June 8, 2006
Nine
Right then I hear footsteps behind me. They’re as slow as mine were a couple seconds ago. I expect my life to flash before me any minute now. The footsteps come closer. I can’t turn around. I can’t look at Marcia either, so I shut my eyes. The freezing pain in my knee keeps me from doing anything. With my eyes shut I feel the footsteps almost on top of me. My eyes are shut and my lungs seem to be frozen. The footsteps stop right behind me. I hear someone breathe behind me. The hand touches me on the shoulder and jerks me backwards. I can’t scream, I can’t move.
“Joe?”
Kathryn stares at me with a shocked look on her face. Her lips look almost blue under this light and this cold. She looks around me at Marcia and lets out a deafening scream. Her legs give and she’s suddenly in my arms, half conscious.
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Kathryn leans on the hood of my car as she lights another cigarrette. She takes a long, thoughtfull drag and blows the smoke out staring at the police cars that have gathered around the studio doors. She’s wearing dark glasses. She seems to be enjoying her cigarrette, so much I’m forced to light one myself.
I wonder what she’s thinking, “What are you thinking?”
She tilts her head down a bit and looks at me from above her dark glasses, “You have breakfast, yet?”
She seems amazingly calm considering we just found a dead body a couple minutes ago. I didn’t have any breakfast, nor do I want any. I guess she can see all that in my face, she says, “Yeah, you’re right.” Pause. “So, what do you think happened?”
I don’t know what I think. I don’t tell Kathryn about the call I received. I choose to catalog it as a freaky coincidence. A prank.
Kathryn seems to think someone broke into the studio and killed Marcia when she surprised him sneaking about.
I think I think she was brought here dead. For someone (or us, or me) to find. I don’t tell Kathryn this.
Of course, we get the day off, so where I am now is my living room and staring at the ceiling. My eyes follow the pale string of smoke up until it dissapears above me. When someone you know but don’t care much for dies, you’re not really sure how you’re supposed to feel.
February 21, 2006
Eight
I arrive at Studio 4 a little bit earlier than usual.
It’s too cold in here, my knee is the first to resent it. The A/C must’ve been running on high for a couple of hours. All the doors have been shut for a while. As my eyes get adjusted to the darkness of the place, I make out a figure somewhere infront of me. Slowly it starts to take shape. I squint and right there, sitting in my make-up chair is Marcia. She’s got her back turned towards me, but there are only so many people who’d wear their hair the way she does. A cold feeling climbs up my back and to the bottom of my head. I try to say something, but nothing comes out. My mouth is dry and my lungs seem to have run out of air. I come closer. The emptiness of the studio gets to me and I feel someone somewhere is hiding. Looking at me. Smiling. Expecting. Marcia’s still not saying anything. Neither am I. I try to swallow, but there’s nothing in my mouth to swallow. I take a deep breath. The freezing A/C air makes my lungs hurt. I take a step towards her. Nothing. My stomach feels like a hole had just been drilled into it. I take another step closer. I look around, there’s nothing there. Just the cameras, un-used sets and lots of props. I feel a drip of cold sweat go down my back.
Step.
Another cold drip follows the first one.
Step.
Everything seems ok.
Step.
But the studio is empty. Well, I am early.
Step.
Nothing seems out of order.
Step.
Except that there’s no one else there which could be because I’m early, but Marcia isn’t moving.
Step.
I tap her on the shoulder and she moves a little.
Breath.
Frozen sweat.
Pause.
I tap her again a little harder.
Her head violently swings back and hangs there. She seems to be looking straight at me. But she isn’t looking at anything. Not anymore.
February 13, 2006
Seven
Calls to Action (CTA) are the segments of an infomercial program that specially motivate the customer to call and order the product. They’re usually two minutes long and they review the product’s main features and benefits. It also states the product’s guarantee, price, send check to address, 800/888 number, credit cards accepted, etc. That’s one of the last things to be recorded for the infomercial. I’m not there when that gets done. Where I am is meeting a friend of mine outside of a bar close to home.
