Part 4
The greatest thing about the movie theater experience is that it offers a respite from the overstimulation of the modern world. A single story can unfold there in the darkness without interruption from the news and social media and anything else that screams to distract us. My drama is unfolding in the midst of life and its timing is somewhat poor. At the moment when tension should be building, as the stakes are raising, I’m losing some of my audience. My Orchestra is sparser now, owing, mostly, to the emergence of a tawdry scandal which has dominated the news coverage today. It involves a local Congressman who was shot and wounded by his father because both were dating the same young woman- a voluptuous young caretaker for the older man. There are less than half the vans that there once were in my media section and I can’t help but feel that as I rise further away from my crowd and the media, they’re withdrawing further from me. I called Channel 7 again earlier in the day, this time as Charlton Heston, and I was told that no one was immediately able to talk with me but if I could call back at 3:15, they’d ‘love to try and work me in’.
Sex appeal is my nemesis across the street. On the roof of the martial arts studio, two young women in bikinis have begun dancing. They go for a several minutes at the start of every hour in front of a banner that advertises: “BALLERWOOD.COM”. A band plays much of the remaining time. Most of my crowd there now faces away from me and I must concede that my balcony is now just a block party where I’m no longer the sole attraction.
Yesterday’s Your Voice Channel 4 at 4 Poll question was: “Is the man on the Channel 4 News Tower causing harm to the city’s reputation?” 57% of the respondents said ‘no’. The Your Voice Channel 4 at 6 Poll question followed up with: “Should the police wait the man on the Channel 4 News Tower out or forcibly try to remove him?” 53% voted in favor of waiting me out. The people have spoken and they want me to stay, but only marginally so.
There is little that’s more fickle than the attention of the public. Realizing this has me thinking about benshis. They were solo performers who accompanied the silent films in Japan. They did the voices, live in the cinema, for every one of the characters on screen. They were remarkable actors and respected enough that their names appeared on the marquee outside of each theater even though they performed, literally, in the shadows. Because of them, silent cinema had a longer life in the East than it did here in America, but eventually it faded there as well and the benshis were cast out of work. They spent years cultivating a very specific skill set only to find the platform on which they displayed it, to great acclaim, suddenly disappearing beneath their feet.
There is nothing beneath my feet and there hasn’t been from the start. All I have is my crowd and if they leave me, I’ll be left with nearly nothing. I sold most of my possessions and stashed what remained (a few favorite books and films, five pairs of pants with accompanying shirts, a cell phone with two remaining weeks of service) in a storage locker. I officially moved out of my apartment the night I caught the bus here to Burlington and the only tangible assets I have left are the contents of that locker, a bank account balancing $127, the clothes I now wear and my items on the tower. If I can’t hold their attention, I’ll likely fade to nothing. Out of the many options, I have up here, that’s the one I’m least willing to entertain.
The world is quieter up on my higher post and I’m even more conscious of the wind and the tower’s sway. The dragon is asleep. I’m roughly 250 feet up now. They can’t reach me here. I doubt they’ll even try.
I waste much of the morning watching local news updates. I’m shown only in passing. The sex scandal is a developing story. I must seem stale by comparison. They show a brief clip of me being hit by pepper spray and then one of me sitting in my current position.
It’s too quiet. The people are too small. I feel isolated for the first time. It feels hot as if my closer proximity to the sun has warmed things by about ten degrees. I feel a strong headache and I welcome it as I begin to drift. Suddenly my Orchestra cuts through. My college hoodie man on the third balcony has brought out large speakers and is blasting an oldies station very loud, somehow loud enough to reach me. He’s watching me through binoculars, and he waves when I look down in his direction. I can make out the words drifting up to me.
“Take a saaaad song and make it beeetter”…. I hear this and I smile and nod along to it pleasantly.
Another song: “I feel the Eeeearth mooove under my feet….” I stand for this and begin swaying with the beat, bracing myself with a hand on the rail above. The man pumps his fist.
Another: “Just swiiing your hiiips now, c’mon, baby…“ I oblige with my hips, giving a little twist and there are people waving their arms in the orchestra.
And finally, as if on cue, the music calls to me: “Leeet’s dance… Put on your red shoes and dance the blues…“ There are signs from the universe, sometimes. This one is clear and perfect:
Give the people what they want.
I rock my right leg and shift my shoulders with the beat. I feel a surge of energy. I let go and extend my arms as I strut across the narrow length of the rail and back. I’m jutting my neck with the drumbeat until the songs builds and I rise with it, bringing my hands up like a conductor: “if yooou should fall ..into my aaarms….” and back to the groove. They’re screaming. I know they are. I point to the North, then to the vans. I point across my body to the Orchestra and then jerk my arm to the heavens in a nod to John Travolta. I stagger and shift my legs like Elvis. I’m completely in control. I can see myself framed like Fred Astaire in midair. My balance is effortless and instinctual like a bird on a wire. My head is light but it seems to center me. It feels like I’m floating. I stride as far as I can to my left and then skip to my right and begin to spin, crossing my left leg behind me. It finds nothing but empty space.
My life doesn’t flash before my eyes. That’s merely a convention of the movies. It’s more like the record skips and the cord is yanked from the wall. The music disappears and the power I feel cuts off, leaving only doubt. I feel stupid and helpless as I reach for something, anything, tangible to grasp. I’m weightless, just for a second. My feet clip the rail hard and it flips me over and towards the North rail which connects solidly with my shoulder. My arm catches it and with all of my remaining strength, grips it like a vice. I try to wrap my right leg around something but the slightest movement shoots pain through my body. I keep my right leg straight and use my left leg and my arms to thrust myself onto my saving rail. I prop myself against the Northwest rail. I wrap my arm around it. I lay there and give thanks. I thank whatever higher power exists above and I thank the police. If I had been lower towards the wider base of my tower, I would have fallen straight down. I have to close my eyes and let this all sink in, to let my body respond. I just need a break.
You should never chase a crowd. You have to let them come to you. I knew this. I acted desperately and I got what I deserved. It’s 9:07, and as I lay in the darkness, I have no idea how the public has responded to watching me, finally, fall from my perch. Most of them were probably subconsciously hoping for it. It’s not that they wish me ill. It’s what the great playwright Anton Chekhov said: If you introduce a gun in the first act, it has to go off by the third. I’ve been building towards this moment since the first day of my ascension. What’s the fun of watching a man up high if there’s not a realistic chance that he’ll plummet back down to the Earth?
The sharp pains tell me that I have literally done as every actor is prompted to do and broken a leg. To my supporters, this injury could make me a sympathetic hero, to my detractors: a reckless fool. That I could see myself playing either part tells me that I don’t know who my character truly is. The rocking of the tower exacerbates my pain and it’s difficult to find a position that lessens it. Water would help but the two bottles I have left are strapped down above me, along with my television, my phone and my binoculars. The only thing I have is my notebook which, despite my tumble, somehow remained safely buttoned in my cargo pants. This is the solace that keeps me going. If I had lost this story, if I could no longer record it, I could see myself slipping easily into despair. I don’t know who these words are destined to reach, but believing that they’ll reach someone, sustains me. Donnie is yelling from a little ways below, from the West. He’s a good man but now is not a good time to talk. I’ve found as comfortable position as is likely possible and I’m going to try and sleep until the sun wakes me.
I dream about running. It’s one of those glorious cinematic moments when someone is pushing themselves to the limit with competitive grace. I’m running up and down hills at a tremendous rate of speed. My legs burn but I can’t slow down and I don’t want to. Uphill and down, I move at the same rapid pace and I pass other runners as if they’re frozen in place. I am lifted off the ground with each stride, thrust through the air and lithely touching down. My body is tense and I’m panting but my movements are liquid and effortless. I’m growing massive as I gain speed. I’m leaping from hill to hill now. I can see the houses below me. I’m jumping over neighborhoods and tall buildings. I’m covering so much ground that I’m sure to make a lap around the globe… until my body seizes up and my legs lock. I’m headed face first towards the ground when I awaken sweating and gripping firmly the rail behind my head.
The morning sun shines directly upon my face and reminds me that I lost my hat in the fall. Even with it and sunblock, I’ve sustained minor burns from reflected light. It’s shaping up to be a clear day and I’ll soon turn bright red if I’m unable to scale back up for my supplies. It is Thursday- day 8. The wind is strong and the dragon is sleeping. I can’t hear anything below. I can make out many of my regulars in the orchestra, but without amplification, the balcony is just a jumble of cars. I need water to survive but, more urgently, I need my phone and my television, my binoculars. I need the conversation, the give and take with the audience. Without that, I feel cut off, isolated, just myself, the sky and my pain. Three sections above me, that conversation is available. I need to summon all my strength to get back to it.
Pushing off with my good left leg will not be an option. That much contortion of my torso sends spasms through my body that could easily cause me to lose my grip. I’m going to need to let my body hang straight down as much as possible and pull myself up hand over hand until I reach each horizontal rail. I’ll allow myself as much rest as needed on each station and then push on upward until I’m back to my supplies. I remind myself that I only need to get higher. I’ve already risen so high above my lowest point that advancing up a little further should be nothing more than a matter of will. My lowest point left me mired in a cesspool much deeper and more daunting than anything I’ve faced on the tower. My lowest point came at the mall.
No one starts at the top. I never expected to. I was ready to take on anything to get my foot in the door, to build my reputation bit by bit, for as long as it took until I was able to partake in work that I could be truly proud of. But in my year after my layoff, as I gained more and more confidence in my skill, every door I came to was sealed so tightly that not even a trace of light could escape. Even a glimmer of it would have encouraged me but each audition left me further in the dark. I tried out for local theater companies, touring companies, sketch groups, improv groups, musicals, one act plays, one-off plays, spoken word, commercials, voice-overs, commercial voice overs and work as an extra. I couldn’t find work as an extra.
Finally, a few months ago, I read about an upcoming tryout for a production of A Christmas Carol at the Starfield Mall. This was to be a condensed forty-five minute program running five times a day for the entirety of the month of December.
I have always had affection for the story. Ebeneezer Scrooge’s transformation from a hardened misanthrope to a romantic optimist is believable and inspirational in the original book and in the stage play. It was a part I longed to play even in a truncated and bastardized version. I took Burgess Meredith (frail but intense in his later roles) as my model and begin crafting the posture and voice of a weathered older man. I hunched over until my back began to ache and I channeled that discomfort into my disposition. I practiced playing him as a man in constant pain who’s too proud to admit weakness and thus projects it onto everyone else. I lived with this character until I felt truly immersed. I knew I had truly connected when I had a dream of myself- as Scrooge- struggling to ascend a never-ending flight of stairs, my cane cracking again and again, as I grew angry and tired but doggedly persistent. I knew that if I was ready for anything, I was ready for that audition but I never got the chance to even read for the part.
The auditions were held in full view of the public on the space of floor where the actual production was to take place. We were directed to stand a single file line marked by the part for which we were auditioning. There was a podium at the front of the line upon which one script was laid. I took my place behind two other men next to a sign marked: “Line 1- Ebeneezer Scrooge”. As we waited on the director, about a dozen other men lined up behind me. I was the youngest of the group but the rest seemed to range in age from mid 30s to late 60s. There was a similar demographic queued up for: “Line 2- Bob Cratchit”. A wider age range, mostly women stood in: “Line 3- Ghosts”, and a decidedly younger group were in: “Line 4- Tiny Tim”. This last crowd ranged from young children to high school age kids, male and female mixed with a few twenty-somethings. This constituted the whole cast for the Starfield Mall production.
As we waited, I realized that we were standing amongst the actual props that we would use. A lavish bed was in one corner, a desk set in another and a large dining set was positioned just across from it. They were prominent price tags on everything down to the utensils. This would truly be a theater in the round with commerce and art freely mixed. As we waited, many of the actors sat down and I noticed the kids beginning to look restless. About an hour in, I was approached by a young woman with short dark hair and a headset.
“Hi, do you know which line you’re in?”
“Yes, Line 1.”
“Ha, ok. What part are you trying out for?”
“I’m trying out for the part of Ebeneezer Scrooge. I have to tell you, I really love the part and I’ve put in a lot of time preparing. Just to get a chance to show you that, well, for this… I’m grateful.”
“Ok, I love your spunk! I have to tell you though” She sucked against her teeth. “We’re not going to see you for Scrooge today. We would like to see you for Tiny Tim and if you’d like to go to the back of that line-“
“-Excuse me… I’d just like to read for Scrooge. I have invested a lot of time and I’d just like to show my take on the character to you guys.”
“Yeah.. schedule.”
“I’m sorry?”
“It’s a tight schedule. We have a lot of people to see today and..” She sucked against her teeth “we’re not going to see you for Scrooge. You might actually be just what we’re looking for in a Tiny Tim. That’s your best shot so let me save you some time and just head over to the back of that line.”
“With respect, there’s nothing that says I can’t read for this part so I’m going to read and then you can make your decision about whether I have anything to offer.”
She sucked her teeth for what seemed like a full minute while looking up and to her left.
“Ok, the director is coming. You can talk to him when he gets here.”
I spent the next hour channeling my irritation into the character. The next person that approached me would deal directly with Scrooge. When the director finally arrived he chatted with the headset woman for a few moments and bee-lined straight for me. He was an intensely skinny man with a blonde goatee and short salt and pepper hair.
“Ok, hi. We have a problem. You’ve been very rude to my assistant. She asked you politely to change lines and you refused.
I hunched my back and squinted at the man, bellowing at him in a cracked voice: “What right do you have to speak to me on this cold and miserable morning?”
“Oookay… don’t do that.”
“I’ll do as I damn well please given the strength that’s in me.”
He stared at me for a second and rubbed his temple: “Ok, your diction is good but you’re wasting your time.”
“And you, sir, waste your breath with every infernal syllable you utter-“
“Stop it, right now! I mean it…”
I reluctantly straightened my back and said: “No disrespect intended. I was just told that I wouldn’t be able to read today.”
“That’s fine. You can read today for Tim.”
“I haven’t prepared for Tim.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“I really feel like I have an interesting take on Scroo-“
“No. Let me explain. Scrooge is a very powerful man. You are not. Tim is tiny, like you. He’s more within your range.”
“But… it’s a child’s part.”
“Yeah, but children have work restrictions. If we can find an adult, such as yourself, who looks sufficiently childlike, it makes everything a lot easier.”
I felt the eyes upon me from all around and I longed for a wall to cover me from at least one direction. “Well… I’m not interested in playing that part. I’d just like a fair shot at playing the lead.”
He sighed and sucked his teeth like his assistant. He stared at me and I rambled:
“Look, please, just because I’m 5’5” doesn’t mean I have to play a child. Seriously, did you ever think about how many of the great leading men are below average in height? It’s crazy. I mean, if you have true commitment, you can play anyone, right? I really think I have a great take on this and I’m asking you for a chance. Just, please…”
He started laughing and shaking his head. I searched for positive signs in this. Finally: “There is no way that you’re 5’5!” This tickled many of the people around me and their laughter spurred him to raise his voice.
“You don’t get it, do you? When you’re out there on that stage, your pre-sence” he pronounced this word slowly as if it were a benediction “matters. You can either evoke strength or pity and you haven’t even figured that out yet. There’s not an ounce of power in you. You have something but not that and if you don’t even know what you have, you have nothing. I cannot believe I’ve wasted this much time. I tried to help you and you don’t care so… guess, what? I don’t care. You’re not reading for anything so you can go home or stay and watch, but I’m done with you.”
I think of his words as my free hanging legs pull my midsection apart. Not an ounce of power in you. I repeat them like a mantra: NOTANOUNCE, NOTANOUNCE, NOTANOUNCE. I use them to rinse the lactic acid from my arms. They are a tonic for the pain and fatigue. They make me fresher, stronger. Power is something that no one has to be born with. It can be cultivated and grown, nurtured by anyone who truly wants it. Power, pure physical strength is something I’ve earned over many years, with daily work and discipline. My face belied my power. My height disguised it. My status made it so that no one could even see me much less what I had inside. None of that matters now. I am Tan Man and no one doubts that Tan Man has power.
As I lift myself, straining with the steel (not against it, it is my ally not my foe) I give thanks to the man whose name I don’t even know. NOTANOUNCE, NOTANOUNCE. Perhaps, he’s somewhere watching. Perhaps, he’ll someday read this. If he does, I’d like him to know that I have no anger towards him. He played his allotted part in my life wonderfully. He entered for just a few minutes and had a legitimate impact on my life, inspiring me years later without even knowing it. There’s beauty in that. Every actor yearns to have that kind of effect. I’m unsure if I’ve truly ever inspired anyone or anything but I know I’m closer to it than I’ve ever been. As I reach my first landing, I reach elation. I pull myself upon the rail and can’t help but to smile. I quickly pull it back and straighten my filthy jacket, smoothing out the collar. No big deal, after all. Don’t make a fuss of it. I’m merely headed back up to fetch my things. Two more sections to go and I can contact the world again.
