Sugar Valley (Hollywood's Darkest Secret)

by Stephen Andrew Salamon

  Mark allowed Curtis to look into the scope. The moment his eye was focused in on the crowd, he spoke, “Yes, I got him in my sight already.”

  Mark hit him on his head again, being angered at his excitement, his happiness, and also because he was a mean drunk. “Would you please not do that? Your excitement is making me ill.” Curtis started to get aggravated toward him; he was sick of Mark always hitting him, and pretty soon, enough would be enough, and Curtis would have to take action to defend himself toward Mark’s abuse.

  Yet, Curtis had to let it slide for now, and instead he had his own plan of action. As he looked through the scope’s eye, he traveled the lens, looking for Miss Wells, knowing that under her seat would be their payment. Curtis then looked at Mark, asking in a suspicious voice, “Hey, where did that Julienne lady say she was going to place the money?”

  Mark was too drunk to realize any suspicion, he was too busy trying to desperately hold down his vomit that was creeping up to his lungs. “I thought I told you already? Listen, she said after we do the job, when the people are running around screaming, we should sneak down to the third row and pick up the check from under her seat.”

  “What seat is she sitting in?” Curtis asked.

  “Listen, I told you that already too. Don’t worry about it right now, just concentrate on the ceremony. Also, please aim the gun correctly, I know you’re a little drunk yourself, and I don’t want you shooting and missing the target,” Mark explained, slapping himself in the face to make the drunkenness go away.

  Curtis looked through the scope again, toward the second victim, speaking, “I’m not that plastered. Besides, I’m a good aim.”

  Mark gazed down at his broken watch, trying to read past his fuzzy and impaired vision, to see the digits on his watch. “Anyway, it’s just about time, we have eight more hours left till the category comes up.”

  “Wait a second, my watch reads 8:58 p.m., we have two minutes left. Are ya buzzed or what?” mentioned Curtis.

  Mark laughed at his own mistake, chuckling, “Oh, my mistake. Anyway, are you all set up and ready to do this?”

  Curtis glared in the scope again, feeling this moment of authenticity, knowing that it was reality, craving to finish it right, so he could be rich as well. As he peered down at their prey through the scope, he answered with pure, tranquil sureness, “You bet I am. This job is gonna be a cinch.”

  Chapter Seventy-Nine

  Even though the air was brisk and cool in the hall, auditorium, Damen’s collar was still rubbing against his neck, causing a slight rash to develop, and his face was drenched in sweat, knowing that his category was going to come up in a few. This was it, the moment of truth, the sector in his life, as well as others, when everything would be shown, completed, where dreams would be revealed into reality, where lies and deceits might be uncovered, and where Damen’s own fate, of dying, might occur. Mr. Schultz just thought about his life, the way he struggled to get to this moment, the struggles he had to go through with life and his friends, and the friends that he used to have, but now were enemies, at least to his mind’s eye. All Damen could hear is his own heart beating, not even acknowledging that the Master of Ceremonies was talking, not even expecting that the audience was laughing by a joke that he just told; Damen was in his own world. Everything around him, didn’t matter, the only thing that counted in this stiffening instant, was that envelope, which was held in the back of the stage, where either his name, Jose’s name, or the other nominees’ names were held. He couldn’t take it, this pressure of obedient thrill, being strict to his thoughts, and mean to his nervous system, Damen was beginning to lose it. His hands were shaking, his legs were twitching, his mouth was trying to find a bit of saliva, and his own perspiration was becoming a natural shower to his body. Suddenly, throughout these pressures, these feelings of a panic-attacking nature, Damen got up from his seat and spoke to Chuck, “Chuck, I’ll be right back, I’m going to the bathroom.”

  Chuck looked at him dumfounded about what he was teasing, joking around about, but then seeing Damen starting to walk away. So, he grabbed Damen’s sport coat, pulled him back to his seat again, and whispered, “What are you talking about? Your category’s coming up in two minutes.”

  He didn’t know what to do, he knew if he stayed, he would go crazy, berserk, but he knew if he left for awhile, it would give his mind enough time to calm down itself, rejuvenate into being halcyon and serene. “I have to go bad, and I mean really, truly bad. Besides, we’re at a commercial break and this show is taped, it’s not live,” Damen stated. He got up again and walked past Chuck and John. He rubbed against John’s Oscar that he won a little bit ago, and headed toward the aisle.

