Genuinely Dangerous

by Mike McCrary

  However, with all that said, I do have to admit the news about the amendment to his will and the charity have taken some of the steam out of my guilt. The man had turned into a complete asshole, as I stated before. And keep in mind that I’m basing that assessment only on the things I know. There’s probably an avalanche of shittiness I don’t even know about. This is without question a moral dilemma. Rationalizations have helped me out a great deal in my life, and I need them now more than ever.

  I’ll go with a cane.

  It’s less W. Gains.

  I could feed the world some bullshit about how I’m carrying on the film tradition created by W. Gains, but I’d be the only one in on the joke, so really, I’d only be feeding myself bullshit.

  Think I’m full for right now. No more for me.

  Thanks.

  89

  Haven’t called Lucy yet.

  Need to work out a script for that conversation. Might break out the little yellow legal pad. I’ll get one shot at that first conversation, though I’m hoping it will be a series of more. Talking with her is one of my fondest memories. There was no manipulation of truth. No one was trying to game the other. Only a genuine interest in communicating, a kind of sharing without the pretense of needing to share. Hell, just talking for the sake of wanting to talk to someone. Most people I’d walk five miles out of my way just to avoid speaking with them. To talk to her, I’d run five. Fine, run two, walk the last three.

  Sure, there was the undercurrent of me wanting to sleep with her—I do have a penis—but somewhere inside of me I knew I needed to play this one differently. And son of a bitch, have I ever played this one differently.

  I’m knee-deep in the editing of this monstrosity and now is not the time to reconnect with her. Want to come in with a clear mind. Also, the news has been playing the recent events nonstop. All the twenty-four-hour news channels are endlessly streaming what little images they have of Choke, Ruby, Boone, and Harry. There’s a grainy, far-off picture of Shaw available, and if you look really, really closely, it might actually look a little like him. That’s really all they’ve got.

  There’s more info on me of course.

  They’ve got all the footage of me with my other films and the few interviews I did. They are at least calling me a writer-director instead of failed writer-director. I suppose it plays better if the world thinks I’m an A-lister who fell into the hands of evil people rather than a washed-up could-have-been who stumbled aimlessly into the hands of evil.

  The former they can sell.

  Of course all this coverage is selling my project before it’s even cut together. The media storm has Alex’s phone ringing constantly. People wanting an interview, an exclusive, possible film deals, book deals, agents wanting to rep me—CAA, WMA, UTA, Gersh, Paradigm. I told one to go fuck themselves—it’s a long story.

  Alex and his small team have more or less hashed out the legalities, and it seems like I’ve got the green light to go forward with the film. I might have to block some faces here and there and modify some voices if we can’t find people or get certain legal clearances. The main characters of the piece are dead. Choke and his children—still creeps me out—are the only family one another had. As fucked up as that situation was, knowing they were it for one another makes me feel sad for them.

  Then I think about the rubber sheet night; that sadness quickly dissipates.

  All of this is to say I don’t know where Lucy’s head is right now. Hard to say what she thinks about everything. I want to sit down and take some time to work out what I’m going to say to her, and right now time is limited. Been working at this cut almost fourteen hours a day, stopping only to shower, grab a bite, and take a dump. I’m on day five of this cutting marathon, and it’s getting better but not perfect. Only have a small window of time while my story is still hot, before the news cycle shifts. Before a terrorist blows something up, a school shooting, or worse—a celebrity slips into a coma at a whorehouse.

  I am going to call her.

  When I’m right in the head.

  After the premiere.

  90

  Day six of editing.

  I bring Alex and his team of two into the editing suite. Need to lock picture and also need to make sure my legal team thinks we’re good on this. We’ve secured the rights to a spattering of songs from the ’70s, ’80s, and ’90s that I think work well in spots, and once I get the picture locked, I will hand it over to the sound people. Let them work their magic, amplify the guns and massage the voices. I’ve hired an amazing woman to do the score.

  Captain Kangaroo called earlier today. Said he wanted to make sure I was healing fine, which is bullshit. He wants to know when the money is going to roll his way. Told him I was fine and soon, I hope. There’s no guarantee this thing is going to go big. All signs point to a big opening, but you never know in this business.

  Alex tells me there’s a two-million-dollar signing bonus on the table for a book deal. He says I don’t even have to write the thing, there will be a ghostwriter. Just need to sprinkle in a few lunches or coffees here and there in order to talk my story through with this person. I tell Alex to make it happen. A cool couple of million, minus taxes and whatnot, can go a long way in padding the account and get me on Fuck-You Money Highway.

  Not only do I want a legal stamp of approval from Alex and the other two, but I also want to get some feedback on the cut from a strictly entertainment perspective. My brother has always had a good eye and has worked in the business for years. He’s been to many a screening and is no stranger to story. Not to mention, the man has had a deep love of movies since we were kids. I have no idea about these other two guys or where their cinematic tastes fall on the spectrum. They are what you’d think of when you think of attorneys. Dark suits, nice hair, and never utter a sentence that doesn’t come with a qualifier or disclaimer. Who knows, they might know cinema like nobody else on the planet. This is LA, of course. Hell, they might have a script of their own buried in their hard drives.

  Never give up on the dream, not in this town.

  I dim the lights.

  Welcome to the show.

  91

  Picture locked.

  Lawyers on board, dig the flick.

  Sound and score are being worked out, should be ready soon. Now comes the media blitz. We brought in a publicist. Someone to craft my image, massage the media. More to the point, she needs to manage Hurricane Asshole. Hurricane Asshole is the storm that came rolling in after the cops found me unconscious on the beach. A never-ending barrage of grade-A, top-choice, grain-fed assholes has crawled out from the muck to lay claim to a piece of me. Local media, national, radio, print, international—all of them have come at me nonstop via a relentless 24/7 siege.

  Exploitation, the last true growth industry.

  In a sense, I need them. I need them to promote my story for me. They are, without a doubt, the best marketing plan ever assembled. Best part of all, they are free. That attractive price tag does not mean they come without a cost. Now that my life is a media event, I can’t go home. Well, that’s not that big of a deal. They can have that shitpit in the burbs, but it has made my life extremely complex. I change cars a couple of times a day, weave in and out of hotel rooms throughout the city, never staying in the same one more than one night. We’ve blocked rooms off at all the biggies. I tried Shutters and Casa Del Mar but couldn’t sleep. Their usually favorable beach locations brought back a few too many terrifying flashbacks for me that I’d like to avoid. I went classic Hollywood at Chateau Marmont. A night at the Viceroy. W in Westwood. Down and out at the Peninsula and Montage in Beverly Hills. Hotel Bel-Air, Four Seasons, Ritz-Carlton. But the one that threw them all for a loop was the two-night stay at the Holiday Inn at LAX. They didn’t know what to do with that shit. They speculated drugs and hookers.

  There wasn’t any; hate to disappoint my many loyal fans.

  The publicist is setting me up with a trainer, a nutritionist, and a spray
tan appointment and is leasing me an appropriate car and wardrobe. I don’t know what appropriate means, but I said okay to all of it.

  Saw the other day they interviewed Rick, my old next-door neighbor. Man, he was beaming. Soaking in his moment. I caught him staring down the shirt of the woman interviewing him. Dirty bastard. Had his dog with him, of course. Didn’t happen to catch it all, but he seemed to say decent things about me, seemed to fake caring well enough.

  Guessing J-something was busy.

  Maybe she found someone special.

  With the book deal signed and the film almost ready, it’s time to start slipping out information about the film. At this point, it’s an independent film, completely financed by funds outside the studio system. A true independent. Not like those bullshit ones that claim to be indie films when they are really just an offshoot of a major. Hell, most of them have offices on a studio lot. You can’t claim to be a poor, struggling independent filmmaker when you’re gnawing on raspberry scones at the same commissary as Spielberg and Michael Bay.

