by Jarod Powell
I’m in a nice hotel, homeless but eating well and drinking through interviews for free, as long as I keep talking. And the Redmond Family Church is as marginalized as it always was, the congregation probably only made up of actual blood relatives by now.
I don’t know what will happen if I return to Missouri. I’ve made no attempt to call my family, and they don’t know how to reach me. I’ve considered going to the New York YMCA, or working for the Cult Deprogramming Center (which I hear is owned by the Church of Scientology).
We all pay for our convictions, and I’m surely not done paying for mine. I’m tired of having them and ready to just exist as an apolitical and agnostic human being. However, I’m not exactly sure I can support myself that way. I’ve forgotten how.
DARYL MCADAMS IS A SPECTACLE
The day that Daryl was rushed to the emergency room he said something weird. He was always such a fiery little boy, but on this day he came into the classroom with a lack of energy that your average over-perceptive, moderately maudlin teenager might reach for in tissue-thin hindsight and lazily claim as simple depression, a red marker we all should have recognized.
How could we be so stupid as to overlook such strong foreshadowing? Is the type of thing I hear a lot in the hall ways. Daryl took a little death trip on that day, and disaffected teenage girls lost an idol for a few minutes. Anonymous Daryl with the sexy body and strong, borderline-scary eyes with pupils like UFO’s, they almost lost him. Who gives a fuck.
So anyway what he said I’m not going to say, and I know that may frustrate you as this Tweak Book is supposed to illuminate, but there are things that must be left to context clues because just saying “Open sesame” is both a boring old trick and a dangerous one if you people ever found out that it actually works if you say it to the right door.
What I’ll say is that the whole town gasped when he uttered the words. From his hospital bed, lips chapped blue but eyes still intent on seeing what no one was prepared to see, he said those stupid fucking words. At that moment everyone hated him and themselves.
But nothing really happened, I mean not really. Kids still jumped off merry-go-rounds like trains to get practice for when they’re older. Business casual paroled sex offenders still piled into their call center jobs every morning. Housewives still borrowed their little munchkins’ Adderall so they could vacuum properly. I still felt the same about the town of Hawthorn. I knew what I knew, and now Daryl revealed himself to know what I know.
Basking in the light of both dawn and twilight, and disappearing in the dark of 3a.m. Walking through doors unannounced but invited, breaking antique mirrors on the way in, and gluing them back together on his way out. Nothing changed. But everything was a little more tense in town.
But he looked harder with those eyes of his; he had to. He still served a purpose. If he hadn’t he would be eliminated by my father, the Lucifer of Hawthorn. For there is no such thing as the Antichrist. There is no liason between white light and black light and there never was. There is only choice and, obviously, consequence. Your best bet for survival is to stay in the basement and hold your breath until your eyes swirl to black.
The biggest trick Daddy Redmond pulled on Hawthorn was to convince them that a medium was necessary in the human world, because humans are weak, and stupid. The reality is that the answers and symbols are right in front of your face if you’d just break the spell and see it. And Daddy Redmond is the weakest human of all, the dumb fuck.
So anyway Daryl McAdams said what he said and the only one that swirled into a K-hole was him. His rates dropped substantially and his looks faded considerably as I think Daddy Redmond was feeding him more dope. But still he was useful because he was the only one in town who recognized a good business opportunity when he saw one, and the only one brave enough to risk death to get the gain. His plan was to eject at 18. He accomplished his goal when he got on that bus, but who the fuck knows where he is now—I imagine either living off a trust fund supplied by his rich-ass dad (which I’m sure took a lot of convincing as Toby was tight as hell and did not “believe in handouts” as most Southern men say), or finding a new dad to fund his lifestyle. If anyone is a survivor in this stupid world, It’s Daryl.
FISH OUT OF WATER
The humidity was felt everywhere; there was no escape from it. Not inside the room, even naked. Not in a cold shower, or the pool. Brandon lay in his hotel bed, staring at the air conditioning unit. Ignoring what felt like tiny scalpels digging up from under his skin, he focused his energy on the air conditioner, glaring at it, fantasizing that the dial went higher.
He didn’t know the town well enough to score on his own, but he thought about calling his cousin, who was local and had no idea Brandon was in town. What a pleasant surprise it’d be for him, he rationalized. Ricky would knock on the door and hug Brandon’s sweaty body, and in the embrace he’d feel the twitching from under the skin. Good God, Son, you are ill!, he’d say, And off they’d go. Brandon could go completely underground for a few days, then maybe grab his guitar and play a show with some bar’s shitty house band. With name recognition, he’d make a couple-hundred bucks, or a grand, and live in the Hilton. Maybe he could make it last for the rest of his life with no one noticing.
Lou is no doubt blowing up Brandon’s silent cell at this very moment, two missed calls away from dialing Inside Edition.
