by Mike McCrary
“No,” I say.
Ruby slides in, looking to Harry. They share a moment. Hard to read what that moment is, but it’s there. She looks to Choke. He gives her an ever-so-slight glance with a single nod then plants his eyes right back on me. She places her soft hands on both sides of my face and speaks to me as if I were the most important person on the planet.
“I’m going to explain our plans later, and I think they will work with what you’re pitching. I’m going to do this, and you might think it’s because there’s some form of trust between us. There is not. I’m going to tell you things because one of two things are going to happen. One, this all works out, you get what you want, and we get paid. Two, it doesn’t work out, we will kill you in the worst way possible. We’ll have a special meeting, taking ideas on the different ways to kill you. Creativity will be encouraged. There will be a vote, and the winner will be the way we end your life. Is all that understood?”
Ruby explains all this as if she were telling me how her grandmother makes her special, famous homemade oatmeal and raisin cookies.
I say I understand. I feel the need to define things. Set some context to things. I decide to take it further. I decide to share, bring in the human element to this situation. “I have no desire to cause problems or fuck anybody over. This is a dream project of mine. I hope we can work this out. Hopes and dreams are important. It’s all we’ve got sometimes. If that means anything at all, then maybe you can trust that. Trust I’ll do everything I can to protect those hopes and dreams.”
I feel pretty good about that statement. Sappy and cheese-filled, sure, but it was true, all of it. I continue talking to them about when I was a little kid making Super 8 stop-motion movies in my garage. Cutting things out of magazines or books then moving them a fraction of an inch at a time while taking a single frame of film, all to give the illusion of movement. Homemade shorts with Claymation monsters doing battle with whatever I could find or think of. It was heaven. I tell them about the feeling I got when I received that first call telling me my film was going to be made. The unbelievable had happened. I was going to make movies for a living.
Odds beaten.
Jasper won.
Over the years, I’ve slung around my fair share of bullshit, but I’ve found that moments of pure honestly do work. Passion and heart matter, and letting it out can reap big dividends. But still, given the situation I’m in and the audience I have, I hope the things I just said work at least on some level. You never want to talk down to your audience, but I don’t really know whom I’m dealing with here and I don’t want to overshoot the target with a bunch of flowery rhetoric. You never really know how a heartfelt speech about hopes and dreams is going to land.
Harry, Boone, Ruby, and Choke have all eyes on me.
Seems like they’re actually soaking in what I said.
Maybe it did land softly.
Choke taps his knife on my nose one more time. “Hopes and dreams can be genuinely dangerous.”
The bag goes back over my head, and I’m pushed back in the trunk.
Would’ve been nice if they’d let me clean my pants.
39
The next leg of the journey was about a day and half, or at least the best I can tell.
Given the teeth-rattling bumps and rough riding for the last half hour or so, I’m guessing we are off the highway and traveling on some back roads. It’s daytime. That much I know, but no idea what time it is or what day it actually is. In this trunk I’ve become exceptionally good at the trick of removing myself from my world. I used to be able to do it for only a few minutes at a time, but here in this sweatbox, drenched in my own filth, I’ve been able to exercise my removal process for several hours, if not more.
You’d be surprised.
I’m guessing some people have done it their whole lives.
I can’t be the only one.
The car stops. Gas fumes fill the trunk. I cough inside my bag, getting a good whiff of my own breath. It’s not good, in case someone was wondering. I’m disgusted with myself.
The trunk pops open.
I feel hands grab at me, trying to get the best angle. One set of hands grabs a shoulder, the other tries to get underarm. I envision Boone and Harry struggling with this task. This can’t be the first time these boys have pulled someone from a trunk. I’m lifted out and moved along quickly through what feels like tall grass. My feet barely touch the ground; they are moving really fast, and my legs are not working all that well.
“Where’s the fire?” I ask.
“Shut the fuck up.” Pretty sure Boone said that.
We’ve entered indoors. The floor creaks under our footfalls. I can’t make out much through the bag, but the place does have light, so there is at least electricity and I can hear the murmur of a TV somewhere. Without warning, I am dropped into a hard chair. Sharp pain fires up my tailbone. Feel the squish inside my pants. Right now my hopes and dreams are limited to running water, a shower, and clean underwear.
The bag is slap-ripped off my head by someone’s paw. The light flooding in is blinding. Blobs of white and color turn and pulse with no recognition of what these things actually are. My hands and feet are still bound. I haven’t felt them in days. I can only assume they are still there, still attached. A metal cup is pressed to my lips.
“Drink,” Ruby says.
I’m so happy it’s only water. I gulp it. Drain the cup.
Is that regular water?
That can’t be regular water.
Soooo good.
As I drink, I’ve locked eyes with Ruby without really realizing it. For starters, they are this soul-piercing, mesmerizing green color, but I can’t read what’s going on behind them. Is it the warmth I thought I picked up on in the parking lot? Could possibly be hate, rage, or simply disinterest in me being alive. Hard to tell, but here I sit drinking from her cup, completely weightless in her gaze.