Imagine Tobey Maguire in Spiderman, glasses and all, only instead of Tobey’s face use Brad Pitt’s. Mix that with Forrest Gump’s running. Throw in a little Woody Allen humor and finish it with just a touch of Homer Simpson. That’s Mike. He half jokes about being somehow related to William Wallace. His last name is Wallace.
I decide to wait for him inside and as I walk in I see him sitting in a table in a corner of the bar. Next to him is a new girl. A different one from last time. Last time is two weeks ago. She says her name is Sandy
Imagine Barbie. That’s Sandy.
She doesn’t say much.
We thank her for that.
I start the conversation after everyone’s hellos. “I was Forrest Gumping you outside for like 15 minutes�. Sometimes we use movie titles as verbs to express ideas, so for example Forrest Gumping is “waiting in a bench for someone�.
“Really? I thought we agreed to meet inside�.
“Whatever�.
Mike said he was thinking of going on a trip. “With Sandy?� I ask.
“Hell no!� Sandy’s in the bathroom right now. “I might as well go with the Duke!� Mike has a male 13 pound Jack Russell Terrier, he calls him the Duke.
I’m curious, “Where are you going?�
“I don’t know,� he picks up his beer and drinks a little “I’m thinking of just getting on the first bus I see and see where it takes me.�
Sandy comes back from the bathroom and sits on the chair opposite of where she was sitting before. She looks puzzled, “Where’s my drink?�
He might as well go with the Duke.
Sandy has the sort of laugh you only hear when people make fun of people like her.
“So, Joe�, Mike speaks between bites into his sandwich, “I was thinking,� bite, “how would you feel about,� bite “holding on to the Duke while I’m out?�
If you know anything about Jack Russell Terriers, you know they’re not exactly peaceful. They’re not the sort of animals who will go about their own lives and leave you alone to go on with yours. They’re also not the sort of animals who will sit in a corner and go to sleep, no, they will run around and jump everywhere as if their life depended on it. They also have a tendency to pick up fights with inanimate objects such as brooms, couches, socks, plants, walls and remote controls.
I’m not exactly thrilled about it, but I had to say yes.
Now comes what you might say was the beginning of everything this is about.
What I’m doing is running to the phone in the living room. The Duke decided every other phone in the house was his enemy, so this is the only one left. There was an obscure sort of muffled voice on the other end. They were probably holding some cloth over the receiver.
I have to sit down, my knee is killing me. The Voice doesn’t have a lot to say, it says, “Marcia. Good luck.�
December 23, 2005
Six
Lunch is the best part about working in a television station. You feel like those rock stars you see in Mtv Cribs. There’s everything you might possibly want to eat or drink, and if there’s something in particular you want that isn’t there, all you have to do is ask.
“You like that, don’t you?� Kathryn means the fifty million big macs I’ve had up to now. “It’s the best part about working in a television station.�
“This is hardly television,� Kathryn says sticking a finger in the cheese dip. “I’m tired of this shit.� Marcia was right then, Kathryn is upset about something. The way she licks her finger full of cheese dip reminds you of why you should be careful what your kids look up on the internet.
I have to ask, “You ok?� now she’ll say no, then a pause then she’ll say yes.
“No, everything’s just peachy.� She smiles. She pauses. She speaks. “Well, it’s just I’m getting tired of this, you know?� I do know. But I say, “What do you mean?� asking Kathryn to explain something is like trying to get a frog to comprehend what a tetrahedron is. It’s useless and stupid.
“I don’t know, you know? It’s like everything is so… I don’t know. It’s just so… God! So, out of context. Like, this isn’t what was supposed to happen, you know? Like… I don’t know, you know?� She’s one of those people who always asks everyone else if they know.
“Marcia said you were upset about something. Are you thinking of quitting?� “No, I’m thinking of changing, you know? Changing everything, not leaving, just changing.� She rolls her eyes up to the ceiling, where some people are straightening some lights. “Marcia’s a bitch.� She says this, and brings her eyes down to me. Then she winks her right eye, dips her finger in the dip once more and leaves.
