38.
Eric came home to an empty house. He was too tired to worry about where his paramour was sleeping these days.
He sat on the edge of the bed and undressed. When he was down to his skivvies he repaired to the bathroom for end-of-the-day duties. Then he turned out the light, caught his hip painfully on the doorjamb, and shuffled into the kitchen for some milk. On bad days he took a glass of milk with a shot of bourbon in it. It was medicinal.
He went through the house turning out lights. The idea that he was not anticipating Sandy’s return was too depressing for him.
Back in the bedroom he found the ghost of his father sitting on the edge of the bed in the identical posture he himself had occupied only minutes before. At first Eric thought he was seeing himself, an eidolon that was the result of his fatigue, or his bisected feelings toward this current movie. Then his father raised his head and it was the careworn face Eric knew from the last days of his father’s life, the times when he was in and out of the hospital. Eric feared that face. He imagined the face exhibited fear, fear of the coming cessation of life and what that might bring. His father, a stoic like his entire generation, showed little emotion throughout his life, but there, at the end, he seemed to be caving in like a poorly constructed tower, one built originally to safeguard the keep, and one that now appeared to be made of decomposing pastry.
“Dad,” Eric said, weakly.
“Hello, my son,” Eric’s dad’s ghost said.
“I, I guess I didn’t expect you. At this time,” Eric said. He took a chair opposite the bed. In the dim grey of the bedroom this tête-à-tête seemed to be happening underwater.
“I’ve always been here,” his father said.
This seemed astonishing to Eric.
“I’ve missed you,” he said.
“I know, son. But, listen. I wanna ask you something.”
“Ok,” Eric said.
“This movie. It seems a mistake to me.”
Eric was pulled up short.
“That’s not a question,” he said, a bit peevishly, as if this were a debate and he was looking to score points.
“The question is why,” his father said.
“Why? Why am I making this particular movie at this particular time?”
Eric took the silence to mean that he had hit the proverbial nail on its proverbial head.
“Dad, I had to.” That seemed simple enough to Eric, plain to see.
“You don’t, of course.”
“I was practically tarred and feathered,” Eric said. “I was run out of Hollywood on a rail.”
“Hollywood,” the ghost spat. “That faux city, that non-place. Eric, stand up straight. You don’t need Hollywood any more than you need fame. You want to wear the suit of lights, that’s up to you. But don’t hand me that horseshit about you ‘had to.’ Whatever you do you’ve decided to do.”
Eric was thinking, is this my father? Is that the way he talked in life, so blunt, so full of rock-solid advice? He honestly couldn’t remember.
“Dad, I—”
“Eric, when you were younger, you were the golden boy, the kid that was always accomplishing things, precocious things. By college it was already predetermined what you would become, what your destiny was. We all saw this as a good thing, a remark- able thing. Who gets such a solid future at such a young age? Who is promised this? But, now, I’m thinking, you feel like it all was your due, which has now become your cage. You are damned to fame.”
Eric was sure his father did not know that this was the title of a biography of Beckett, his Beckett. It was only one of life’s useless coincidences.
Now, Eric smiled ruefully. His father had come back to help him steer this rocky part of his life, this whitewater stretch.
“When nothing seems beyond your grasp, you lose your rootedness, you lose the earth beneath your feet. What do you really need, Eric?”
Eric’s father’s ghost was losing his voice. His words sounded gargled.
Eric rose and stepped toward the bed. His father wavered like bad TV reception and just when Eric reached him he disappeared with a distinct pop.
“Pop,” Eric said to no one. The room was as silent as a crypt.
There was nothing to do but go to bed, perchance to dream, perchance to wake in a city called Home.
39.
Interior bar. Low lights. Jukebox music.
At the Lamplighter Lounge Camel and his friend, Carla Binnage, were sitting in a booth, quiet the way best friends can be together. Carla had been through the wars with Camel, a front-liner who in the 1960s was known in the movement as Carla Starla, committed street fighter and heavy advocate for peace, women’s rights, and free love. Her lovers included John Sebastian, Don McNeil, and, briefly, but most famously, Stokely Carmichael.
She had moved to Memphis in the 1990s to be near her mother, who was dying of Alzheimer’s. And she and Camel had rediscovered each other. Camel’s attention to Carla’s mother, his near-communication with her sad and diminished state, had created a bond between the old comrades that was more solid than red bricks. Carla would do anything for Camel and Camel knew it.
Now, she was swirling her finger in some spilled beer. The jukebox was playing Johnny Rivers. Carla’s grey hair, which swept down her back like a cataract, had not been cut since Abbie died, her personal tribute.
“You wanna tell me what triggered this tonight? You ready to talk about it?” Carla said, laying her hand on Camel’s.
