So I moved back to a faceless, transitional condo at the Marina City Club, just me and my pain and my DVDs.
I wanted to hold the Princess, feed her strength, kiss her, be the reason for her to climb back into her life. I wanted to be her hero. But now she hated me. She probably always would.
Is this what everyone wants? Is all of this horror worth the moments of bliss? Is it better to feel than to be oblivious? The choice between fantasy and reality is being made throughout the basin, every minute of every day. And for most, the choice is easy. For me, there was no choice. Yes. For me, the flash of fire was worth it.
But now, as the graduated filter of browning sky began to drop, I yearned for the release I had found in my baby’s mind, that sense of freedom, the extraterrestrial departure from real life, the rejection of all that was earthbound. For me, all that was earthbound was awful. Everything hurt. This was a life not worth living. I didn’t want to start over again. There was no more Phoenix left within me. My nine lives had just about been used up. I just wanted it all to stop.
I stood on the twenty-first-floor balcony and realised how easy it could all be if I just jumped. A bungee jump without the bungee. Ten seconds of gut-punching terror, and then freedom. Release. Peace.
Peace.
I stared out into the ocean, its effluent-brown fingers lapping at the hulls of multi-million-dollar ego yachts, and my mind drifted back to the monkey forests and winding rivers of Bali. The twenty-four-hour rush hour clotted the Marina, but my brain was lifted to the better planet that lay beyond this one.
Acrophobic, I tiptoed to the edge of the balcony. All it would take is a single step, and I could fly. The pain would stop.
The phone rang.
Should I answer? What difference could it make? Why didn’t I just make that simple leap? The phone rang again, daring me. Another glance over the balcony. Another ring. No, this was not the time. I stepped inside and answered the phone.
It was Metzler. Spelling wanted to know if I had any series ideas to pitch for pilot season. Lady Hollywood calling.
It always happens. Just when you’re ready to give that bitch a shove, just when you’re ready to tell her to fuck off, she calls and asks for a date. Well, I was no longer interested. She was getting old, anyway, losing teeth, gaining weight, and her hair was going grey. I had only thought I had loved her. The Princess was much more my type, even now.
‘Listen to me,’ he said. ‘They love you there. You come up with a series, write and direct the pilot, you don’t have to run the show. It’s a big chunk of change, and if the fucker’s a hit, you’re talking hundreds of millions of dollars.’
Well, I didn’t care about hundreds of millions of dollars any more. However … however …
Maybe I did have an idea. The cogs turned.
‘I’m sure you’ve got something better than the shit they’re running,’ he said. ‘Think about it.’
I thought about it.
‘You know … I do have something I’ve been working on. Something … special.’’ Something they deserve. I could hear the saliva forming in his mouth.
‘Tell me.’
‘No,’ I told him. ‘Not over the phone. I’ve got something that’s just what network television is looking for. I promise. Get me a meeting in the agency boardroom with the mucky-mucks. The highest flyers at each of the networks. This is going to be an auction.’
‘An auction!’ His hands scraped together. ‘This sounds delectable!’
‘It’s better than that. Can you set it up?’
‘I’m on the phone. I don’t know if I can get everybody there at the same time, though. We might have to do separate meetings.’
‘No. I’m pitching this once. If they can’t make it, fuck ‘em. Twenty-four hours to bid, and that’s it. And if it doesn’t sell, it doesn’t sell. I don’t really give a shit. And keep business affairs away for now.’
He was panting. ‘You’re making my job easy. I’ll call you back.’
Immaculate Artists has a gorgeous Scandinavian modern conference room, with soft, calming indirect lighting, plush leather seats that roll with a whisper on the walnut flooring, de Kooning originals spotted in warm, pleasing light, and a vast array of fresh fruits, whatever you wanted to drink, and fresh, still-warm baked goods from Belwood. Iger and Kellner sent underlings, but Sassa and Moonves and Valentine and most of the other jumbo jets were there. Sceptical, resentful of the secrecy and of my station in the network TV universe, but present and accounted for. Had I been David Kelly or Chris Carter or John Wells or even the Endemol guy, they’d have fawned and cooed and kissed me on both cheeks, adding zeroes to their chequebook offers.
But it was just me, the guy who directed the lowest-rated episode of Lucky Charms ever. But even losers like me can become big winners with the right idea at the right time. It’s possible. And that possibility, especially when pumped up by Metzler and Immaculate and thrown up for bid, was worth missing one session with the personal trainer.
When they finally settled in for the 11:00 am appointment at 11:35, Metzler turned it over to me. I didn’t even stand; it was better this way. I looked at each of them in turn, cleared my throat, took a gulp of Fiji water, and began:
‘If your legal team is squeamish, you might as well leave the room now. However, if you’re bold, adventurous enough to take a chance on something that could change the course of network television, then hear me out. It’s taking unscripted television to its cutting edge. It doesn’t rely on stars or writers or directors. It is inexpensive, but powerful. I dare anybody not to watch this show.’
