by Bruce Wagner
“Sure.”
“Are you sure it’s OK? I don’t want to burden you. We can do it another time—”
“No! Now’s perfect.”
“I’m really going to condense this, OK?”
“Condense away.”
“This is really kind of you, Michael. I really appreciate—”
“Bud! You’re killin me!”
“OK. The whole thing’s based on this newspaper article. Fifteen, maybe 20 years ago. Takes place in South Carolina, the Blue Ridge Mountains. These two 16 year-olds are hiking. Boyfriend-girlfriend. Pretty rough rapids there—remember Deliverance? They shot Deliverance around there too. And the rapids? Long story short: the girl slips and falls, they both fall trying to cross the river, he gets spit out, whatever, but she goes down. And what happens is, she—her body—gets stuck in this . . . whirlpool, feet first.”
“And the water keeps her like that, right? I’ve heard of stuff like this. It keeps her vertical.”
“Yeah, it’s like a washing machine. She’s 8 feet under, whatever, and they can see the body but they just can’t get to it. And her father comes and camps by the river. They make a few attempts to get her out—the men from town, and these are experienced men—but they can’t do it, some of them almost die trying. So they have to call it off. The father goes nuts.”
“Because he can’t bury his little girl.”
“Right.”
“It’s Antigone.”
“Exactly! And the river’s protected, so they can’t dam it up. But the dad goes to the senator who happens to be Strom Thurmond. Thurmond lost his daughter not too long before in a car accident, so he’s got a sympathetic ear. And Thurmond says, Do whatever it takes. So they dam it up but the dam doesn’t work either. And more of these guys come close to drowning. So finally, they just say, The river will give her up. No—they say, ‘the river always gives up its dead.’”
“Jesus.”
“Biggie made some notes about what he wants—”
“What are they?”
“—for the adaptation. First of all, he wants the whole thing to take place in one of these huge caves. So it’s actually a river that runs under ground.”
“Interesting.”
“But this is the weirdest: instead of father & daughter, he wants it to be mother & son.”
“I can guess which side of the river Mom’s on.”
This is where he needed Michael’s input so Bud kept quiet. Michael began to subtly rock in his chair, eyes slowly opening & shutting, lost in thought. After a few minutes of that, he got up from the table, ordered another latte and a chocolate croissant, and sat back down with the same intensely focused demeanor—as if having placed himself in a twilight state where creative solutions might be accessed. He was definitely engaged in some sort of process, and Bud only hoped it was one that might benefit him.
They didn’t give him 2 million a script for nothing.
Bud saw that the latte was ready, and fetched it. He set it down in front of his old friend, waited a few respectful moments then said, “So what do you think? I mean how the fuck do you make a movie out of that? Because from everything I know, everything I’ve heard and seen, Brando Brainard & Ooh Baby Baby aren’t really in the business of making dark little indies.”
“No they are not. You’ve got that right. You know, I talked to Brando—I think it may have been the day after you went over to the house and met Biggie. Brando said he came home from work and asked Biggie how your meeting went. Biggie didn’t remember you being there. Brando said that his brother doesn’t even really remember anymore the story of the girl in the river, either—he just remembers the broad strokes. Brando thinks Biggie’s fixated on the story in that autistic way. I do think that most of the time, details elude him. I mean, unless Biggie brings up the page on his screen, he only remembers the broad strokes: mother, son, river.”
“What does it all mean, Michael?”
Bud felt like he was on the pier, talking to a psychic.
“What it means is, you’ve got to make it work. Make it work for you. Because if it doesn’t work for you, it sure as hell ain’t gunna work for Brando. Now, that doesn’t mean you don’t take Brando’s input, because you should. As much as possible. Because that’s what will allow you to form an idea of what he wants. He won’t tell you directly—producers never do. It’s something he won’t be able to articulate. Plus, I think he may be a little leery of encroaching on his brother, not that Biggie would even be aware, but I have a feeling Brando’s a little superstitious. Biggie’s the golden calf, the so-called idiot savant (unfortunately beginning to skew more toward idiot) and Brando’s probably a bit reluctant to fuck with that. On some deep, brotherly level. But as long as the story is approached with respect, especially at the beginning of the process—which is clearly what you’re already doing—as long as Brando can see that the material was approached with respect, you’ll be fine. Make mother, son, river your mantra, then you’re free. Sky’s the limit.”
He was flummoxed. There was some awkwardness there as well, because Bud felt like he was walking that fine, perilous line between asking for guidance and outright begging for help.