“Bad juju,” Camel said. He looked into Carla’s grey eyes. They were almost the same color as her dramatic hair.
“Mmhm,” Carla said.
“Movie madness. Film dumb.”
“Ah. You saw a movie that set you off? What was it?”
It sounded logical.
“Red River,” he said.
“Uh-huh. What about Red River?”
“Stealing sugar can kill a man,” Camel said. Yes, that was it.
“Hm,” Carla said. She appeared to think this over. “It’s true,” she said.
“Exactly.”
“So, now what?”
“I don’t know. Now what? Sheesh, that’s it, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Whew. Now what?”
“Another drink?”
“Sure. Are they trying to close?”
“Let ’em try.”
“Right.”
“What is that you’re drinking, by the way?”
“They call it a Salinger here.”
“Hm. What—”
“Ketchup in the rye.”
“Oh. Oh—ha! Camel, that—ha!—that’s priceless.”
“Is it?” Humor is one of the first disconnects, a signal of real trouble.
“Camel, really. It’s not Red River that’s bothering you.”
“No.”
“What then—think—what is it?”
“I’m writing for the movies. I’m writing again. That is—wait—I think I’m writing again.”
“Jesus, Camel. You can’t write for the movies. You hate the movies.”
“I do. I loved Red River.”
“I know. I mean, you hate the kind of crap movies Eric Warberg makes. Whatever possessed you to—”
“They asked me.”
This stopped Carla’s rant. She rubbed Camel’s hand again.
“Of course,” she said. “Of course.”
“They asked me,” Camel repeated.
40.
Morning. Pyramid interior—on set. Coffee, sweets. Mingled conversations, some grumbling, some vacant stares.
Eric is holding the blues, the sheets of dialogue Camel had sent over first thing. That curious little hippie chick, barefoot and grimy, who was living with Camel brought them. She smiled as if she were delivering honey, or a peace accord. What was her name? Laura?
She skipped away like a sprite, down the middle of Front Street. The sun was a ball of white light into which she skipped, like a Bacchante. Then she wasn’t there anymore. Eric rubbed his eyes. Morning mist, he told himself, eyes full of sleep. A skipping hippie chick doesn’t dematerialize. Of course, one’s dead father doesn’t rematerialize either, but, for now, Eric was putting that on the psychic back burner.
Eric was trying to decipher Camel’s hand, which was spidery and tight as if he had been holding the pen in a death-grip fist. Small black marks like mashed ants. And in pen yet. Perhaps he should send a computer over to Camel’s and teach him how to email his work in.
Even as Eric was able to decipher some of the script his head goggled. It was either the most surrealistic flights of genius anyone had ever tried to shoehorn into a movie or it was unintelligible crap. Eric wanted to believe the former even as his sinking sense of just how badly this movie was going was telling him otherwise.
And, practically speaking, he couldn’t imagine Dan Yumont saying, “I don’t think peace is just for chimpanzees.” It was an absurd line. Was it supposed to be?
Eric also realized that Sandy was scrutinizing him, anxious to see just how far he would let someone bastardize her script. She couldn’t wait to get her hands on the blues.
So he pretended to read and reread in deadly earnest. His coffee cooled on the table next to him. He was only partly aware of the cast milling about, some clearing throats and running lines. He was only partly aware of Kimberly Winks practically standing on Ike Bana’s feet. She was dressed like a hooker—her skirt was impossibly brief and showed off her outstanding legs, legs that seemed to have stood the test of time. Eric’s crotch stirred with deep memory, the kind of wasted energy that causes ulcers and wars. He couldn’t tell whether Ike was buying her act or not. What man wouldn’t at least play along?
Now he read: “Hoagy Carmichael’s cigarette wants to take you home, staying till the eggs run out, underneath buttermilk skies, in the land of the unfortunate colored man.”
It’s a beautiful line, Eric thought. But, dammit, it wasn’t even clear from Camel’s notes who was saying it . . . and why. Eric sighed and looked up. Sandy’s stare was a gorgon’s.
“Ok, ok,” he said, tossing the pages onto the table. “You try and make sense of this. And when you’re done you decide whether the Camel experiment has already failed. Ok? I’ve got to get this first scene set up. I’d like to get one scene shot today. I think it would make us all feel better, feel more like we have a movie simmering here, inchoate, yes, but a story begins with one line, right?”
Eric hadn’t intended to make a speech but when he was through he realized everyone had stopped and was looking at him. Hope Davis smiled her encouragement and he was gone. This was what he did, he thought. He made movies. This is how we create something from nothing.
And as he stood up he noticed two things: Kimberly had her tongue down Ike’s throat. And standing next to Dan Yumont was the cheerleader who had busted into yesterday’s session.
Fuck it, Eric said to himself.
