GUY IN CAR

"...like try to confront mortality or whatever…" | short fiction

Porcelain actor ca. 1755–65. Credit: The Metropolitan Museum of Art

There’s a kind of drunk that’s more like wading. I was drunk-wading when I got the text from Pete, my manager, or he’s not really my manager, just a dude I found in the Goodwill parking lot who let me sip some Fireball. Six months ago, he got blitzed and asked for my headshot. Today, outta nowhere: “yo, they want you for this.”

“what?”

“GUY IN CAR: drive past a ditch, see something, get out, scream”

“pete?”

“u want it?”

“yea”

The next morning, I’m in a “green room” that’s more beige than green; a little beigey sitting room reeking of melted iPhones. A triple-chinned desk woman (Darlene? Debra?) gave me my lines, hot, fresh off the Xerox. She smiled, told me to “park it” in a cracked folding chair near a moldy water cooler. I sat for two hours, folding-unfolding my script, mumble-chanting GUY IN CAR’s lines: Oh God. Oh God. He’s not breathing. Someone call—Oh God. Oh God. He’s not breathing. Someone call—Oh God. Oh God. He’s—

Darlene/Debra called for me, snapped me outta my Oh God trance. She pointed to a skinny, closet-like door behind her, smiling, “knock ‘em dead, hon” with her chins. I nodded, my chin responded, “You know I will, darlin’,” as I walked in. The room was bigger than expected; spacious, bright, hotboxed with fermented Burger King farts. The pubescent director sat behind a plastic, lemonade-standish folding table; he didn’t bother getting up or looking at me. He heard the door slam and extended an effete hand, continuing his conversation with the obese producer beside him. I half-ran up to shake his hand. Three pumps. Wet. Dead fish. He turned to face me when our palms unclasped. He smiled a mildewed Cheshire, caffeine-yellowed enamel shivered under his bovine septum piercing.

“It’s uh—it’s a really cool pleasure, man,” I said.

He nodded, cleared his throat, and pointed to a small stage-like plywood chunk in the room’s center. I nodded and walked over. Word on the street: this little director fuck got into Sundance a few years back with a short doc-u-thing about his grandad’s dementia or Parkinson’s that he (allegedly) bullshit. Pete says he’s got some muckety muck connects: dude’s got legit-ass clout…don’t fuck it up—

Focus.

The director’s piercing jiggled as he extended his arm, palm towards the popcorn ceiling, “yeah…so…whenever you’re ready…”

I nod.

Focus.

Breathe.

Imagine: you’re driving along. Imagine: some poor fuck dying in a ditch—

“Oh God. Oh God. He’s not breathing. Someone call—”

I stop myself. Horseshit; too meek, un-macho. I cleared my throat, clenched my anus, willed testosterone from prostate to throat, let it coat my tonsils spunky white:

“Oh God…..OH GOD! Holy shit, he’s not….he’s not fucking breathing! Someone call the fucking—”

I’m interrupted by the sad, masturbatory applause of two sweat-palmed oafs. “Yeah…cool cool.” The director says, monotone. He scribbled something diarrheal on a mound of loose papers. “I mean…needs some polish and shit, but yeah, the part’s yours if you want it.”

I nodded fast, nearly swallowed my fucking tongue. “For sure, yeah, thank—”

“—but try to like, you know…panic?” The director paused and took a swig of coffee. His nasal jewel tea-bagged his latte like a chrome Oreo. “Like…try to confront mortality or whatever…”

I nodded again, rolling my lines into a tight cylinder, rapping them against my sternum, “yeah, yeah, for sure, mortality, absolutely, thank—”

“—oh, and—“ he paused, ran his sleeve across his face, blotting frothed milk off his bull nose.

“This guy’s gotta be bald as fuck.”

The sun angled through the window; his fresh-wiped septum winked at me. He crossed something out on his papers.

“You cool with that?”

I pulled over at the first Walgreens I found. Parked zig-zag in a handicap, ran in and raided the toiletries: scissors, Bics, Barbasol. I threw a sweatfucked twenty at the cashier and sprinted back to my Civic. The rearview was narrow, cracked; I had to fly blind, submit to feel, intuition. I took the scissors to my mane; when had it gotten this long? When was my last cut? Thanksgiving? Some Oldsmobile cripple idled behind me, death staring, beeping. To shave a head, you gotta traverse your skull hundreds of times. The skull’s a hoarder, a prude—an embarrassed skull clings to fig leaf hairs, holds on so damn tight, and when you go for ‘em? The Bic catches that little fucking ridge behind your ear and makes you bleed into your one good audition flannel.

