Be Safe

by Doug Weaver

  Heroine (pretty; comfortable; sexy) happily bakes Bundt cake for family.

  Heroine marks time by the progress of Bundt cake (which is almost done).

  Heroine resists urge to call husband (handsome; manly; powerful; naturally drawn to Bundt cake as the embodiment of heaven) and looks out window of kitchen – sees agreeable suburban street/neighbors, who, it’s understood, have healthy Bundt cake appetites.

  Heroine removes Bundt cake from oven at exactly the same moment that the phone rings.

  Heroine has suffered a minor finger burn from Bundt cake pan, and she sticks finger into mouth before answering the phone, which creates a morsel of levity because it’s hard to talk with a finger in your mouth.

  It’s heroine’s husband calling to report that he’s been held up at work (he’s a Bundt cake patent attorney or a designer of Bundt cake ovens, or possibly ex-CIA analyst of Bundt cakes ([foreign Bundt cake division] because Hollywood), when it’s revealed he’s calling from a mid-priced hotel room that’s seedy yet clean because it’s pretty obvious that residual stains have literally been sanded away, leaving a pathetic, well-worn patina here and there for which the film’s Art Department went over budget by about $125,000 just to get “the look” just right because the director has lost the ability to discern the difference between necessary and unnecessary detail, and where the husband’s spent the afternoon fucking a super-delicious non-Bundt cake baker/eater with a questionable moral center.

  Heroine reports that the kids aren’t home from the mall yet (the mall represents interstitial space between Bundt cake/no Bundt cake). It’s learned, due to acting chops, that husband isn’t a dick; he’s just flawed – like anybody actually because who could resist fucking a woman that fucking beautiful – he loves his family – and probably has an enormous capacity for atonement (which includes his refusal to partake in proffered Bundt cake from friendly characters who aren’t aware of the depth of his flaws, so they’re left with open-mouthed acceptance/astonishment) that will be expected in about 75 minutes of movie time.

  Amid fussing with the pristine Bundt cake – ok, maybe just a piece is missing – the heroine pours herself a glass of red wine and sips it while at the same time she flogs herself (flaws) .

  Authorities are called re: missing kids (stale Bundt cake in generic detective office in seedy section of Downtown – crumbs everywhere). But the point is that these detectives are “good” guys because Bundt cake.

  Attention drawn to several really bad bad guys who’ve kidnapped the kids and are vaguely torturing them because kids (withholding Bundt cake from them). We know the depth of these guys’ rottenness because they smoke cigarettes, they have morsels of non Bundt cake food in their teeth, along with the fact that they couldn’t care less about good Bundt cake, which is demonstrated by them eating beef sandwiches instead of Bundt cake.

  Mish-mash of shit involving good intentions (Bundt cake), flawed husband (morally questionable prostitute non-Bundt cake baker/eater) and bad guys (cigarettes/dirty teeth/kids) and forlorn wife (Bundt cake in the trash).

  Husband almost gets his kids harmed severely because he’s flawed – he’s strayed from the potent-yet-passive innocent allure of Bundt cake.

  Heroine indignant and pissed (fresh Bundt cake in the trash – again – signifying the literal end of Western civilization – anyway, it’s really fucking awful).

  Husband rises above his flaws to rescue kids, but wife/heroine – due to blind self will – is imprisoned by same bad guys because she’s pissed (succumbing to influence of flaws), illustrated by her having thoughtlessly and recklessly bought a cheap generic Bundt cake from a 7-Eleven (also a flaw).

  Kids/flawed husband-dad outsmart bad guys, illustrated by them secretly and earnestly eating a hastily concocted Bundt cake that’s been made using “found” ingredients, and then hatching a plan.

  Flaws of main characters rendered flaccid and inert by triumph of human spirit embodied by billboards touting A-1 first class Bundt cakes. The Great Lesson of Returning to Genuine Appreciation of Bundt Cake has been learned and internalized.

  Freshly baked Bundt cake enjoyed by all.

  ###

  Of course the foregoing is a slightly reduced version of exactly what it was Gordon and William were discussing – and the film could possibly have been one involving real-looking dinosaurs or international thieves instead of run-of-the-mill bad guys, but the Bundt cake remains (or something signifying Bundt cake because Bundt cake equals all things good and clean and pretty and white, which this last thing Hollywood producers would never admit to [the “white” thing] because they’re these really powerful people who rarely make pernicious decisions because they vote Democratic and donate $$ to third-world countries and they make a point of being indignant at all things that might be interpreted as racist, even though a casual survey of their early children’s cartoons, which are, of course, suitable for the entire family, will reveal that they’ve rendered all the minor characters offered to provide comic relief because they’re inept, as well as the truly bad bad guys in their stories as either black or dark), but it’s not their fault really, it’s just the “cowboy” white hat/black hat thing, and barring earnest examination/study by people who know a thing or two about culture who might be able to offer helpful suggestions, the cartoons and later work remain monuments to ignorance, not to mention that that kind of study is time consuming and probably really really expensive, so fucking sue me, you nit-picking liberal assholes, the Bundt cake stays because it’s a signifier that’s – hopefully – as basic as Bambi-generated pathos, rooting for the morally superior underdog or plain old overcoming lust for your neighbor’s mom or dad, and what do you think? I’m doing this for the fun of it?

