angie finished her mini-sermon and the theatre fell silent. Someone in back crinkled a carton. I thought it might get tossed at my wife. But no. Restraint won out.

  Then my son surprised me with his boldness. Zach stood beside Angie and said, “I agree with my mom.”

  Carla and her small-of-the-back hair stood next. She put her arm around Zach. “I agree with his mom, too.”

  Then I felt my family’s eyes on me. Then Larry’s, as if to ask, Well Ned, what do you believe?

  Ned Neutral was on stage in front of half of Hollywood—and he was searching for shades of gray.

  I felt the heat, the stares. I saw future movie deals crumbling in my fingers. But then I took a deep breath and stood beside my wife and took her hand and brought to the surface what I had always kept so hidden. “I agree with my wife.”

  Larry sat again and nodded at me, as if to say, “I’m glad you believe what you believe, and I’m glad that the two of us are friends.” Miranda offered a wink, then turned to tap Angie on the knee and whisper, “You got guts.”

  I can tell you this—no one converted anyone else to his or her way of thinking that night. But from the tone and quality of what followed, the afterlife discussions likely spilled over into several L.A. breakfasts and power lunches.

  As host, Mylan moved into the aisle and did the best he could to mediate. “Well,” he said, clearly sensing the need to intervene, “this has certainly been the most interesting premiere discussion in my memory.”

  A brooding actor who played the part of Marvin stood in the back
and said, “Can we please change the subject from religion back to the film?”

  Mylan eased into the third row, put his hand on Larry’s shoulder, and smiled a producer’s smile. “Why don’t we ask our author what he’s working on next,” he said. Mylan held an imaginary microphone to Larry’s lips. “Tell us, Larry, what can we expect from you in the future?”

  Larry stood and cleared his throat. He paused and basked in the attention. He even pulled Miranda up beside him. I knew he was working on two different manuscripts, and figured he’d say something about his sequel. Instead he told Mylan and the audience that he was working on a medical thriller with deep spiritual undertones, and that he had titled it Doctors, Femurs, and Blasphemers.

  Miranda patted him on the back and said, “You go, boyfriend.”

  No one else said a word. Mylan looked in shock, as did my wife.

  I was nowhere near shock; I had already agreed to agent the project. In my orange polo shirt, I would agent it.

  Not that I had read any of the story, mind you. All Larry had told me so far was that two of the doctors were named Ned and Angie.

  And that was good enough for now.

  LARRY HUTCH’S READING GROUP GUIDE

  Discussion question for non-Christians:

  Was it wrong to steal Castro’s yacht?

  Discussion question for Christians:

  if you were given Castro’s yacht, would you sell it and give the money to foreign missionaries? Or would you keep the yacht and invite the missionaries to go for a short ride whenever they came home on furlough?

  Discussion question for married people:

  Which was Agent Orange’s most impressive feat—selling the manuscript or putting up with Angie?

  Discussion question for single people:

  Would you go out with someone you met on E-Marviny? Why or why not?

  Discussion question for anyone who likes to e-mail authors:

  Should Larry title his sequel My Big Fat Orbiting Cheeseball?(If your answer is no, feel free to e-mail your suggestion for the correct title.)