Being an agent is probably the worst job in the world, and only dickheads like Lou are qualified. Brandon has not made Lou any money in some months, since agreeing to do the commercial for a discontinued Japanese energy drink called Wa Pow![tm], a name which was neither Japanese or English, but sounded vaguely like it could be both. The room at the Memphis Hilton in which Brandon is now staying is being paid for with the check from the Wa Pow! commercial.
If you did not know for sure, you would say that the room was trashed on purpose. There were burger wrappers and makeshift ashtrays and a malicious smell. Vomit was on the walls and prescription bottles littered the nightstand and the floor beneath, sad and empty, arranged like bowling pins. The room was in disarray roughly 10 minutes after Brandon checked in. Anyone who caught a glimpse of it would think it used up and abandoned – the ghetto of the Memphis Hilton.
You would think a public figure would be getting calls to the room. No one he knew had any clue where he was, but celebrities – including Brandon, in his heyday – often get borderline harassing calls from the front desk. Do you need anything? Towels? A refilled refrigerator? Would you sign a DVD for my niece? He was never annoyed by the calls, and extremely depressed at the silence.
Of course, he had silenced his own phone, at which he could not bear to look. At least a hundred calls from Lou, a few from a publicist handpicked by Lou and whose name always escaped Brandon (he was entered in the phone simply as “pub”), and the nightly calls from various L.A. scene kids he gave his number to while he was stoned.
The silence swirled. It hovered around the oscillating fan Brandon grabbed from a convenience store.
He had never watched the celebrity infotainment shows when he was a legitimate celebrity. They do not report on celebrities’ personal lives, they report on celebrities’ personas. Brandon had no problem with this. There is no such thing as the celebrity invasion of privacy – every interview a famous person gives, every “candid” with a paparazzo, every scandal was crafted by either a rival publicist, or the celebrity themselves. Extramarital affairs exist, but with the consent of the “jilted” spouse. Living this dream theater was amusing to Brandon, until The National Enquirer started printing very true things about Brandon’s personal life.
Brandon Bennett the actor has a drug problem and so does Brandon Bennett the man.
Persona-less and mortal Brandon Bennett, snapped in rehab looking bloated and decidedly unattractive. Sold out by a real person.
And so the television was on for about five minutes, enough time to catch an update on one of those infotainment shows about Brandon Bennett the actor e
scaping rehab, scaling the wall in a dramatic fashion, mimicking one of his dead grunge heroes. He could have simply signed himself out, But Brandon the Actor wasn’t done playing with them yet. When it was time to say goodbye to Brandon the Actor, there would be no more media trickery. He would be dead or working in a factory or bar--dead to the West Coast and alive to real people. Everything about both Brandons was pathologically narcissistic in that way, exaggerating their importance or notoriety. L.A. incubates this mental illness. It’s what has kept the city from falling in on itself, like the worst kind of alcoholic sorority slut.
He was not surprised to find his socialite “girlfriend” speaking to the nondescript blonde reporter-slash-underwear model and former beauty queen.
The Socialite was pleading for Brandon The Actor’s safe return, that where ever you may be, Brandon, please don’t use and tell us where you are. Like totally. I just want to know that you are safe.
As soon as the Socialite finished speaking on television, there was a dainty knock on Brandon’s door.
“No more towels, thank you.”
“It’s me, you fucking idiot.” The Socialite.
“…The fuck is ‘me’?” He knew.
“Shut up.”
Brandon checked his greasy hair, took off his shirt and flexed, then went to the door.
The Socialite stood there, gaunt, blonde, with a pouty scowl, wearing sunglasses that were way too big and probably way too expensive.
“You look like shit,” she said.
“Please, come in,” he said, grinning. “Can I offer you a cigarette?” She accepted it. The hotel, which belonged to a chain owned by her family, had a strict no-smoking policy. “How did you get in without being recognized?”
“I’m in Memphis, you hick,” she snapped. “Can I ask what the fuck you’re doing here?”
“You can,” Brandon said calmly. “What might you be doing here?”
“I’m saving your ass, is what I’m doing.”
“Okay.” Brandon laid back and grabbed his crotch suggestively. “You know what to do.”
The Socialite laughed. “Take a shower, get your shit, we’re leaving.”
“I’m not leaving.”
“Yes, you are.”
“No, I’m not.”
This went on for about ten minutes, with The Socialite and Brandon Bennett the Man arguing, each speaking in a different language, The Socialite getting lost in translation. She reasoned that not only was he fucking up his career, she was being fucked over by him. If they broke up, what would become of him? A child star following the beaten path, a fucking loser. She was his way back up and she came all the way to bum fuck Memphis, after all, are you kidding me, Brandon? My body is rejecting this place as we speak. This in itself is a sacrifice.
Brandon the Actor coaxed The Socialite into giving up her cocaine by leading her to believe he would be leaving with her. He stuck the baggie down the front of his jeans, and stalled for a little while.
Then he threw her out.