  The point is that William and Gordon really enjoyed the film.

  (Note: Both William and Gordon listen to downloaded music on portable devices – just saying)

  Once the film has been sufficiently discussed, William (in his own quiet way) calls for calm at their table and he announces solemnly that he’s begun working the Eighth Step of the Alcoholics Anonymous program, which is making a written list of all persons you’ve harmed during the time of your chemical impairment so that you can make amends to them. Gordon only nods in complete support, and William then says loudly enough to be overheard by most of the adjacent tables: “Of course I put myself at the top of the list!” where the “top” in the sentence is literally and musically at least an octave higher than the rest of the words in his proclamation. Most of those who’ve heard this remark take it as a matter of course. But some – mainly those people who’ve suffered multiple relapses and have had objectively a much harder time with this twelve-step thing than most – know that such a statement is not only technically wrong – the Eighth Step doesn’t mention a word about making amends to yourself – they know it’s also morally wrong; that the whole concept of making amends is a risk-laden adventure in character building: There are some people who’ve been shit on by impaired alcoholics/drug addicts, who, in spite of how well the recovering addict/alcoholic is doing at the moment, will never accept your fucking amends no matter how earnest you seem at the moment or how pure your intentions are. That’s in the literature. But where’s the risk when you make amends to yourself?

  Hi self, I just want to say that I’m really really really sorry about stealing that $30,000 and forcing you to lose your business and get you like arrested and stuff, and that I’ll never do that again and, if it’s not too much trouble, do you think you could forgive me; and if you could signify/codify this forgiveness by giving me a pretty robust hug – a mirror hug even though it’s me I’m talking to right now, right here in public. I’m not ashamed at all – come on, big fella! Bring it in here!

  What are the chances that you’re going to decline an offer of am
ends from yourself?

  Oh, not so fast, self. You really fucked with me and you forced me to behave badly and reduced my standing as a human being with all those drugs, and I’m not as forgiving as some people, so fuck you.

  So self-forgiveness remains as a marker of assiduous character building. Gallagher fixes his sight on the entrance to the burrito place across Vermont.

  “Hey,” he says. “Isn’t that those two guys we just met?”

  “Yeah, looks like it,” Rogarth says.

  “You wanna go over and see what’s up?”

  Rogarth’s stomach does a somersault as a memory of a speed rush takes shape in his head.

  “You think it’s a good idea?” Gallagher says.

  “Sure – let’s go.”

  Gallagher says: “What if they ask us if we get high?”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Jimmy S. has been successful. He’s crossed The Geisha’s finish line and, fortified once again with a healthy dose of meth coursing through his veins, he pushes the elevator’s call button repeatedly, even knowing deep down that repetitions, at least in this case, probably have about zero effect at speeding the process. He jumps inside and rides to the street level, where he emerges into a world of glorious possibility. Governed at the moment by an expanse of time that’s grown to dimensions beyond his comprehension, Jimmy points himself vaguely eastward in the direction of Korn’s house. He’s buoyed with thoughts of conquest once again – of discovering, exploiting and ultimately tearing into the sexual fantasies of some unassuming young man. With a practiced ease, different scenarios take shape in his imagination, each a category of a possible target: Cops? EMTs? Jihadists? He realizes, as the eastbound Sunset bus arrives, that he’s begun to foam at the corners of his mouth, and silently orders himself to take it easy; that he’ll have all night to find the perfect partner.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  I’ve settled into a pretty comfortable eating rhythm: carefully sawing the burrito, stabbing the morsel, and depositing it into my mouth. It’s tedious and I’m not feeling exactly satisfied. The radio seems to have grown louder and the announcer guy with the overflowing sinuses on the loudspeakers inside Antonio’s forces my attention. There’s a certain level of difficulty in his voice. He digresses before he condescends to allow the music to commence:

  “If I may, please permit me to offer my opinion about what may be the basis for so many problems in society: We’ve simply forgotten how to dance.” And he gives an unsolicited little explanation of the Mazurka tinged, of course, with a diphthong-heavy sea of snot, and, it seems, way too much time on his hands. “The Mazurka,” he says – he seems to have lost most of his enthusiasm, settling instead on a pretty comfortable bed of professorial languor – “is a Polish dance not unlike the minuet. It’s written in 3/4 meter, but ideally” – and he stresses that word again – he’s getting excited again – “ideally, it’s performed and danced” – as if this emphasized conjunction “and” will pique everybody’s attention and raise this discursive lecture into some higher realm.