I rest until noon. I’m hot but I’m no longer sweating. My head aches and my pulse throbs but I breathe deep, focus and take one sentence at a time. Writing calms me. The greatest joy with pain is that any lessening of it feels almost like pleasure. Epicurus taught me that but I’ve had to come a long way to find it true for myself. Laying upon the rail, writing and mentally preparing myself for the next pull, I enjoy a great sense of relief and peace because my rest feels earned. Whenever I feel insecure about my stature, I try to remind myself that the more I have to overcome, the more I’ll be able to enjoy feelings of accomplishment.
A tall, handsome man is robbed of that. He has an easier path to greatness, not merely in entertainment but, in almost every aspect of life. The average man stands 5’9” while the average male CEO stands well over 6 feet tall. In studies, good looking people are always evaluated better than less attractive ones when they are judged using identical criteria. It’s undeniable that the beautiful have it easier. Easier though is often less fulfilling. Flaws are a gift. You just have to find the right use and purpose for them.
Bob Fosse started going bald at the age of 17. He hated his hands and he was pigeon toed with slouching shoulders. To cover these flaws, he developed a dancing style that featured: hats and gloves, turned in knees and rolling shoulders. This unique and sexy style thus made him one of the most influential choreographers in history. For just one example of his influence, watch his supporting performance in the 1974 film The Little Prince. In a single dance sequence he displays much of the style and many of the dance moves that Michael Jackson used at the pinnacle of his career nine years later. Fosse once stated:
“I thank God that I wasn’t born perfect.”
I’ve cherished that quote and wished to hold it true for myself but until this moment I never did.
Starting the next tier is easier. Once you’ve done anything once, you no longer have to carry doubt with you. I’m climbing now on the Northeast rail. Satellite dishes hang on every other corner above me so I’ve been forced to the side opposite my crowd. It’s no matter. I’m only focused on obtaining the phone. I’ll be honest with you and with myself now. I desire to call channel 7 but even more I desire to call myself. The sun is directly above me and it feels like it’s only a few feet from my head. I push through the heat because I want to call my voice mail. I’ve wanted to since I was given the second phone. The first was hopelessly locked but the second required just a little fiddling to access outside calls. I want to know if anyone has called me. I need to know if she has called. I need to know if she has seen me and pieced things together. I waited because the mere possibility of hearing her voice sustained me and I feared letting it go. I must reclaim it. My heart pounds to reclaim it. I try to breathe and slow my pulse but it’s escalating, barely within my control.
I’ve watched nearly every version of As You Like It ever committed to film or television. Some consider it to be one of Shakespeare’s lesser works but I find it to be his greatest love story. In the play, the romantic hero Orlando woos his lost love Rosalind by writing poetry for her in the trees. I know I could never woo my Rosalind, I know I have no right or reason but I would just like her to know that this poetry that I have placed in the sky was for her. If she has called, I’ll know that she’s at least aware of it. Perhaps I might even call her back. Perhaps I wouldn’t even if I was given the chance. Perhaps I can drop a subtle allusion for her when I talk to Channel 7. Until I get to the phone, I can do nothing. Until I know that the phone is even available, I’m at a loss. The creeping anxiety that I’ve been trying to push away is that I can’t remember precisely if the phone was secure upon my rail or stashed in my pocket when I fell. I’m nauseous at the thought and so I climb to ease my stomach and my mind.
I can see myself from afar advancing up the rail. I can even hear the rising strings and thudding bass accompanying the scene. Will this thin, dirty, wounded protagonist make it back to his supplies, to his only communication with the world? Will he hear a message from the one person he longs to hear from? I can see him so clearly. Hand over hand, leg hanging limp, struggling against the forces of the Earth. I root for him. It’s like I’m in the midst of a film and I want to see how it ends. I have to hold on to see this through. To stop at any point now would make this a tale without an ending like so many lives, like most lives. I owe it to myself and anyone who cares to give them more than that.
When I reach the next tier, my body wants to stop. Not to rest but to shut down completely, to lay as motionless as possible indefinitely. I won’t let it. In As You Like It, the Duke and his family are exiled from a life of luxury and separated. They struggle in the forest before being reunited and restored to their former glory which leaves them happier and more fulfilled than before. Hardship can be a blessing. The more severe it is, the greater the relief of emerging on the other side. To give up while suffering is to suffer without purpose, to miss your reward. One thing I’ve learned from my time on the tower is that I don’t want to do anything without purpose. Not anymore.
