Exile on Kalamazoo Street

by Michael Loyd Gray

* * *

  I had the movie people over again the next afternoon because the night before I had managed to say a lot without saying much of anything about the screenplay. As an icebreaker I ordered a sausage and pepperoni pizza from Santorelli’s. Black Kitty successfully begged sausage bits from me.

  “Just like being back in the dorm in Madison,” Dylan said with a mouth full of pizza.

  “Minus the local beer,” I said.

  “I just might try that local beer tonight,” he said. “And more of this super pizza.”

  “It’s scrumptious,” Marci said. “No doubt it’s good with the local beer.”

  We ate lustily—Santorelli’s made a nifty thin crust—and I suspected that the movie people had begun to adjust somewhat to an exile of their own away from gilded and insular Hollywood.

  “So, what have we agreed to?” Dylan said hopefully.

  “That Santorelli’s makes a great pizza,” I said, finishing my last piece.

  “They do,” Dylan said. “Takes me back to my UW days. But I meant the film. What have we agreed on so far?”

  “Well, it’s about a man,” I said.

  “What sort of man?” Marci said.

  “A loser?” I arched my eyebrows perhaps a bit too dramatically.

  “We can’t make a film about a loser, Bryce,” Dylan said.

  “No, indeed not,” Marci said frowning.

  “Then how about a Jedi loser?” I said.

  “How can a Jedi be a loser?” Dylan said. “The Jedi are usually winners.”

  “Except when they were betrayed by Darth Vader—before he was Darth Vader, that is,” I said.

  “True,” Dylan said. “But they became winners again. How can our guy be a Jedi and a loser?”

  I shrugged. “A drug problem. A woman problem. Or … he loses his Jedi mojo.”

  “Jedi have mojo?” Marci said.

  “The Force,” Dylan said. “The Force would be their mojo, I guess.”

  “That’s right,” I said. “And our guy loses his. That’d be a bummer for a Jedi.”

  “For sure,” Marci said.

  “Agreed,” Dylan said, “but how would we know he lost his mojo?”

  I leaned forward toward them on the sofa.

  “For starters, he’d have to open doors himself like any other jamoke instead of just waving his fingers or thinking them open.”

  “Would that be so bad?” Marci said.

  “Maybe for a Jedi,” I said. “Think about it: they’re pretty much used to being able to literally move heaven and earth.”

  “I guess that’s so,” Marci said.

  “Well, maybe not heaven and earth,” I said, “but just about anything that isn’t nailed down. Imagine having to brush your teeth with your hand after just sitting back for years and willing the toothbrush to fly over and just handle it while you lean back and nap.”

  “Darth Vader was a Jedi, right?” Marci said absently.

  Dylan glanced at her and sniffed lightly.

  “But Bryce,” he said, “how does all this relate to our character, our film? He isn’t really a Jedi, is he? In your book he’s a would-be philosopher who works in a convenience store in Florida. We’re not making a sci-fi.”

  “That’s a good point,” I said. “But he does win the lottery and leaves Florida to see the world. In a way, he becomes a Jedi of sorts.”

  “How did Darth Vader become Darth Vader?” Marci said. “I forget that.”

  Dylan patted her knee. “We’ve moved on from Darth Vader.”

  “He’s not in the film?” she said.

  “Only symbolically,” I said.

  “How so?” Dylan leaned forward, clearly intrigued.

  I leaned forward, too. “Our guy needs a nemesis, I think. His own Moriarty—his own Darth Vader.”

  “Who’s Moriarty?” Marci said.

  “Sherlock Holmes,” Dylan said. “Robert Downey Jr. You met him at Sid’s party.”

  “He’s a sweetie,” she said. “So, will our guy’s Darth Vader be a Jedi?”

  “Figuratively, but not literally,” I said. “Like our guy, he will be Jedi-like.”

  “Our guy is Jedi-like?” Dylan said.

  “Sure,” I said. “He’s … he’s Luke Skywalker with a winning lottery ticket instead of a light saber.”

  “And that makes him Jedi-like?” Dylan said.