  “It’s danced and performed at a meter that’s somewhere in the middle between 3/4 and 2/4, so that the music and the dance literally hover over a magical space that’s undefinable, but at the same time unmistakable. It’s like drawing a secret breath where no one expects you to do anything at all except maybe defy gravity and fly away – or what’s likely to be the case – hmmm, let’s think of a pretty common example of interstitiality, like something that really has nothing to do with music or disease or physiology. Something like inter-species stuff. Batmen? No…too obvious. Wolf-boys, then. How about that? How might you expect a regular human boy to behave who’d been raised by wolves? There’s a tried and true example that won’t tax the imaginations of the listening public too much…and it’s certainly not without precedent.

  “Would this wolf-boy’s behavior hover equally between the two forces: nature/nurture? Or would he resist expectations and favor wolf world or human world? Or would he take on characteristics no one could predict? Or would he just end up being a reflection of the dominant culture that’s able to tell stories about wolf boys and growl here and there when offered a piece of meat instead of something else, like – oh, god, would he devolve into merely an expression of deficiency where an audience of humans would quietly cheer for his inborn capacity for human cleverness to take over and demand that something like knives and forks be invented where none existed before the present moment? Or would he be something else? What would ‘something else’ look like? Would it be hideous? I like to think so. I like to think this boy – we’ll call him Dave – I like to think that Dave has become comfortable with emotional pain because the wolf leaders have certain expectations of other males in their pack, which almost always boils down to making a move on one or more of their females, but due to Dave’s complete inability to experience coitus with the wolf bitches, because – well, suffice it to say they have insurmountable differences, which Dave tries to overcome, but he just can’t. And this inability causes Dave to suffer substantial embarrassment and swaths of self-doubt.

  “But Dave’s also become comfortable with physical pain because his wolf parents/siblings are always chewing on his flesh, taking bites here and there, even when he sleeps, and this becomes so routine that Dave actually – because he’s actually human with a ton more brain power than his wolf caretakers – starts to expect this feeling so he’s learned to take bites off himself because he’s from the Midwest originally and he possesses an almost superhuman capacity for accommodation even if he dislikes what’s happening. He absolutely hates to disappoint – so he overcomes the pain and just munches away at himself believing that this is what’s expected of him. And this habit grows to horrific dimensions until he can no longer bite off any meaningful parts anymore – he’s already swallowed his hands and feet and limbs and his cock and balls (what a pity!), so the only thing left is his torso and head, which are out of reach because that’s where his mouth resides and his neck only stretches so far, and even with unrelenting practice and concentration, Dave simply cannot overcome this physical constraint, so he eventually goes quite mad, due to not only the frustration of impossibility, but also to being defined by his peers and teachers as a disappointment, until he reaches old age, but he still, now and then, remembers to try to eat what’s left of himself, but he can’t.

  “And after Dave finally dies, the wolves just think this is what all human boys must be like, but they nevertheless miss him quite a lot because they’d grown fond of the way he tasted, at least as an adolescent or even a young man because they’re objectively so delicious – and let’s face it: old guys are pretty much just gristle, fat and hair. Who in his right mind would hire a masseur to come over for a hundred bucks or so and strip naked if he was some old guy masseur who advertised alongside the youngsters? Yuck!”

  The radio announcer takes a breather from his lecture here, but do we get music yet, just to maybe hear this magical musical phenomenon? No.

  He continues: “But alas, the Mazurka – and not just the Mazurka” – he digresses again – “both the Mazurka and the minuet are hardly ever performed correctly, the Mazurka for the secret rhythmic place where it should reside, and the minuet because of the erosion by popular culture of definitions. I get the whole ‘social relativism’ thing and how essential that is for some things, like academia and ‘cultural progress’ – probably for Democracy itself – but it has a dark side” – And the guy’s starting to get a little excited again, but this excitement only sounds like the phlegm in in throat is starting to boil a little: “But certain things should have meaning. So sue me, kick me off the air. But please, if you can’t tell me that there’s any difference between ‘less’ and ‘fewer’ or ‘his/hers’ and ‘their,’ then just shoot me. Banish me to Rigid Formalist World because apparently t
hat’s where I belong.” He takes a breath and swallows what sounds like a lung-full of snot before he continues: