by Guy Adams
"God bless the city of angels," he whispered, toasting the late Los Angeles afternoon with his Coors bottle, "and every motherfucker who sails in her."
His stomach told him it needed feeding so he put some ragged Chinese takeout in the microwave and nuked it.
Spooning noodles into a frowning mouth he channelsurfed for twenty minutes trying to find something – anything – that would stop his brain churning over for awhile. It was no good, his head was too noisy to be silenced by Law and Order or Project Runway. He dumped the empty Chinese carton and grabbed his car keys again, he would head out. He would go to the bench.
He'd first discovered the bench when hanging around the Forest Lawn Memorial Park; thinking, not for the first time, that dying was the most likely way of his settling in Glendale, just another LA district his pocket could only dream of.
Forest Lawn had grown famous over the years, justifiably so, as cemeteries go it is certainly unusual, the "theme park of death" thought by many to epitomise this town and its hollow promises.
Leo liked it though, often came here to walk the gardens and look at the statues. After all, where else could you hang out in such glittering company? Errol Flynn, Humphrey Bogart, Theda Bara, W.C. Fields… heroes, lovers and fools, all one beneath the dirt. Leo was by no means sure that he believed in a world beyond this one but he couldn't argue that the cemetery felt unearthly. From the sheer scope of the place – 300 acres of the sparkling dead – to the bizarre names of its plots – Vesperland, Inspiration Slope, Dawn of Tomorrow and – perhaps eeriest of all – Babyland, the heart shaped garden filled with infant remains.
The bench wasn't far from The Wee Kirk o' the Heather, the chapel where Reagan had sealed the knot with Nancy (the spirits of his olders and betters no doubt laughing their asses off while he made his vows). It had wrought iron legs and a thick wooden seat and back rest (painted an evergreen almost luscious enough to eat). Every week or so he made a trip out there, took a lunch bag and Variety and filled his head with Tinsel Town plans.
The audition had been for a tiny part in a boxing movie featuring Gary Sinise. The usual trash… Raging Bull meets Rocky. Sinise, down on his luck after an accident in the ring, takes to drink and bare-knuckle sparring. Leo had been up for "Guy in Bar". He got in an argument with Sinise and ended up out cold on the pool table. Not exactly Shakespeare but a great bit of exposure and a chance to share screen time with a name (even if the guy seemed horny for TV these days). He'd been lucky to even hear of it, a phone call from a girl he'd screwed a couple of times, blabbing about how she'd gotten herself a part in the picture. He'd had to play it down of course but after bullshitting about how much he admired Sinise and would love to work with him she'd managed to get him on the list for auditions.
"You owe me," she cooed, fluttering eyelashes she'd bought rather than grown.
"You bet baby," he'd promised, knowing he'd never deliver. He hadn't liked her that much. She did this weird thing when she came – floods of tears every time, like she'd heard her mom was dead or something – shit like that puts a guy off.
Not that he'd be working with her any time soon, there was that little piece of consolation.
He'd been feeling positive, a genuine belief in his gut that his time was coming. Stood there in the brightly-lit rehearsal room, a thin, plastic cup of vended Cappuccino in his hand and a swagger to his walk, he had come face to face with the heavenly trinity of the movie audition: the casting director, the producer and – holy of holies – the director himself. The director was a young guy, maybe five or six years Leo's senior, who had made the transition from music promos to proper pictures via a surprise rental hit starring a zombie-battling Elisha Cuthbert. He finished scribbling his notes on the guy who had just left and, nudging the brim of his baseball cap with his pen, winked at Leo.
"Hi Leo," he said, his eyes flicking down briefly to check the name from his notes, "good to see you."
Leo smiled, trying to ignore the producer who was arguing with someone on his cell, keep it cool, keep it together…
"Thanks, you too Mr Hickman."
"Gerry, please, none of that formal shit."
"Cool." Leo couldn't stop grinning, his lips shrinking back in a sudden wave of nervousness.
"Tell him he can shoot in India for as long as he likes if he's willing to cover the bill!" the producer shouted.
The cavernous room felt as airless as a closet. Leo could feel a small vein popping in his forehead. The casual grin of the director suddenly seemed predatory… the producer's voice deafening… the bored politeness of the casting director stuck in his gut like the worst rejection he had ever experienced… laughter in the schoolyard… Christ he was close to crying… get a grip!
He took a sip of his coffee; it really was that or scream in their faces.
"Self-righteous fuck." The producer muttered, cutting off his call and glancing briefly in Leo's direction.
"Okay Leo," said Gerry, ignoring his colleague either out of politeness or simply because his mood swings were so frequent they fell beneath his radar. "Let's see what you've got."
He handed Leo a sheet of typed script and pointed towards the digital camcorder that had been watching all from its tripod to the side of the desk. Leo glanced at it, its single red eye staring right back.
"I'll read the part of Doug, if you could just focus your performance towards the camera and we'll see how we go."