  “It does,” I said. “The money is his new mojo—The Force for our guy.”

  “Agreed,” Dylan said after a pause. “I like that. He is Jedi-like.”

  “There you go,” I said. “Instead of slicing and dicing like a light saber, the lottery money paves his way wherever he goes. He’s a modern-day, earthbound Jedi.”

  “But if he wins the lottery,” Marci said, “how can he be a loser?”

  “He’s a loser at first, working in the convenience store,” Dylan said. “Is that about right, Bryce?”

  “That’s right. In my novel he’s pretty much a loser from start to finish. So’s the book. But the film has a chance to avoid that sand trap.”

  “And it will,” Marci said. “We’re here to make that happen.”

  “And I’m the writer,” I said.

  “You’re the writer,” she said.

  Dylan looked lost in thought for a moment.

  “I want to go back to something,” he said. “Back to the notion of his becoming Jedi-like by winning the lottery. What’s his conflict, his quest—his reason for being?”

  “He’s searching for his soul,” I said.

  Dylan nodded. “But what was wrong with his soul to begin with?”

  “He couldn’t find it, I guess,” I said. “Selling Slim Jims and Slurpees and Big Gulps and Twinkies at the convenience store had worn it away. Or maybe caused him to misplace it.”

  “I’ve never had a Twinkie,” Marci said, “or a Slim Jim.”

  “Have you had a MoonPie?” I said.

  “No. But I’ve heard of it. What exactly is it?”

  “A southern version of a Twinkie, on steroids,” I said.

  “Oh. They put steroids in it?”

  “No,” I said. “Much worse … sugar.”

  “We could open the film in the convenience store,” Dylan said. “Our guy could be shelving MoonPies and Twinkies.”

  “And Slim Jims,” Marci said. “What’s in a Slim Jim?”

  “You don’t want to know,” Dylan said. “Anyway, that’s just a thought on the opening. You’re the writer, Bryce.”

  “Indeed you are,” Marci said. “How does that opening sound?”

  “It’s exactly what I had in mind,” I lied.

  “Awesome,” Marci said. “This is really progress.”

  “It is,” Dylan said. “I can picture your opening.”

  “It’s very human, very ordinary,” I said, “but with potential.”

  I had no idea what I was saying or even meant to say.

  “Lots of potential. Our guy could be anyone at the start,” Dylan said. “He’s anybody and everybody.”

  “It’s universal,” Marci said. “It transcends.”

  “What does it transcend?” I said.

  She widened her smile.

  “Life, of course.”

  * * *

  The movie people were so enthralled with having found what they were sure they were looking for—whatever that was—that they cheerfully went home to their life, which had to be a reality version of Entourage. They had survived brief exile in that great cultural wasteland between LA and New York. I think Black Kitty took a shine to Marci and was sorry to see her go. I admit that I was, too. Marci and Dylan had brought a new energy into the house. I had been awfully snarky with them and regretted it. With more time, pizza, and the local beer, I might have made proper Midwesterners out of them.

  Mavis called to see how things went.

  “They’re Hollywood shills,” I said, “but I rather liked them.”

  “We don’t have to like them to take their money, Bryce.”


  “I bought them pizza,” I said. “They looked like two bored rich kids at a fraternity mixer.”

  “Vampires,” Mavis said. “Baby sharks. Don’t let their youth fool you. Carnivores.”

  “Maybe so. We did have pepperoni and sausage on our pizza.”

  “There you go,” she said. “So, what’s the film called?”

  “Reflections of a Shitty Writer,” I said.

  “I don’t know, Bryce. A title doesn’t have to be so accurate to be good.”

  “Funny, Mavis.”

  “Just some agent humor,” she said. “You’re no shitty writer, Bryce.”

  “Thanks for that tepid vote of confidence.”

  “If I was there I’d give you a hug and we’d sing ‘Kumbaya,’ ” she said. “Is that better?”

  “A little better.”

  “You’re a good writer, Bryce, or I never would have signed you. It’s that third book that’s shitty. But now you have a chance to offset that with the screenplay. Redemption, my friend.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Suppose nothing, Bryce. The gods have smiled.”

