by Nick Cole
Standing on the curb, the Great Director felt numb, oblivious to the alarm bells from the casinos washing over the eerie post-gun-battle silence. The big man was helping Harry to sit up and move to the curb, while Harry’s wife wept with happiness and babbled without shame.
“I’ve got to get going!” exploded the Great Director suddenly.
“I know what ya mean,” agreed the big man with a hearty rumble and generous laugh. “My mother always taught me to never let your right hand know what your left is doing.”
“Uh-huh,” acknowledged the Great Director, turning to stumble off in a randomly chosen direction.
With two great strides the big man was right alongside the Great Director, introducing himself.
“I’m John. Big John most people call me; don’t know why though!” He roared with delight at his own joke and pounded the Great Director on the back with a meaty paw.
“Just got in from Alaska, lost a fortune at the tables already. What the hell though, I can always make more. My granny taught me that one, she said, ‘Don’t worry about the money, we can always make more.’ Then again, she did go to the pokey for counterfeitin’. But it was good advice nonetheless. Sure was brave of you to save that guy.”
“Thanks,” replied the Great Director weakly.
Adrenaline was beginning to flee his body and the Great Director began to shake. He couldn’t feel his feet, and at the same time, a gray mist began to iris toward the center of his vision.
“I was watching you and I said to myself, ‘Self, there’s a guy who’s gonna get run over.’ So… figured you didn’t deserve to get killed just trying to help and all, so I asked that guy in the car to stop there. Where ya headed?”
“I… ummm… don’t know… I, uh…” he replied, hearing his voice as if from down a distant corridor.
“You don’t look so hot,” stated Big John matter-of-factly.
“… don’t feel so great.”
“Stop for a second. Put your head between your knees.”
The Great Director stopped and did as he was told. Around them people rushed to the scene of the battle, hoping to see the show while bells and whistles continued to bleat and shriek for attention and money.
“Better?” asked Big John after a moment.
“Yeah,” replied the Great Director, letting a long string of drool drop from his mouth and stretch to the cement below.
“Where ya headed?” asked Big John again.
“I really don’t know. I just quit my job.” His vision began to open up and now his shoes didn’t look so far away.
“I’m going to Corvallis, Oregon. If ya want a lift to parts in between, or all the way, then I’d enjoy the company.”
“Right,” said the Great Director, standing up, his face red from the rushing blood. “I’ll take it.”
They walked to an immense parking structure located behind a casino. Big John did not ask if the Great Director had a hotel to check out of, bags to pick up, or belongings to claim. He seemed like a man who lived out of his pockets, carrying what he needed, no more, no less, his only luxury being the green sea-bag in the trunk of a rented Lincoln Town Car.
An hour later they were headed up the north road out of Las Vegas. They drove into the falling night, stopping once for five burgers and four orders of fries, of which the Great Director finished one of each and Big John finished the rest. They made their way north and west, the number of oncoming headlights steadily dwindling until it was a rare occasion to see a car barrel past them on some late night errand. At times, Big John drove like a mule-skinner, at others he seemed complacent, allowing the car to drift gently down the long ribbon of road, the most minor of adjustments made by his tree branch-like index finger.
Big John wore a red flannel shirt and brand new jeans. Lumberjack, cast the Great Director; from his large darkly stained work boots to his gigantic jowly face and sandy hair, every feature was a casting director’s call for a broadly drawn character needed to sell paper towels or other big bulk items up to the tough tasks life demanded be filled by chain grocery stores. And he talked. In fact, he talked a lot. He talked about how he lived and worked in Alaska, how he started out as a fishing boat cook, made it to captain of his own vessel, and quit to run a bar in Anchorage. After that, he worked as a fishing guide pilot, flying wealthy businessmen into the bush to catch fish and camp. He talked of storms and box canyons and the one, the many ones, that got away. He spoke of full moon nights in the pines where grizzlies would amble right up to the campfire and steal the pink roasting flesh of a large king salmon straight from the spit.
“Can you believe that?” roared John with a hearty guffaw.
Yes, the Great Director could, and did.
