Memphis Movie

by Corey Mesler

  “Yes, yes, of course. I thought—well, I guess I thought you’d be around the set and all.”

  “I’d love to, believe me. Your project, unfortunately, is not the only thing on my plate.”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” Eric said. Just holding her hand stilled him.

  “How’s it going?”

  Eric paused. He could be honest with Mimsy. Yet, his knee-jerk impulse was to damn the thing again, throw his hands up in disgust and pour his heart out about his lack of direction. His lack of direction. Then, he changed emotional gears.

  “Actually, we had a productive day. I think—just perhaps—that there is an embryonic movie in the middle of all the uncertainty, a movie that’s trying to come out of its egg.”

  “Well, for God’s sake, don’t be optimistic.” She smiled.

  “I know. I know. It’s all felt so muddled, so end-of-career fumbling. Then today, when that bastard Dan Yumont was running Sandy’s lines—lines which, I swear, up until today seemed dead on the page—well, I don’t know, something alive happened. Some kernel of human truth emerged. Is that overstating it?”

  “I don’t know, dear. But it sounds grand. Just grand.”

  “Yes, it is. I guess it is.”

  The waiter came and they both ordered some expensive fish. They seemed to settle into a comfort that was balm to them, especially to Eric, whose quest for peace wavered like barometric pressure.

  “Tell me about the script. Tell me about your friend, Camel.”

  Mimsy had that gift. She asked about what you wanted to tell.

  “Oh, I don’t know. I don’t know.”

  Eric fretted for a second.

  “You know what I should do?” he asked. “I should let you judge. Would you? Would you mind looking at it and telling me whether it’s just crazy meanderings or if there’s sense there? I trust you implicitly.”

  “You overestimate my abilities, dear. But, sure. I’ll look at the pages.”

  “Wonderful. Can we do it tonight after dinner?”

  “Sounds like a plan,” she said, and patted his hand. Her slim fingers looked like something ripe and wholesome over Eric’s hoary, veined appendage. He would wonder again, and not for the last time, how lucky he was to have her near, to have her during this time.

  Back at Mimsy’s, Eric took his shoes off and propped them on the coffee table, a mahogany monstrosity that surely came from a yard sale. He was watching a basketball game with the sound off while Mimsy, next to him, glasses on nose, bangs over forehead, was intently studying both the script and Camel’s wild addendums to it.

  Memphis had become an NBA city since Eric had gone west. He was trying to make out who the star player was on the team. They were holding their own against Detroit and Eric felt a ridiculous surge of pride for his abandoned hometown.

  “Stop picking your cuticles, Dearheart. It sounds like flesh tearing.”

  Eric looked at his cuticles. They burned red.

  “Sorry,” he said, under his breath.

  Perhaps that lanky white guy with the beard. Perhaps he is the star, Eric thought. His moves around the basket were deft and sweet. He held the ball like Lady Liberty holds her torch and quickly slipped it over Chris Webber’s outstretched hands. Ah, Eric said to himself. Ah, he’s the man.

  “Eric,” Mimsy said, finally. “Hm.”

  Eric waited.

  “It’s wild, ragged stuff, isn’t it?”

  She was hedging, waiting for his agreement to see where she should go.

  “Is it—is it workable? Does it fit somehow?”

  Mimsy tapped her pen against the paper.

  “You know, I’d say, if you were able to incorporate these wild thoughts—well, hell, it might just raise a moribund story into another place—a place of invention and wit and mystery. It’s certainly unlike anything else in the movies today. What do you think?”

  This was palliative. Eric smiled as if he had just been promised the Oscar.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “You look like a kid who’s just been told about Christmas.”

  “Yes,” Eric said again.

  Then a beat later: “Can we talk now about these ghosts I’ve been seeing?”

  46.

  Just past sunrise. Downtown.

  Eric had to meet with Rica Sash and Ricky Lime. They were moving toward a visual style and Rica had asked for the meeting because he had some fresh ideas. Eric thought again that the secret of this film, the thing that might unlock its mysteries, might lie with his esteemed cinematographer.

