“How may I help you, Sir?” he says in a thick British accent.
Mr. Snake slaps him across the mouth.
“Don’t ask stupid questions, Sigourney!”
He is slapped again, and I take a step back, hiding a little behind Polly, who just stands there, emotionless.
This Mr. Snake person raises a stiff finger in front of Sigourney’s eyes, asks him if he wants another – for his own good. The waiter says Yes, with a tear, and braces his face.
SLAP!
The waiter nods, dramatically.
“Yessm. I love it.”
Mr. Snake takes him by the shoulders and looks into his eyes, passionately.
“Now I want you to listen to me very carefully. I care for you. And I want you to go into the kitchen and make me and my friends here a tiny cake, and then I want you to make yourself a tiny cake and urinate on it, and you’re going to eat it because I tell you to. And you will love it. I care for you so much. This is for your own good. Discipline is radical. You understand, don’t you? I know you do. Later, I command you to ejaculate into the tiny cake and feed it to a hungry whore, and then look at her. Hrmm, I know she’s here somewhere. Moped?? Moped, where are you, love!? On the toilet, maybe? You better be.”
The waiter blinks a tear.
“I think she’s massaging out a stool, sir.”
Mr. Snake stuffs a dollar into Sigourney’s mouth and SLAPS him a heavy one, knocking him back toward the kitchen.
“You make my mouth happy!” Sigourney cries.
He disappears behind a wall.
Mr. Snake wipes the sweat from his brow and turns to us, surprised.
“I’m sorry you had to see that. You know how waiters get. The help like it when you hit them every now and then: Their anger makes them feel special. Heehaw!”
I want to slap him a good one of my own. And then scream into his face: “HOW DOES IT FEEL – HUH! HOW DOES IT FEEL!!” But I don’t, because he’s much bigger than me (he looks like a drugged-out, Samoan Santa). Polly points to the waiting crowd in the living room.
“How much have you so far?”
Mr. Snake cracks his neck.
“The crew has been organized…everyone’s here and ready to blow.”
We walk down the hallway. I have no idea where to, and I’m too afraid to ask. I keep my mind level by thinking about my pay and my splendid future-condo in Waikiki.
A row of 5 girls, age 18 by the looks of it, wrapped in black towels, sit in chairs with their legs crossed, reading Fangoria Magazine, their hair being worked on by what I can only assume to be make-up artists.
I can’t hear what Polly and this Mr. Snake are yakking about – I’m trailing a little too far behind them and I begin to panic. I walk past a room and catch a glimpse of two obese, naked Hawaiian men sitting on the foot of a bed, licking the other’s face, madly: I remember clearly, against my will, the waving of their arm flab.
Past another door: children are jumping up and down on a clean bed. A balding, adult-woman in a red leotard laughs along with them, clapping her hands to a made-up beat. I can only assume this to be some kind of desperate nursery.
I stop to stare into the bathroom.
It’s dark inside, but I can make out the outline of a human-female, sleeping in the tub, clear curtain obscuring her face. She doesn’t move…yet her breasts are not still.
Afraid that I may have discovered a cracked-out, bye-bye whore, I speed-walk after Polly.
Bad insanity.
Children’s toys litter the hallway: Yellow Tonka Construction Trucks, Barbie dolls with their heads replaced by giant crayons, an autographed picture of Adam Sandler addressed to someone named “Toots”, a toy rat, a jump rope still in its packaging, a baseball bat covered in peanut butter, a shirt stitched to pants that’s stitched to a pair of white shoes, and toy babies. Training bras cover some toys. At the end of this long hallway is an unusually tall pile of used panties. I begin to wonder where all the man-briefs are. There’s a full body mirror, too. But I walk on by, not daring to look at myself in it.
Stepping over a discarded pink shampoo bottle, we enter a fake room – fake walls, fake TV, fake couch, fake ceiling, fake ceiling fan, fake windows, and a fake floor. I notice a bathroom and wonder if the toilet inside is real. I’m afraid to move. I don’t know what’s going on, or what’s going to happen to me. I can feel eyes on me, although there is no one else in the room with us. I’m getting The Fever again. God, help me. I’m now a cinematographer – at least very soon I will be. Responsibility responsibility responsibility. Am I ready for this responsibility? What if I fail? What if they hate my work? What will these alien apes do to me?