Big John said there was something in the breeze of a Sunday morning in Alaska—how it moved up the side of a mountain, rushing through the pines, cleaning you out and making you feel lonely for a home you hadn’t seen in years. He didn’t have a home anymore; hadn’t been back since his brother died in the Army.
“I’m sorry,” said the Great Director. “In the war?”
“No. Run over by a train.” After that, Big John was silent for a long time, letting the car drift through the last hours of darkness before dawn. The Great Director could see the face of the big man by the blue-green light of the dashboard. It was heavy with a fatigue beyond this night journey.
When the morning sun was just above the horizon, they stopped at a diner and purchased more burgers, and as soon as Big John had a mouthful of meat, with the big car easing back out onto the interstate blacktop, he began to talk again. He talked about the Copper River and how it was so dangerous—several men each year died working the rushing, boulder-tossed water. He talked about the foam and the spray and the treacherous currents that yielded up the restaurant-prized Copper River salmon.
The Great Director listened to tales of survival and struggle, wondering if he too could catch fish, cook his own meal over a campfire in a cast-iron skillet, sleep under a blanket of stars on a cold night, and not get killed by bears. He dared to dream of the ultimate escape from Hollywood: an escape into a wilderness where THEY could not follow him.
“You know,” began Big John as they neared Corvallis. “If you’re looking for a new life, you could come to Anchorage and I’ll set you right up. You look like a handy guy to have around.”
“I do?”
“Yes sir. From the moment I saw ya, after I thought you were going to get run over. I said to myself, ‘Self, there’s a man that could make it in Alaska.’”
“Really?” asked the Great Director.
“Yep. Drop you off in Corvallis. I’ve got to sweep my brother’s grave and see the last of my family. Then I can meet ya there, or get a car so we can meet up at SeaTac and then head on up to Anchorage.”
They parted at a rental car agency in Corvallis, where Big John rented a car for him. They shook hands and agreed to meet at the airport on the following morning. As the Great Director drove away, he looked in his rearview mirror. He saw the big man waving and smiling his boyish grin, standing at the edge of the parking lot among the rental trailers and potholes full of rainwater. Above, gray clouds threatened more of the same.
Maybe, thought the Great Director. Maybe.
He drove north through the remainder of Oregon and reached Portland, the city of roses. He thought about a girl he once knew who had been to Portland, or was from there, or somehow ended up there. He could not remember which, but as he crossed the bridge over the Columbia River, he wondered what had become of her. After that, the long and rainy afternoon was spent driving through the darkening woods of southern Washington.
He decided to stop in Olympia for the night, reasoning he would be close enough to Seattle to make it to the airport in the morning, but far enough away to avoid notice if THEY were watching the airports and surrounding locales. Undoubtedly, TH
EY were looking for him, and the casino robbery in Las Vegas had surely attracted THEIR attention. The police would want to talk to him, the man who had administered CPR in the middle of a firefight. They’d be checking the security cameras looking for him, obtaining a description. Warning bells would go off now that he was not available for questioning. If the authorities got a description, it was only a matter of time before some enterprising hound connected the dots to a missing Hollywood director. They would be on his trail in no time. But, he countered, could THEY track him after such a long cross country drive?
There were a million ways of being found. Phones, pictures, security cameras, news outlets, fans, gossips, police, private investigators, bounty hunters, credit cards, relatives, friends, psychologists, therapists—the list was endless. Hollywood had armies of people watching every potential source of information, for information was power, and THEY were indeed powerful.
He checked into a cheap hotel, the kind rented by the week and located near the downtown area. Back in the early part of the last century, Olympia had been a thriving hub of government and commerce at the end of Puget Sound, but now it was a sleepy little place, not ever to be mistaken for a metropolis. He dropped his bag near the flimsy room door. The space was Spartan-looking, circa 1970. The general color was lime, and from the two diamond-shaped lamps at either side of the bed to the bedspread with tiny lime-colored starbursts, everything had been stamped, and in some cases drowned, with the color. Where there was no lime, there was vanilla milkshake white.