  When he reached the carpet aisle, Chuck stretched his head passed John’s body, and explained, “No, Damen, you’re wrong, this ceremony is live, it’s a special Oscar ceremony; it’s the first one to start off the new millennium.”

  “I’ll be right back, I promise,” said Damen in a speedy fashion, trying to hold in his urine by crossing his legs, the urine that he thought was present by his nerves, but really was just his imagination.

  “Alright then, just hurry up.”

  Traveling up the aisle, Damen walked past the movie stars that sat on either side of the aisle and abruptly he felt a sense of proudness to his character, a sense that he prayed for every night to achieve. It was like he was walking in slow motion, feeling this brief duration, of seeing that he was apart of this wonderful medium, experience, that he was just the same as the movie stars that he saw before himself. He walked out of the main part to the building and entered into the foyer, that’s when he turned around to look at the crowd of heads that were seated. Finally realizing, even more, that he belonged, created a self-motivated-smile to appear on his sweat-filled face, caressing this spontaneous, excitable rapture of realism, that broke his mind’s eye of feeling fear, and suddenly felt happy; happy to be here, and proud to know that he’d worked to be. Yet he was walking away from them. Thoughts were drowning his mind, suffocating his consciousness, allowing his mind’s eye to be obstructed, concentrating on words in his head that drifted around quickly and roughly.

  Damen, why are you walking away from this, why? This, this is what you’ve been waiting for to happen for a long time, and it’s happening now. What are you doing? You could always go to the bathroom later.

  That’s when he lit up a cigarette, knowing that he was scared, frightened of success, comprehending that his fears were what caused his legs to travel to the place where he was at now. He inhaled his smoke, and just gazed out of the doorway, toward the hallway of beauty, when without warning, a person came from behind him and tapped him on the right shoulder. Damen forced his head, to switch from staring at the hallway, to gawking at what was behind him, allowing his neck to hurt from the sudden whiplash. To his startled sight, he saw Darell in his view. “Darell, you scared the living crap out of me.”

  Darell was pale, seeming like he was still a drug addict, and like he hadn’t slept in over two years. His eyes were drowsy, red, and bloodshot, and his complexion was that of a dead fish, full of sweat, but at the same time, pale, and dried. He handed Damen a letter, speaking in a stressed tone, “Here, take this, but read it after the ceremony. Promise me you won’t read it till after this ceremony ends? Promise on our friendship, Damen? Will you promise me?” Darell seemed desperate, as if the world was going to end soon, wanting and yearning for Damen to promise, as if this was going to be the last moment he ever spoke to him.

  Damen grasped onto the letter, envelope, smiling toward him, remembering how good it felt to be friends with Darell O’Conner. “So does that mean we still have a friendship?”

  Tears started to surround Darell’s red eyes, responding with earnest, “Of course it does, our friendship never ended. So, do you promise?”

  Damen gazed down at the letter, wondering why he was so serious and meaningful on asking him not to read it; it was like there was a bomb, explosive, in i
t or something of that nature. “Yeah, yes, I promise.” Darell walked toward the exit of the building, causing Damen to feel stupefaction, confusion, and disarray toward his opposite walk, choice in directions. “Wait a second, Darell, where are you going?”

  Darell lingered his body and turned around to face him again, smiling in a vivid motion, trying to hold in his tears of mysterious motives. “Listen, Damen, this is your night. I don’t belong here, and I don’t want to belong here anymore.”

  Damen wandered up to him. He then turned around to look at the main part of the building and noticed the lights beginning to dim again in the huge, glamorous hall; that meant his category was about to come up. To Damen’s mind, this was the worst thing possible to him, only because he wanted to be there for Darell, hungered to know what was bothering him, and didn’t want to see him cry, or about to cry. But, Damen knew, by the dimming, indistinct lights, that it was his time to depart from Darell, for now. He turned back to face him, saying, “Alright, I’ll come by your place later on tonight and we’ll have ourselves a little party. It’ll be like old times, but this time, it’ll be better. But, um, if I don’t stop by tonight, then I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Damen, I’m going back home tomorrow.” Darell paused, turning his head for a moment, and wiping his eyes of tears unnoticeably. He turned back toward Damen’s brown eyes, adding with sadness, “I’m going home to Ridge Crest.”