There was a pause as Leo stared again at the camera, his mouth suddenly dry… he took a sip of his coffee then realised he shouldn't still be holding it. He slammed it on the desk, desperate to be rid of it and nearly yelped as it splashed its frothy contents onto some of the papers.
"Fuck's sake…" the producer sighed, grabbing some of his sheets and wiping at them with his manicured and moisturised hand.
"Sorry…" Leo fussed about, trying to tidy the small amount of mess and getting nowhere.
The producer slammed his hand down on the papers, stopping Leo from touching them. "Leave it for Christ's sake… just get on with it."
Gerry smiled, 'Don't worry about it Leo, let's do it.'
Leo turned towards the camera again, a very real and childlike need to cry bubbling up in him again, clumsy idiot, Jesus… what was he doing?
"What are you looking at you dumb fuck?" Gerry shouted and Leo nearly dropped his script… what now? What had he done?
The director gestured at his script and, glancing down, Leo realised it was the first line, Doug squaring up in the bar… full of piss and wind and willing to take it out on 'Guy in Bar'.
"Oh… uh… sorry." Leo tried to focus on the script, tried to force the words on it into his head and out of his mouth…the thing made no sense…his mind flipping, the hand holding the paper shaking so hard it rustled. A smudge from his sweating thumb stretched across the bottom corner of the page. Get it together…get it together…
He looked straight at the camera.
"Screw you pal…" he said finally, his voice cracking, 'what's your problem?'
Real quality dialogue…
The red light of the camcorder burned at him, hating him as much as the fictitious Doug. He could hear his heartbeat… actually hear it… breathing was becoming difficult…
"You're my problem shit head, and, after the week I've had that's something you don't want to be…" Gerry shifted in his seat, 'at this point Gary squares up to you, nose on nose, he wants a fight and you're drunk enough and stupid enough to give him one.'
Stupid enough… yeah, Leo could relate to that.
The red light of the camcorder grew, flaring and sparking at the edges… building, wanting to consume, to wash over Leo, to burn the foolish, awkward, idiot that stood in its path. It was immortalising his ineptitude, gathering all his faults, every little erroneous twitch of his face, every stumble over the worthless dialogue he held in his hand…
"I…" his voice was cracking again. Dry. No spit in his mouth. So dry in fact it would surely break open like mud in
the sun, pouring sharp and copper blood over his tongue…
And the red light would capture it all, film it all, play it back over and over again for everyone to laugh at.
"I…"
"Leo?" Gerry's voice was quiet, just outside his attention. None of the three at the desk existed anymore, they were nothing compared to the red-hot hatred of the camera… the real gods of Hollywood, marching like Wellesian tripods, eating everything in their path, withering to dust all that fell within the inferno of their single red eye…
Leo dropped the script and walked out. That he didn't run would be the only source of comfort to him when he hit fresh air again and emptied his churning stomach into the thick, fleshy leaves of the Agave plants that lined the sidewalk outside the rehearsal room.
Leo pulled up outside the front gate of Forest Lawn. The hazy, Los Angeles sun was doing its best to emulate dramatic movie sunsets as he walked through the wrought iron gates off Glendale Avenue. It just couldn't manage, life didn't own the right filters.
He walked straight to his bench, sat down and closed his eyes. He listened to the sound of lawn sprinklers and distant mower engines. Somewhere a church organ was playing, celebrating yet another death with holy muzak. There was the buzz of a fly as it flew past his head, the noise building and falling in perfect Dolby surround sound. He could feel the wooden slats on his back and tried to melt into them, half-remembering an old stage school exercise designed to help a performer relax.
He suddenly felt sure someone had walked over. That slight coolness that falls across your face when someone steps in and blocks out the sun.
He opened his eyes. It wasn't a person, it was a door. Right there in the grass in front of him. A bright green, solid wood door. It was inside a frame but that frame floated in the air, supported presumably from the ground.
"What the fuck?" he wondered, looking around, half expecting he had stumbled into one of those hidden camera shows. "If you're there, Tom Spelling," he whispered, "I'm gonna stick your camera up your ass." He couldn't see anyone, but then that was the point of a "hidden" camera show he guessed. How'd they build the thing so damned quick? He'd only had his eyes closed for, what? A minute? Maybe less…
He got to his feet and walked around to the other side of the door. That was the moment he stopped thinking he was on Punk'd or Candid Camera… From the other side, the door wasn't there. All he could see was his bench, basking in the fading LA sunlight.
"Motherfucker…" he whispered, moving back around, noting the point – precisely on the perpendicular, side by side with the frame – when the door winked into existence. Step back and it was gone. He stretched out his hand, slowly, wanting to barely brush the wood with the tips of his fingers.
"Jesus!" he shouted, snatching his hand back. The damn thing had given him a shock.
He looked around, the entire place was deserted. He moved to the front again, facing the door head on.