  Eric was also feeling lighthearted and confident. Mimsy’s reassurance had bolstered him. He arrived at the Pyramid very early. The air was chill and the sun a white spot behind muslin, clear as a fresh apple hanging over Poplar Avenue. He was unshaved and his mouth tasted of bitter coffee but he was as happy as he had been since coming to Memphis.

  He was met in the parking lot by Camel’s fay, the light-footed hippie child who ran his errands. In her small fist was a bouquet of blue pages.

  “Hi, hi,” she said. “Lorax. Camel’s friend.”

  “I know.” Eric smiled at her the way he would at a friend of his daughter’s if he had a daughter.

  “Camel stayed up late over these. I think it’s really powerful stuff.”

  “Do you?” Eric said. He was honestly interested but his tone must have been awry because the young pixie frowned.

  “I do,” she pouted.

  “Hey, I really want to hear what you think.”

  She brightened. It was like turning on a dazzling light.

  “Well, he’s a poet, you know. This stuff is poetry. The first he’s written in so long. So, like, hey, I really think it’s important stuff.”

  She smiled as if she had made it all clear.

  “Ok,” Eric said.

  They stood together awkwardly. The pixie was looking out over the river.

  “Would you like to visit the set?” he asked.

  Lorax seemed to think this over.

  “I guess I would,” she said.

  “Come in. I’ll introduce you to my assistant and she’ll show you around. I’ve got to meet with my cinematographer. Ok?”

  “Yep,” Lorax said.

  During the meeting the three men seemed to come to agreement fairly quickly. Ricky Lime was obviously cowed by Sash’s reputation and his heavy accent. Lime barely spoke until Rica complimented him on some shots he had done at the Ornamental Metal Museum.

  “This has really been a cue for me,” he said, waving one of the photos. “The dark forge—it’s given me some thematic ideas that I think will color the whole film.”

  Lime grinned as if his own high opinion of himself had been seconded.

  Eric thought it quite humorous and he was happy he had not fired Lime. The two men now were talking shop like old pros. The visual style of the film was made clear at this little confab. Eric was praying, however, that Lime wouldn’t spill about the ghostly images he’d captured. It seemed as if he had moved beyond his new age predilections and was happy now talking camera work. Sash grounded him, perhaps.

  “And here,” Ricky Lime now said, “I’ve captured something precious, I think.” He was showing Rica the image of Elvis on the sidewalk. “What do you think?”

  Eric felt the coffee burn behind his sternum.

  “It’s Presley’s ghost,” Rica Sash said, matter-of-factly. He handed it back to Lime and smiled.

  “Right,” Ricky Lime said, and put the photo back in his portfolio case.

  When Eric got back to the set the actors were being put in place for another shoot. Sandy was sitting at the big table in deep conversation with Lorax. They both looked up when Eric approached.

  “Hello, Baby,” Sandy said. “Lorax was telling me how Camel works. His—what did you call it—organic way of working.”

  It was hard to tell if Sandy’s ironic and sharp tongue was being honed.

  “I love your wife,” Lorax said. There was no irony here. One wondere
d if this child had ever approached irony. She bled sincerity.

  “We’re not married,” Eric said but he grinned wide to let them both know he meant it with love.

  “Oh, well, wow, that’s cool. I’ve not been married either.”

  Sandy laughed.

  “Listen, Eric,” Sandy said, quickly. “I think this is gonna work. I think Camel’s words complement the script in a, well, magical way. I think it’s gonna be the Memphis vibe we were looking for.”

  What was happening? Eric thought. Everything was blithe and chirpy and they were making a movie, right here in River City. I am blessed, Eric thought. I am one lucky washed-up filmmaker.

  47.

  They were working out a scene with Dan Yumont and Suze Everingham. The young starlet seemed nervous working with Dan the first time. It was a love scene and the kiss they were practicing was alternately deep and meaningful and awkward. Eric couldn’t figure out what was going on between them. Suze Everingham was either deeply involved in the kiss or she was scared shitless.

  Here’s what Eric didn’t know.

  The night before, when Dan had brought Ray Verbely back to his hotel room, there was someone already there waiting for him. It was Suze Everingham.

  Ray Verbely was nonplussed. She had already ditched a friend that evening. Now, what was this?

