Memphis Movie

by Corey Mesler

  “Got rid of that years ago,” Camel said, ushering them inside.

  An enthusiastic border collie met the group at the door. He seemed to engage his whole body in his tail wagging. It was a dance unlike any Eric had ever seen.

  “That’s Fido,” Camel said. “Smartest dog on the planet. So smart when I leave the house I leave him written instructions.”

  “It’s a border collie, right?” Eric said.

  “Yes. They’re shepherds. I haven’t lost a sheep since I got him.”

  Camel seemed to mean it, to value the dog’s innate abilities and his intact flock.

  Stepping into Camel’s house was like stepping through a door into a Lost World. It looked as if it had been decorated in 1969 by Abbie Hoffman and Wavy Gravy and had never been dusted since. The posters, rugs, ojos, lamps, macramé, albums, all seemed foxed with age, scattered, scrambled and stacked, yet timeless. Sleeping on a sprung sofa was a near-naked teenage girl. She was short, blonde, Slavic in her features. She was perhaps Hungarian; her people were perhaps Hungarian. Her breasts were round cups of pleasure and her little curved belly softly inviting. Someone had drawn a peace symbol around her navel, a pouting outie. She was sound asleep, sucking her thumb.

  “That’s Lorax,” Camel said. “At least I think that’s what she said her name was.”

  “She a friend?” Sandy asked with a worldly smirk.

  “Don’t know, don’t know,” Camel said. “Showed up last night. Said she just got to town from Louisiana. Boyfriend in Memphis somewhere, hence my couch. I think she’s on the way to California, or maybe that was someone else.”

  “Uh-huh,” Eric said.

  “So, whatcha doing here, my man?” Camel asked. He gestured as if they should all sit but there were no empty chairs.

  “I thought someone had contacted you. We are looking for a writer to punch up our script. To, you know, add some Memphis Mojo.”

  “A writer, eh?” Camel seemed to go into a fugue of thoughtfulness. He was genuinely pondering the question.

  “I don’t know,” he said after a time. “I used to write.”

  “Yes,” Eric said. “We’re here to ask if you would be that writer.”

  “Oh, oh, I see.”

  Sandy found a beanbag that might be a chair and dropped onto it.

  “You remember Sandy, right?” Eric said. “She’s my—my scriptwriter. She’s—well, we’re here to make a movie.”

  “Yes, yes, I’m getting it now,” Camel said.

  “What do you think?”

  “I, that is, I don’t know. Can I throw the I Ching and get back to you?”

  “Camel, sure, whatever. We know you can do this.”

  “A movie. I haven’t seen a movie since—since Porky’s. That’s a hilarious film. Have you seen Porky’s, Sandy?”

  Sandy didn’t even look up. She was doing something with her BlackBerry.

  “Porky’s. Yeah. But, Camel, you don’t have to technically know movies. We’re looking for local color. Someone to add poetry to Sandy’s strong storyline.”

  “Hm-mm. Poetry, mm. What is the story?”

  Eric looked for someplace to sit. Finally he sat yoga-style on the carpet. Under his ass was the Monkees’ Headquarters LP. It crackled.

  He laid out the bare bones of the story for Camel, who paced during the telling.

  “Huh,” he said when Eric was through.

  “What, I ask again, do you think?”

  “First, I’ll need some reds.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I don’t know, Craig. I guess I can give you some help.”

  “Great, great,” Eric said. He looked to Sandy for encouragement. She was text-messaging someone. Eric only briefly considered that it might be her lover from their first night in Memphis.

  “Hey, you guys want something to drink?” Camel said now, a smile creasing his soft leather face.

  “Whatcha got?” Eric said.

  “Oh. Nothing. There’s nothing to drink here, Craig. I thought maybe you’d buy me a libation.”

  Sandy finally spoke: “Yes, let’s do that,” she said. “Let’s please start drinking.”

  17.

  “That’s a little too much gun for household use, but lemme—”

  “I like it. I like the heft of it. I like the rubber grip,” Dan Yumont said.

  “Yes, it’s a beauty, the Raging Bull they call it. Too much gun, really. But, look, look at this honey. This little puppy will do the do. Feel it in your hand.”