He got out his laptop and started typing what started out as a joke. Celebrity suicides are no joke, as they make Hollywood journalists and hangers-on a lot of money and pretty much mold their careers from clay.
The first ever mass e-mailed suicide note.
So he looked at his cell phone for the first time in two days, to find Lou’s e-mail address. He found it and a few others’ and then crushed the cell phone under his hiking boot.
By the time the suicide note was read by the first set of eyes, Brandon Bennett had already left the hotel and re-gifted his Porsche to a nearby ditch. He was not inside on impact.
He took the Amtrak to the closest small town with a depot, picked up a penny saver paper, and used half of his remaining cash to buy a used white Bronco off some guy’s lawn. Brandon Bennett the Man headed to Southwest Missouri.
He stopped at the Wal-Mart just outside Hawthorn to pick up some essentials: A quart of orange juice, a bottle of cherry cough syrup, condoms, a toothbrush. The checkout girl was eyeing him in a strange way, presumably because of the condoms. It was not a sexual glare or especially intruding, but it occurred to Brandon that he should address it.
“How ya’ doin’,“ he said, nodding.
“You don’t remember me,” the checkout girl said flatly. Brandon frantically went through many subconscious filing cabinets. “It’s okay, it’s been awhile. You’ve seen much more excitement than memory serves, I’m sure.”
Brandon extended his hand. “Brandon Bennett.”
“Wendy Lewis.” She fidgeted inside a shopping bag, and shook hands with Brandon Bennett the Actor.
“Home Room, Eighth Grade.”
“Right.”
“You look a lot like your brother,” Wendy said.
“I’m the oldest! He looks like me.”
Wendy’s courtesy laugh.
“So, Wendy, you got a break coming up?”
“Nope. I’m off in fifteen minutes.”
At the end of Wendy’s shift, Brandon drove to the outskirts of the parking lot and fucked Wendy in his white Bronco. He drove her home, and ended up staying the night.
When he left at about noon, she asked for his number, and he told her the truth, that his phone broke. She didn’t believe him, but she didn’t seem too upset about it. When he saw that she didn’t care, he wrote down his number anyway, and placed it in her jewelry box while she wasn’t looking.
He arrived at his parents’ farm in Hawthorn at about 5:30 p.m., Wednesday, the day before Thanksgiving. As he got out of his Bronco, he studied the landscape. Everything was the same. Same old manure smell, same huge, boxy house. Same Ten Commandments display out front. The grass was grotesquely green. Everything was bright, clean and perfect. The cedar siding had fresh stain on it, the decorations were strategically placed around the yard, and not one of them was crooked, not even slightly purposely skewed.
He had always felt like this place was cut off from the rest of the world. This place was too sanitized to house actual human beings. It always reminded him of those classic family sitcoms he was forced to sit through as a kid. It seemed almost like this place had been preserved in a giant, air-tight Tupperware bowl. Everything is controlled. People need a little misery in their lives.
That’s what Brandon thinks, anyway.
From the looks of the driveway, people besides Brandon were staying at the house. That made him nervous. He didn’t want to go in. He stood on the top wooden step about six inches from the door, giving it that spacey gaze he gets when he’s deep in thought, which happens less with each passing year.
Finally, he knocked on the painted steel three times. He waited for what seemed like five minutes for someone to answer. He knew better than to just go inside. He wasn’t a part of this household anymore; In fact, he was supposed to be dead.
The door swung open and his mom, who at fifty still looked thirty-five, stood before him. Her auburn hair was curled and sprayed to a stiff, perfect mold. She had an expression that was somewhere between a grin and a grimace. Whatever it was, it looked weird and forced.
“Brandon,” She said in typical dramatic fashion, trailing off before fainting.
His father told Brandon to stay put while they brought his mother to, right before he shut the door in his face. He heard them speaking quietly, calmly, reasoning, but couldn’t figure out what they were saying.
Finally, the door opened.
The inside of the home was completely different than it was three years ago. It was spotless, as always. But the walls were a different color, and the country bumpkin knick- knacks had all been changed.
Brandon focused on the walls, on the windows, and avoided eye contact with anyone. He was uncomfortable beyond words. His mother put her hand across his back, onto his shoulder, and without words, gently guided him to the den.
“Brandon, you remember Aunt Vida, Uncle Peter,” She said with wide eyes.
“Of course. How are you?” Brandon said in a monotone voice.
“Oh honey, I’m doin’ all right for an old woman,” She said. She seemed barely awake, and definitely ancient. Brandon’s generally accurate guess was ninety years old. Maybe older. Her blank look suggested she had never heard of him or his movie career.
“Where’s Chris?” Brandon asked his mother.
“He’s at work,” She said in a forced, spirited, hopeful voice.
She looked at Brandon with awe, as if she could not believe he was there. It confused him, as he was certain that even if his fake death had been posted on the internet (and it would not get past Lou and his band of minions for days), his family would probably be the last people on Earth who would see it.