“Free . . . free to do what, exactly?”
Maybe it’s for the best that he’s jetlagged. He probably wouldn’t have met with me if he wasn’t. Maybe he’ll come up with some kind of fix, out of sheer exhaustion.
Michael smiled to himself before taking a ragged bite from his croissant. Bud was starving. He hadn’t eaten much in the last few days; he was saving food as a reward for when he found a solution to his approach to the script. He resisted the impulse to reach over & tear off a hunk of Michael’s bread.
“A comedy,” said Michael.
“A comedy?”
“Comedies are in Brando’s wheelhouse. [OMG. They’re still using the word! A nice omen] They’re pretty much the only thing Brando responds to.”
“You’re saying I should write a comedy?”
“Yup.”
“But how do I walk away from this? And how do I get him to agree to let me substitute something else?”
“No, no, no. You write a comedy from the river story.”
“The drowned girl—I mean, the drowned mom?”
“You got it. Are you following me?”
Bud was trying; he had to.
“A comedy?”
“Why not?” said Michael. He looked like one of those wild, exultant tzaddiks from rabbinical lore. “Why not?”
He fixed Bud with a secret fraternity smile, happy that he saw, or pretended to, the light.
“Jesus, Michael, it’s brilliant. But how? How do I make a comedy out of something like that?”
Michael said, “Who was it that said ‘comedy is tragedy, plus time’?”
Bud looked it up on his iPhone while Michael excused himself to the restroom. Well, it was either Woody Allen or Carol Burnett, which probably meant neither. Other quotes were “If it bends, it’s comedy. If it breaks, it isn’t” and “Life is a tragedy in close-up, a comedy in long-shot.” Bud racked his brain. He knew Michael was right, but realized their conversation would need to have a sequel, at another time; he didn’t want to overstay his query. Michael returned to the table.
“OK, fucking brilliant. I’m not sure exactly how I’m going to apply it—I need to reframe—but this whole world just opened up. Do you think we can have just one more talk about this? I mean, once I figure it out? Just to run past you?”
“Sure. Anytime.”
“Because now I’m thinking the river can be in an amusement park. Like a Pirates of the Caribbean ride . . .”
“Ha! That’s good!”
Bud felt a flush of excitement, that feeling of worthiness, that he & Michael were peers in the same trade.
“And if you fall off the ride, you enter this other world—”
“It’s great, Bud. It’s like Miyazaki. Spirited Away . . .”
He made a mental note to watch the mas
terful animated film; he’d never gotten around to seeing it.
“Michael, thank you! I mean, thank you for everything.”
“We’re writers, Bud. That’s what writers do, we talk to each other. We steal from each other. You’d do the same for me.”
Bud’s eyes drifted to the half-eaten croissant on his friend’s plate.
“Can I tear off a piece of that? All I want is a tiny bite.”
“I’m all done.”
“Are you sure?”
“Go for it.”
“You’re sure you don’t mind?”
CLEAN
[Gwen]
How to Fix A Fatal Error
After
the Courage Ball, Telma couldn’t stop throwing up. Gwen took her to the doctor and he started an IV because she was dehydrated. They put her in one of the examination rooms, & Gwen sat with her as she slept.
At home, she was listless. She stayed in bed, skyping with Biggie. She wouldn’t talk to or even text or email anyone else. A messenger came to pick up a letter but Telma told her mom she didn’t have any letter. When Khloé Kardashian was told there wasn’t, she thought there must be some miscommunication. She got Gwen’s number from Tiff Koster & called to ask what was happening. Gwen told Khloé her daughter had been sick, and would need to take a raincheck. Khloé asked if she could say a quick hello but when Gwen told Telma who was on the line her daughter said to please tell her I’m asleep. A bouquet of flowers was delivered later that day, from all the Kardashians. Written on the envelope was to Telma, from Kris. Telma never opened it.
. . .
On the day everything was to be settled, Gwen and Phoebe talked on the phone. The meeting was just after lunch. This time there would be no doctors, only lawyers from opposing sides.
“What did your attorney say?”
“That I shouldn’t be there. That I should just stay home & let him handle it. That he’d call from the meeting if he needed to talk to me.”
“And so?”
“Ain’t gonna happen. I’ll be there, with bells on.”
“And you’re going to talk to her after?”
“As soon as it’s done.”
“Sure you don’t want me to be there?”
Gwen nodded. “I’ll be OK. This is something I need to do for her, and for me. I need to have the courage she’s had all this time. And Telma needs to see me being strong.”