  “Hm, yeah, I like it. I do like the way my hand hides it.”

  “That’s our bestselling piece. That’s all you need. The other, the Bull, will stop anything short of a rhinoceros.”

  “I have some friends who are short of a rhinoceros so this’ll be good.”

  “Heh, yeah, look, Jack, let’s put the other, let’s put that cannon back.”

  “I like them both. But I want the cannon.”

  “Oh. Well, sure. I mean, I’m here to sell guns.”

  “How much? How much for the Raging Bull and a box of shells?”

  “Well, lemme tell you, that’s gonna set you back. Now—”

  “I’ll give you 1,500 for everything, as long as there are no strings.”

  “Well—heh—the strings, we can maybe let that slide a bit, but—”

  “Seventeen-fifty.”

  “Yeah, yep. That’s a deal.”

  “Good. Load ’er and I’m on my way.”

  “Load it?”

  “Problem? Load it and I am on my way.”

  “Ah, cash, well. Lemme—you know—you look familiar. Something about the way you hold that piece. I can’t place it.”

  “You see many movies?”

  “Movies, nah. I don’t go out much. The wife, she’s got phlebitis, she don’t like to go out much.”

  “Like this, if I hold the gun like this?”

  “Wait. Wait. Oh. Oh, shit. Yeah, Murder Among Friends. Or, what was it? Murder with a Vengeance? You’re—you’re Harrison Ford.”

  “Close enough.”

  “Really? Shit. Wait till I tell the wife.”

  “Nice to meet you—eh—”

  “Tom.”

  “Tom, nice to meet you.”

  “You here to make a movie?”

  “Nah. Nah, no movie. I’m here to make a hit for a friend. Don’t tell anyone, ok?”

  “Heh-heh, right. Listen, thanks, Mr. Ford.”

  “Yes, Tom. Thank you.”

  18.

  The bartender, accustomed even to early morning drinkers, still seemed perplexed at his patrons. They seemed exotic, from some other place. Perhaps it was Camel’s flop-brimmed hat.

  “The story,” Eric was saying, “is about cynicism. It’s about how irony only takes one so far and then you discover that you are tightrope walking without a net.”

  Camel was nodding, sagely, into his beer.

  “It’s all but written,” Sandy added. “Though, typically, what we do is keep the script fluid, malleable, especially when we go on location and we’re unfamiliar with the local zeitgeist. That’s where you come in.”

  “Local zeitgeist,” Camel said.

  “Sure,” Eric reassured him.

  “Will I, like, be on set?”

  “No, not necessarily. We’re hoping you can communicate with us by email as we go. We’ll give you pages and—”

  “Email,” Camel said.

  “You don’t have email,” Eric said. It wasn’t a question.

  “That entails a computer, am I right?” Camel suddenly sounded like a schoolboy.

  “Sorry . . . um, we can work differently. What do you think, Sand?”

  “Well, we can work . . . differently.”

  “Yes,” Eric said.

  “Ok, sure. Gimme some pages and I’ll see what’s what.”

  “That’s great, Buddy.” Eric was straining his effusiveness. He was about out of it.

  “And you can get me drugs?”

  “Sure.”
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  “Hollywood drugs.”

  “Sure, Camel. Hollywood drugs.”

  “Hey, did you see that special on Dylan last night?”

  “No—I didn’t—”

  “He’s gone electric,” Camel said.

  19.

  Sandy and Eric gave Camel a working copy of the script. First, all three of them had to go to Kinko’s to print a copy from Sandy’s laptop since giving Camel a zip drive of it would be inane.

  “Memphis Movie,” Camel read, weighing the pages in his hand as if they were so many tomatoes.

  “Working title,” Eric said.

  “I like it,” Camel said. “It’s kind of like ‘This is not a pipe,’ except you’re saying it is, it is a pipe. Or in this case, a movie.”

  “R-right,” Eric said. “Take it home, live with it for a few days. But we need to get rolling, so, you know, ASAP (he pronounced it “ay-sap”), anything you think you can help us with.”

  “Yep,” said Camel.