I look down at the dip and I can see where her finger came out. God knows where that finger’s been, there’s no way I’m trying that dip.
What made Kathryn say Marcia was a bitch is beyond me, but she seemed very determined so I figured she must have her reasons.
“And so, you see why this vacuum is so much more? Not only have I demonstrated here how you can suck up pretty much anything, but you’ve also seen how it can clean up your drain pipes and work as a leaf or snow blower! But wait, there’s more! There’s a small surprise I’ve saved for the end.�
“Really? I’ll have to see that to believe it, Dave!�
“Oh, and you will Heather. Have you ever had trouble reaching up on top of the kitchen cabinets or that spot just above the windows?�
“Oh yes, I know what you’re talking about. I hate that spot!�
“Well, with the 3000 Deluxe Whale Vacuum, you don’t have to worry about that anymore. Because you can also use the actual vacuum as a stepping stool to reach those places and since the hose is the longest you’ll ever find, you won’t have any problems reaching those awfull high places.�
If you think that’s phony, you should hear it in spanish. That’s what Kathryn is tired of, that’s what she meant by out of context. She doesn’t know what “out of context� is, but that’s what she meant.
December 6, 2005
Five
It’s interesting how every year your capacity for doing things drops a little. It used to be people had to walk. Then there were bicycles, then there were cars. It used to be people had to drive. Now we have cruise-control. It used to be people had to ink, write and dry. Now we have type-writers. It used to be people had to type and change the paper and rewrite everything every time they decided to make some change. Now we have voice-recognition and copy-paste. Even sentences get shorter with time. They do.
What I do for a living always makes people laugh. I’m basically an actor whose job is to overact, a salesperson that sells shit no one wants, and a television host for a show no one watches. Well, there’s some people that watch it. It gets translated to about ten different languages.
Where I am right now is the parking lot of Studio 4. There’s only one studio here, and they still call it Studio 4. Marcia should be finishing the make-up on Kathryn right about now. I call Kathryn, Heather on the show. She calls me Dave.
“Hey Joe. What do you know?� That’s Marcia. She saw A.I. too many times. Imagine Rosie O’Donnel, then slap on Fran Drescher’s voice, throw Phoebe Buffay in there, and complement that with Barney the dinosaur’s sense of humor. That’s Marcia. She was a nice girl.
“Hey, Marcia. Is Kathryn here yet?� I ask to make conversation while we get to the make-up chairs.
“Yeah, she got here really early, like always. She seems a bit upset today, though.� Marcia was the sort of person who somehow read other people’s feelings. She also believed in astrology.
Kathryn is sitting on the set already trying to memorize her lines. Her P.A. is on her cell phone with the laundromat fighting over some stains in one of Kathryn’s dresses. Think: Monica Lewinski. Imagine Suzanne Sommers, mix that with Winona Ryder’s ability to get in trouble, Monica Geller’s analness and throw in Cameron Diaz’s laugh. That’s Kathryn.
Today is a full day multicamera shoot for a vacuum cleaner that could suck someone’s stomach out if you put it in their mouth. If one were so inclined. The way Marcia puts make-up on me, makes me look like I just won a Ken doll look-a-like contest. She does the what-do-you-know joke again and leaves me to familiarize myself with the product.
I’m supposed to be this incredibly smart man who knows just about everything there is to know about everything and therefore always has the best products ever and shows them to my co-star Heather.
All she has to do is say “Wow!� “Really?� “Amazing!� “How does it work?� “It probably costs a million dollars!� and “Where can I get it?�.
I have to say a lot more, but always remember to every once in a while throw in a little “And there’s more!�.
Marcia is sitting just off-stage ready to run with her make-up case up to Kathryn or me and touch us up. Turn us into the winners of some doll look-a-like contest.