  “Oh, hi,” Suze Everingham said. She was willowy and blonde and her slim, perfectly proportioned body glowed with heat. She wore a shirt made of some shimmery Hollywood material, hung so loosely on her frame that breast and shoulder and belly were all simultaneously on display.

  “Hello,” Dan said, tossing his jacket over a chair. “Suze Everingham, Ray Something. Suze works on the film. Ray, here, works on me.”

  Suze Everingham laughed. Ray did not. She crossed her arms over her chest and thought about huffing. She only thought about it.

  “Didn’t know you were bringing anyone home tonight,” Suze said.

  “What’s on your mind?” Dan asked. They had never worked together. He knew her slightly from some mutual acquaintances and they had danced once at a party at Jack Nicholson’s. Suze had made her name—her minor fame—through a small movie titled Their Eyes Were Watching Todd, a gay coming-of-age story, made by a first-time filmmaker who won an Independent Spirit Award for the film. Though Suze won no award she was widely discussed for her portrayal of Todd’s girlfriend, who is destroyed by his coming out. She was the hot young starlet for a while, the one everyone was using in supporting parts. She was destined to play only supporting parts for her career, it seemed, if career she was going to have.

  “I wanted to practice the scene we’re shooting tomorrow,” Suze said, lounging back on the couch so that her body’s catlike warmth seemed to fill the room with musk. Dan, who catches on to such things with a preternatural instinct, understood the intention of the young minx. Ray was still on the sidelines, understanding little.

  “It’s a sex scene,” Dan now said to Ray. He smiled through a mean squint.

  “Oh,” Ray Verbely said.

  Awkwardly they all gathered on the carpet of the large suite. They sat like Hollywood Indians with a peace pipe, save that peace was coming hard.

  “How do you see the scene unfolding?” Suze Everingham asked.

  Dan thought.

  “It’s a smash-up. It’s a thunderstorm. It’s as sudden as a car wreck.”

  “Yes, yes,” Suze said, excitedly.

  “Wait,” Ray said.

  Everyone stopped. Dan sighed. Here we go, he thought.

  “I saw you in Mitmensch,” Ray said now to Suze Everingham.

  “Yes,” Suze said.

  “You were fantastic. I love that movie. I didn’t recognize you at first. You’ve cut your hair.”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  From there the track was greased.

  “Shall we practice?” Suze said with a leer, after a while.

  “You guys want me to move on,” Ray said.

  “Not necessarily,” Suze Everingham said.

  Dan Yumont thought, I love this young actress. I love her so much.

  Suze Everingham undressed Ray Verbely gently, like a costumer working on a star. Ray kept looking at the floor until Suze lifted her chin. She kissed her deeply and Ray’s eyes widened.

  It was only a short time until they were all over each other, a lubricious tangle.

  So it was, the next morning, in going over this scene, the one scene on the schedule that day, that Eric seemed to have come late to the party. He couldn’t figure out where they were going with the scene, but he liked the energy of it. They were really into it. They were, he thought, real pros.

  48.

  Afternoon. Rembert Street. The weather has turned slightly warmer. A misty rain falling. The home of poet Camel Jeremy Eros soaks in the steam like sponge cake.

  Inside Casa de Camel there is a record player (and here we may still speak of record players) warbling out a wobbly, low-fi CSNY “Déjà Vu.” Camel is seated, cross-legged on the floor, his old man’s body still spry enough, just barely.

  In his lap he holds a legal pad. He is furiously scribbling away, the lines accumulating like moss on the North Side of the Ancient Tree. They almost flow off the edge of the page and pool on the floor but Camel manages to keep them corralled with a sharp-edged simile here and a lovely aperçu there.

  The light in the room is fairy light, refracted through moisture like putting phosphorus in a blender. Camel sways as he writes.

  Outside, in Camel’s mailbox, there is a letter from New Directions Press. An editor there has come up with the idea of Collected Poems of Camel Jeremy Eros, a befitting accolade for one of the last of the hippie writers. But Camel is blissfully unaware of this late-life tribute, this opportunity, which, truthfully, he thought would pass him by as it has so many. What was he but one more forgotten writer? And sympathy for forgotten writers was at low ebb, such were the times we live in.

