This is it. This is how you are going to do it; someone other than yourself dangling a deadline over your head like a guillotine. This is the only way. Lord knows you can't do it yourself. Just park the car and walk over there. Don't think about it. Don't fear it, there's nothing to be afraid of. For God's sake, you're a goddamn adult. You don't even have to come up with the subject matter; it's going to be provided for you. A subject and a deadline on a silver platter. Pick up your fork and eat it.
You hope they are specific. Real fucking specific. Not some broad creative writing class warm-up bullshit. Something that requires a bit of research perhaps. Probably not though. This is probably going to be agony. You could have a flat tire. You have a flat tire. You can't make it. You'll text in a flat tire. You'll apologize and quip about such poor luck in a neatly packaged text. You love texting. Oh, the brevity. The efficiency of language combined with such sweet freedom of any responsibility.
But you want to write, you are convinced that you are fucking fascinating and a writer is his own boss, makes his own way. A writer wakes up in the morning and goes to bed at night and in between does what he wants to do. A writer makes his mark on the world. A writer declares that he exists on this planet and tells everyone what it smells like. A writer has amazing sex with all sorts of exotic women.
You're almost there now. Tourists everywhere. It could be worse. Breathe. There they are. Keep walking. Smile. This is the beginning of the beginning. Everyone seems so calm. Say hello, meet all the people, sit down. You did it. You are here. Soon the gloriously specific subject will be revealed and this gathering of like-minded souls will inspire you to laugh in the face of that empty screen and furiously fill it with sentences brilliant. Rejoice, you will soon be free of your chains!
No. No, no, no. The piece of paper does not say ANY question. It does not say ANY person. Ask ANY person ANY question? Pick ANYONE in Hollywood and ask them ANYTHING? Torturous. Evil. Nearly impossible. You are light-headed. You are sick. There is no hope.
You are walking now. Walking with a deliberate gait away from the group. It must look like you already know exactly whom you are going to engage. Confident that soon you will extract the ripest kernels of delicious irony from your exquisite specimen. Your question, already conceived, so original and precise that its answer reveals not only bittersweet truths of its speaker, but of humanity itself. Not a trace of trepidation, fear a mere falsehood. And certainly no sign of the realization that you are by yourself now, clear to march straight to your car and drive straight home and wait until hours before your deadline to wax fallacious.
The relief washes over you. You've outsmarted them again. You will simply invent the conversation later, crafting it suitable to your needs. Just like your sixth grade science fair. Your project aimed to discover if left-handed people perceive a series of optical illusions differently than right-handed people. Your mother dropped you off at the mall with all of your data collection essentials: the booklet of ten optical illusions each with two distinct viewing possibilities, a homemade tally sheet with two hundred rows and a pen. You went straight to the food court, sat down and filled in all the blanks, complete with two hundred first names. You listed four Bob's and six Mike's, but only one Renee. Total fabrication complete, you spent the afternoon at the arcade. You won the science fair.
Stop. Stop walking. Stop! Seriously? This is what you've become? This is insane. You are insane. If you do not speak to someone before you get back in that car you are officially insane. You will walk around in this mayhem until something reveals itself. You will find someone to interact with and you will write about it later. You will. You must.
You see a young man sitting on the steps of the El Capitan Theater. His tattered attire are those of a typical Hollywood street kid, but he's reading something. Wait, he's writing something as well. He's reading from and writing into a notebook. He surely isn't one of you; a contributor to a rival literary magazine, perhaps? You are closer now, he kind of looks like you, his notebook brown like yours. This is it. This is your guy. Do it.
He looks up as you sit down next to him. His pupils are black dimes. You hold up your notebook next to his, showing him the striking similarity. He smells like shiitake mushrooms. There is no turning back.
“Watcha working on?”
“Not sure, really. I think it’s a poem. You?”
“I'm not sure either. You live around here?”
“No, man. First time here.”
You can hardly stand it. This guy is perfect. Perfectly strange and seemingly more than comfortable with your recent arrival. You press on.
“You know this is where Jimmy Kimmel does his show. Here at the El Capitan.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. That might be a good name for your poem, 'El Capitan.'”
“Who's Jimmy Kimmel?”
“He's a comedian. Ever watch the old game show, 'Win Ben Stein's Money'?”
“Can't say that I have.”
“My name's Nathan. What's yours?”
“Cameron.”
“When Cameron was in Egypt's land,” you sing, “let my Cameron gooooo.”
Silence. Cameron thinks you are the weird guy on the street.
“Ferris Bueller's Day Off. You've never seen Ferris Bueller's Day Off?”
“Sorry, man.”
“Funny. Ben Stein was in Ferris Bueller's Day Off.”
“I don't know who that is either.”
“That's okay.”
Cameron turns back to his notebook. You have just given him permission to not know who Ben Stein is. You are an idiot and an asshole. More silence. Cameron begins to scribble a bit in the corner of a page. You wonder how this golden opportunity has spiraled into some kind of disjointed discussion of pop-culture and resist the pull to look over his shoulder. It is then that you notice that the Ron Howard star in the Walk of Fame is right in front of Cameron. Okay, you will try one more. Perhaps if you finally connect on this level, it will open the door to others more profound.
“Ever watch The Andy Griffith Show?”
“Yes,” Cameron gushes, “when I was little I used to whistle the opening song! Don King was the best. He was so good in that show.”
A burst of laughter escapes you. Cameron searches your face for an explanation.
“Knotts, you mean, Don Knotts. Don Knotts played Barney Fife. Yeah, he was my favorite, too.”
Cameron gathers himself and starts to stand.
“Whatever you say, man. Listen, man, I gotta get going, so see you later nice meeting you, I gotta go so...”
Cameron stabs the air with a wave, turns and heads off. You stand and stare at Cameron as he walks away. You yell out to him.
“Don King is the boxing promoter with the big hair!”
Passing tourists pull their children closer. Cameron disappears into the throng. You are not sure if he heard your last bit of wisdom. But you are sure that something spectacularly bizarre has just occurred and all that's left is to record it. You sigh with pleasure. You overflow with accomplishment. You are a mad, magnificent genius.
Maybe this really is the beginning. Maybe the shell has at long last been cracked and maybe the rich yellow yolk of your soul will run thick and bright whenever you wish. Or maybe you just made the whole thing up.
BB
