by Nick Cole
Pain.
Unconsciousness.
Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.
His first days in film school. Why had it been so easy then? He was barely dressed, shoes untied, oversized maroon sweater, knapsack full of papers. Around his neck his most prized possession, his light meter. The day he’d purchased it had been the most important day of his life. It was the day he considered himself a director. He shot something in the afternoon, mainly because he’d gotten tired of walking across campus and through the surrounding neighborhoods taking light readings. Girls wearing tank tops and tight jeans had stopped to talk to him. Some guys playing frisbee somehow ended up in his movie. That night, at a party at someone’s house, he slipped his arm around a girl’s waist. His eyes falling, always falling, toward her punch-stained lips. Later the two of them were sitting in a room upstairs, cross-legged, as The Doors worked their way through another disenchanted melody on an old record player downstairs. She was telling him about making grave rubbings, her art. He was listening to her, and all he wanted to do, all he’d ever wanted to do, was make a movie about grave rubbings and her, and her punch-stained lips.
Lying on the floor of the office he wondered what had become of his light meter. He had not seen it in years, and he tried to recall where he had last used it. He remembered standing on a desert highway just after dawn. Holding it up to the rising sun and knowing at that moment he was doing exactly what he was meant to do with his life.
When had he become so distracted by the trappings of achievement that he’d lost touch with the one item he cared about most?
Or had his light meter been taken from him? Stolen in the night by a mangy ghost wandering the hills of Hollywood?
If he did not get out… he was going to die.
The work was killing him. The stress of getting it right and knowing that it never, ever would be, was killing him. The people, the hours, the stars, the money, the stakes, the press. Everything had become too much, and it felt as though all of them were working against him, trying to be as difficult as possible, hoping that someday he would pitch over dead so they could then declare themselves the winner. And in some weird way he was helping them. Every time he tried to make a movie, a script, a thing of light and sound, he’d beat himself into the ground trying to capture something elusive and beautiful. But it, whatever it was, eluded him—it always did. And now, again, he was here, again, working for his own destruction.
Outside, a truck screeched to a halt on the overpass. For less than a second there was silence, then the cocktail of rending steel and crunching plastic served with a chaser of broken glass.
What if? he thought. What if I don’t make this movie? What if I become difficult? What if I become… “hard to work with”? What if what I give them is so lost and so unusable it cannot be considered a movie?
What if I make a train wreck?
No constant companion fear-mongering voice of reason in his head said anything. No declarations of impossibility. No reasonable murmurings of considerations given and sanity prevailing. No voice of dissent.
They might say… “He hurt us.”
He hurt us where it hurts most.
In the Opening Week numbers.
“He hurt us, and he will never again work in this town.”
But, what if?
For a long moment he lay there thinking and letting his mind relish the thought of never working in this town again. He saw a canopy of stars and heard fat sizzling as it dropped into a nearby fire, away from a spitted and roasting salmon. He looked into the trees surrounding him. Above, a sky full of broken crystal waltzed above him as he waited for bears.
What if I make a bad movie?
What if I escape?
Chapter Eight
The Executive VP
The Executive VP of Production received the call from on high. Things may or may not be going well down at the production office. He was charged to investigate the matter forthwith, and also to consider the film a premium property for the studio, and yes, all of Hollywood in general. It was further commanded he be most attentive for the duration of the production, as its success would indicate whether he was indeed Senior Executive VP material.
Once he had been the Smoker Who Didn’t, and the man he had once been thought about cigarettes constantly. But he hadn’t smoked… since Mexico. He took a deep breath. Drank a glass of water. And then took another deep breath. Calls from on high could be stressful. He continued to breathe through his nostrils, counting.
The Executive VP had received reports all week. Strange whisperings of things beginning to get weird down at the production office. The first clue had come from the Great Director himself. After locking himself in his office for an entire day, he now seemed happy, which, the Executive VP felt, was cause for concern in and of itself. Shortly thereafter, peculiar requests started to appear on short, clipped memoranda. A bull was needed. A circus required. A vintage copy of Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises, preferably autographed, was demanded.
But these things were not sufficient in and of themselves to stop production or warrant a replacement director. After all, the Great Director was the Great Director. Whatever he made would be enough for an opening weekend. Ultimately that was all the studio cared about. The Opening Week numbers. After that it was all just so much fluff and padding. So the Executive VP authorized what he had to, delayed what he could, and even considered renting the 747 required to transport the cast and crew to Venice, Italy so “key” and “essential” scenes could be shot. The Executive VP recalled nothing about Venice in the last draft he’d approved. Nonetheless, it was not time to throw the baby out with the bathwater.
Yet.
The Executive VP was a well-dressed man. He was an educated man. He held a degree in Philosophy and a Masters in Business Administration. Though he could discuss Aristotle, it was in the numbers, flow charts, and graphs that he felt whole. The numbers were his friends, always reassuring, never failing. And yet there was a war being waged within him as to why he could not relate to the common man. He chastised himself for this lack of empathy while at the same time loathing his subjects. For instance, when walking across the studio lot he would criticize the monster trucks all the union tradesmen drove, the cigarettes they constantly smoked, their appearance, and their general love for all things weekend-oriented. They seemed to live for Friday night, or so he’d observed. Invariably, he would attempt to connect with them on some level. Invariably, he would fail. Badly. When circumstance forced one of them to attempt casual conversation with him, the conversation often went something like this.