  After they dropped him off on Rembert Street Eric had to take a call from Jimbo.

  “Hey, what’s up?” Eric asked.

  “Have you been drinking?” Jimbo asked.

  “A beer.”

  “That’s my dog.”

  “Yes. What, I repeat, is up?”

  “Since we’re not shooting today I thought you’d want to see the grocery store I found, you know, the one Ike’s character owns.”

  “I’m sure it’s right,” Eric said. “Use your best judgment.”

  “Um, ok. When should we get together?”

  “Later. I’ll call you later this afternoon.”

  “People to do, things to see, right?”

  “Yes, later—”

  “Ok, Buddy, I’ll—”

  Eric hung up.

  “I have someplace to be,” Sandy said.

  “Someplace,” Eric repeated, stupidly.

  “Yes.”

  “Ok, I’ll drop you.”

  “Just drop me at Huey’s,” Sandy said.

  “Huey’s. Yeah, you know, it’s almost lunch time. I could use a burger.”

  Sandy looked at him with every single year of their being together knit into her brow.

  “Right,” Eric said.

  After she kissed his cheek on Madison Avenue and he had driven away, Eric felt like he couldn’t make this movie. Not here in Memphis, not ever. It was all coming apart, he thought, though really it hadn’t had a chance to come together.

  He stopped at a Piggly Wiggly parking lot to check his calls.

  There weren’t as many as he had expected. The cast were probably happy about the day off, the crew probably pissed that they had to work. No further call from Dan.

  No call from Hope Davis. Hope doesn’t spring eternal. It doesn’t spring at all.

  There was, however, a call from Mimsy Borogoves. Eric got a particular buzz dialing her number, a schoolboy buzz.

  “Hi, Mimsy, this is Eric Warberg.”

  “So formal. I can see it’s you, you see. It says so on my phone. And I chose to answer it unlike you who only call back later.”

  Was she ragging him or flirting? Eric never knew. Eric never knew.

  “I was in a meeting,” Eric said. Jesus, what a Hollywood answer.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “With a writer.”

  “Uh-huh. I thought your wife wrote all your scripts.”

  “She’s not my wife. No, what I mean is, no, she does write all my scripts but there is always input from other writers. That’s just the process. Do you know Camel Eros?”

  “Camel Jeremy Eros?”

  “Yes.”

  “Really?”

  “No good? We’re barking up the wrong dog?”

  “No. I don’t know. Camel. I haven’t seen him in forever.”

  “Oh, so you know him.”

  “Well, who knows Camel? He was a friend of my father’s. They went to jail together. This was, oh, I don’t know, the garbage strike—was that 1968?”

  “Yes, I think that’s right.”

  “Camel, huh.”

  “So, what for you call me, Mimsy Borogoves?”

  “Wanna get some lunch?”

  “I do. I really do.”

  “Huey’s?” she asked.

  “Um, no. Let’s—I don’t know—let’s go someplace far away from Huey’s.”

  “Ok, Mr. Mystery. Do you know how to get to Gus’s? Best fried chicken in the world.”

  When they were seated in the large room at a small square table Eric couldn’t help but think that Mimsy Borogoves was even prettier than he remembered. She was white like spirit matter, pale as ghost orbs, the backscatter in a photograph. She was positively lucent.

  “What’s good here?” Eric asked.

  “Get the chicken.”

  They laughed a mutual laugh, one of those that makes a bond, a warmth transmitted. He wanted to put his hand on her hand, which rested next to her water glass. The light through the water glass lit her hand, making it resemble fine marble, or glazed pottery.

  He put his hand on her hand.

  “Tell me things,” he said.

  Mimsy Borogoves looked long into his face. She was deciding something but Eric could only guess what.

  “It’s true, isn’t it, the Hollywood stereotype? The director who beds women left and right because every female has illusions about being in the movies. That’s you, isn’t it? That’s who you’ve become.”

  “Is that why you wanted to get together? To castigate me for my profligate ways without even knowing what those ways are?”

  “I’m sorry.” Mimsy Borogoves lowered her gaze.

  Eric removed his hand.

  “What then?” he asked.