Oh, Jesus…
Will they rape?
MAN UP!
Will I vomit?
MAN UP!
Am I even attractive enough to be raped?
MAN UP!
I’m so sensitive.
MAN UP!
I want to be raped by a beautiful woman.
MAN UP!
Shhh. Calm down, child. Relax. Take a laxative. Nothing bad will happen. Here – sit down with them on the bed. Nod your head, constantly, as they chat. See? Nothing bad is happening. Nothing bad WILL happen. The glass is half full, not half empty. Yesssssm, just nod your head. Nice. You’re wonderful. You’re doing so well.
MAN UP!
Don’t listen to him. You’re doing great. Remember this: They just want to make some money. That’s their goal – that’s why they’re here. You’re all on the same boat. The good ship Lollypop.
Polly and Mr. Snake look at me.
“Well?” one of them says.
I stop shaking my head. Who said what now? Don’t panic. Just look into their eyes and say something positive.
“Yessm.”
Mr. Snake explains that we should go over the script before we begin to plan the shots. I agree and he walks off, briskly, in a gay way. My right arm hurts. I poopoo it sometimes playing darts – practicing at Hawaiian Brian’s from 6-12am, preparing for Play-Offs.
I feel nauseous.
My brain wants to vomit.
Polly asks if I’m okay.
I tell her I have a witch in my belly and that the witch hates me and she hurts me and my head hurts. “I have two owees.” She hands me a bottle of some kind of prescription medication for my headache and walks out to get me a glass of water.
Watching her leave, I worry immediately that I may find something nasty in my water.
The red bottle in my hand reads: Take one pill rectally, by mouth.
I sigh and fall back on the bed.
Just let me close my eyes for a minute.
When I open my eyes, I forget where I am and make a pathetic, chirping sound. The lights hurt my eyes. I realize where I am and BOLT UP. Was I touched, sexually? Was I felt up in a sexy way? I check my body for any weird marks.
Nothing.
Oh, good, God. Good.
There’s no one else in the room.
I guess I’m okay. If anyone did molest me, better have been a woman. Or at least a girl. A pretty Canadian girl with blond hair and skinny muscles.
I look down at a fluffy pillow on my right. There’s a bloody tissue on it. I pick it up with a raised pinky. Who does this belong to?
Who was in here?
Voices in the hallway. I throw the blood-covered tissue behind the bed and sit up straight with my hands in my lap.
Mr. Snake and Polly walk in, laughing. They both hold screenplays. Polly waves at me and they sit on the bed.
“Good. You’re up,” she says, patting my back. “Very good.”
Mr. Snake also pats my back.
“Yes, very good. How have ye been, my son? Good?” he asks, smiling. “Very good.”
“I’m fine. When do I start work?”
They both laugh.
Mr. Snake hands me his copy of the script.
“First we read, Rubs. First we read. Thou should know better, right? Polly
told me about your experiences in the filmmaking community. You’ve even directed a little, no?”
“Yessm.”
“Good times, Yessm?”
“No.” I rub my eyes. “Well, sometimes yessm. When no one asks questions.”
Mr. Snake stands up and gives out a Santa-like laugh: “Hohoho! Tell me about it. I won’t interrupt.”
“This one time I was filming in a friend’s bathroom and – ”
“Sorry to interrupt, but we should really get to work.” He puts his hands on his hips. “Let’s read though this magnificent piece of literature together. Polly, thou can begin.”
“Yessm. Very good…” She stands up next to Mr. Snake and puts on her 1950-ish glasses and squints at the first page. She nibbles on a pen. I raise my hand.
“About 100 people choke to death on ballpoint pens each year. Careful.”
She just smiles at me and scratches my head. I blush.
Polly cleans her throat, then reads.
“My Sexy Wheelchair: The True Story of Gina Hwerty” FADE IN. Bathroom. Day. A young woman in wheelchair ENTERS. She is naked. She readies herself to sit on toilet. This is Gina Hwerty. There is a knock on the door. Open door. Man walks in dressed as priest. (changed to naked man) She loves him. He tells her secrets of the church. Church mafia charges in. They kill them. Gina is chopped into little pieces and is flushed down the toilet while gay mobsters rub tongues. The End. Roll credits.”
Mr. Snake claps.
“That’ll do, pig. That’ll do.”
I flip through the rest of the screenplay.
“So what’s all this other stuff?”
“The sex scenes that go into the story. Everything takes place in the bathroom. It’s arty. Unlike all the other pornographic films I have directed, “My Sexy Wheelchair: The True Story of Gina Hwerty” will be filmed exactly as written!”
I thumb a random page that describes – in amazing detail – a sex scene that involves the two main characters in strange, sexual positions while sitting on the toilet. Every detail is noted: French kissing, where hands go, how the feet are seen, eyes open or closed, moans, no moans, and so on and so on.
Mr. Snake reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a cheeseburger.
“I have a cheeseburger in my back pocket.”
He then reaches back and produces a bottle of water with a picture of an angry snake on it. He takes a mighty sip and yells out:
“Everyone to the set!”
He holds out his hand and pulls me to my feet.
“This shouldn’t take long, my son. Excited? I know I am. Now excuse me while I kiss the sky.”
He makes to walk away, but I have an important question.
“Can I see the camera?”
“Sure, it’s over there in that stained box.”
“Thank you. Oh! And about the shots…”
“One long take, my son. I want the DePalma-effect to be in full…er…effect!”
“Ah, yessm. Very good.”
I walk over and open the box. There is the stench of day-old Chinese noodles. I reach into the white beads of Styrofoam and pull out the camera. It is a Sony PD100. The same camera I used to film my horror movie, The Nundead.
The camera is in perfect working condition, except for the missing lens-cap.
Feet can be heard charging down the hallway. A group of five people run into the room, breathless. Mr. Snake walks up to them and gives them a few words which I cannot hear. Soon after, three of them, all women in their mid-30s, walk up to me and introduce themselves. These will be my gofers (go-for-this, go-for-that) for the night: There’s Dina, a chronic smoker with fiery red hair and a heavy Irish accent and thick bags under her eyes; Sharon, Japanese but speaks with a Canadian accent with a left leg that can’t stop twitching; and Bethany, a skinny, pasty girl that only speaks when spoken to. Her mouth is always open.
Mr. Snake calls everyone’s attention and directs all to set the scene.
As I check the settings on the camera, making sure the color balance and focus are set, I spy on the other two people: These are the main actors, Joann and Tim. They stand before Mr. Snake, dressed in kimonos. The director points at the script then points at them, and the actors nod their heads Yessm Yessm Yessm.
A second later, an elderly woman zooms in on a motorized wheelchair and parades around the room while everyone cheers. She looks to be 80-sh. Mr. Snake yells out: “Welcome, Lady Rainbow!”
This is apparently the old woman’s name. She parks and hops out from the chair, responding in kind.
“Greetings, King Popx!”
Sexually charged images of geriatric love thunders into my mind and I let loose a shudder. Bethany, untangling some electrical wires, asks if I’m okay. I tell her, “I’m just cold, on the inside.”
Lady Rainbow goes to leave, but Mr. Snake encourages her to stay and “Enjoy the show”. Joann takes off her kimono and sits on the wheelchair, naked. Tim disrobes as well and gets behind the wheelchair, braiding her hair as Mr. Snake explains the scene.
My heart quickens. I try not to look at her nakedness. This is a working environment. Surprisingly, the sight of her does not excite me – although she is extremely gorgeous. It’s because of all the people here, I know it. And thank God. I must focus on the task at hand!
I feel professional, and smile.
Adult film stars are amazing. I have nothing but total respect for them. They have mastered their insecurities. How hard it would be to shut down that part of our mind that judges us and makes our lives a living dread?
Joann examines the chair.
“I’ve always hated people in wheelchairs. They look so irritating – thinking that they’re so special in their little go-carts. I wonder how these things work? Magic, maybe?”
Joann fools around with the chair’s controls and bolts forward with a horrifying shriek. “Waaaaaaaaaa!” She stops suddenly, and then inches forward in tiny jerks before stopping completely.
She hops out of the chair and Tim hugs her.
“Why! Why! Why, Tim! I almost died! Oh, sweet Jesus! He’s so sweet!”
“Shhh! You’re safe now, baby.”
He kicks the chair.
“Take that, fucker!”
She kicks it, too.
“I hate you so much right now!”
She happens to make eye contact with me and I look away immediately, setting the camera onto the cheap, plastic tripod. Does she find me attractive? If we got together, would we be a happy couple? And how would our kids turn out, I wonder.
Would they be retarded?
Mr. Snake walks up to me and explains that we’ll be shooting the whole movie in order, because that’s how Kurosawa did his movies. Then he walks off and consoles his actress, who is crying in a maniacal way.
“That chair is the devil! Linda Blair’s in that motorized wheelchair! Sweet Jesus, you’re so sweet!”
“Calm door, my love, please calm down. Linda Blair isn’t even in the house today. And she’s a wonderful actress. Remember Repossessed?”
“Uh huh…”
“She did so well in that film. Do you think Linda Blair would be acting the way you’re acting now?”
“I guess you're right.” She sniffles and smiles. “There’s no evil presence in this wheelchair, is there?”
Mr. Snake brushes her hair. “Of course not.”
They hug, and Joann sits in the chair in a merry fashion. She giggles and begins clapping and hopping up and down.
“Clapping! Clapping!”
I hide behind the camera’s flip-out monitor and say under my breath:
“Good Lord, it’s worse than that time I tried to name my penis.”
Bathroom.
I sat on the bare, cold floor, in the nude, my legs crossed with a towel wrapped around my head, crossing names off a notepad.
“…Sassafras. Er, naw, sounds too close to Sissy. Let’s see now… The Corrupter? No, too Asian… Scary Pillow? What? Too religious. Male Vagina? I
don’t remember writing that…or do I? Hmm… Anyway, what’s this here? Dongalinger… Hrmm, NOW we’re on to something. Yessm, I christen thee penis DONGALINGER.”
I pressed play on a tape recorder of people clapping and cheering. I closed the notepad, and kissed it.
“Love like I love, feel like I feel.”
And then I ate the notepad.
After I finish with the camera and all the monitors have been set up, I walk over to the director and tell him we’re all ready to go. He says that I’ve done a good job, and tickles me under my chin and gives me a candy, and then tells everyone to get in their "Places, friends".
Joann readies herself in the wheelchair.
Mr. Snake sits in his director’s chair, which is not labeled DIRECTOR, but SNAKE. He brings his hands to his mouth.
“Roll camera! And…ACTION!”
Joann flicks on the wheelchair’s motor. It hummmmmmms and she is obviously disturbed, looking to Mr. Snake, who smiles at her brightly and signals her to sally forth. She smiles back, wearily, and jerks forward with her medium-sized breasts jiggling. Even from where I am, I can hear her beg under her breath, in a shaky voice, “…Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, hey, Jesus…”
She comes to the bathroom door and opens it with her foot. She flicks on the light, with her foot.
“I want to urinate.”
She says it depressingly.
My face crinkles. Something inside me says Acting=Not good. I look over to see if Mr. Snake shares my feelings. But he just sits there, all smiles. I get back to the job at hand and plant my eyes onto the monitor.
Joann’s chair zooms toward the toilet. Stops suddenly. She lifts the lid and makes to elevate herself off the chair.
Tim raps his knuckles against a wall and I’m surprised that there has been a naked man standing behind me the whole time.
Joann looks up, large-eyed.
“Who is there?”
I don’t recall any dialogue in the script. They’re ad-libbing. Are these words actually coming out? Did Snake coach them on their ad-libs? Every director does; deep down they’re all wanna-be actors.
Tim stands in the doorway.
“Ye has caressed my surgically-implanted cow heart. Thank you for being with me that scary day. I was scared. I look at you now and I miss you so much and I want to touch you in a sexy way. Maybe even that part of you which is paralyzed.”
“Understood. Oh, lover, please exit! When I see you my eyes hurt, on the inside. Ye words have fallen on blind ears.”
Tim raises a finger into the air and says as his buttocks jiggle, “Try and stop thee!”
Aloha Mannequins Page 7