Genuinely Dangerous

by Mike McCrary

  If you reach that last part, congrats, you are a rare species. If you’re somehow able to move through that progression, the further you go down that line, you become more and more rare. Every single day men and women, boys and girls, step off the bus (the metaphoric bus, of course, people come to LA in all forms of transport) with a script or just a dream, and just as many of those gooey-eyed dreamers die on the vine every hour on the hour.

  Some die, literally, as in die at Hollywood and Vine.

  As I slip back into my suburban home, I pass by the reminders of my filmmaking life. I’ve directed as well. If I went back to therapy, I would probably be told I like the pain that reviewing my past brings me. That’s why I keep these reminders scattered around the house. A sane man would box them up or toss them. If you truly wanted to put the past behind you, then maybe, just maybe, you wouldn’t keep shit around as a constant reminder.

  Just a thought.

  Put away the framed nomination letters from the Boston Online Film Critics Association and the Central Ohio Film Critics Association. Didn’t win, mind you, these are mere nominations. This was a couple of years ago. Every year there is one film that seemingly wins every award there is. Four years ago, my year in the sun, was no exception. One film did capture the hearts and minds of the entertainment community.

  It was not mine.

  W. Gains was the man of the moment that year. He won everything, collected all the hardware and continues to be a dominant force in the industry. My force was and continues to be considerably less dominant. Some might say it was dog shit to begin with.

  While my script was produced, released, and did reasonably well at the box office, it did not receive an ounce of critical praise. Quite the opposite actually. They hated every single frame of it. Younger males and females fifteen to twenty-five were fans. Every other living thing wished the film never saw the light of day. Save for a few notable exceptions in the ’90s, serial killer movies rarely generate a truly warm reception from the critical community.

  I need a new idea. A good idea.

  A new, good movie idea that will get me back, because that’s all it takes.

  One idea and the world can change in no time.

  I shouldn’t care. My first film was a relative financial success and that, good people, is how Hollywood keeps score. Awards are cute, but nothing moves the needle like money. I probably shouldn’t let Wilson Gains get to me. Between us, me and him, it’s just slightly more personal than the usual petty, bitter Hollywood envy.

  We grew up together. Made Super 8mm movies together in my garage. Spent hours running around the neighborhood talking about the great films we were going to make. Together. After high school we went to USC film school. Together.

  After that? Together?

  No.

  Wilson was like a brother to me. And now?

  Well, now, he’s kind of a dick.

  5

  The masked five enter a modest beach house carrying their bounty of weapons and money.

  More men come to meet them in a dining room serving as a makeshift command and control center. Laptops, burner cells, iPads and cups filled with cheap coffee are scattered about the long table. The men assist in unloading the score. They are all decked out in the blackout garb with heavy-duty boots shined to perfection. The five remove their masks.

  These men, along with the men of the beach house, make up the Shaw gang. They carry a similar look. Rugged, marked up with scars, crew cuts with hard eyes, and an overall appearance of men who do not want to be fucked with.

  Backslapping and a spattering of high fives go around. Congratulations for a score well played. One wearing glasses makes note, tapping an iPad as he takes inventory of the new toys brought in by the five. He also takes note of the cash that is being stacked up.

  “Is it enough?” a cold voice asks from the darkness of another room.

  The one with the glasses shakes his head. “Not if we want to take down The Massive. We should be good with weapons, but we need more cash.”

  All the men turn to look toward the dark doorway that leads to the room where the voice came from. The darkness has their full attention.

  As it should.

  It’s as if the answers all come from the darkness. Out from the shadows steps Jed Shaw. A wall of a man with a beard he thumbs at with a certain rhythm and grace. No one speaks. They wait for Shaw. This is his room, his time, his gang. Shaw looks over the table and then his small army of loyal men.

  He knows the math needed to do The Massive. Need guns, men, and money to take down the score to end all scores and leave the country clean. Two people know The Massive. There’s Shaw and another person, an animal he’d rather not think about.

  “Ozwald,” Shaw says.

  An ice shard of a man steps forward while picking his teeth with a tactical knife. A roundish scar resides on his cheek. A bullet wound from years ago. In a close-quarters fight someone jammed a gun in Ozwald’s mouth and fired. Ozwald jerked his head at the last second, causing the bullet to pass through his cheek. He’s since had a tattoo artist add legs to the scar, making it look like a spider on his face. One guy, a member of the Shaw gang, once called him Spider Face. Ozwald broke his neck and tossed him in a Dumpster.

  “Sir?” Ozwald says.

  “Go get me some more fucking money.”

  6

  May not be completely in touch with my sensitive side, but I do know, or at least I’d like to think I know, what relationships can or should be.

  Yes, it is true I’ve been divorced three times and one of them tried to kill me. I mean really tried to kill me—there were weapons used. Not proud of my track record, but shit man, I’ve tried. Stepped up the plate. More than a lot of people can say. Despite those minor missteps, there was this one girl.

  One that got away. Completely my fault.

