NOW
“Rita, darling, you’re oh so close but let’s try another one, shall we?,” said Peter Crux from the confines of the cozy control booth overlooking the studio floor, where dubbing for “Zombie Golf Pro II: Par For The Corpse” was currently in progress.
For some strange technical reason, there was a slight delay between the time Crux spoke and when his voice actually reached Rita, who was positioned in front of a hanging microphone, enormous padded headphones covering her ears and most of her cheeks. She normally associated this sensation with large outdoor concerts, the band a tiny speck in the distance and the drummer whacking the cymbal for what seemed like hours before the shimmering sound traveled the distance to row 612, seat G.
Here, however, the director was no more than 30 feet from her, and despite the fact that her brain very quickly figured out how to compensate for the lapse, she did feel the occasional urge to hold her lighter high up in the air or stand tall on her seat and scream at the top of her lungs for a second encore.
“Remember what’s going on here, and what we’re trying to convey,” continued Crux, pointing to the large screen hanging in the middle of the studio floor, on which rough footage of his film currently was being projected. “You’re dead, and on the green in two, so your rage is part exultation with the way your game is going, part the usual beyond-the-grave trying to find eternal peace stuff. Now give me a take that will make the audience run for cover.”
Rather than try to pre-plan her phrasing, or control her breathing, or mentally prepare in any way whatsoever, Rita simply opened her mouth and figured she would be as surprised as everyone else in the room at whatever it was that came out. What actually emerged was part guttural noise, part years of training impossible to ignore, and part breath mint, which she thought she’d completely chewed, the discovery of which vaulting from her mouth onto the microphone in front of her added a certain element of surprise not inappropriate to the moment, as well as an additional apt sound effect.
“That’s it!,” yelled Crux, jumping up and waving his arms, the delay causing Rita to think he’d screamed, “that’s shit!,” but seeing from the smile on his face that in fact he was pleased with it all. “You are indeed my little zombie golf pro! Lunch, everyone.”
Later that afternoon, sitting in a screening room lit only by the ghostly light of the projected rushes, watching the remixed dailies of the same scene, hearing her electronically altered voice emerge from the mouth of something that in no way, shape or form resembled anything close to her particular personal reality, Rita felt a strange fusion of amusement, satisfaction and horror (well, it is a horror film, she thought to herself).
The amusement was directed towards the absurdity of the situation, the satisfaction towards the fact that even though the situation was absurd, she felt as if she was doing whatever it was she was supposed to do well, and the horror towards, well, the same thing as the satisfaction. I’m a singer, not a sound effects machine, she silently emphasized to an imaginary Captain Kirk.
But just as this particular thought began to resonate within her head (or did she actually say it out loud?), a male voice from the back of the darkened room said, “You know, this is weird, and maybe this was your intent all along, Peter, although I don’t remember it coming up during script discussions, but in addition to being terrified by what I’m seeing, in the good ‘I’m watching a horror film so that’s alright’ sense, I’m also feeling a little bit turned on, which is confusing and not necessarily what we should be aiming for, in the ‘I’m watching a horror film which will most likely be attended in large numbers by children who have yet to reach the age of consent’ sense. Can you help me out here?”
Rita turned to look behind her towards the back of the screening room, and while she couldn’t be sure due to the limited lighting, found herself staring at what she thought might be one of the most attractive men she’d ever seen, something she was wholly unprepared for in the best of circumstances, and a curiosity in her present state that made her simultaneously question her sensory perception and acquire a new appreciation for the concept of dimmers.
The effect of all this -- minus the dimmer part -- was somewhat blunted by the fact that, from the neck down, this person seemed to be wearing one of the ugliest clown suits she’d ever seen (and she couldn’t remember ever feeling anything beyond repulsion for any of her life’s already too many close encounters of the clown kind; who really cared how they all got into that tiny car; she always wished they’d stuff themselves back in, with their unpleasantly big feet and bulbous noses and droopy buttons, and drive the hell out of there).
But no one else seemed to be bothered by the fact that a man in a clown suit, and not just a man in a clown suit, but a man in a clown suit who felt comfortable enough with himself to criticize the director of the film, was part of the daily screening process. What was going on here? Was it possible no one else saw the clown suit, or worse yet, did not see or hear the man at all? Had someone spiked her breath mints with a hallucinogenic substance? Had clowns become part of the filmmaking process without her knowing it? Was there indeed a fashion magazine that she really should start subscribing to (Clownsmopolitan: Inside this month: garlic under the arms, your dream woman in your arms)? Weren’t “Make ‘Em Laugh” and “Be A Clown” the same song? Was all this horror film stuff making her more paranoid than she already was?
“I don’t feel it myself, and I’ll be honest with you, I didn’t plan it, but it doesn’t bother me either,” said Crux in response to the good-looking clown’s comment, convincing Rita that he was really there, but also confusing her further. How about the clown suit, that doesn’t bother you?