I look to the sky and not down to my audience. They’ve given me strength before but now straining my eyes to see them only hurts my focus. The binoculars lie above with the rest of my supplies. I’ll earn the right to see them clearly when I finish my climb. My hands are cramping and it hurts to hold a pen for too long. I set my watch alarm for ninety minutes and brace myself between the rail and one of the satellite dishes. I fall deeply to sleep.
My body is too tired to be startled so the alarm brings me gently back to life. I don’t remember dreaming and I feel an encompassing soreness that makes the slightest movement difficult. I push through this and fight my way back to a one-legged standing position. My pulse is rapid and I breathe slowly until I feel it slowing a bit. The sun is dimming a little and that feels better to my eyes. I strain to bend and smooth out the legs of my pants when I realize that I’ve done this unconsciously every time that I’ve stood. I’ve straightened my jacket as well and my shirt. I’ve been going through the fussy motions of Tan Man even when forgetting about them. I have achieved something that I’ve always sought. I have ingested the character in such a way that he’s become a part of me. I feel warmth emanating from inside my chest. I feel honest. Tan Man remains a tangible character even in the face of injury and loss of his crowd. Tan Man lives and breathes. He is real and not false. He is not merely me.
I remind myself to breathe deeply and not to let the excitement push me too hard. I grip the rail with assurance. Really, Tan Man grips it with assurance as I watch him. The phone is only feet away now and I’m not going for it alone. Tan Man is going to get it for me. He is dirty and thin but he is determined. He doesn’t hesitate. He is going methodically hand over hand without concern for the aches in his head, his shoulders and his resolve.
I’m thinking of her and the times when she said that she loved me. She used to say it sometimes, unprompted. I know she didn’t mean it romantically, but she meant something. I’m thinking of the first time she said it. We’re on the phone talking about her psychology class. There had been a debate about whether animals should be used in testing for cosmetic surgery. She’s saying that she’s strongly against it and asking my opinion.
“Well, you have to think about burn victims and people who are facially disfigured. It’s not just a superficial thing.”
“Yes, but that’s reconstructive surgery. Cosmetic means superficial.”
“The same techniques are used in both. The same testing would apply. I know you love animals but, honestly, if you eat animals and believe they can be sacrificed for the greater good then you have to think that surgical improvements are a greater good. Plus, who’s to say a nose job is superficial? You’re beautiful. Don’t protest that either. You are. It’s only one of the great things about you but you really are. So, even with your empathy, it would be hard for you to understand what it’s like for someone who is paralyzed with doubt about their appearance. For some of those people cosmetic surgery can be their only path to confidence. A lot of it is superficial but sometimes it’s a completely justifiable way for someone to simply feel more normal.”
She’s quiet.
“Ok, what are you thinking about?”
“I love you, Sam.”
I’m quiet.
“I just do. You’re smart and caring. Stay that way.”
“Thanks. You’re-“
“-No, just leave it. You don’t have to always return a compliment. You compliment me all the time.”
“May I say that I love you too?”
“You may. I know you do but you can still say it.”
“I love you, Malaya.”
We’re in a museum. She’s partly in white, staring at a painting done fully in different shades of blue. It shows a woman wearing heavy layers, bracing herself against snow and wind. She’s covered except for her mouth and eyes which are beautiful and determined. She stands looking at it for several minutes.
“I really like this.”
“What do you like?”
“It makes me feel inspired, like I could create something… and it’s calming. Are we allowed to take pictures in here?”
“Not sure.”
She walks over to a security guard who holds up a meaty finger and turns away from her. He’s laughing and holding a walkie talkie up to his ear. She fidgets and waits for him to turn around for a minute and then walks back over to me with a shrug. When he turns back toward us, I yell to get his attention: “EXCUSE ME, SIR?… SIR?”
He lowers the walkie and says “Yeah?”
“Are we allowed to take pictures?”
“Yeah, you can.”
“Ok, great.” I extend my hands out and step towards the painting as if I’m about to pull it from the wall.
“HEY! WHOA! NONO!”
I stop and look at him quizzically: “Sir, relax. I’m just measuring the frame with my hands. I’m not gonna touch it.”