“Well . . . call me. After. OK, hon?”
Without warning, they cried together, a brief downpour through the wire—to the limit, to the wall—a summer storm. They still managed to get a few laughs off before hanging up.
On her way to Century City, Gwen went upstairs to give her daughter a kiss. Telma sat up in bed asleep, the computer on her lap, one stilled hand on the keyboard.
Gwen looked at the screen and saw what she assumed to be Biggie’s bedroom. She startled when he lumbered in from off-camera & sat down at his desk. (Gwen ducked out of frame.) She watched from afar; he was engrossed online while Telma slept. It was so obvious that the two were calmed by each other’s presence. There was something so sad and so sweet about it. Gwen stroked Telma’s cheek with the back of her hand, then kissed her brow; Biggie’s gaze subtly shifted in time to see it. At this moment—just this moment—Telma was an innocent, but the age of innocence was coming to a close. A new age and new time would soon begin. Gwen prayed for the strength to face it.
She prayed for them both.
EXPLICIT
[Mt Olympus mixtape]
Animal House
Rikki
had his cock in Montana Fishburne’s ass & was grateful to Jerzy for giving him the Viagra because he was so loaded he’d never have been able to get it up plus he thought he’d be too shy or somehow disturbed to be fucking in front of people, he’d never done that before & wasn’t sure his dick would even work in that type of situation plus he was never in a gangbang either. The tailend of that If poem he memorized for school got stuck in his head “. . . and which is more, you’ll be a man, my son!”
To every season, turn turn turn the fuck OVER.
The weed had something in it; or maybe the meth, he heard & SAW things, nothing too heavy. It wasn’t all bad but it wasn’t all good, which more or less described the experience of plugging Montana Fishburne’s shit chute. Plus knowing Ree was upstairs was another bit of a hard-off . . . not cause he worried she might come down, which she wouldn’t, it was just the just knowing of it—that she was up there—that was weird. But everything was effin weird today.
. . .
Jerzy went over his booty from the Hilton honeyshot!s.
. . . a veritable motherlode, a motherdaughterload, motherdaughtershootyourload. All the stinkle ladies nearest & dearest to Harry’s abnormal signified & represented, or should he say presented, as in young pussycat baboonettes: Hailee, Chloë, Elle. He’d tell Harry to pony up 15K for the lot, & Harry’d give it to him too, because Jerzy had dared in drug-besotted boldness to fuck with the Hailee honeypot, dared to photoshop a tampon string, perfect & undetectable in its digi-fakery, reflecting the unutterably ineffable influence of the darkside of the moon. That would be the tipping point, & allow J to demonstrate his Trojan Magnumnimity by offering it at a rate, just 150 yards . . .
Dirty Harry would no doubt Sinatra-serenade his thanks:
. . . got the world on a string, sittin on a rainbow———
In the midst of his photocumshot labors, the crotchety crotcherazzo found himself on the horniness of a dillemmawatson.
After sliding out of a hybrid SUV, a little girl approached him at the Hilton while Jerzy was in the thick of it, the fur was starting to fly, somewhere between Elle & Chloë. The kid strode right up and said Hi! like she was family then reminded him how they’d met a few months ago outside of Sur, she was that gleek with the funny old/young look hanging around waiting for gleesters to come in & out while Mom was across the street shopping. The naggy kid chastised him again about not being on Facebook then said all would be forgiven if he took her pic, which he did, causing a bit of rubbernecking amongst tourists congregated on the other side of the glass inside the lobby of the hotel. The fuss—that she seemed to be “someone” (which of course she was, but only in KancerWorld, & not yet in the rest of the world, where she of course would be, soon enough (was just what the little gal wanted, & he’d been happy to oblige).
What she didn’t know was that he’d already memorialized her, his m.o. being to machinegunfire anyone stepping from the back of a car, shoot now, look later. As he sorted everything from that night for his boss, he came across some pix of the gleek arriving at the gala with her mom . . . the tried&tru stepping out shots, and the little gleek did not disappoint. She was an unknown, & usually Jerzy threw some civvie stinkweed into Harry’s snatch batch to sweeten the punch. Giftbag swagger jagger. Upskirt warmer-uppers. Twatcherazzi twizzle sticks. But this time, he destroyed all of the illicit images of the gleek, even those she asked him to take on the sidewalk. It just felt like the right thing to do.