  No.

  Not us.

  We’re fully funded by an Australian of questionable character.

  The way nature intended.

  92

  Time for the publicist to work her magic, and if you’ve never witnessed a publicity machine grind, brother, it’s a thing to behold.

  In a way, we’ve all created our own cottage PR industry. The version of us we want out there. Facebook posts, the memes we share. The quick bits of whimsy we throw out there about what we think about the world, politics, religion, and various shit we think will slather on a thick veneer of intelligence and sophistication. Twitter. Clothes we wear, cars, homes, boob jobs, music, the booze we drink, the people we bang. All of it’s out there to provide a version of us that we want others to see. One big continuous high school reunion that needs to updated hourly to impress that person who wouldn’t fuck you at prom. The version of you you want seen. That slight manipulation of the truth that makes other people think your life is better than theirs. Then they retaliate with a mutation of their own and so on and on. Next thing you know we’re all jealous, out of ideas, pissed off, and bored.

  Here’s me on an island.

  Here’s me at a bar with friends.

  Here’s me at Disney World with my beautiful family.

  Never here’s me stuck in traffic commuting to my dead-end job.

  Never here’s me crying in the bathtub.

  This is how I justify my publicist and the magnificent web of bullshit she’s spun. So far my rationalization is working out just fine.

  Thank you for asking.

  93

  Now that my editing duties are fulfilled, I’m free to play the game.

  The publicist leaks out to the media that I’ll be at a little coffee place on Santa Monica Blvd at nine A.M. I get there around eight thirty, with my cane, to make sure I have a table on the street and a cup of coffee in hand so when Hurricane Asshole blows in I’m in a natural state of sipping single-origin, organic-pour coffee and healing my battered bones. I make sure a prescription bottle is on the table in full view. I’m told this will humanize my image. Everybody drinks coffee. Everyone has been beaten down either physically, mentally, or both, and they all have a prescription bottle or six.

  The vultures will take no less than a bazillion pictures. Those pics will be blown up to show off these human points of interest: the bottle of pills, the tired look on my face, the cane, and fact there is no ring on my finger. Ladies?

  You see, he’s just like you and me. He’s a mess, drinks coffee, and pops pills.

  See how alike celebrities and normal people are?

  Don’t we all feel better?

  In addition to these little staged moments of normal life, the publicist sets up the prerequisite interviews. In a meeting, we decided that less was more, so we limited it to three. It was determined, according to the demographic breakdown we wanted to tap, that we, meaning me, would do 60 Minutes, Today, and whichever late-night show put up the best offer. We’d do 60 Minutes first, then Today, and once we decided on a late-night appearance, I’d announce the film’s release date on that show. Her research has shown that announcements play best in a hip late-night setting.

  It doesn’t matter if everybody sees it live. What matters is the clip that will be played on YouTube and shared across all social media. Everybody on the planet will be eyeballing me making the big announcement with a host smiling and acting like it’s a big fucking deal and the crowd will go nuts, as instructed. The illusion of inclusion. The false notion you are in on something. Got in on the ground floor. You’ve been invited to that exclusive party, so come on in, folks. The velvet rope has been pulled back just for you.

  A film deal is close.

  The film should have a distributor very soon.

  The numbers being thrown around are boggling. It started at five million and has more than tripled. There are points, three-picture deals, TV series, and all kinds of shit being thrown at me. I think it’s important not to take the highest bidder on this. Just for appearances. Find the best distributor for us. The right one for our film, whose offer lands somewhere in the middle. Can’t come off as greedy given the fact people have died during all this.

  We’re not animals.

  Right?

  94

  60 Minutes was tight in spots.

  Uncomfortable.

  Tested me, truly did.

