The Book of the Film of the Story of My Life

by William Brandt

  “So listen. How old are you?”

  “Old enough, granddad.”

  “You don’t find me sexy, do you?”

  She looks at me. “Professionally speaking, you’re a big turn-on.”

  “But personally speaking?”

  “So where is this leading?”

  “Relax. I just need to be sure you don’t have some sort of sick secret thing for forty-two-year-old balding fattish guys. Reassure me, here.”

  “Be reassured. Be very reassured.”

  “That’s all right then.” I have a morbid fear of cliché. I also have a morbid fear of death. Which is the ultimate cliché, after all. Surely. “Just to be on the safe side, remind me never to take you to the opera.”

  “Consider it done.”

  I look out the window. I love driving in America. The freeway is big and fast, if a little lumpy at times. But it’s the cars: they’re big and fast and not at all lumpy. They’re fantastic. They’re huge turbo-charged supersonic lounges. The perfect car for the man who dislikes driving. You’re hardly there at all. Everything is electric. There’s cruise control and climate control and every other sort in between. Yes, everything is under control.

  Let me just point out here too that I love Americans. I really do. I didn’t think I would, but I do, and this is even from before September 11. Those Americans, they’re okay. Doesn’t matter what sort of an arsehole they’ve got for president, person-for-person I like them. It’s endearing too that the nation which invented jeans has such trouble looking good in them. I think they must be the worst jeans-wearers on the planet. And I respect that. You look around you and you realize you’re surrounded by ordinary, honest, bad jeans-fitting folk who are just as much the victims of rampant American imperialist capitalism as anyone else. Hell, more so—they’re closer to it than anyone else. Me, I may not be able to hide but at least I can run.

  Nonetheless, despite all these feel-good vibes, as the what-me-worry landscape of suburban LA slides by the window I’m starting to feel maybe just a little somber. A little mellow. “Do you ever get the feeling that we’re all living on borrowed time?”

  “Well, we are all living on borrowed time.”

  “So you do get that feeling?”

  “No, never.”

  “You know, last time I was out this way I was getting married.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, we drove to Las Vegas.”

  “Oh, that’s nice.”

  “Yeah, it was nice.”

  “Did you have one of those theme weddings?”

  “Well, we wanted satanic but they didn’t have that so in the end we settled for the no-frills version because we were running short on time.”

  It was really very sweet. The celebrant said a few things like Frederick are you into Sophie, and Sophie do you really dig Frederick, and we said we did, and we exchanged rings, then it was congratulations, you kids are married. We kissed and signed on the dotted line. I’ve got the video somewhere.

  There’s a silence while Melissa concentrates on her driving; we’re being squeezed between a sixty-foot limo and something straight out of Monster Truck Madness. “Just think,” she says. “Bruce Willis could be in that limo, and we’d never know.”

  “They all take helicopters nowadays.”

  She shakes her head. “It’s true what they say. This really is the land of dreams.”

  “Do they say that?”

  “Of course.”

  “Maybe we should have gone to Universal Studios.”

  Melissa changes lanes and the limo speeds past. “So what happened with you two, anyway? Why did she leave you?”

  “It’s kind of complicated. Infidelity, I suppose you could say.”

  “You were unfaithful?”

  “Why do people always assume that? She was unfaithful.”

  “So you left her?”

  “No. She left me. First she was unfaithful, then she left me. I did try to be unfaithful, immediately after finding out that she had been unfaithful. But I failed. And then she left me so I didn’t really have the opportunity to try again.”

  “That’s pretty sad.”

  “We all have our stories to tell.”

  “You know, infidelity in a relationship is really only a sign that other much more fundamental stuff isn’t being addressed. She was probably seeking to end the relationship for other reasons but unable to take the first step.”

  “Thank you for that stunning insight. I’ll treasure it always.”

  “Have you seen Shag City?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “You should go and see it. It’s brilliant. And that’s what it’s all about, exactly that. It’s about this woman, she’s married and she’s a highly successful . . . well, I won’t tell you the story. It’d spoil it.”

  “As a matter of fact my wife is Sophie Carlisle.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Your ex-wife?”

  “My estranged wife.”

  “The one we’re going to see?”

  “That’s right.”

  “The Sophie Carlisle?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “She’s the one that we’re going to be seeing? On this island?”

  “Correct.”

  “But . . . she’s my personal hero!”

  “Possibly you mean heroine.”

  “She’s a genius.”

  “How so?”

  “She’s finally achieved what sex-filmmakers have dreamed of for generations. She’s broken down the artificial distinction between pornography and art.”

  “I thought you weren’t interested in art.”

  “I’m not, but I’m interested in pornography. I’ve seen Shag City four times. It’s brilliant. It’s absolutely brilliant. I dream of making films like that—well, sort of like that, only hotter.”

  “Hotter?”

  “More sex.”