“Hey,” she whispers in a soft voice.
She takes the cup from my lips.
Moving her lips to my ear, she speaks softly to me. In a throaty voice heating the air, she says, “You seem like a decent man. Maybe a man I’d like to get to know better, a lot better, but if you get lost in my gorgeous eyes again without my permission, I’m going to pull your balls off with a set of rusty pliers.”
She smiles as she places the cup back to my lips.
I look to the ceiling.
40
My sight is starting to come together a little better.
Much like it did at the Burger King. Harry sets my bags down by his chair. Away from me, but close enough so I can see them. It doesn’t take a wizard to guess my money is no longer in there. At this point my only hope is that all my gear is still in there and operable.
Ruby removes the cup and walks away from me.
Now that my vision has cleared up and I can actually see my surroundings, it’s clear I am the center of attention. I am in a wooden chair in the middle of a room, and my newfound friends are all seated in a semicircle in front of me. Much like if I was on a reality TV competition and this panel was assembled here to judge me. Only the prize in this case isn’t a recording contract or an arranged marriage or weight loss or blah blah fucking blah. No, the prize in this little contest is more than likely me retaining my heartbeat.
We are in some kind of cabin. The windows are all covered with boards, and the front door has multiple locks of various makes and models, with a shotgun leaning on the wall next to it. As my eyes dart about, I realize there are weapons by every window as well. An automatic assault rifle is propped over there, a handgun on the floor over here. There’s a sack of some kind that looks filled completely with all sorts of firepower. I can’t be certain, but I think that’s a machete and a hatchet on a table in the kitchen.
“Let’s get on with it,” says Boone.
“Calm down,” says Ruby.
“Fuck off,” says Boone.
“Can we fucking do this thing?” asks Harry.
“If she’ll fuck the fuck off,” says Boone.
“Fucking idiot,” says Ruby.
“What did you say?” asks Boone.
“Tell me I don’t have to explain that. Please say that’s not what’s happening. If I have to explain point by point that I called you an idiot…,” says Ruby.
Boone gets up from his chair, seems ready to kill her.
Ruby glances at him and smirks.
Harry shakes his head.
Choke keeps staring at me.
Boone stands over Ruby. Towering. “We have to do this again?” he asks her. His size advantage doesn’t seem to concern her at all.
“Suppose we do,” she says.
Ruby is calm and chill.
Boone is a red-faced, fuming beast about to be taken off a leash. Are these wackos going to kill each other in front of me? Is this what they do? Did she mean that thing about my balls?
Ruby stands. She comes up to his chin. My money is still on her.
Harry rolls his eyes.
“Sit. Down,” Choke says without taking his eyes off me. “You think this is how this is going to get done? By lashing out, reacting, no semblance of thought. As if we’re a pack of retarded dogs? Half-witted bandits without the simplest of understanding of their place or purpose in this life? This life of ours does not owe us a safe out or a happy ending, but we can take one. It’s there, on the tips of our fingers, slipping, sliding away as we fumble for a hold.” He pauses, putting up a finger, then says, “But it is not gone. Not yet. Would you like it to be? Are you actually choosing jail, death over happy?”
Ruby, Boone, and Harry shake their heads as if being scolded during a meeting with their boss. I have no idea what he is talking about, but it is crystal clear they do and they live and die by his words. He doesn’t use them often. When he does, they seem to carry a bitch of a punch. I can respect the speak softly/big stick thing. Just wish the fucker would stop eyeballing the shit out of me.
“Then sit down,” Choke tells them.
They obey, tabling whatever harm Ruby and Boone were about to inflict on each other. Boone, with his head dipped, takes a seat between Harry and Choke. Harry puts his arm around him and gives his shoulders a squeeze, consoling his younger coworker.
I can’t help but notice there are no signs of any kind of real technology. No recent tech, at least. No smartphones, iPads, laptops, no computer of any kind, and the only TV is an old tube with rabbit ears. Can only assume this is that off-the-grid experience I’ve heard so much about. Makes sense, of course; they don’t want anything that can draw a line to them. Whatever these people do, it’s not legal. Not socially responsible. Not pleasant. Not good.
Ruby takes a seat, but as she does, she gives me a wink with a look of neutrality that could be read as anything. What the hell was that? The blank canvas of an expression she’s just offered up can be interpreted a billion ways. Could be anything from she wants to jump my bones to she wants to boil me for soup.
They all have spiral notebooks and pens in hand. Listening ears are on and ready to take notes. Ruby has a calculator.
Am I the guest lecturer at Off-the-Grid U?
Harry leans in. With a surprisingly professional tone, he says, “Okay, Jasper. Tell us, in detail, what was your plan? This movie, this project of yours—start big picture and drill down. I guess, describe your vision? How do you see this thing?”
They sit perfectly zeroed in on me. A half circle of crazy people locked in on my quivering state, sitting in stone-silent unity. Mouths closed, eyes wide, pens ready. Jasper has the floor.
I realize what this is now.
Bad reality TV?
No.
A shakedown?