“In fact, I’m sort of glad to hear you felt that way, for sex and fear are closely related, are they not?,” continued Crux from his seat in the center of the room, causing everyone to wonder about their director’s particular sexual bent. “Did anyone else have a similar response?”
“No!,” yelled the other screening attendees loudly and collectively, and Rita wasn’t sure whether sure she should be flattered or insulted.
THEN
When he was a young boy growing up in the small town of Destiny, situated at the southern end of the Adirondack Mountains in upstate New York, and so named in 1888 the day the founder was scheduled to declare it Sanctuary but instead died in a mysterious boating accident, Boots had been told by his mother, who owned a small convenience store where Boots had learned to make change and make out in the basement supply room, that some people had so much money that they never bothered to pack when they went away on a trip, and simply bought everything they needed wherever they went. When they moved on, she said, they took with them only what they were wearing and had forgotten to remove from their fancy cars, leaving everything else behind.
This story, having less to do with reality than with his mother’s ardent desire to live such a life, was always considered by Boots to belong in the same category as the fairy tales involving trolls, witches and other supernatural oddities, and yet for years afterward when he met someone classified as “rich” he couldn’t help but envision them as human kites, followed by a continuous, colorful tail of clothing, possessions and useless items.
The spark that ignited this long dormant memory in Boots’ still drug-addled brain was the sight of Guru-Vy’s home, to which the band had been invited back following the completion of the Field Trip, which was gauged to be finally over when the flimsy but to-that-point serviceable outhouse collapsed in on itself, temporarily trapping a young female Tripper who did not find the ensuing jokes about the shit hitting the Fran particularly funny, and who subsequently threatened to turn everyone in on drug charges, producing hasty apologies and a general sense that the previously benevolent atmosphere was now immutably tainted by bad vibes made much more acute by a really bad smell.
“What the hell is this?.” asked Boots, as the band, right behind Guru-Vy’s black convertible Mustang, pulled up in front of a magnificent structure in the hills of the Haight, not far from the park from which they’d all just come. A vivid red, the house was a vision of assets, with sparkling stain glass windows, vibrantly blooming gardens, architecturally arresting turrets resembling the hat of the Wicked Witch of the West, and a lawn completely covered with what for Boots would from that day forward epitomize the concept of bric-a-brac.
Chairs, tables, desks, rugs, paintings, books, lamps, boxes, musical instruments, clothes and hundreds of other items, all of various vintages, colors and usefulness, covered every inch of the ground, as if the house, actually fed up with its furnishings, had decided to take drastic action and regurgitated its entire contents.
“I love what you’ve done with the place,” said Lips, surveying the scene before him. “Early Earthquake was a good choice.”
“We can help you move in,” said Sparks.
“I actually moved in three years ago, but never quite got around to getting all of my stuff into the house,” said Guru-Vy.
“You mean there’s more stuff inside?,” asked Sparks.
“Only what I really use everyday,” said Guru-Vy.
“And what would that be exactly?,” asked Lips.
“A bowl, a bed and a bong,” said Guru-Vy.
“I think I read that book,” said Smarts.
“Everybody shut the fuck up,” said Boots. “You’re all missing the point.”
“And that would be?,” asked Lips.
“Well, I’m interested in how someone whose daily requirements are a mattress and a device for inhaling marijuana manages to afford a place such as this,” said Boots.
“Lots of roommates?,” said Lips.
“Squatters rights?,” said Sparks.
“Witness Protection Program?,” said Smarts.
“Rich parents,” said Guru-Vy.
“Your hippie existence is being subsidized?,” asked Boots.
“Well, they actually think I am still in college,” said Guru-Vy.
“How do you manage to sustain that particular falsehood?,” asked Boots.
“They live in Ohio, and my regular dispatches from what they believe to be the academic front, the writing of which, not so incidentally, provides me with a much more rigorous discipline in the art of fiction than did any of the courses I took at Berkeley, satisfy them as to the continuous progress I am making in the pursuit of my educational goals,” said Guru-Vy.
“Don’t they ever write to you, or call you?,” asked Sparks.
“Off-campus housing,” said Guru-Vy.
“Aren’t they interested in seeing your grades?,” asked Smarts.
“I send them summaries, stamped with an official Berkeley seal which I one day managed to liberate, and this also has the desired effect,” said Guru-Vy.
“How are you doing?,” asked Lips.
“A’s and B’s,” said Guru-Vy.
“Congratulations, I know Berkeley’s a tough place,” said Lips.
“Thank you very much,” said Guru-Vy.
“What do you do when they want to come to your graduation?,” asked Sparks.
“I do not believe in these sanctimonious rites of passage, and have informed my parents of my feelings in this direction,” said Guru-Vy. “Besides, I am on the accelerated track and am graduating early.”