Four
It’s a weird thing not waking up to the sounds of sirens and the honking of cars. Today was different. Today I was able to relax and lay in bed day-dreaming to the soothing sounds of the south pacific.
Waves hitting rocks and sand in an endless loop, and miles of water stretching out forever.
Sea gulls account for 50% of documented aircraft-bird strikes, they lay three to four eggs and their incubation period is nineteen to twenty-two days. They feed on fish, crabs, shrimp, aerial insects and garbage. They foul residential and commercial buildings and public areas with their smelly shit. They’re considered pests. They also make a sound you can’t help associating with the sea. This is what I hear.
The place I’m in reminds me of a movie I saw a long time ago. I can’t remember the name or what it’s about, so we can overlook that.
Click.
Shit.
Click… and that empty sound of nothing that comes out of speakers when the sound stops. It’s over. 18 un-interrumpted hours of water, waves and sand. And the honking begins.
Everything comes back to focus and the warmth and light from the beach drift away. It’s cold, my knee will begin to hurt in a few seconds. I sit up on the bed and look down at a tiny scar I have on my right knee. It’s hardly visible anymore, but the pain seems to get stronger every year.
I live in the 20th floor of what Jack would call a filing cabinet for widows and young professionals.
I hardly even realized I lit a cigarrette until I felt my fingers were burning.
The way you make waffles is you press TIME then 2:30, then START. The way you make coffee is you put water in a cup, add two tablespoons of powdered coffee, press TIME, then 2:00, then START. I would hate being amish.
Breakfast is over when it’s time for it to be over and a logical stream of consequential actions begins. First comes the shower. Then the clothes. I used to take up almost twenty minutes choosing what shirt to wear with which pants and what socks and so on. Now I usually don’t even bother looking for anything, I just take whatever’s on the top of the drawer. I don’t have to worry about that anymore, other people choose my clothes for me.
November 18, 2005
Three
Two days before the car sex, the crying and the yelling, Phillip gave Peter and his sister a ride back to their house. Peter’s sister’s name was Angie. Angie was looking at him funny the whole ride to their house, then for a second before she got down she gave him a sinister smile.
Angie was Amanda’s best friend. Angie’s bedroom overlooked the garden in their house…
Raymond Williams opened the garage door as he headed for his date. He hadn’t had a date in a while, and wanted to look his absolute best. His hair, however, was determined to not let him get away with it and refused to settle down. He fought with it through the rear-view mirror as he headed into the street.
Somewhere ahead of him a man was yelling at someone else to stop. He looked up, but didn’t see anything.
“Some stupid house-fight� he thought, and went on fixing his hair.
Amanda Delvet was still running on the side-walk away from Phillip. She ran down the curb sobbing, broken-hearted, cheated, betrayed, unaware. She crossed the street turning to see if Phillip was still behind her.
Raymond Williams turned his eyes from the mirror to the wrecked face of a pretty twenty-two year old, smashed against his windshield.
The screeching tires was the last thing she heard. Phillip McCain kissing a red-head at a party was the last image her brain displayed just before it permanently shut down.
The rain began to fall on Phillip as he held his love, life-less, in his arms. He never really felt guilty about the red-head until now.
Raymond Williams missed his date.
The neighbors of the street chipped in to build a speed-bump where Amanda had been hit.
So it goes.
Five years later, a kid was skating on that same street the way kids go around skating not caring about holes or creases in the ground. The kid went crying to his mom about scraping his knee when he’d tried to jump the useless speed-bump infront of his house. Although it seemed like nothing at the time, the injury would cause the kid pain for the rest of his life, whenever it got too cold or he ran too much.
Fifteen years after THAT nothing else exists and the pain in my knee is the least of my problems as I concentrate on Kathryn, trying to not die and wondering how long it’ll take Mtv to get here… it’s funny the places your mind goes when you’re about to die.
All this will become relevant.
November 13, 2005
Two
He couldn’t figure out how the picture ended up there, or even when the picture was taken. He didn’t know someone had seen them.