Executive VP: Hi there, Art.
Working Guy: Victor.
Executive VP: Oh, yes. I’m sorry about that. Please forgive me. Victor. Yes, like the novelist.
Working Guy: No, like my father, Big Vic.
Executive VP: How is old Big Vic? Haven’t seen him in a while.
Working Guy: He’s dead.
Executive VP: Oh. I’m so sorry. Really?
Working Guy: Yeah. There was a writer named Victor?
Executive VP: Yes. Yes. His first name was Victor, last name Hugo.
Working Guy: Did he work over in the bungalows?
Executive VP: No. Wouldn’t that be wonderful if he did though?
Working Guy: I guess.
Executive VP: No, he wrote adventure stories a long time ago. He wrote The Hunchback of Notre Dame and another called Les Miserables.
Working Guy: Yeah, I got that Hunchback one on DVD for my kid, Little Vic. He loves that song. Was that in the book?
Executive VP: No. Victor Hugo didn’t need to put that in.
Working Guy: Oh, that’s the best part. You know what though? Demi Moore’s hot, even as a cartoon.
Executive VP: I’m sure she is, Vic.
Working Guy: Victor.
After these conv
ersations the Executive VP always felt as though he had accomplished two things. One, he had grown farther away from the rest of humanity. Two, he’d increased his own Self-Loathing Quotient Index significantly. To compensate for this, he would lose himself in furthering his classical education while at the same time ironically chastising himself to do more “salt of the earth” type activities. Though the thought of having a Chili Cheese Dog and a Big Gulp at a Monster Truck contest made him very nervous, he resolved to consider these activities as opportunities for growth.
Sitting in his office now, and reviewing the neatly penned notes he’d just inscribed on his eggshell-hued, heavy bond Thornton-Hastings notepaper, the Executive VP came to a conclusion.
A new producer was needed.
A new leader to help this rudderless beast that was the production steer a safe and stable course toward a solid opening weekend. Someone who wouldn’t let this director-cum-genius spin the crew and craft out of control.
There was only one man for the job. Only one man who could right the ship and stay the course. Only one man who could avoid the treacherous rocks of folly and the shoals of self-indulgence. The sirens of temptation and the pirates of over-budget.
That man was Jay Jameson.
Jay Jameson was the producer to end all producers. He was a name in a town full of names, and his name meant things were going to get done. Jay Jameson was a master at walking the line between art and commerce. If your Lead Actress won’t work because whatever it is that’s driving her crazy is halting production, call Jay Jameson. If she’s locked herself in her trailer to string black cotton strips in spider-webbed patterns across the gloomed interior, and lately she’s been mumbling weird sayings like “I have become the Angel of Darkness and I will wash over this world in blood,” call Jay Jameson. He’ll get her out of her funk, back on the set, and in front of a camera—tap dancing if you need it. If your director has alienated most of the crew, and a state of static warfare in which the director can’t get anything done has fallen over the set like the siege of Leningrad, call Jay Jameson. He’ll have the crew and the director shooting film like crazed junkies on a week-long coke binge.
Jay Jameson, can-do guy and generally smart dresser, or so the Executive VP had heard. He’d never actually met Jameson, but he seemed the answer to the Great Director’s string of quirky requests.
“Get Jay Jameson on the phone.” The Executive VP took another drink of water and continued breathing through his nostrils.
Chapter Nine
Kip Jameson
Kip Jameson let his brother Jay’s home phone ring for the third time without answering it. Once again he lowered the volume on the fourth episode of the day of Saved by the Bell to listen to the voicemail. While the message played, he readied yet another wad of cottony green weed for the bong.
“Jay. I left a message on your cell phone, but I really need to communicate to you how urgent it is that you are in the production office on Monday morning to get things moving in a positive direction. We’re sending over a more than ample deal/package via messenger. If you’re happy with the terms, sign it and get it back into the office.”
Kip lit the weed in the copper bowl. He inhaled a large amount of polluted air. Moments later, he exhaled billowy gray smoke.
Kip Jameson was often described in one of three ways, depending on the group giving the description.
Fat Devil-Boy by his former fraternity brothers.
A screw-up by his former co-workers and employers.
A generally fun guy by people who hung out in bars during the middle of the day and also by the various college-level drug dealers he’d made acquaintance with in his twelve years of pursuing a degree. Emphasis on “a.” Singular.
Kip had just been asked to leave a local community college for various offenses against the peace and tranquility of the institution, including a general lack of academic performance, and his brother, Jay Jameson, superstar-quarterback-producer, had left Kip to babysit his hillside home. Jay had disappeared to freelance on a documentary shoot for a “babe photographer” in Thailand. The gig should have taken a week at the longest, but three weeks had passed and still no one had heard from him. And the one-hundred-dollar bill he had given Kip for expenses had been spent on the first night. Not that it mattered—Jay had left a fully stocked fridge and an abundance of what Kip called “loose change deposits.”