274 strokes and I’m babe-ass bald. The fresh nudity was addicting, exciting. I took the Bic to my chest, just in case—just in case the director calls a wardrobe change and GUY IN CAR becomes the typa fuck with a penchant for beaters or deep-Vs—in case his character gets saddled with alopecia or cancer or the cliche life-has-fucked-me-with-lymphoma-but-here-I-am-being-the-good-fucking-Samaritan arc and—should I get my pits? The thought came quick, natural. Of course. Of fucking course, Daniel Day-Lewis gets his fucking pits. I shook the Barbasol, raised my arm, but my hand banged the ceiling. Fuck… The Oldsmobile prune gave up, flipped me the bird, and puttered further into the lot. I flipped her a double bird, accompanied by an “eat shit” smile. I’d get the pits at home, damn Civics ain’t made for pit shaving anyhow…

I found a wad of In-N-Out napkins in the glove compartment. Bunched ‘em up and wiped leftover Barbasol offa my skull and chest. I tossed the wet wad on the passenger seat and pulled my flask outta the door. A boy watched me guzzle Jim Beam while his mommy loaded a minivan with groceries. I raised my flask, cheersed the little fuck, my hands spackled with white Barbosol barnacles. He smiled and waved, his hair writhing in the breeze. I closed my eyes and swallowed, pressed my nude skull into the headrest as Mr. Beam scorched my throat. A shriveled geezer in a Lincoln eyed me, hand on his horn. Oh God… I adjusted the rearview—Oh God, oh God…the pale mole rat in the rearview argued intent… Oh God, he’s not breathing…We went back and forth for hours, unable to agree on what the lines meant—Are they about the non-breathing fuck in the ditch or something else? Something prior? Something GUY IN CAR has been nursing his whole little life and the sudden proximity to death makes his face blossom, itch, contort into…into…what? What would his face do? What does a face do when it sees a body? What did my face do when…when…have I seen one? A body? Have I?

Like try to confront mortality or whatever…I spent my pre-bed hours binging videos of corpses, gory slasher scenes, ISIS decapitations, construction accidents, Russian dashcam manslaughter, Parkour splatters, 9/11 jumpers, microwaved hamsters, parachute failures, police crime scenes, public hangings…observing every muscle in the poor mortal fucks. I dozed off and woke at noon; got my slippers and shuffled down the hall for the paper. I made some coffee and Honey Nuts, checked my email: an offer letter from the barnyard director—the shoot’s in three days. Three days to figure out GUY IN CAR. Seventy-two hours to craft his stupid Samaritan mug: oh god, oh god… I sat down and opened the paper and a quart of goddamned Folgers laugh-shot outta my schnoz right when my thumb beelined for the obits. Ha! I couldn’t do that again if I got a bajillion fucking tries…if I were Jesus Fucking-A Christ himself…perfect!…fucking goddamned perfect perfect perfect!! I’d been to two wakes, two stingy closed-casket nothings. Useless. Well, that’s gonna fucking change…I took a fresh sip of coffee, circling the open caskets open to public peepers.

I drove forty minutes to Burbank for the day’s only public casket: the wake of Leonard Czyz, a seventy-four-year-old machinist survived by his wife, three daughters, and eight grandchildren. The funeral home was a ramshackle ranch across from a Taco Bell. The lobby smelled like bleached toes and lavender; I held my breath as I waited to sign Mr. Czyz’s guest book. A cuck-looking dude stood in front of me, crying as he scribbled his name—does GUY IN CAR cry? Is he a cryer? Cuck-cryer walked off. I picked a wedgie outta my swampy crack and grabbed the pen. The ballpoint was tied to the guestbook with a piece of red ribbon that was too short, making signing uncomfortable. It took a while to ensure my name was legible. This was important, the Czyz’s will thank me…When I win my first Oscar, Christie’s will auction their guest book for millions of bucks: ladies and gentlemen, this is where it all started…

I put my hands in my pockets and walked in. The Czyz’s printed up a huge photo on an easel depicting Leonard at what looked like a barbecue: Heineken in one hand, waving with the other; wearing a short-sleeved shirt with a faux-Tribal pattern, smiling the way a semi-educated person smiles when they know they’ve said something off-color. I kept to the periphery. Standing on my tippy toes to peep the faces of those closest to Leo’s corpse, observing eyebrow height, eye moisture, color of snot worms dripping from their noses—yeah, GUY IN CAR’s a cryer but they’re stoic cries, he’d make the second oh god stutter more…My loafers are hand-me-downs and squeaked when I walked; everyone stared at the lanky bald creeper with the yelping Bruno Marcs, working to place his relation to Leo. Is he a work friend? In-law? Wasn’t he at so-and-sos confirmation…I worked my way to the far side of the room, joining a line of sniffling mourners approaching Leo’s husk.