He pulled on the glass dick & coughed out the smoke, & when he was finally able he said outloud “You’re a good man Charlie Brown.”
. . .
Harry’s problemo was one thing, THE PROBLEM was another.
Jerzy turned over THE PROBLEM in his head, THE PROBLEM being: How to see the face of God? At least he’d identified it, which had taken a lot of luck & hardwork. The answer was out there like the xxx-files once said. Jerzy wanted to see the face of G-d—NOT the false American Idols before him not Hov, not I-Veen, not Puppetmathers (making them smaller & smaller in his ), but the face of The Eternal.
But one thing haunted him:
What if he was allowed to see the face of G-d & did so, righteous & transcendent, w/o realizing it was the WRONG G-d?
The hummingbird & the mantis held the answer.
After careful meth odical scrutiny & further accumulation of much crack plaque Jerzy unpacked the disturbing parable of bird & insect.
(He called it parable because in so doing it placed mantis & hummingbird outside of Time. It was easier to consider them if they resided in a place outside Time, in parable form.) G-d said to an as-yet-formless thing: Give me your Soul, your Spirit, your Energy, & I will make you into that magnificat of Mystery: blurry venerated magnificence called Hummingbird. All who see you will know I touched you, that you did know me & saw my face, & that I did favor you. In you I shall be forever immanent. And the 1st formless thing said, “I accept & do praise you, forever & ever.” & G-d said to another as-yet-formless thing: Give me your Soul, your Spirit, your Energy, & I will make you into that magnificat of Mystery: patient, aloof, anomalous gladiator, that vatic king called Mantis. All who see you will know I touched you, that you did know me & saw my face, & that I did favor you. In you I shall be immanent. And the 2nd formless thing said, “I accept, & do praise you, forever and ever.” And upon assuming those forms he had bestowed like raiments they wondered when they would be allowed to see His face. But until then, they happily did go about their new lives, fulfilling their natures & natural destinies.
The mantis was patient, & assumed the position of prayer, whether on wings in flight or at rest upon hillside ground or poised in acquiescence upon leaves dead, or still green. And the mantis heard a Voice say, Come, stand by the sugarwater of this bird feeder, & take care to hide, for that is where you shall see my face. So the mantis took up near-invisible sentry by the sugarwater of bird feeders, wherever he might find them. The hummingbird was patient too, though the G-d saw fit to place upon its tiny quivering shoulder the mantle of impatience, & while impatience appeared to be its nature such was His art in camouflaging the hummingbird’s supreme forbearance. The hummingbird heard a Voice too & the Voice said, Follow me to the place where you shall soon see my face, but the Voice was always careful to be a flower away. Still, the faithful thing beat its wings ceaselessly toward It, for that too was its nature, an unending faithfulness to the G-d that gave it form. And the mantis prayed by the bird feeder in monk’s simple cloak to see the face that His Maker had promised would manifest, & G-d said to him, You must kill the thing that comes to nourish and feed from this sugar, this water, & the mantis listened blindly, an assassin of His love, & did murder the hummingbird. But in the cruel & unforgiving instant of its kill, the mantis understood he would never see the face of G-d, and that he had killed his sister, the sister who had been promised the same as he; the G-d that had given them both life had taken care to make certain his sister, in her last moments, was fully aware that her brother was going to impale her, that she would die poleaxed by her brother’s spiked leg as it hairtriggered from just beneath the very arm that it prayed with, her brother had been ordered by the G-d that made them to kill his sister for sport, & at the same time she realized she too would have done the same, that was her only solace (one which the G-d did not anticipate), that if ordered so she would have massacred her brother in obedience to her G-d, their Maker. & now the mantis was alone, and alone with his revelation. In the horror of his predicament, he cannibalized himself—in merciful mercilessness their G-d had made it his nature to devour other mantises & so devouring itself was both a penitence & a cleansing of Soul and Spirit, thus ending the cycle of betrayal (until He chose for it to begin again, which He always did, out of boredom & for sport). Before the mantis died he cursed such a G-d, & for such heresy his G-d reconstituted him long enough to promise the mantis he would make him into the hummingbird, the mantis’ sister, mother & wife, he would make him a flower-hoverer next time, and promised too that before the hour of his impalement & death, his heartbreak at the further revelations of the perfect senselessness & sadism of this our life would be so much more exquisite than the suffering the mantis had last experienced, the G-d saw fit to tell his creation the misery he’d endured before cannibalizing itself would be increased a millionfold—out of G-d’s boredom, & for His sport.