  “Have they really?”

  “You’re sitting on your duff in your house all winter and about to get paid handsomely. How bad can life be?”

  I thought for a few seconds of Elsa, naked and riding up and down on top of me, her breasts bouncing and tickling my nose. Sweat dripping from her pink nipples onto my forehead.

  “When you put it that way, how could I possibly complain?”

  “You can’t,” she said. “So, did you change the name for the film? Reflections is too … artsy-fartsy.”

  “Jedi Mind Trick,” I said.

  “What?”

  “That’s the title I came up with—Jedi Mind Trick.”

  “And they bought that?”

  “They scooped it up like ice cream on a hot day, Mavis.”

  “Or like a dog turd on the sidewalk.”

  “Glad you like it, too, Mavis.”

  “Just keeping it real, Bryce. Why do they like it?”

  “Turns out they’re Star Wars fans … sort of.”

  “Jedi Mind Trick is actually the name of this film, Bryce?”

  “No—they pointed out that George Lucas would skewer us, maybe loose Darth Vader on us, but it sure as hell sounds good to me. Give me something better, if you have it.”

  “Damn, Bryce. I don’t know if I could top Jedi Mind Trick, but give me five seconds.”

  “Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Just where’d this title come from?”

  “I pulled it right out of my ass.”

  “Sounds like it. I hope you had some toilet paper.”

  “Thanks for that image, Mavis.”

  “I wouldn’t be a good agent if I couldn’t help, my friend.

  “That’s how I wrote Reflections—out of my ass.”

  “Yes, I recall,” she said. “I was there, remember?”

  “I remember. But you share blame, my friend. You sold the damn thing.”

  “Guilty as charged,” she said. “But you know, Jedi Mind Trick does sort of have a ring to it. It’s direct, blunt.”

  “Does it have pizzazz, Mavis?”

  “That might be asking too much.”

  “I’ll try not to ask too much,” I said. “Life doesn’t like it when we ask too much.”

  “It’s okay to ask, Bryce. Getting … that’s something else.”

  “I’m writing that pearl down, Mavis.”

  “Screw you, Bryce. Now, tell me what this crap film is about.”

  “Well, it’s about a Jedi convenience store clerk in Florida who misplaces his light saber. But he wins the lottery and searches the world to restore his mojo.”

  “Good Lord!” she said.

  “That’s the logline, anyway. Too awful, Mavis?”

  “No. Sounds exactly like what they want,” she said.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Are you?”

  * * *

  After I talked to Mavis, I called Janis at work and invited her to dinner. It was to be my first actual sit-down dinner with another person since Christmas, which had been at her house with her kids and some cousins we saw only at holidays. And I was perpetually drunk at the time and so it was a comical blur with many elements of tragedy for good measure. I wanted to make her a nice dinner to show appreciation for her willingness to be my servant during these long months of exile. Not that she really minded; she always said how glad she was that I quit drinking, and if exile was the path, then exile was the path. She believed in paths.

  I fried salmon in olive oil and served it with asparagus and baked potatoes. I even spread a clean white linen tablecloth over the table. I vaguely wondered what the movie people were eating out where the streets were paved with gold.

  When Janis arrived and trudged up the stairs to the kitchen, I was pinching off bits of salmon and feeding them to Black Kitty, who perhaps had never had such a treat, though I often gave him real tuna from a can, which was an improvement over the tuna dinner cat food he otherwise ate along with cans of something called mixed grill and ocean whitefish.

  “You’re spoiling that cat, Bryce.”

  “He certainly doesn’t mind.”

  “He’s getting fat.” But she smiled and reached down to rub him behind the ears.

  “He needed to reclaim a few pounds, Janis. He’s earned it.”

  “I suspect he has.”

  “Sorry there’s no wine,” I said as we sat down at the table and had our first bites of the lovely pink salmon.

  “Iced tea’s fine,” she said, holding her glass up in salute. I returned the salute with my glass.