I craned my neck to study the respect-payers—their brows seemed to furrow when they looked into Leonard’s face; their pupils went large, eyebrows curbstomped corneas while the lips puckered into tight rectums. I experimented with my lips, tightening, making anal kissy faces, flexing my brows, up, down, up, down…The woman in front of me, Leonard’s wife or sister or whatever, bawled the whole time. Heaving sobs, echoing through the funeral home, her shoulders heaving like game hens trapped in black silk—the second oh god definitely needs to be louder…from the chest…more heave-like…

When it was her turn, she pressed her crotch into the pine box and signed the cross (is GUY IN CAR religious? If so, what? Catholic? Does he go every Sunday?); she mumbled a prayer, stooped down, and kissed Leo’s forehead. She held her lips until her knees started shaking, hovering over his mime-pale face, sucking the soul outta his third eye. She stood, straightened her black dress, and turned to me: “He was so so gentle…” She ran a sleeve under her snotty nose (her mucus was seafoam green and thick). “A pure, gentle soul.” I nodded, did something with my chin that implied “yes, you’re goddamned right he was.” She started to nod and rustle up a nascent grief-grin when two suited young men put their arms around her and ushered her towards the booze.

That left me and Leo; Leo and I. My loafers belched as I took the woman’s place. It was hard not to appear eager. I took a deep breath, making sure to raise my shoulders on the long inhale and let them visibly drop on the exhale. I signed something cross-like, put my hands in the respectful clasped-over-the-cock position I saw the other men adopting and stared into Mr. Czyz’s face. Leo…poor Leonard…poor old Mr. Leonard Czyz…what do I feel? What is my face doing?—try to like, you know…panic?… Am I panicking? No. Are my palms sweating? No. Is my gut fuzzing? No. Is my face scrunched? No—No twitching or rushing of blood, no throbbing eyebrows or sphincter mouth. I stared into Leo; scrunched my mouth into a rectum. I saw where his blood settled, where gravity manhandled biles after his ticker quit; dark purple blotches in his jowls, poking through his chalk dust makeup. Will they put GUY IN CAR in make-up? Will he get a trailer? A make-up girl? Hopefully, his make-up’s better than this, than Leo’s, he looked rough, inorganic: simultaneously freezing and burned, slimy and powdered, infant and geriatric…The man behind me coughed, impatient. How long had I been standing? Should I kiss his forehead? Is GUY IN CAR a kisser? Would he perform CPR? Maybe he has a medical background; he’d try CPR. He knows what a body feels like on the lips…I bent down and put my lips where Leo’s woman had hers. I kept them there, eyes open, staring into his pale, wrinkled five-head; imagining him in a ditch, the purr of an idled motor, me in beautiful make-up, stooping over, urgent, helpful: oh, god, oh god. He’s not breathing He’s not—

He tasted like Play-Doh.

In a Koreatown parking lot, I decided GUY IN CAR doesn’t have eyebrows. Without eyebrows, the face is a non-linear instrument; a blink is an atom bomb, a microscopic nostril quiver dissolves the collagen in my observer’s knees. The dead woman from the obits was younger than Leo: sixty-seven. Her name on the program had too many consonants. I read it over and over in the parking lot but my tongue failed to absorb her. I’ve never been to Koreatown before; it made sense, though. It made sense to go somewhere where I’m a linguistic outsider, where my ignorance pierces the useless I’m sorry gobbledegook and allows for pure, uncut mourning.