  “I want to be in movies,” she said. Then, after a beat, a nervous laugh.

  “You’re beautiful enough,” Eric said, gallantly.

  “He said gallantly,” Mimsy said.

  “Well, really—”

  “I don’t want to act, Silly. I want to direct.”

  “Ah.”

  “So, can I sleep with you for that?”

  Eric and Mimsy shared another laugh. Eric wasn’t sure whether she was serious or not. Sleeping with Mimsy Borogoves would be about the best idea he’d had since coming to Memphis.

  20.

  Midday. Exterior. Medium shot.

  Dan Yumont is buying lunch at a Stop’n Go. They sold the best gyros, he had heard. He carried the dripping sandwich to the parking lot where he ate it leaning against his rented car.

  A guy on a Harley pulled up next to him, the din all but swamping every sense for a few seconds. Until he turned the hog off Dan was deaf, dumb and blind. The world was eclipsed.

  In the silence afterward the two men made uneasy eye contact.

  Dan never backed down from a staring contest.

  “Hey,” the biker said with a head bob.

  “How’s it going?” Dan answered with a shit-eating grin.

  “You’re Dan Yumont,” the biker said.

  “Who?”

  “I must be wrong. Sorry. You look like someone.”

  “I hope I am. I hope I am someone.”

  “Right. Sorry.”

  “Have a good day,” Dan Yumont said.

  As Dan was finished his gyro the biker was re-saddling his bike and, with a cautious nod, off he roared. Dan stood in the dust and midday silence and squinted. As he squinted he was reminded of who he was and being reminded, he wanted to use it to—do something. There was power there and power begged to be used.

  Suddenly Dan was horny again and he wished he could remember how to get back to Dudu’s house. It was in Midtown somewhere. But, he then reflected, she was probably pissed now that he had left so abruptly.

  So he set out again. A knight errant.

  Where else to go? A college campus. Dan Yumont was practiced in the ways of seduction. Ever since the Oscar, of course, it didn’t matter whether he was practiced in those ways or not. Women came to him. Yet, still th
ere was the thrill of the hunt.

  Dan parked on Southern Avenue across from the campus of the University of Memphis, formerly Memphis State. A train separated him from his hunting ground and he stood smoking a cigarette and watching the cars rush by.

  “Aren’t you Dan Yumont?” he heard at his elbow.

  He turned to find a round, cheeky face under a mop of black hair. One pierced lip. Yet, underneath some scabrous clothing there was a body to die for. This was too easy. Too easy.

  “Nope,” Dan said.

  The little black figure eyed him as if he were a trig problem.

  “You are,” she said. “You’re here to make that movie.”

  Now Dan turned fully toward her.

  “Hi, Sweet,” he said. “Who are you?”

  “Name’s Candy,” she said.

  “Ah, and I called you Sweet. Must mean something.”

  He squinted at her.

  She smiled an engaging smile.

  Well, Dan thought, might as well.

  “That must work on dipshits,” Candy said. “You’re a bad man, Daddy.”

  And with that she walked away. Across the tracks where there had been a train only moments before.

  Dan laughed at himself. Some days the magic works and some days, well, it works less well.

  Dan Yumont found the student center and parked himself on a bench in front of it. He lit another cigarette and surveyed.

  The campus was so alive with humanity at this time of day that Dan could hardly see the trees for the forest. Then he saw her.

  She was with a couple of other young women but she erased them. Her beauty, her confident beauty, positively swallowed up anyone else around her. She was tall, about six feet, with long legs, about which she was rightly proud because she wore a short, tight jean skirt. Her hips worked like a runway model’s and her breasts were perfectly round eyes in the center of her body. They stared at Dan and he stared back. And her face—she was a Botticelli angel. She was white-blonde and looked a little bit like Heather Graham, whom Dan had dated briefly back in the previous century.

  Dan stood. The angel had not noticed him yet. She was chattering angel-talk to her friends.

  Dan stepped into her path like a gunslinger.

  “Hi,” he said, ignoring Friend Left and Friend Right. “Can you tell me where Chemistry is?”

  The blonde squinched up her face.