An hour or so later, on a dark and rainy night, he wandered out into the streets and found the little Turkish coffeehouse where Death would shortly come for him.
***
In the coffeehouse the phone rang. In back, someone picked up the receiver and answered in a low hushed tone that the caller had just reached “The Oasis.” Death strode purposefully on and sat down at a table close to the Great Director, slumped his shoulders, arched his back, and leaned his scythe against the wall. With a groan he pulled off his mask and exclaimed, “Phew. It’s hot in there!”
“How are rehearsals going?” asked the patron already seated at the table, looking up over his wire-rimmed spectacles from a book among many he was studying.
“Oh, you know,” answered Death. “‘Spirit, it is you I fear most.’ Then it’s just me, standing there. I’m really having trouble finding the character arc of Death. Death doesn’t have a lot of emotions to play. Is he sad about being the Grim Reaper? He doesn’t show it. Is he angry? Happy? What? I don’t know.” Death sighed in frustration. “All I do is point. Y’know, Death’s answer to most situations is to point. And you know why that is?”
“Why?” asked the reader.
“Because that’s what he does. My only guess is that if he starts up a conversation, he’s screwed. Someone might talk their way out of it, and if that was to happen, what with the internet and all, then everybody would be talking their way out of death.”
“You could always quit the play,” offered the reader.
“What, and give up show business?”
Death and the reader laughed.
When the Great Director realized the Grim Reaper had not come to carry away his soul to the nether regions, he laughed, a little, and then continued to eat his date mamul. He had been sure Death had come for him. After the casino robbery and all the fleeing, hounded by his constant thoughts of mortality, he was sure there was no escape. Even if Death had to come for him personally. His body was crashing from lack of sleep, fear of death, and multiple adrenaline rushes. But he was going to live.
“Yes,” he whispered. “I’m going to turn over a new leaf. No more soft Southern California breezes for me. No more perfect days with so-called perfect people. No more palm trees and martinis. I’m going to Alaska. I’m going to really live, out there, on the edge. On my own.”
He took a small sip of Turkish coffee.
A large bite of the date mamul.
This is the beginning of the rest of my life, he thought.
“It’s for you,” said the owner of the café, a Middle Eastern man with a clean-shaven face who tapped him gently on the shoulder, holding out a cordless telephone. The Great Director stared at him. Who knew he was here?
He took the receiver and listened.
“Yes?” he said hesitantly into the phone.
Every eye in the café was on him.
He had been found.
He had to go back.
He listened a little longer and then mumbled a whispered, “Okay.” He hung up, put his head in his hands, and began to cry. After a moment, a young girl with long brown hair, wearing blue jeans and a paisley frock, came and sat next to him. She put his head on her shoulder and covered his face.
He sobbed into her.
She smelled of jasmine.
She told him it would be okay.
Not now.
Not soon.
But eventually, it would be okay.
She held him, rocking him slowly back and forth.
They gave him a box of date mamuls and drove him to the quiet airport to be picked up by a private jet. The people of Olympia are like that. They will take care of you. They are good that way. Maybe it has something to do with the rain.
Chapter Four
Non-Fat Decaf Therapuccino
“So what would you like to talk about then?” began Dr. Mandelbaum.
“My dad never played catch with me. No one loves me. I really want to be a musician, or a librarian, I can’t decide. I get sad when I pass a department store at Christmas and once I kissed my cousin, who is a girl by the way. Take your pick. If you don’t like any those I have many, many more.”
So this is what it comes down to, thought the Great Director as he shotgunned dysfunction possibilities into the ether of his latest therapist’s office. Vomiting a list of problems onto the floor in front of a psychiatrist like so much pornography to be ogled and evaluated. Hoping he’ll greedily grab one and make it real for you.
Pathetic.
Why don’t you just tell him you’re afraid of making movies, and if you make one more, you’re going to pitch over dead and life will move on without you? Why don’t you tell him about looking at bus schedules and cruising train stations? Maybe next time you’ll have the guts to buy a ticket and run again. Why don’t you tell him about the one time you did? You made it as far as Olympia, Washington before they tracked you down and made you come home. Why don’t you tell him about Big John? The giant who gave you a ride, as you fled your Perfect Robot Wife and the studio and the Fat Man’s book that must be made into a movie?