  “Why?” Damen didn’t want him to go, leave; he didn’t want Darell to vanish from sight without seeing, and spending more time with him. But, Mr. Schultz quickly knew that he had ten seconds to get to his seat, before his category came up. So, he added again but with quickness, “Why, why are you going?”

  “I told you, I don’t want to belong here anymore. I hate Hollywood, it was never my dream.” He stopped again, new tears were showing, and then he began with, “I thought it was, because it was yours and Jose’s dream. But, I realize now that it isn’t, and that I should have never come in the first place.”

  Darell walked through the exit and entered into the outside, but still had the door opened, showing his view still to Damen’s. Damen took a drag of his cigarette, grabbed onto the door, touching Darell’s hand by accident, and spoke with speedy words, “Listen to me, I’m definitely coming to your place tonight, and we’ll talk about this some more.”

  “Alright, I’ll be waiting.” Darell walked all the way through the exit and onto the red carpet even more, and Damen just stared at his silhouette, smiling toward his back, being happy to finally have Darell as a good friend again. It was like closure for him, or a simple push of an angel, that caused their friendship to mend, to come together and cause it to be stronger than before.

  As soon as Darell walked out of his view, Damen put the letter into his suit pocket and took one last drag of his cigarette. He ran down the aisle again, back to his seat once more, and felt the excitement, happiness, joy, and terror enter his mind again, this time being even more positive, because of the newfound friendship he had with Darell. Looking at Chuck like a scared little puppy, Damen muttered, “Chuck, I feel sick.” Chuck smiled at him and rubbed his head with his hand. The feeling that Darell had was finally in Damen’s mind. The feeling that Damen wished he could have was finally there with him as he looked at the Oscar trophy that stood on the podium next to the Master of Ceremonies. The emotion of being on a roller coaster and finally reaching the top of it; the compassion that Damen thought he felt when he began making his first movie. The sensation of excitement, but fear mixed into one, the sensation that Darell didn’t have anymore.

  The Master Of Ceremonies came up to the podium, announcing, “Since we’re running a little short on time, we’re not going to show any clips. So for now, the nominees for the Best Actor category are as follows.” The audience all stared up at a television, the size of a small house, and saw the nominees up there, showing their faces as he read their names off. The M.C. began the introduction for the Best Actors, saying, “Jack Benteler, for his role in ‘Bliss Without a Kiss.’ Jose Rodrigo, for the role in ‘The Man Without a Heart.’ John Stuckly, for the role in ‘Friends That Are Enemies.’ And Damen Schultz, for the role in ‘Wishes of a Destiny.’” The Master of Ceremonies slowly began opening the envelope.

  Damen looked over at Jose and saw him looking at him, both knowing what each other was thinking. The thought of winning the trophy, the trophy that stood for proudness that stood for the ability to accomplish the greatest award in acting. The award that stood for them accomplishing the final part to their dream, was what was about to be had, to be taken by either them or the others.

  The Master of Ceremonies took the white card out of the envelope, pausing for the fun of it, seeing that the nominees all looked at him in temptation of knowing who the winner was. He then looked at the card with a dramatic pause, waiting for that perfect moment, that perfect sector in time to say the winner’s name. Damen gawked at him, feeling sweat dripping from his face, and Jose glared at the trophy, wanting it to be in his grasp, yearning for it to be his and his alone. Everyone waited, Chuck, Julienne, Tom Fryer, and even the secretive and infamous Mark and Curtis, dangling up in the heavens, concentrating on the M.C.’s words. The M.C. felt the silence of the room’s voice and impetuously announced, “And the Oscar goes to...”

  Chapter Eighty

  Hearing nothing but mumbling coming from the M.C., to Mark’s ears of drunkenness, Mark strived to get up from his seating position, stumbled over to Curtis, and frantically muttered, “Who did he say? Who won?” All they heard was clapping of a loud pitch, whistling of a prosperous tune, and those echoes allowed Curtis not to even hear Mark’s slurry words, words that sounded like they were all conjoined into one long idiom. “Hello, idiot, who the fuck won?”