It happened on the yellow slide,
(pause)
…in the garden,
(pause)
…in Peter’s house.
Everyone was out there, but he was sure no one had seen him. As sure as you can be of anything when you’ve just drank three quarters of a bottle of whiskey, anyway.
Amanda wasn’t there yet. The red-head was. Amanda was stuck in traffic, the red-head was stuck to his tongue. He didn’t really remember how it happened, he just knew it did. What happened before or immediately after was little more than just a vague blur. Like something you dreamt when you were five, and 15 years later you’re not sure if it was a dream or you imagined it, or if it actually happened.
What he did remember, was Amanda bringing him Alka-Seltzer the next morning.
The picture was still a mystery though.
Amanda had hired a private investigator to follow him around and find out if he was cheating on her as she suspected. The detective had followed him out of his house that day alone in the dark and then crept into the party to follow his every move. He had hidden behind the big bush in the back of Peter’s garden. When he and the red-head had come out he had been carefully placing the night-vision filters on his Powershot S330 Digital ELPH Canon camera. Of course, he never cheated on her before that day, so as Murphy’s Law would have it, that day he did. When he and the red-head sat on the slide they were exactly in front of the detective’s camera… he should’ve known. So now, the detective was shooting his camera away while he was kissing this red-head whose name he hardly remembered…. Wait a tick..
(pause)
her name… what was her name?
(pause)
There’s no way Amanda could’ve possibly thought he was cheating on her. No way. It hadn’t even ocurred to him till that day. No way. No way in hell.
What is it with people comparing stuff with hell?
(pause)
What was that red-head’s name?
(pause)
So the detective idea is out of the question, but who took the picture then?
(pause)
Jesus, what was the girl’s name?!
(pause)
All I know is she used to hang out with Angie (incidentally, Amanda’s best friend) a lot.
(pause)
SHIT. SHIT. SHIT. FUCK. SHIT.
…
November 7, 2005
One
If there was a right way to tell this, I would probably begin by telling you where I’m from, what my name is, and why I’m here. And most importantly where I am. The truth is, there is no right or wrong way to tell this. Nor is there a simple, comprehensible explanation. So don’t expect to understand it, just accept it. Everything will become relevant at its due time. Everything will become clear at its due time.
One of the first things they teach you in writing class is that fiction HAS to make sense, and that reality – in turn – doesn’t. Fiction has to have an explanation of some sort, however crazy it may be, things can’t just happen. They can’t be there just because that’s where they happened to be. Whereas in reality, things that don’t make sense, happen all the time. Such is life.
What happened to Marcia that morning was real.
If we choose to believe a certain group of scientist-philosophers of our time, it’s not real anymore, thus: was real.
This page you see is real. The chair you’re sitting on is real. The people and/or walls around you are real – they exist. Whatever exists is part of the universe – what doesn’t exist, isn’t. Whatever is behind the wall you see, doesn’t exist and so, doesn’t matter. If you can’t see it, it’s not there. And you are the center of the universe.
Somewhere in the universe, at 11:30 PM twenty years ago, a couple was having sex in a car at the end of a street. Above the car, there was a huge branch attached to a tree next to them.
On the tree trunk there were four letters and three symbols: AD + PM = heart.
Amanda Delvet. Phillip McCain. Love. She was twenty-two. He was twenty-four.
Amanda got out the car crying and screaming. Phillip ran after her, tearing the picture in his hands into a million pieces….
a very irrelevant Prologue
Why 42 towels? Why does anything that happens, happen?
To explain any of this would be quite irrelevant and pointless. Mainly because the whole point of a tautology is that it needs no explanation. However, if this does not suffice, I offer this: If it didn’t happen, it wouldn’t happen.
If you’re still not satisfied, I refer you to page one of the fifth book in the increasingly innacurately named Hitchhiker’s trilogy, you might find comfort in it. Though it won’t help much because some very muddling things have been happening anyway.
If you’re still not satisfied, then you’re still not satisfied.
Now, on with it then.
42 Towels 