  “A good Sauvignon blanc would mix well with the salmon,” I said.

  “I can have that at home, Bryce. Don’t worry about it. I have Chardonnay at home.”

  I nodded and she scooped baked potato slathered in butter and sour cream onto her spoon and into her mouth. We ate silently for a bit, enjoying the warmth of the house, the aroma of the salmon, and the popping sounds from the fire I had lit just before she arrived. Black Kitty ate another chunk of salmon from my hand before disappearing for a nap.

  “If we were out somewhere, you could have wine,” I said abruptly. “That wouldn’t be a problem.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Reasonably. The training wheels have to come off at some point, right?”

  “When do you suppose that will be, Bryce—going out?”

  I leaned against the back of my chair, chewing salmon. It was quite flaky and not too dry. Cooking salmon is a challenge.

  “Re-entering society,” I finally said. “It almost sounds momentous.”

  “Well,” she said, wiping the corners of her mouth with a napkin, “it is sort of a big deal, really.”

  “Maybe the TV station can be persuaded to show up, Janis. They could film me emerging from my long hibernation, like Punxsutawney Phil.”

  “You wouldn’t want that.”

  “No, I wouldn’t.”

  “One day you’ll just walk outside. Don’t you think, Bryce?”

  “I suppose,” I said. “Not very dramatic.”

  “Should it be?”

  “No. Life goes on.”

  We finished and I brought her chocolate ice cream. We sat at the table, full, satisfied, the pleasant crackling of the fire coming from the living room. At one point, though, I looked up sharply, over her shoulder toward the kitchen and side door, convinced I heard a knock. I didn’t think it would be a good time for Elsa to show up with nothing on under her coat. And I didn’t want to have to turn it down, either.

  “Did you hear anything?” I said. “A knocking?” I cocked my head to one side and listened, but heard nothing.

  “I didn’t hear anything,” she said.

  “Wait.” I held up a hand toward her and I concentrated hard. She swiveled her chair toward the door.

  After a moment she turned back to me, arching her ey
ebrows.

  “I’m not hearing anything, Bryce. Are you okay?”

  I cocked my head one more time, but the only sounds came from cracking embers.

  “I’m fine. Just thought I heard a knocking.”

  “Expecting someone else?” Janis said.

  “Just Jehovah’s Witnesses.”

  “Are you hearing things, Bryce?”

  “Yes, a knocking. Just not this moment.”

  She got up and went through the kitchen to the door. Even Black Kitty had come into the room and looked at me curiously.

  “Nobody out there, Bryce,” she called loudly. “Should I walk up and down the block just to make sure?”

  “Funny,” I called back.

  I was both relieved and disappointed. And becoming practical, I fantasized that Elsa would turn up right after Janis left to help top off the evening nicely. That would be the dessert.

  Janis brought us both more ice cream and sat down.

  “Maybe you should get your hearing checked,” she said. “Or maybe being in the house alone all the time is making you a little buggy. Do you think?”

  I shrugged. “It was probably that woodpecker—I hear him all the time. Usually in daytime, though.”

  She arched her eyebrows again and ate ice cream.

  “So, Bryce, how did it go with the movie people?”

  Recalling Marci and Dylan was a sufficient enough diversion and I even smiled.

  “It went swimmingly.”

  “Swimmingly?”

  “We didn’t speak the same language, but managed to somehow understand each other.”

  “That’s what swimmingly means?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “You’re not hearing any knocking now, are you,” she said, smirking.

  “Only between the voices in my head.”

  “Maybe that woodpecker finally called it a day and went to bed,” she said. “Did the movie people hear it when they were here?”

  “It’s the woodpecker’s night off, Janis.”

  “Well, that’s a relief. So, you’ll have to tell me what the film’s about.”

  “I will … as soon as I know.”

  “You don’t know?” she said.

  “I haven’t given it that much thought.”

  “Yet you met with movie people—the ones paying you. That must have been a fascinating conversation.”

  “It’s quite a pickle, isn’t it?”

  She reached down and tickled Black Kitty behind his ears.