No one left the room. No one moved. No one even fidgeted. But no one betrayed any interest, either.
I went on. ‘This show might dance at the edge of legality, but I’ve got ways around that. There are always ways around that. This show travels around the world, is universal in appeal, and faces a life-and death-issue every single week. It’s called Suicide! With an exclamation point.’
The room relaxed. Some of the mucky-mucks looked at one another and smiled.
‘We solicit viewers with the most heart-rending tales of woe, and choose the most telegenic, document their horrible lives, do “dramatic recreations”, interview all those around them who have made their lives so miserable, and have the audience vote who deserves the most elaborate and spectacular suicide. At the end of the show each week…a magnificendy staged death. It’s probably illegal in the States, but that’s the international angle. We go to exotic places all over the world to document these deaths, sell it worldwide, tie in with all these Death with Dignity groups, and tell Regis to go fuck himself.’
Throats cleared in the room. They had to make it physically evident that it disgusted them without them actually saying so.
‘Think about it,’ I continued. ‘It’s got romance and heartbreak, the triumph over adversity, life and death, good guys and bad guys, far-reaching, exotic locations all around the world. I’m telling you, it’s universal.’
Metzler grinned like the Cheshire Cat. He knew these guys a lot better than me. It seemed to me like they found the whole thing distasteful, that they were ready to walk out in an offended huff.
‘Nobody’s hands get dirty. We shoot in secrecy in a different location every week. All legal responsibility is held by the producers, not the networks. And all legal issues will be assumed by me and the production.’
Still no reaction.
‘There will be no pilot, although I will tell you I’m halfway through production of the first episode.’
Surprised looks around the room, though they quickly tried to hide them behind slack masks of disinterest.
‘In the first episode, there is no voting anyone off the planet. We have our star, and we have our commitment. I will be the first person to take his own life on international television. I am going to commit suicide, whether you buy this show or not, and it will all be recorded and edited to better than network-quality standards. All proceeds from the show
will go to my wife, and you can assign any showrunner you want to continue the production, though I have all approvals. I’ve got a commitment from Chuck Woolery to host and Bill Conti to score. The mastered show will be delivered to the winning bidder, along with a show bible and all the attendant shit you’ll need.
‘Thanks for your time.’
Metzler took over with a single sentence. ‘You have twenty-four hours to make your offers.’
I stood up arid walked out before they could.
I went home and edited the footage I’d been shooting on digital video for the last week on the Mac. I didn’t get far before the phone rang again. You and I both know it was Metzler. The suits were squirting zeroes all over their bids. Every network but NBC made offers, incredible offers, groundbreaking offers. I think NBC wanted to stand as a beacon of higher standards, but in truth, they just didn’t want to pony up the big bucks. I’d made the biggest deal of my life, and it was dependent on my death. Which was exactly what I wanted.
Predictably, Fox made the winning bid.
The Garuda flight to the Balinese capital of Denpassar was quiet, uneventful, save for documenting it with my video equipment. I tried to look as pensive as possible for the camera. The pain made it easy. I just wanted all of this to end, to let me go. But I tapped away on my iBook, writing Woolery’s narration and editing my self-interview as we bisected the sky.
The Malaysian video crew I’d hired from Kuala Lumpur met me in a limo at the airport, and became my constant companions. The camera guy didn’t speak a word of English, but the soundman spoke enough for us to communicate. The industrial ugliness of Denpassar photographed beautifully: gnarled, smoky traffic, scraggy dogs and cattle in the streets, the frenzy of motor scooters and trishaws through the clusters of pre-fab, smog-stained concrete towers and garish signs made for exciting, exotic video, and great counterpoint for the lush, quiet beauty inland.
We left the snarling city in our wake as we dug deep into the heart of the island. Roadside shops gave way to breathtaking greenery, and vast stretches of palms and brilliant tropical flowers and emerald hillside rice terraces. The simple, natural beauty of the thick, ropy vegetation that reached its fingers everywhere calmed my heart. The scent of incense burning was ubiquitous, and ropes of its smoke lifted from the offerings of gorgeous, fragrant flowers at every doorway.
Finally, we reached the resplendent Amandari. It’s a luxurious retreat, the perfect place for a Hollywood castaway to hide in splendiferous comfort for his last night on earth. Outrageously expensive, but not when it’s part of the production budget. This entire hour of programming would cost maybe a quarter of what they were paying one of the stars of Friends for an episode. The staff at the Amandari had no idea what we were doing with all the lights and cameras, but were extremely solicitous, happy to have such high-flying clients in the thick of such a very low season. My last supper, recorded in loving close-ups and soft, magenta light, was elegant and delicious, if a hit fussy for my taste. But it made for good television, framed by the burbling artificial brook and the vast jungle reaching up into the pink clouds of the purple sky. Jungle birds cawed obligingly and a gentle, humid breeze caressed me.