  They threw some fairly rough questions my way. Alex and the publicist had to step in a couple of times when the questions rubbed up against something legal or unsavory to the release of my film. Even with their assistance, the good folks at 60 Minutes slapped me around pretty good. I had to go over the story in detail. Luckily nobody other than the lawyers, the cops, and me has seen the footage, so 60 Minutes didn’t know the half of it. Didn’t stop them from digging into me. Their claws are damn sharp.

  To my credit, I didn’t cry or crack. I was able to finally get back to being me, meaning for the first time in a long time I was able to exit my reality and float above it all, relieving me from the stresses of the interview and letting someone else take over. That other guy, that other part of me, took over and it felt damn good.

  Hadn’t been able to work that little trick since before Choke and his family kidnapped me. Oh yeah, I’ve also convinced myself that I was kidnapped. At this point, it makes these interviews a lot easier. Like the great philosopher George Costanza once said, “Jerry, just remember, it’s not a lie if you believe it.”

  By leaving myself, my true self, I was able to answer the pounding questions with charm, wit, and warmth. Like some slick star from a movie I saw as a child. Later, I was told by many people how much they loved the interview.

  How open I was.

  How raw.

  I didn’t want to tell them that I wasn’t even in the room.

  95

  New York.

  The Today Show.

  It’s damn early, and I’ve only been able to get two cups in me. There have been assurances that the questions will be soft and I’ve seen most of them already. A director told me there might be some ad lib here and there if the conversation leads us that way. I said that was cool.

  I’ve also been taking pills.

  Not just the ones prescribed for my leg—and yes, it’s true, I’ve been abusing the shit out of those and they are pretty damn fantastic—but I’m also dabbling with a few others of various shapes, colors, and origins. The true names of all my little darlings are boring and hard to pronounce, but that doesn’t stop me from ingesting them at a geometric rate. One to wake up, one to focus, one for happy, and then I smoke bowl and drink some wine or whiskey or both to balance the world out. Then one to sleep. Balance is key, like a nutritional food pyramid of sorts. No really, I had a chart put together, it’s…somewhere.

  Sleeping is the biggest issue. I keep having dreams. I’d call them nightmares but that sounds childish. But they are nightmares. My h
ead spins and spins as I lie awake thinking of all the ugliness of the world and how I’ve contributed to it. I see their faces. The ones whose deaths I’m responsible for. The bank guards, Gains, and even Shaw’s people. But the ones who really shake me in the dead of the night are that couple from the house.

  Ruby said they were safe.

  Ruby said all kinds of shit.

  At this particular moment, under the lights of The Today Show with makeup being applied, the crowd outside the window, I’m not taking all of those pills. That would be reckless. Irresponsible. Right now it’s just coffee with a bump of booze, thanks to Alex, and a couple of pain pills and a one-hitter in the green room.

  Oh yeah, and an ever-so-slight bump of cocaine.

  They have me set up in a comfy chair next to the window overlooking Rockefeller Plaza. It’s packed out there. There’s even a homemade sign or two. One woman holds one that reads I’LL KIDNAP YOU. Another says LITTLE ROCK LUVS U. There are a few signs with Bible verses scrawled across them. I smile and wave like I’m trapped on a float in Pasadena.

  The interviewer takes a seat across from me. He’s sharp. Perfect hair, crisp suit, glasses. I’m wishing I’d dressed up a bit more. My untucked shirt, jeans, and sneakers are making me feel like a kid in the principal’s office. But this is the outfit the publicist chose for me. Again, part of the “I’m one of you” campaign. I am dressed like some of the people outside. “They are the ones buying the tickets,” the publicist told me as Alex poured some whiskey into my dark roast. I hold my thumb and finger together—pinch of cream, please.

  The guy tells us we are on in five, four, three…

  Interview boy gets his cards ready.

  The process of planning my mental exit from the room has begun.

  Out of the corner of my eye I see something.

  Someone.