Two Saved by the Bells later, it was time to make some calls and get the ball rolling for a weekend of partying. It had been a long week of house sitting, pot smoking, wine drinking, and TV watching. Kip decided it was time to cut loose and relax with some friends. He got Parker on the phone with the intention of getting a ride. Soon both were absorbed in a discussion about commercial advertising and the hidden messages each had detected while high and watching television. Finally Parker got into his car and they continued talking as Kip took bong hit after bong hit, seldom interrupting the flow of his narrative.
Parker arrived at the front door.
“Let me get up on some of that sweet action you’ve been hittin’.” Parker’s words translated to, I would very much like to enjoy the drugs you have been poisoning your body with.
“No can do, bro. I’m dry,” said Kip flatly. This meant, For all practical purposes you must believe that I have no drugs for you or myself, unless you count the amount I am saving for myself for later.
“But you knew I was coming over.” Alas, I assumed you would take into account my impending arrival and set aside a meager ration with which I might indulge myself.
“Bro. B-R-O. I am dry. D-R-Y,” said Kip. “Don’t worry, there’s some where we’re going.” Friend of friends, my boon companion, I repeat, with an earnestness worthy of the years of fond affection we have shewn one and another. The chemicals with which you seek to baste your brain are not to be found upon my personage, and had I any other than the amount which we both know I have, and which I do not have as far as you are concerned, and which we must take as truth should our continued friendship survive this episode of undersupply, I would press them upon you and allow you to enjoy the capabilities of my well-known largesse. Alack! I do not. Hearken though and listen well, knave, for if thou beest a boon companion thou mayhap perchance to journey at my side to find yon green buds and thou willest amply enjoy them.
“Fine. You know… just fine,” spat Parker.
After a slight pause, verging on the uncomfortable, both pitched over laughing at the obscure reference. The Jon Lovitz line from Mom and Dad Save the Earth, which, at last count, each had watched thirty-seven times, was the tried and true détente that backed them off the edge of a full-blown turn-your-key Friendship Armageddon.
In the car, as they drove south and west heading toward Long Beach, Parker was forced into speechlessness as Kip air-conducted George Bizet’s Carmen. At various intersections, commuters paused to gaze—unusual for the normally self-absorbed nature of Los Angeles—with curiosity.
This was the great talent of Kip.
A laser-like focus with an intensity sane people found frightening. The only problem in the equation of Kip and his special gift was that he chose to direct it only on pursuits bacchanal.
In the night streets of Long Beach, Kip cranked open the windows of Parker’s Yugo to command the attention of the neighborhood so they also might listen to the final moments of Kip’s air-opera. As they stopped in front of the 36/36 Club on Broadway, the strings faded in a wash of lyrical beauty, bringing the piece to a close.
“One scotch, one bourbon, one beer,” decreed Kip.
They entered the tiny 36/36 Club. Red leather interior. Purple velvet pool tables. They ordered drinks from an aged, platinum blonde bartender. For a moment she looked at them quizzically, demanding, in unspoken terms, proof of their ability to provide payment. Kip laid out his brother’s credit card. The credit card had been for emergency purposes only, but, as Kip reasoned,
with his brother now missing in action for three weeks, this certainly constituted an emergency.
“Lovely beer maiden,” began Kip. The scotch was down and the bourbon and the beer remained on the faux wood Formica bar top. “Where canst a wandering knight hear the bard Thoroughgood perchance to perform the song after which such a noble drink assemblage hath been named, mayhap?”
“Jukebox is over there,” she replied, already wondering if these overripe college boys were going to present problems to her regulars who liked the ice in their drinks to be the loudest thing in the bar.
Kip waddled over to the jukebox and peered intently into the cobalt recesses of the time machine.
Much later, knee deep in liquor and long gone on a discussion that Pearl Jam’s Ten was one of the greatest albums ever made, Kip oozed into his summation like some sleazy southern defense attorney. His argument could be summed up thus. Ten could never have been made at any other time and place in the history of the universe due to reasons—which Kip backed with effective if not overly sophistic arguments—ranging from Saudi Arabian oil politics to the backlash of women’s lib. He peppered his nomadic tirade with anecdotes of World War Two and surfing. The discussion ended with Kip prophesying that someday, somewhere, someone would create the whole album once again, oblivious to its predecessor. For a brief moment the universe would again enjoy the fruits of the greatest album ever made, as far as Kip was concerned.
The two of them clinked their beer glasses together with Kip proclaiming, “I’d like to be there though, on the Planet Kaldor, wherever that is, when those little green guys discover that album. I’d give anything to live that time and place all over again.”
Parker agreed.
“Are you guys gonna use your last two selections?” asked a shaggy young man with wild unkempt hair, wearing an olive green sweater, baggy khakis, and various leather thongs tied around his wrists.
“You are welcome to them, my fellow knight, if thee will aidest us in our quest?” replied Kip.