I missed the Princess. I missed my son.
I sent the crew off to their less luxurious digs in Ubud and went to bed. Alone. The bed was soft and welcoming, the setting perfect, but I couldn’t notice. I wanted the Princess with me. I wanted my son. I wanted a life that mattered. And all I got was this lousy T-shirt.
The next morning was kissed by a quick wash of rain, leaving a damp scent of plumeria in its wake. The sun grinned and the jungle around me stretched and yawned awake with me. It was time. I bathed, shampooed, shaved to look my best for my performance. I couldn’t eat breakfast.
The crew met me at the hotel and drove me down a deep chasm to a lonely, overgrown location at the bank of the Ayung. Moored to the shore was an intricately carved teak boat, the faces of Hanuman and the other Balinese gods mocking me with their smiles and goggle-eyes. A small coterie of locals was there with the boat, covering it in dried palm fronds and straw. The river emptied out into the brown, uninviting sea just a hundred or so yards away, as my crew set everything up.
Clouds scudded dutifully across the sky, perfecting the landscape for video. I helped the crew set up four cameras at the best possible angles and took one with me as I climbed onto the bed of palms at the centre of the craft. Each of the crewmembers shook my hand and waded back to their positions. The cameras got their final focus marks, the recorders started rolling and I took a can of gasoline from one of the locals and stood, pouring the acrid fluid all over the fronds. I had written a speech, but it seemed anti-climactic. Show it, don’t tell it, Hitchcock said. Did I really have to put the bullshit in words? It all boiled down to two simple sentences, and that’s what I said before I flicked my Bic:
‘It all just hurts too much. I love you, Princess.’
Ignition. Lift off.
The flames erupted around me and licked me like hungry devils. The heat seared me and my first breaths of the sudden fire scorched my lungs. Though I could not breathe, I watched as the flames devoured my flesh, blistering and melting it in a stench of cooked meat. My body hair burned off in an acrid stink. My skin bubbled and blistered, expanding before it contracted, dripping fat on a fire that grew with each spatter. My meat went red before it charred black, and though my eyes burst, I could still see. I drifted high above the inferno with its heat, the foul odour of my barbecue wafting heavenward with the thick smoke of the burning fronds.
I thought it would be different when I died. I thought the pain would stop, and I would at last be at rest. I thought it would all be over. But it’s not. My body is gone, so now, all that is left is the pain. There is no sleep, there is no play, there are no movies. I don’t care about the huge ratings that Suicide! racked up. It just doesn’t matter. I bathe in my memories, which is the worst kind of punishment. I am ether; I am the cold shiver that passes through you, the sudden racing of the heart that overtakes you when you stumble for your seat at the Chinese after the lights go down. I am smoke looking for a home, pain looking for a body.
Maybe your body doesn’t hurt. Maybe your body would be a better place to live. Maybe your body can see the movie through a better set of eyes. Maybe Lady Hollywood could love you back.
Mick Garris’s first job in the movie business was as a receptionist for George Lucas’s Star Wars Corporation, where he worked his way up to running the remote-controlled R2-D2 robot at personal appearances, including that year’s Academy Awards ceremony. After working in film publicity at Avco Embassy and Universal Pictures, Steven Spielberg hired him as story editor on the Amazing Stories series for NBC-TV, where he wrote or co-wrote ten of the forty-four episodes. Since then, he has scripted or co-authored several feature films (Coming Soon, *Batteries Not Included, The Fly II, Horns Focus, Critters 2) and teleplays (Quicksilver Highway, Virtual Obsession, Tales from the Crypt, She-Wolf of London), as well as directing and producing for cable TV (Fuzzbucket, Psycho IV: The Beginning), features (Critters 2, Sleepwalkers), television films (Quicksilver Highway, Virtual Obsession), series pilot (The Others), and network mini-series (Stephen King’s The Stand, Stephen King’s The Shining, Steve Martini’s The Judge). More recently, Garris directed Lost in Oz, a pilot for Warner Bros. Television, shot in Australia. His short story collection A Life in the Cinema was his first book, although he has had fiction published in several magazines and anthologies, including Dark Terrors 5, The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror, Hot Blood, Silver Scream, Splatterpunks, Midnight Graffiti and Carpe Noctem. ‘This character, first chronicled in “Life in the Cinema” and years later in “Starfucker” is, like the industry he represents, a splinter I just can’t pull from my finger,’ reveals the author. ‘Though, as in all lines of work, there are the heroes and the scum, the glory-seekers and the artists, the human beings and the Sammy Glicks, Hollywood’s extremes seem ever exaggerated. We have to stop and
question why we’re doing what we’re doing, and remember the rush of creative excitement that we reached for in the beginning and not the boxoffice reports in the trades and the Porsches and arm candy you can get out of it. I’m writing a book of stories about this character to keep reminding me what I’m lining this lot .’
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Dark Terrors 6 - The Gollancz Book of Horror - [Anthology] Page 63