Malaya is right in step: “Yeah, sir. We’re not actually gonna take the picture. We have a camera.” She withdraws it from her purse and waves it like she’s showing a rattle to a baby: “See?”
The security guard stares, takes three beats to try and find an adequate response and then sulks down the hallway away from us. Malaya punches my shoulder and hugs it. She says in a singsongy voice: “I love you.”
We’re at my parents’ house eating dinner. We’ve just watched one of my favorites: A Walk in the Clouds- a romance featuring a Mexican family who own a vineyard in Napa Valley- and I’ve done my best to make pumpkin flower soup like the kind they ate in the film. She seems to be enjoying it, or she’s doing a polite job of faking so. She’s wearing a black sweater and small stud earrings. She’s talking about the film.
“I loved the actress and Keanu was actually really good.”
“Well, he’s actually perfect for this kind of role. People always complain that he’s wooden and unnatural, but he’s playing a character who’s such a throwback, that it actually helps him. Paul Sutton is so noble that he’s guileless. His awkwardness makes him more real. He’s like a wholesome visitor from another time and place.”
“Yeah, I like Paul Sutton. We should drink to him.”
“Ah, we actually can. That’s next.”
I excuse myself and come back with two wine glasses and a bottle of sparkling cider.
“Wow, you really came prepared for this one. Are we having chocolate too?”
Paul Sutton sold chocolate in the film and I blush and nod to indicate that I have that as well. She shakes her head and laughs lightly at me.
“Let us drink to Paul and drink to Sam, two noble men from another time and place.”
“And to Malaya, the best person I know. I wish I had actual wine to share with you. Alas, we are but teenagers and will have to wait some years to toast for real.”
“I’ve had wine, actually.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, a few times. I mean, I don’t drink a lot but I do every now and then.”
“Well, that’s cool, you know, moderation is cool.”
“I’ve toasted at a birthday... and on New Year’s. I’ve drunk and had good times. I’ve drunk and had bad times. You’ve never drank, have you?”
“No.”
“That’s good. You really are wholesome and you should stay that way. Don’t change, Sam. Just be you and don’t change, ok?”
“Well, I don’t… I don’t plan on it. I mean, I have some growing to do and I need to have new experiences. I’m not always going to be as… you, know limited as I am now.”
She looks at me for a minute and smiles. She taps my glass and we drink.
“I’d love to see California, the wine country, the ocean. I know it doesn’t look exactly like that but it must be amazing.”
“Yeah, it must be.”
“I’m going to travel as soon as I get the chance, maybe after college, maybe during college. I’m going to be willfully impulsive. You have to do that kind of thing when you’re young and able to recover quickly… I’m going to finish school, for sure. I’m going to make something of myself but I’m also going to be open to anything. I’m ready for that. I’m going to be somebody, not somebody famous, but somebody significant, and I’m going to have nothing to regret when I’m 60.”
“That’s great. I mean, it’s great.”
She nods and smiles.
“I’m rambling.”
“I love when you ramble.”
“And I love you, Sam. Thanks for the meal and the movie and thanks for being there for me.”
I give her a goofy smile and fumble, to no avail, through my thoughts for a strong response. She’s looking at me with those luminous eyes, the light dances and I’m more comfortable than an uncomfortable person has any right to be. She smiles and raises her glass. I tap it and we drink. It’s one of the most vivid moments of my life. It’s almost perfect. It’s almost everything I’d ever want. It’s so close that I’m tempted to change it. I wonder if I will, someday. I wonder if age and senility will cause me to remember the words but altar the context. It would be so comforting. Right now my head is light and my body aches. I keep pushing myself on because motion is life. It would be so comforting to remember things as I want to and not how they were. Would it be so bad to embrace the fiction?
I focus on the rail to keep myself upon it. If my mind drifts too much further, I might lose my bearing and sense of what’s at stake. My body wants to cramp up and stop moving, to drop. I want to move, to live. I see the distance shrinking, my base rail, merely a couple of feet away from my grasp. I feel a burst of adrenalin as I get closer. A couple of inches now and I begin to feel euphoric. I place my hand upon the rail. I pull myself up, roll my legs onto the thin strip of steel and close my eyes. My heart rate is so rapid that the beats seem to merge together. The burning in my right leg feels like a minor sting under the wonderful numbness that blankets over me. I can rest for as long as I need to now. I am once again home.