  No, Camel does not know that he is about to be memorialized, honored and collected. Instead he is, for the moment, concerned with how to get one actor to say one line, a line so perfect it is inevitable, like Death, like Forgetting. The line must be said. It’s the best thing he’s written in many years, this line. Yet, he could not lead his actors—which is how he has come to think of them—up to that crucial and absolute line. He shut his eyes and squinted hard. He remembered an old gift, a facility with language that was close to godhead. Inside his brain a small star was exploding, the light flowing into his pineal gland. This was how it happened, Camel thought. This is how it happens.

  Somewhere, out on the edge of thought, somewhere even beyond Neil Young’s life-affirming descant, Camel was aware of some small distress. Earth was calling on the Cosmic Cell Phone and Camel, slowly, like a titan emerging from the enveloping sea, raised his head. He could hear moaning from the bedroom.

  Slowly, he unfolded his body upward. He stood.

  Yes, there was moaning from the bedroom. It was not the moaning of physical love. It was Lorax and she was in misery.

  Camel moved to the bedroom door. His bedroom was a dark cave. The windows had been covered years ago with Indian blankets. The walls festooned with memorabilia from a life lived for pleasure, for art, for love. Many photos of Allen hung in the bedroom, from her youthful slim-waisted days of power and beauty, right up until her once-lithe body, wrinkled and greyed, was twisting inward like a question mark, folding up into the final obscurity.

  On the bed, profuse with blankets and afghans and scarves and gauzy tie-dye, lay the moaning child, Lorax, holding her little belly as if it contained new life.

  “Lorax.” Camel spoke softly.

  He moved to the bed and placed a hand on her hip. Lorax was wearing low-slung jeans and a long-sleeved work shirt. It was the most clothing Camel had ever seen on her and he wondered, briefly, where it came from.

  “Oh, oh, Camel,” Lorax bombinated.

  “What is it, My Sweet?”

  “My tu
mmy. My little tummy hurts something awful. Oh, oh, oh.”

  “Lemme see, dear. Lie flat. Stop tensing.”

  Lorax straightened out. Camel placed a consoling hand on her stomach. Her body relaxed some. Only some.

  “Isn’t that a little better?”

  “Yes, Camel.”

  “That will be better.”

  “Yes, Camel.”

  “Good, good.”

  “Oh, and Camel?”

  “Yes, Sweet.”

  “It really hurts.”

  “Hm,” Camel said. “Show me where.”

  “Here and here,” she said, placing her own palm on her mid-torso and lower.

  “Dear, dear,” Camel said. “What have you eaten today, or yesterday?”

  “Mm, mm, mm,” Lorax hummed. “Lots of bananas, Camel. I ate your bowl of bananas. You told me it was ok.”

  “Of course it’s ok, Sweet. Bananas. Yes. I think maybe, just maybe, you’ve blocked yourself up but good. Have you had a BM lately?”

  “Poop. Oh no, no poop, Camel. Not today. Not yesterday. Um, the day before . . . is that bad, Camel?”

  “Not too bad, Sweet. We can fix it, yes?”

  “Oh, Camel, can you? Can you make it not hurt, wonderful Camel?”

  “Stay with me. This is what I’m thinking. This may startle. Back in the day here’s what we did. A cure that came from Abbie, I think. Or Grace. Or—well, no matter. Richard called it the Boo Enema, because he loved ghosts.”

  “Your good friend, Richard. Richard the poet.”

  “Yes.”

  “What, what do I have to do?”

  “You have to do little, My Dear. Relax. Trust me. Take your clothes off. How does that sound?”

  “Yes, Camel.”

  Lorax rose, painfully, purring little mm’s, and removed her shirt. Camel helped her pull the very tight jeans off her lovely hips and legs.

  “Lie on your stomach, sweet, and I’ll get us some reefer.”

  “Camel, do you always use lay and lie correctly?” she asked, softly.

  “I try, Pumpkin.”

  “That’s beautiful, Camel. You’re a beautiful cat.”

  “Ok, Pumpkin.”