To those gathered there he said, portentously, a corny line he didn’t remember ever speaking before: “Let’s make a movie.”
41.
The day’s shoot had gone well, all things considered. Dan was particularly sharp and the scene, shot ten different ways to accommodate his eruption of ideas, was made whole, was realized like Eric never thought it would be. Perhaps, he thought, for the umpteenth time, we have a movie after all.
During the course of the day Eric was also aware, on the periphery of his concentration—and he concentrated well when filming—that Sandy was angry. Her eyes shone with a fire that he had rarely seen. Upon reflection he began to think that her perturbation had something to do with Kimberly and Ike Bana.
Being driven back to the house that evening Eric kept his cell phone to his ear. Partly because he had to make his daily calls, with rue to Eden Forbes, and with growing concern to Mimsy. He had been unable to reach her all day. Her cell phone was sending a strange message, something about members punching in their numbers at the beep. Eric assumed they were connecting that night—he prayed it was so, since Mimsy had become his anchor as he free-floated through this nightmare. No, it wasn’t a nightmare. They had shot some film today. It was what he did, directed. It was good.
Partly he kept the phone to his ear to prevent Hassle Cooley from spewing forth new ideas for movies. This evening, though, Hassle seemed off in his own little universe and he didn’t even glance backward at Eric. Eric’s cell phone mummery was perhaps pointless.
Eric was not using Hassle Cooley to avoid his old running buddy Jimbo. Jimbo had been assigned to scout and he hadn’t been around much. This neither concerned Eric nor pleased him. Jimbo was part of his sticky past. Eric did not want to shed that past, even as he had moved so far from it.
Working with Rica Sash was a pleasure. His ideas on every shot were inspired. He was a quiet man, short like Roman Polanski, with black eyes and dark bangs. He spoke only to Eric and then it was in a confidential whisper. His voice low, he would suggest something in Eric’s ear. It was always exactly what was called for. Eric wondered, not for the first time, if a film could be made without a director. After all, the screenwriter and the cinematographer and the great unwashed cattle (actors) all seemed to work independently of him. Not to mention all the techies who did their particular jobs with quiet integrity, rarely seeking or needing instruction from Eric. It relaxed him somewhat to think he was not necessary. To think that this million dollar boondoggle wasn’t all his responsibility.
When Eric arrived back at the house, the setting sun coated the front door and walkway with red light. Eric thought perhaps he was entering a gate to Hell. He was surprised to find Sandy inside when he entered.
“Hey, you,” she said.
“Hey, why didn’t you just ride back with me?” Eric asked.
“I had to talk to Ike Bana about some of his lines. He was, uh, stuck.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Uh-huh, Mr. Articulate. What are you doing tonight?”
It seemed an innocent question. It never was for them. It was always barbed, weighted.
“I don’t know,” Eric answered, truthfully.
“Ok,” Sandy said. “Ok. What—what are you going to do?”
“Right now, I am going to shower. After that, once cleansed from dome to arch, I am at loose ends. Up for just about anything really.”
This chipperness rubbed Eric the wrong way. He wanted— well, he didn’t know what he wanted from Sandy anymore— something different.
“So to the shower,” Sandy said. But she stood there.
Eric was looking into the middle distance. He felt as if he were standing on a ledge above a street peopled from Actor’s Equity.
“Join me,” Sandy said. She said it simply, without real feeling. But she smiled. And Eric loved her smile.
In the shower they lathered each other like kids. And when Eric slid into her from behind, standing up, he felt like a kid again. This was the sort of unexpected sexual horseplay they used to engage in frequently. They were younger then. It was an old story.
Yet, as Eric hung there in the warm mist, joined to Sandy at the waist, his arms around her as if she were a life raft, his mouth on her wet neck, Sandy muttered loving endearments, the kind of thing missing from their lives.
Sandy said, “There, there now, My Little Cabbage, there, there now, it’s all ok, yes, yes, let it all go, there you go, let it flow into me, it’s all gonna work out fine, you know it is, yes, yes, yes.”
Eric began to cry quietly. Sandy put her cheek to the tile and felt as if she could sleep there, as if the world had suddenly stopped and peace had entered them, the peace of the affectionate estranged.
Corey Mesler has published in numerous anthologies and journals including Poetry, Gargoyle, Good Poems American Places, and Esquire/Narrative. He has published 8 novels, 4 short story collections, numerous chapbooks, and 4 full-length poetry collections. His new novel, Memphis Movie, is from Soft Skull Press (April 2015). He’s been nominated for many Pushcarts, and 2 of his poems were chosen for Garrison Keillor’s Writer’s Almanac. With his wife he runs a bookstore in Memphis. He can be found at Coreymesler.wordpress.com.