“Kudos again,” said Lips. “You really are working hard.”
“I do my best,” said Guru-Vy.
“It shows,” said Lips.
“Thanks,” said Guru-Vy.
“Don’t you feel any guilt whatsoever about hoodwinking the very people who are supporting you in the lifestyle to which I myself wouldn’t mind becoming accustomed?,” asked Boots.
“Guilt is a bourgeois cliché that stifles productivity,” said Guru-Vy. “And besides, I hate them.”
“But you take their money,” said Boots.
“I said I hate them, not their money,” said Guru-Vy.
“That’s a fine distinction,” said Lips.
“Thanks again,” said Guru-Vy.
“And why exactly do you hate them?,” asked Boots. “They actually sound pretty generous to me.”
“The pony died,” said Guru-Vy.
“I didn’t go to Berkeley, so excuse my ignorance,” said Boots, “but is that some pedagogical allusion to their failure as authority figures to imbue you with the proper psychological tools to be able to cope with the trials and tribulations of progressing from childhood to adolescence to adulthood?”
“No,” said Guru-Vy. “That is a blunt description of my seventh birthday party, when, surrounded by fifty or so friends from my neighborhood and outlying boroughs, the four-legged beast of the fields, which had been hired to carry us on short rides around the back yard, but which was of insufficient stamina to perform the task due to the fact that my father, in a sorry attempt to save some of his hard-earned riches, had hired an old nag that would not even have made enough glue worth having, collapsed and died of a heart attack while being ridden by “Fatty” Chuck Ingram, causing the aforementioned “Fatty” to pitch head first into the barrel filled with water and fruit which had been prepared for the quaint custom known as ‘bobbing for apples,’ creating general pandemonium among both the adults and the children present, and causing me and my family to be black-balled from any future birthday celebrations within a fifty mile radius.”
“So, what you’re telling me is that this massive deception has nothing at all to do with generational differences, or political arguments, but instead is based on an unfortunate incident that took place more than a decade ago?,” asked Boots.
“Do you have any idea of the trauma inflicted on a child who not only is forced to miss out on a basic childhood rite but hears that one of the most popular games to be played in his neighborhood was known as ‘Pin the Tail on The Dead Donkey?,” asked Guru-Vy.
“I thought it was a pony,” said Smarts.
“It was, but they were children, what did they know,” said Guru-Vy.
“You’re a complicated guy, aren’t you?,” said Smarts.
“Yup,” said Guru-Vy.
As the group progressed up the lawn, dodging dressers and circumventing settees, Sparks, who still had his acoustic guitar strapped around his neck, began to play a traditional blues progression and sang, “Well, I’m a trust fund baby, but nobody trusts me, well, I’m a trust fund baby, but nobody trusts me, you’ve got to look real closely, what you get’s not what you see.”
“We are not amused,” said Guru-Vy, who had stopped walking and was now staring intently at the guitar player.
“Sorry, man, it just kinda slipped out,” said Sparks.
“Normally I would appreciate your constructing a song in my honor,” said Guru-Vy. “But I am, despite my best efforts not to be, particularly sensitive about all this.”
“Don’t apologize, we understand completely,” said Smarts, as Sparks continued to strum chords on his guitar.
“Really,” said Guru-Vy, hopefully. “Did you also suffer needless humiliation at the hands of unthinking parents?”
“No,” said Smarts, “but one day when I was eight I accidentally set fire to my front yard with my magnifying glass as part of an unsupervised science experiment, and the fire department had to come put it out.”
“Maybe I need a bit more time, but I am unable to see how your story and mine are connected in any way whatsoever,” said Guru-Vy, who was becoming more and more convinced that rock and roll musicians manifested an entirely new breed of human species that needed close study in order to help divine their particular patterns of behavior.
“Well, it wasn’t my birthday, but some of the firemen showed up on horseback,” said Smarts.
“You are joking,” said Guru-Vy.
“Not at all,” said Smarts. “I distinctly remember a brown horse and a black horse, both of whom had been trained to pick up buckets of water with their teeth and carry them to where they were needed. And when my father later threatened to give me a horsewhipping, I wondered if he was actually strong enough to pick one of them up and swing it at me.”
“You were a close family, weren’t you,” said Lips.
“Not really,” said Smarts.
“How bad was the fire?,” asked Sparks.
“They put it out before it could reach the house, but the ground was so scorched that after the grass grew to a certain height it just stopped, and I never had to cut the grass again, which was good from the work perspective but definitely cut into my allowance,” said Smarts.
“I really think we are drifting,” said Guru-Vy.
“From what?,” asked Boots, who had reached the front porch.
“Hard to say, we just are; let us go inside,” said Guru-Vy, opening the large white door and gesturing the enclave to follow.
Continued on Next Page