  Never bothered with marrying that right person, no, I went straight to the disasters, but I do realize the difference. Not complicated. If the best thing you can say about someone you’ve been married to is that you like the way her breasts bounce, longevity might not be on the horizon.

  Not to sound like a complete dope, but that one girl, she was special. Special to me at least. So damn special I never asked her out let alone tried anything. Didn’t want to fuck it up, I guess. I think about her, too often perhaps. What would life have been if I’d let the other nut drop? What if I really tried rather than feeding the illusion of cool?

  “Defense wins a championship” is what I was always told.

  Did manage, however, to marry an alcoholic suffering from ballistic insecurity. Then there was the manic-depressive alcoholic who enjoyed tooting coke at an alarming rate. She was the one with the bounce to her chest. After those, I finally hitched my wagon to a manic-depressive, coke-addled alcoholic porn star with blistering moments of homicidal rage.

  Like to think of myself as progressive.

  I need to sleep. Losing the respect of the people you know and the people you don’t, it’ll suck the life right out of you.

  So tired of being tired.

  The brain’s chugging down a path I’d rather not visit. A twirling road spiraling down, down into a special room in my head I have reserved for beating myself up. A room where master classes are taught, the subject failure. My failure. In that room my failures are reviewed, dissected, and replayed over and over again just to make sure I understand I have indeed failed.

  I turn on the TV to stop or at least dilute the intensity of this hurt locker in my head. It fires up a talk show. Some Hollywood reporter blathering on about some shit, more than likely who’s blowing who and what he or she was wearing. I plop down on the couch. The cushions ask an exhausted question: Again, fatass?

  Used to be specimen.

  Flipping through the channels, I find nothing. A few syndicated shows about teenage witches, low-IQ folks getting grilled by a judge, one about gold coins, and then I land on a movie. Always liked this one. The name escapes me, but i
t’s this great crime story. Bank robbers. A cool crew of thieves doing cool things—what’s not to like? I get lost in the imagery as you do with any stylistic, well-shot, perfectly lit entertainment. A commercial for adult diapers breaks the mood. I flip the channel and land back on the Hollywood reporter thing.

  This time something really grabs hold of my eyeballs and will not release. That happens when you see a picture of yourself on TV and the caption reads, The Rise and Fall of Jasper Tripp.

  What the fuck doesn’t cover the feeling surging up from my anus to my throat.

  Only thing that might make this worse—oh wait, there it is.

  7

  Wilson Gains is being interviewed on the subject of my rise and fall.

  Wilson Gains.

  On TV.

  Talking about me.

  That son of a bitch.

  Of all the things I could spew out about Wilson, son of bitch is the one I should probably shy away from. Considering, well, his mother used to bake us cookies and drive us to movies. She wasn’t a perfect woman, but bitch is a bit strong.

  I turn up the volume, leaning in, don’t want to miss one single damn word. Call it a defense mechanism or whatever you’d like, but the first few sentences I don’t even hear. His lips move, but I just can’t make out what he’s saying. Perhaps your hearing is the first thing to go while experiencing a full-on mental implosion.

  Fairly sure my teeth are grinding. Powerless to stop them, but I can feel my enamel turning to a fine powder. When I’m finally able to make out the words coming from his mouth, I hear Wilson say, “Look, Lori, I love the guy like a brother, I do, but I feel his story is one of great Hollywood lore. People inside the business talk about it all the time, like a story you tell a child to scare them into being careful. A cautionary tale with themes everyone can relate to: success, failure, fatal ignorance.”

  That son of a bitch.

  The cookies were average at best.

  Now I hate his mother for giving him life, for allowing him to slide out from her vagina. She should have been more selfish. Birth control, abortion. Both were available options. Instead, she gave up her life, her future, her figure just to bring that piece of shit into the world.

  “That’s interesting. You won the Oscar four years ago for your documentary about the war in Afghanistan. How long were you embedded with the marines?” says perky host Lori.

  I bet Lori signs her name with a smiley face or a fucking heart over the i.

  Hate her too.

  “The ‘Stan? Six months,” Wilson says. He’s put on his false-humility face. I know that look; it’s one of the wonders of the world. Jesus, do I know that look. Not to mention, he’s completely full of shit.

  Lori places a hand on Wilson’s knee. “And no problems? From the wounds?”

  He looks down and shakes his head.

  She’ll probably fuck him later.

  He was in “the ‘Stan” for about four weeks before a bullet grazed his foot and he ran home. He paid off his camera guy to film the rest and to keep his mouth shut. Not to say a word that Wilson and his ‘Stan movie was built on blood and bullshit. He then spent months cutting the footage together and looping in his own voice over the horrific images of war, giving the seamless illusion he was in the middle of it all. Most of the marines in the film were killed in battle, and the ones who lived he paid off after the movie was a hit. Made them sign all kinds of nondisclosure agreements. Their service and silence were greatly appreciated. I was glad they got the cash. God knows they earned that and a hell of a lot more, but it all just smelled bad. And, man, did Wilson play it up. He went to the funerals of the ones who didn’t make it. Made damn certain a full film crew was on him when he visited the wounded in the hospital. Even hired an acting coach to help him cry on cue.