The funeral home was full. Whatshername’s guest book had a ribbon of appropriate length; I appreciated that; in a few years, the Christie’s authenticator will appreciate it as well. You’re welcome… I entered and (again) haunted the rear periphery, leaning against a whitewashed pillar, taking in the looks of mortal confrontation. The men stood in clusters, speaking Korean in low tenors, occasionally embracing with sexual warmth, gripping the back of each other’s close-cropped heads with youthful palms. Would GUY IN CAR embrace the non-breather’s wife at the scene? Insist on accompanying his charge to the hospital, wait around, hug the perhaps-widow as she runs through the ER? The woman in front of me wept in the most dignified way: still, eyebrows unbothered, hyphen lips, just big liquid oozing outta vibrating pupils, nothing else—no Czyzian heaving, no thirsty bravado, only the simple fact of leakage. Yes, GUY IN CAR’s panic is more stoic, unbothered, John Wayneish—the oh gods more inconvenienced and confident than terrified? Try to like, you know…panic…fucking cow-nose Sundancer doesn’t know what he’s talking about…I watched her eyes twitch and leak, how her neck tendons wormed quietly. I stared at her nape, pressing my fingers into my own, working to excite the same muscles, attempting to make my pupils shake, leak. If people were staring, I didn’t notice; I was five drinks into the morning. After a while, a man rushed over to the stoic woman and whispered something to her. She looked over at me, startled, and quickly relocated. Fuck…I looked at my loafers, playing with my tie’s butt, pretending to fix it as I disappeared into the crowd.

I stopped in front of photo display of the late Whatshername, dozens of polaroids glued to a poster board—here she is at twenty in what appears to be Seoul, here she is at thirty with an ugly baby snotting in her crotch, here she is at fifty at the ugly baby’s community college graduation, here she is recently, older, outdoors, playing Go at a folding table, the same consonant-heavy face thrown back in a joyous cackle, persisting, rotting, wrinkling. Maybe GUY IN CAR thinks of the non-breather’s family? Kids? Maybe panic comes when he considers a potentially fatherless family? Oh God. He’s not breathing. Someone call—The crowd started murmuring. Fuckers. Fuck off. Go to hell. Someone important had noticed me, the hairless man, the eyebrowless caucasian alien with shaky cock-clasped hands, mumbling to himself by the pictures, weaseling ever closer to Whatshername’s mime-faced meat. A man came up, a boy really, put a perfect little palm on my shoulder: “So, how did you know my mother?”

I sat in my Civic running my lines. Oh god, oh god—in the rear-view I stared at the man-boy “son” who kicked me out, standing at the entrance, eyeing me, arms crossed. A catering van idled next to me, turning the air kimchi sour. A caterer leaned against the van, smoking. Oh god oh god. The words felt hollow, worthless—the way words do when you say them too many times, when your tongue sands them down to dumb bald sounds, excised of coherent gunk. Maybe that’s good…is that good? Like try to confront mortality or whatever…panic or whatever…maybe you panic when you confront mortality because you understand there’s nothing there? The whole thing’s a fucking shell? A starved matryoshka? A god-shaped con? oh, god, oh god…The caterer took out his phone, pointed his camera at me. I checked the rearview, the man-boy was still staring, looking older, more hard-bodied than before. The caterer’s laughing now, half-gone cig in his lips, pinching his camera to zoom on me. I flipped him off and drove to some bar on Olive, had three drinks, drove home, and did the lines again in the bathroom mirror as I re-shaved my head; I’d missed a spot above my left ear and it was really fucking itchy.

That night, I took four Benadryl and killed a bottle of Merlot someone had left at my apartment for some reason. I lay on the kitchen tile to catch their cool in my shoulder blades. The ceiling had a water stain in the far corner that had been there when I moved in and has slowly been asserting dominance over the room. I did the lines maybe twenty times. I did them fast, slow, slurred, ornate, crying, stoic; I did them like a man who had been expecting something like this and like a man who had been expecting nothing at all. I imagined Leo’s weird presence as I spoke. Oh God. Oh God. I fell asleep on the kitchen floor with the lights on. I woke up at four-thirty, drank a glass of water, and took a long winey piss. I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror for a long time. The bald head. The AWOL eyebrows. The blank animal my face had become. I ran the lines quietly a dozen more times, so as not to wake the neighbors. Oh God. Oh my God. He’s not—I think he’s not breathing. Is anybody—is that right? No, I don’t think it’s right. Whatever…it’s fine…better than it was…tomorrow I’d drive to Van Nyus to confront what’s left of Dale Purvis. Third time’s the charm, hat trick, it will all come together after Mr. Purvis. I walked to the bedroom and plugged in my phone. It had died on the kitchen floor. It comes back to life: six missed calls. One voicemail. Pete: “dude, so fucking sorry, dude, the fucking funding for that gig fell through, bullshit studio politics or whatever, shoots canceled, where you at? Wanna drink?”

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