  “Well, I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

  “And it’s supposed to have many parallels with her own . . .” Her face falls.

  I clear my throat tactfully. “It’s true that there are some superficial similarities between the character of the husband in the film and me, but no, it is not based on me. Nor is it an accurate account of my life with Sophie. Nor was it ever intended to be.” Melissa falls very silent. She stares at the road. “The auto-castration scene, for example, is entirely fictional.”

  “Right.”

  “As are the multiple infidelities. In real life there was only one. Although on the other hand it is true that I own a green-handled kitchen knife. It was a wedding present in fact. The script was written by a personal friend so little details like that are bound to pop up. And I guess it is true that my career has yet to take off.”

  Melissa’s eyes are still on the road.

  “Also, I never tried to drop a piano on her. Nor did I trash the apartment, torch the car or strangle the dog. And I would never do that with a cigarette butt. I don’t even smoke.”

  “I thought you hadn’t seen it.”

  “I haven’t. But you pick up bits and pieces.”

  “So . . . what did you do?”

  “When I found out?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I did the dishes.”

  “Wow, that’s fairly fictionalized.”

  “As I say. That’s the magic of Hollywood. Oh, hell, give me the tab.”

  “You sure?”

  “Sure, I’m sure.” She hands me the tab, then pounds the steering wheel. “Wow. I can’t believe it. I’m going to meet Sophie Carlisle! Outta sight! What’s she like?”

  “A lot shorter than she looks on screen.”

  “What else?”

  “She can seem aloof and distant at first. But then if you dig deeper you’ll find that at heart she’s cold and unapproachable.”

  “Maybe I’m asking the wrong person.”

  “I’m just kidding. She’s fine. We’re best mates,
really.” I look at the tab. I put it in my mouth, chew and swallow. Anyway, I’ve never heard of LSD giving you hypertension. “But here we are talking about me. I’m sure you must have a story or two of your own.”

  “Oh, not really.”

  “Come on. I bet you meet all sorts of weird, fascinating characters, plucked straight from the pages of fiction.”

  “Oh, it’s pretty routine really. They come in, they climb on, they get in, they get off, they get out.”

  “Well, what about you, then? Did you have a terrible childhood and a broken home and all that?”

  “No, it was totally middle-class, eh. I suppose my brother was a bit of an arsehole.”

  “What did he do?”

  “Sometimes he used to call me names, and once he drowned my guinea pig. He said it was an accident and he was just trying to give him a bath, but I don’t believe him.”

  “Were you abused as a child?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “So why do you do it?”

  “The money’s good and the hours are short.”

  “But how can you touch the flesh of a stranger? Repeatedly? Experience physical intimacy with someone you don’t even know? Someone who may not even shower regularly? Not to mention the risk of disease?”

  “I’m not squeamish. And of course you take precautions.”

  “God. I can’t imagine it.”

  “But I won’t be in the game much longer. I’m just doing this to tide me over.”

  “Isn’t that what they all say?”

  “Isn’t that what everyone says?” She has a point. “What I really want to do is get into porn.”

  “Don’t aim too high, will you?”

  “I’ve already made a couple of movies. Ernie says if they come out all right I might get a contract.”

  “The very best of British to you.”

  “What’s the matter? Can’t deal with it?”

  “I’m just amazed that you aspire to be a porn actress. You might as well aspire to . . . well . . .”

  “To be a hooker?”

  “Well, yeah. You’ve got a brain. Get a real job.”

  “Ernie says it’s like the circus. We’re all freaks and outcasts. Plus you have to run away to join.”

  “Ernie may have something there.”

  “Anyway, you think I’m weird, what about you?”

  “Excuse me, I think you’re forgetting something.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The customer is always right.”

  She shakes her head. “You’re right, I do meet all sorts of weird characters.”

  We drive in silence for a while. There is no turnoff that says “Disneyland.” I think there should be. Instead, however, we’re looking for South Jubilee Drive. As chief navigator I’m reading the signs as they flick by but I still haven’t seen what we’re looking for. I look at my watch. It’s been an hour and a bit since we left LA.

  “Don’t you think we should be there by now?”

  “Relax.” But Melissa sounds tense.

  Another twenty minutes go by. “Are you feeling anything yet?”

  “I’m fine.” Definitely very tense.

  “Because we really need to get off the freeway before it starts.”

  “I know that. Just watch the signs.” Melissa lights a cigarette.

  “Isn’t this a no-smoking vehicle?”

  “Just watch the signs.” I watch the signs. They’re green signs. Large, flat, round edged. There’s writing on them. White writing. I watch the writing and the signs but I feel that there is something else I should be doing. I realize I haven’t been reading the signs. I’ve just been looking at the signs. I look across. Melissa is staring at the road, hunched forward. A huge 4x4 blasts past. There’s a GOD SAVE AMERICA sticker on the bumper and the stars and stripes flutter stiffly in miniature from the aerial.

  A horn blares.