But did he want to? He was far from sure he did. He rubbed his face and swore again. This was stupid, doors did not just appear in the middle of boneyards, not even one as surreal as Forest Lawn. It had to be some kind of trick.
The door opened.
The lock clicked softly, enticingly. And a widening sliver of light revealed itself. There was the faintest scent of old loam. Somewhere he thought he heard a parrot call out.
"Jesus…" he paced back and forth, still snatching glances at the undergrowth, convinced he would spot the glint of a camera lens.
Another noise, this time the rustling of leaves. For a moment he hoped it came from one of the bushes close by but even as he glanced around he knew he was kidding himself. The noise was coming from beyond the door.
"Stupid." He stared at it. That sliver of light stared back.
"Fuck it." He kicked out with one foot – thinking that his rubber soles would protect him from any more of those electric shocks – wanting to push the door open so he could at least get a proper look inside. His foot collided with the wood with a solid thud. A real noise, the sort of noise that came from real things not fantasies. The door swung wide to reveal an expanse of jungle. Sat in amongst the fat, rubber plant leaves and the thick tree stumps was a woman. She was late thirties maybe, dressed as if out of an old movie. Scott of the Antarctic, Ice Station Zebra… one of those things. Head to toe in heavy clothing, big boots, huge mittens on her hands. She looked as if she might be dead. Eyes open but vacant, staring right back at him. Then she twitched.
"You okay?" he asked, immediately embarrassed that he was talking at this woman – this imaginary woman for Christ's sake – that lay beyond the door.
The woman moved again, but only slightly. As if she was having some kind of fit. Her left boot twitched on a spasming leg and then went still.
"Shit." Leo looked around again, still nobody there but him. What if she was hurt? What if she was dying right now while he just stared gormless at her?
What would Guy in Bar do? A cheeky voice piped up in his head.
Leo rubbed at his face again, as if he could scrub the situation away with those soft hands of his. He made his decision.
"I'm coming!" he shouted at the woman and stepped through the door. Just a quick in and out, he thought, grab her and drag her back to the bench.
The door slammed shut behind him.
PART FOUR
Housebound
1.
Penelope didn't know what to do after saying goodbye to the others. She walked the length and the breadth of the station, thinking she should familiarise herself with her surroundings. But really this added up to little more than window shopping, something that felt frivolous given their current situation. Though she did need to find more suitable clothing than the gentlemen's castme-downs provide by Carruthers. The last time she'd thought of doing that she'd been somewhat distracted by other matters…
She found the ethereal passengers around her disturbing, shivering as she weaved between – or, on a number of occasions, through – what she could only think of as ghosts. As much as she tried to convince herself that they were nothing but images, part of the backdrop, she couldn't break the impression of being surrounded by people. In a clothes shop she had hid in the small dressing room, squealing in surprise when a woman had appeared alongside her while she was half-clothed. The woman had begun to disrobe, gazing at a blouse on its hanger with wistful eyes that said "this is as good as it's going to look, you know that don't you? Once it has to deal with your body it'll all be downhill from there."
Penelope watched her. Watched the depth of emotion on the woman's face as she tugged the blouse to one side or the other, staring at herself in the mirror with naked disgust. Eventually she gave up, her arms dropping to her side, lips pouting and eyes dampening. From angry woman to child in a matter of moments, all performed in that perfect safety of thinking she was unobserved. We show our true faces to ourselves but never put them on display. Eventually the woman tugged the blouse off as if it were fighting her. She placed it neatly back on the hanger and took one last look at its perfection. She put her own clothes back on – a baggy jumper, all the better to hide in – rubbed her eyes and walked back out into the store, a casual smile in place. Penelope watched her go, no doubt in her mind that she was watching a fully rounded human being, not just an illusion. She tried on her own clothes quickly and functionally. She didn't look at her reflection in the mirror.
Unlike the woman she had seen, Penelope felt more confident in her new outfit, a brown jumper and checked slacks. In the men's clothes she had looked like a small child playing dress-up. At least now she was her own person.
She had left Alan making Sophie comfortable in the coffee shop, looting the arcade for anything he could use as bedding. His closeness to the child made it almost impossible for Penelope to be around them, his attention so fixed there was no room for anyone else. She struggled to accept this earnest father figure as the man she had known, but that was no bad thing. She didn't doubt his sincerity – he was f
ar too conscientious for that – so it was all fuel to the notion that he was a changed man. Not that it helped them get along, his obsession with Sophie aside, Alan seemed almost crippled by her presence. To begin with she had assumed this was down to his lack of confidence in the company of women – something Chester had certainly seemed to share, until he'd stripped them naked and beat them up in the back of his car of course. But as their first morning alone wore on she began to wonder if it wasn't something more. There was a panicked look to him whenever they crossed paths, as if he was convinced she meant to do him harm. Of course, not so long ago he would have been right.