  And he fucking got away with it.

  All of it.

  Made money doing it.

  “Now I’m taking on a different type of war. It’s not life and death like the ‘Stan, but people’s souls are crushed every day in Hollywood. Jasper, my friend from childhood, his story is only one of them. It’s a personal story to me and I think it needs to be told.”

  Lori looks into his eyes. “Brave. So honest.”

  Yup, she might fuck him right there on set.

  8

  Can’t watch anymore.

  Fumbling, I manage to get the channel back to the safety of slick-ass bank robbers. Pacing like a crazy person, I work to get this straight in my broken brain. Let’s table the betrayal at the hand of my friend for a moment. The real problem here is that I can’t stomach the idea of my failures placed out there for all to see. Not to mention, his version of my failures. My story spun into a tale through his eyes.

  The eyes of a complete asshole.

  Anybody else would exhibit more care with the presentation, a slight tilt toward compassion. That asshole, that former friend of mine, might take a shit on a plate and name it Jasper. There ya go, there’s my boy served up nice and neat. He’s like a brother to me.

  I’m not strong enough. Can’t do this.

  The marketing alone might kill me.

  Imagine you pull up ESPN to check a score and there’s a two-minute streaming banner video all about how much you suck. On the bright side, nobody around here will know about his little project. Unless it’s animated or has talking animals, no one within fifty-five miles of here will ever see it. Being cut off from civilization has its perks, I guess.

  My phone rings.

  It comes up as Unknown. I send it to straight to voicemail. Not the best time to chitchat about my vote on Prop. whateverthefuck. I do, however, think it’s a fantastic time to speak with my brother.

  9

  Alex. Alex Tripp.

  A good brother and my best friend in the world, he’s an attorney and what you want from both. Smart, solid, supportive, and would never cornhole you in a public setting.

  My phone bleeps. Whoever that was left a message.

  I can’t keep my eyes off the crime film. Violence is so cinematic. The crew is cutting through a bank with mad precision. What is that like? What is it like to have that kind of control of your life? Yet still be operating along the margins of society. How do you function? Is that what it’s really like? Of course it’s all Hollywooded up, but there has to be some shred of truth to it. Dammit, look at that.

  Holding the world by the nuts, man, that’s living life.

  A feeling few of us will ever know. Nobody around here will ever know. Hell, nobody around most anywhere would know what that is like.

  What if you could bring that experience to an audience?

  I mean, really bring it.

  No, wait, stop. Really. I’m serious now. What if I could put people right in the middle of— My phone goes off again. This time it comes up ALEX.

  I can’t answer fast enough. “Are you fucking watching this fucking bullshit?”

  “Yup,” Alex says.

  “Well, what the hell are we going to do about it?”

  “We?”

  I almost drop the phone. “Oh, you’re taking sides on this?”

  “I’m trying not to, but it sounds like you’d like me to do just that,” Alex says.

  “Do not lawyer me. Not the time. Help me mount an offensive, man. I can’t sit back and wait. Shit must be done. Can I sue that asshole?” I realize I’m in the heightened state of the moment. Mercy would be appreciated from all involved.

  “You could sue him. Of course, not sure it’ll go anywhere, not to mention you’d look like the loser friend from childhood who’s trying to cover up the truth.”

  “The truth?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  I know what he means, and I truly hate that he’s right. Alex usually is. My pacing starts up again. I think about throwing a glass coaster across the room and watching it shatter. That would be very cinematic, but not a great idea. I don’t have a maid, and me cleaning glass fibers from the carpet is not cinematic at al
l.

  “Jasper, you still there?”

  I hear him, but I’d rather not respond. My eyes land back on the film playing on my television. My brain starts in again. Flipping again. Rotating over and over, swirling around and round a new idea making sure to get all the angles. This germ. That’s how it starts. A nugget forms. Maybe it’s something, maybe it’s shit, but that’s how it all begins. A little germ of a thing starts and that thing could grow into something amazing. Maybe even a life-altering possibility could emerge, or it could die off and slip out into nothingness, never to be spoken of again. This one’s got teeth. Its fangs are dug into my frontal lobe.

  “Jasper?” Alex says.

  This idea, can it be done?

  “Dude. Give me a sign of life.”

  If I can do it, should I do it?

  “Okay, this is me saying bye-bye.”

  “Alex, call the Captain,” I say. There’s an understandable hesitation from Alex’s side of the conversation.

  “Captain Kangaroo?”

  10

  “Of course, man. Fuck. Would you fucking call Captain fucking Kangaroo? Please?” I bark, bouncing my phone off the couch.

  A gigantic shoot-out blares from the TV, slinging my head back to the here and now. I glance at my cell on the carpet. A big red number two is screaming at me from the screen—look at me, look, look, look, you missed something. One for the missed call and another for the voicemail I ignored while I was watching Wilson Gains attempt to eat my soul. I think about deleting the message without listening.

  I’ll check it. You never know.

  With a touch, the little message playback ball starts to glide to the right along the line it calls home.