Maybe, but they’ve got some of my money. I’ve always been pretty good at reading the vibe in a room, and that’s not what I’m getting here.
Thugs who get off on making a Hollywood boy shit his fancy pants?
Too late, but that’s not it either.
Make no mistake.
As fucked up as it is, this is a pitch meeting.
41
Failure is not fun.
Had a mountain of it, mastered it, wear it as a second coat of skin. There is one thing, however, I’ve always succeeded in. I’m good in a room. I own the room. Horrible at the execution of the ideas thrown around in that room, but when it comes to winning over glassy-eyed development executives, producers, financiers, and whoever else happens to be there, I’m the goods. I leave those disenfranchised twenty-three-year-olds no choice but to look up from their iPhones and take notice of my special-sauce bullshit. They forget, for a moment, about whom they banged last night and whom they will call on tonight. In that small sliver of time, they can’t help but be swept up in a raging riot called Jasper.
Boone presses the button on his pen over and over again. The tiny click, click, click sound is grating on my nerves. Nobody else in the room seems to notice.
Is this a calculated thing?
This asshole trying to shake me?
Get me off balance?
Did Choke teach this guy this move as a tactic, or is Boone just completely unaware he’s being a total fucking asshole?
Focus.
Click.
Remove the sound and get your head right.
Click.
Remember who you are, Jasper. Focus on your strengths, not theirs. I cannot kill a pack of killers, but I can pitch. I can’t match them at crazy, but I can get them to pick up what I’m putting down.
It’s all about having a thorough understanding of your audience. Knowing what they want—more importantly, what they want to hear—even if they don’t know what they want themselves. It has nothing to do with the truth or what you want to say or what you’re feeling. This is the mistake most creative, artistic folks make. Don’t get me wrong, you need to show passion for the thing, but make sure your passion is in line with what these people want. This is not the time to express yourself. Not the place to work out Daddy’s failure of being able to show affection or Mommy’s lack of praise. This is the time to verbally bring these clowns to orgasm. Tickle the nuts with a correctly placed word. Twirl the clit with a well-orchestrated phrase.
This is my playground.
My sandbox.
Boone’s pen clicks.
The wants and needs of this room are very similar to a studio. Money is always the main focus. You’ll hear them talk about thematic elements with social relevance and the need for strong character development, but make no mistake, in Hollywood making the almighty dollar is always the straw that stirs the drink. Don’t confuse the need for talent with the need for profit. They need actors, writers, and directors to do what they do, but they’d like them to do it in a way that will make them the most money. It would be nice if the movie didn’t suck, but that’s gravy if the film makes bank.
Here, in this room, the want of money is front and center. It is not below the surface, it is the surface. It’s all they want. I’m guessing this is why Ruby is clutching a calculator.
Click.
I need to sell but not be bought.
Click.
I have no idea how long since Harry addressed me. Pressed me on my plan. Not sure how many ticks on the clock have passed since we’ve sat here without a word spoken. They don’t seem to be in a hurry. Even Boone, the jumpy one with his clicking, only sits there staring at me, motionless aside from his hyperactive goddamn thumb. Choke has these people trained well.
Surveying the killers on the panel in front of me, I breathe in and clear my throat of the gunk that has built up from my trunk ride. My thoughts jumble and bounce. I’m scared. Can’t deny it. Despite this, there’s confidence—scratch that—there is hope disguised as confidence. My hope is that once I open my mouth, this circus of thought that’s banging off the inside of my skull will collide, forming into what I need to say in order to stay alive. A grand collision is needed here.
My bound hands shake.
Click.
<
br /> I shake them back, hard, until the vibrating ends. I’m terrified. Paralyzed by the idea of making the wrong move.
Click.
Saying the wrong thing.
Click.
I allow my lids to close. Take a beat. Reset. Remember. This is what I wanted. The yellow brick road to redemption runs directly through these wackos. The stairway to heaven has a pit bull at the top blocking the pearly gates.
Fuck it.
Click.
Eyes wide open, I say, “Excuse me.”
Click.
“When you’re ready, I’m ready. Ready to tell you how you can make bank. A million, perhaps more. First thing, and this is important, so listening ears, folks, somebody needs to shove that pen up Boone’s ass. Sideways, if that’s okay.”
Harry puts a hand over Boone’s pen.
This is my room.
Bitches.
42
I leave out the granular details.
Why bother.
The story they want to hear starts and ends with the million or more I mentioned only moments ago. I just slipped it right in there. That’s what you call a hook, a big one. In TV there’s this thing called “ending on a button.” The button is that cliff-hanger moment seconds before a beef jerky commercial pops on. That moment/button that will make people come stampeding back to their ass-molded chairs after grabbing a soda or taking a deuce. Technology has made this somewhat less relevant, but it’s still there and is effective storytelling.
I tell them that I have two million in cash and that it’s all theirs if they will allow me to film them doing their thing. Capture on film (digital is implied, film is expensive) a few days of them being them. I repeat the part about the two million, then I hit Mute.
Cease with the talk.
Let that slice of info hang in the air.
The silence is loud. Booming. Almost deafening.