Tell him about Alaska.
Tell him about bears.
Tell him about salmon roasting on a spit over a campfire beneath a million stars and the bears that wait and watch beyond the campfire light.
Tell him about the wind that moves through the pines on Sunday mornings and how that makes you feel hollow. Tell him about all the things Big John told you about.
Tell him all that, and tell him how desperately you don’t want to be the Great Director anymore.
Tell him!
“Those are all very interesting. Maybe they are all, each one, the answers. What do you think?” murmured Dr. Mandelbaum.
“I think none of them is the answer. To be honest, after hearing how standard everything sounded, it’s none of those things. So…” He paused to examine Dr. Mandelbaum. Nothing special, no sparkle, no ever-wise combative mentor who would draw him out into the open. Make him confront the thing that needed confronting. Teach him to win the big match. Fly the fighter plane better than anyone else. Admit to the woman he loved that yes, he did indeed love her. In short, Dr. Mandelbaum would never get cast as Mick from Rocky or Robin Williams from that Matt Damon movie. The Great Director gave a brief shudder at the thought that all his problems might go unsolved due to bad ca
sting. He couldn’t make another movie and yet he owed another movie. He decided to try for the first time in therapy to be honest despite Dr. Mandelbaum’s clear inadequacy as a standard movie formula Garbage Dump Saint. He would seek to get better as long as it didn’t kill him or force him to bang on a drum in the forest and channel his “other” animal self while hanging from a rope bridge.
“I go over it a thousand times a day,” began the Great Director. “I know what it is. I see it everywhere and I know it’s going to kill me. The sad part is, no matter what I tell you, whatever it is I say… you’re going to somehow relate it all back to my mother.”
Dr. Mandelbaum chuckled. “It’s not always that. You’ve seen too many movies.” He turned his attention to the yellow legal pad in his lap and began to scribble intently on the page.
The office was dark and warm. Outside, cars passed on the road, but the shades were drawn and no daylight penetrated the cozy office. The Great Director struggled to remember if it was a perfectly beautiful, blue, lazy Southern California day outside. Or was it raining? It felt like it should be raining.
“So, if it’s not your mother,” said Dr. Mandelbaum, “and you know what it is, then why don’t you tell me about it?”
“It’s my life,” whispered the Great Director.
“I know that, but I want to help you get better.”
“No, that’s it. It’s my life. That’s what’s killing me.”
“Ah, now I see.”
“Do you?
“Better, but I want hear more. Why don’t you tell me what a typical day for you is like?”
The Great Director thought about that for a moment. “Okay, if you think it will help.”
“It will help me, yes.”
“Ready?”
“Ready.”
“Call time is at four thirty in the morning and already the pain in my chest is killing me. That’s when people who work for me have to start working. Now, being the boss, I can show up whenever I like. I mean I could show up to slate the first shot around mid-morning. I could show up later than the hung-over talent and the prima donna movie stars. But I don’t. You know why? Because if I’m not there at ten minutes to call time, the work will not get done. People will steal the most valuable commodity on a film set. Time. Forest fires will start at four thirty in the morning and by first light they will be raging out of control, threatening to engulf my production and most of Hollywood with it. So at four thirty in the morning I am standing by the trucks, waiting for the teamsters, the grips, the gaffers, caterers, make-up artists, production assistants, extras, and everyone else you can possibly think of to show up and make my movie. And as soon as they do, I point them in a direction and start them to work on what will be the longest day of their lives. They thought yesterday was long, this one’s going to beat yesterday by leaps and bounds because that’s how it is. Every day the fence gets higher and the road gets longer. And if you complain about it, if you should be so inconceivably dumb as to complain about it for one second, or you are just a second too slow in getting your job done, there are literally hundreds of other people who will replace you at a moment’s notice and at a fraction of what you’re getting paid. So step lively and smile—unemployment is just a heartbeat away.”