  “Was that us?” Melissa glances at me and back to the road.

  “I don’t know. I think maybe it was.”

  “We have to pull off.”

  “Which lane are we in?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Is there anything to the right?”

  “No, nothing. Wait!” A long low white sedan cruises by on the inside. It’s unbelievably long. “There’s Bruce again. I think he’s following us.”

  “The lane, Frederick, the lane!”

  “Yes. Now.”

  “Now?”

  “Go!” Melissa swerves right, hits the shoulder, corrects and recovers. God, this is the life. Irresponsible driving in LA! Fact and fiction merge seamlessly. “There! There! The exit! Go! Go! Go!” Melissa takes the exit, edges through a ninety-degree spiral and starts to pull over. My momentary exultation evaporates.

  “That was it? South Jubilee?”

  “I don’t know. I forgot to read the sign. Actually I don’t think I can read anymore.”

  Melissa stops the car. “I don’t think I can drive anymore.” We sit in silence. “Wow, that stuff comes on fast, doesn’t it?”

  I look around. My face feels large and reddish, like one of those giant Doris plums. Wherever we are, it isn’t Disneyland. On the passenger side, right outside my window, is a chain-link fence. On the other side of the fence is waste ground for a few hundred yards, and then the freeway overpass. On Melissa’s side, across the road, is a Red Roof Inn. “Let’s ask at the hotel over there.”

  “I don’t want to drive.”

  “We can’t leave the car here.”

  “I’m not driving.”

  Where is the reckless overconfidence of youth when you need it? “All right, shove over.” It’s simple, I tell myself. I put the car in gear. I start the engine, I . . . no. I start the engine, then I put the car in gear . . . “I can’t do it either.”

  “Oh, shit.”

  “Maybe we should just sit here.”

  “For six hours?”

  “We could listen to the radio.”

  “We’re supposed to be going to Disneyland, not sitting in an empty lot listening to classic hits for six hours.” We lock up the car and cross the road on foot. Fortunately there’s not much traffic.

  I don’t know if the hospitality industry is permitted to Jehovah’s Witnesses, but the guy behind the desk at the Red Roof Inn sure looks like one. He has a white shirt, a name tag and a very short haircut. I can’t read the name tag. I decide to let Melissa do the talking. It’s uncanny how normal she sounds. She sounds so normal I want to scream. She’s asking for directions to Disneyland. The guy comes to the door with us and points down the road. There’s something sinister and wrong about all this. About five hundred yards away is a huge roller-coaster structure silhouetted against the skyline. It’s so huge and obvious I can’t believe we didn’t see it before. I find myself concluding that it must have been built between the time we entered the Red Roof Inn, and the time we left again. How long were we in there?

  “Over there,” says the guy. “Can’t miss it, folks.”

  “Thanks,” says Melissa.

  “You’re welcome, have a nice day.” They actually do say that here. They say it all the time. It’s the worst thing about cliché. The cliché is the reality. The guy goes back inside.

  “Shouldn’t we tip him?”

  “Don’t be silly. Come on.”

  Still, neither of us wants to drive so we decide the car will just have to be okay where it is. It’s very big and blue and it’s hunched over on the side of the road tipped at a crazy angle. Will we ever see it again? We start to walk toward Disneyland. The footpath is wide and safe. The sky is a stonewash-denim blue. At the end of the block we come upon a sign. I can’t read it, but Melissa says it’s the way. We cross the road, turn right and keep walking. There’s a huge wall on our right and from behind comes the sound of bagpipes and snare drums and the hissing of a billion snakes, although I could be wrong about the snare drums.

  We walk on. I look at my watch but I can’t read that either. I
t seems to be telling me a mystic tale of ineffable significance. At long, long last we come to a gate. There is no gatekeeper. That seems to be significant too. We pass through the gate, joining a thin but steady stream of foot traffic. We follow the crowd. They’re all headed the same way. Suddenly it hits me. This is a pilgrimage. People come here from around the world in ritual headgear, thronging to the Happiest Place on Earth. It is here that the essence of the Western dream is realized, that the spiritual and the commercial become one.

  We pay our money at the booth.

  We pass the turnstile.

  We have entered the City of God.

  Melissa looks around. Her eyes are shining. “Oh, man, this is so cool. Let’s go on Space Mountain.” Perfect happiness floods my entire being. I hold Melissa’s hand as she leads me through the ranks of the blessed. We queue. We shuffle. We queue some more. Again we shuffle, again we queue. At length, we enter a long brightly-lit corridor. It seems to be some sort of space station. The people around us are all in baseball caps. They’re younger than us. Their jeans don’t fit and their T-shirts are too big and the girls have too much makeup and they’re spotty, but that’s okay. Everything’s okay. This is the Land of the Free. These people are not American. They’re Polish, Irish, Russian, Lithuanian, Korean. You can see it in their jeans. They’re making the dream happen.