  Curtis gazed through the scope, understanding Mark’s rude question. With him still gawking through the scope of murder, he shouted over all the echoes of applause, “They said Damen’s name.”

  “Are you positive? Are you sure?”

  Curtis understood that he himself was a little bit on the tipsy side from the alcohol, and could have easily misinterpreted the M.C.’s distant yet echoing voice. Curtis became shaky, hysterical, speaking, “Um, um, yeah, yeah I’m sure.”

  “Shit, Shit, shit, alright, let me look.” Mark was stressed out, moving Curtis aside and looking through the scope of the gun, all he could see was blurry.

  “I said I was sure,” yelled Curtis, wanting Mark to believe him, even though he wasn’t that sure himself.

  “I didn’t like the way you said it. I know the way you are, Curtis, you’ll say anything that will make me happy.” Mark tried to focus on the stage and the podium, adding, “Damn it, everything is blurry. Here, you look through the scope and tell me what the guy looks like.” Mark pulled him up to the scope and stuck his face in it, forcefully.

  “Well, the guy looks like every other person from this height, it’s a cheap lens. Listen, I’m gonna shoot anyway.” Curtis placed his hand on the trigger, when suddenly Mark hit him on the head.

  Mark was angry, speaking with drunkenness, “No, because if it’s not Damen, then we’re not gonna get the money.” All they could hear was the echoes of the audience, clapping away, cheering toward the person, the winner of the Oscar.

  “Listen, I’m sure they said Damen Schultz. If they didn’t, we could always kill him after the ceremony. At least by shooting now, we have an extremely high chance at getting him,” explained Curtis as the winner walked up on stage and grabbed onto the Oscar trophy.

  “Alright, but right after you shoot him, then shoot Tom Fryer. Oh my God, I finally remembered his name.” Mark paused, smiling with glee from remembering his name. “Anyway, shoot him now.”

  Curtis aimed the gun toward the target at the podium and began feeling the trigger, caressing its iron body, feeling his sweat touching the coldness of the iron. This was it, the angels hid, the Valley cried out its wind, the fates of the boys stood in the distance, and t
he moment of everything that was seen, would come down and fall in this inevitable press of the trigger. At that moment, silence hit the room, a brisk blow of mysterious air blew against Curtis’ face, and he shot the gun once, hitting the target in the stomach. He then aimed the gun toward the next victim asking through the fear-stricken screams and moans of the audience, “Which one is that Tom guy?”

  “Here, give me that,” Mark demanded, knocking Curtis out of the way. He immediately looked at Tom’s head through the scope, feeling the trigger like it was a woman of passion, and pulled it back without a thought.

  Boom.

  IX

  Through the Vanity of Deceits, the

  Sinister and Lies Are Now Revealed

  Through the Dying of The Young,

  And the Dying of a Dream.

  Chapter Eighty-One

  Sugar Valley was a memory in this person’s mind, drifting to a certain location, day in his thoughts, where two boys sat, encompassed with grass that lay underneath them, talking to each other on a serious note. “Damen, we’ll always be best friends, right?” Jose’s young self asked, gawking at Damen with bruises on his own face, showing Damen that his father hit him again.

  Damen grinned toward this serious moment, felt the warm summer breeze, blowing into the Valley, swaying every living thing, plant, blade of grass around, and speaking, “Yeah, Jose, we’ll all be friends forever, not even death could break that.”

  A flash of light took hold, bringing this person back to the present of his eyes, entering into a shock that allowed that memory to be seen again, and gazed out toward the stage of the hall of screams. “No, no. Jose ... Jose,” this person shouted, it was Damen Schultz’s voice, seeing Jose lying on the ground of the stage, with a gunshot to his stomach. All barriers of anger that he had for him were lost, and the love came back again without it even being noticed. Damen’s ears were blind and paralyzed to sound, blocking out all voices, and his eyes were deaf, showering tears that were automatic, like a rain cloud that sat over each pupil.