Multiplex Fandango (12 page)

"J-dog, say again last
—
ssst
."

The Cherub spoke again, the sound like glass grinding in an open wound.
Jethro grit his teeth.
Dear God.
How could this be an angel?
How could this represent the hope of a benign God?

"Would you die fo
r our sins?" asked the hundred N
ephilim with one voice.

He couldn't take it any longer.
What had been held at bay burst through the paralyzation.
"Why?" he screamed. "Why do you ask me this?
Why is everyone asking me this?"

"Because you have a choice.
Die for our sins, or be punished for your own."
The wor
ds came from the mouths of the N
ephilim as one voice.
Clearly the Cherub's voice wasn't meant for human ears.

"What are your sins?"

"We didn't care enough."
The statement trailed off into sadness.

"I don't understand?"

"We let you do what you wanted to do.
We were negligent."

"What are our sins?"

"You forgot grace."

"Grace?"

"The bond between the creator and the created."

Jethro had never thought about it before, and in that realization understood the problem.

"Respect," the Nephilim said.

Something he'd rarely cared about.
Who respected a porn star?
Who respected a crackhead?
He didn't.

"You have none."

"Yeah." He lowered his head.
"So."

"J-dog, give us a sign
—
ssst."

"You've come to kill us."

Jethro looked up at the mischievous smile on the Cherub's face.
“
There are no secrets here.
”

"We know," the Nephilim continued. "The choice is yours.
It always has been."

"What choice do I have?" he asked spreading his arms.

"The choice between Hell on Earth or the Big Rock Candy Mountain."

"But what about
—
"

"
—
Iowa?
What about those you left behind?"

"Yes.
I owe them."

"You owe them nothing.
Your sugar-coated memory conveniently forgot the reasons you'd left.
Your father.
Uncle Jerry.
Billy Jimmison.
You've turned it into a Big Rock Candy Mountain."

Uncle Jerry.
A memory of alcohol, hurried breathing, a struggle and the roughness of denim against Jethro's naked buttocks.
Billy Jimmison who'd waited for him behind the mailboxes with a two-by-four.
And his father who'd
—

"Nothing that was is as it was."

"How could I have forgotten?" he gasped.
Why'd I have to remember?
A small tired part of him pointed out that the memories had been hidden for a reason.

"Snap crackle pop," mimicked all hundred Nephilim.

Jethro wiped tears away from his cheeks with his palms.
"Yeah. That's it.
Snap crackle pop."

"The choice is yours."

"Why do I have to choose?"

"Respect.
Grace."

It took a moment, but Jethro finally nodded, and as he did, his shoulders sagged in defeat.
"Yeah, I understand."
He turned
his back on the Cherub and the N
ephilim.
He trudged up the stairs, past the purple people, past the pick-up-stick bodies, up the next flight of stairs and through the hanging yellow men.
The stepladder was where he'd left it.
He climbed up the bottom two rungs, draped the noose around his neck and tightened it.
The yellow man nearest him opened his eyes.
Blackened rotting orbs appraised him.
"Would you die for our sins?"

"J-dog.
Where the fuck are you?
Is it in there?"

"Yes," he said to both the Nephilim and the government man.
Jethro stepped up one more rung, then shoved off.
The stepladder fell one way, and his body the other.
When he reached the end of the rope his neck snapped, the crack followed by hundreds of automatic weapons as they opened fire on the floor below.

A second, a minute, an hour, or an epoch later, Jethro found himself standing in the open door of a train, chug-chugging towards an immense purple candy mountain.
Lemonade springs bubbled through the rocks.
Streams of alcohol meandered into a lake of ginger ale.
Birds and bees buzzed the lollipop trees.

Respect.
Grace.
Yeah.
He'd finally understood.
The gov
ernment men wanted to kill the C
herub to save the earth.
The Cherubs wanted humanity to die to save themselves.
Everyone had their own reasons to kill everyone else.
What they'd all forgotten was selflessness.

The train slowed as it came to the last stop.
Looking at the Big Rock Candy Mountain before him, Jethro knew he'd made the right decision.
After all, if he hadn't, he'd never have ended up at the heaven he'd created for himself so long ago.
He stepped off the train onto a cool mint sidewalk, his heart filled with the wonder of discovery and the awe of a wish fulfilled, little boy turned pornstar turned crackhead turned rock candy angel.

***

Story Notes: I wrote this story for Sean O’Bannon, a friend of mine, Hollywood Screenwriter, and resident of
Ventura
. We’ve tried to work together on many occasions but just been too busy to pull it off. To make up for this I remodeled him into the character of Snake Foreskin.
The title and theme of the story comes of course from the old song Big Rock Candy Mountain. There exists so much imagery in that old folk song that it screamed to be used. Having a drug addict who has visions or can see things is nothing new. But having a drug addict who has visions or can see things who was a porn star hasn’t been done before. The whole idea of using an ex-porn star as the protagonist allowed me to create a depth of character I couldn’t have managed before.
And as far as the angels and the end of the world… it’s only reasonable that our staunch and stable government would use the men in black and S.W.A.T.
to try and stop it.

NOW SHOWING ON SCREEN 5

The Sad Last Love of
Cary
Grant

Starring
Cary
Grant as the color blind lover

and Miranda as the colorful object

“Some love stories make me want to rip my heart out. This one makes me want to poke my eyes out with a fork.”

–
New York
Love Line

In ROTOSCOPE

Cary Grant stood upon a broken crest of land in
Sunken
City
staring out across the sanguine water.
There had been a storm last night and the light shone differently because of it.
Flat gray clouds hung arrogant and proud in a sky scrubbed gray.
Flotsam and jetsam bobbed within foamy eddies, winking innocently, guiltless in destruction, unconcerned that each wave ate away at a land loved by millions.
The light maintained a hopeful quality that seemed to promise better things to come, if only one had the fortitude to bear it witness.
Stark.
Monochromatic.
Pure.
The storm had done its job.

A spasm shook him.
His vision blurred, dimmed, then corrected.
He brought his hands up and rubbed his temples vigorously trying his best to ignore, perhaps even halt the pain.

Cary Grant stepped carefully from the mangle of asphalt to what was left of a snapped sidewalk, heading for the highest point in
Sunken
City
where his vista would be unobstructed.
Sunken
City
was what remained of the 40th and final block of
South Pacific Avenue
.
The 1997 Northridge earthquake had managed to rattle the earth enough to send this tip of
California
sliding into the ocean.
With crevices and earthen mounds,
Sunken
City
was more moonscape than cityscape.

His vision dimmed again causing him to stumble.
Rocky outcroppings became dark shadows.
He held his hand in front of his face, but could barely make it out.
Closing his eyes, he counted to ten, then forced himself to breathe evenly and not panic.
When he finally had the courage to open his eyes, his vision had returned
–
what there was of it.
Cary
reached out, gripped a broken piece of rebar and hauled himself up and over a small rise feeling like a survivor of the storm rather than a witness.

Tudose was always going on and on about the blues and the greens and the yellows of the
Pacific Ocean
, each tint and hue a concept rather than a reality.
Forgetful of
Cary
's colorblindness, Tudose would play his harmonica and wax poetic about the pastel qualities of the perfect sunset, staring teary-eyed towards the dying light.
Cary
didn't know what a pastel was, or at least he didn't until a month ago.
Ever since he could remember, he saw things in differing shades of gray, the monotony only broken when black or white juxtaposed their nature.
Color was beyond the limits of his vision.
Color was beyond his understanding.

Or at least it had been.

Until a month ago.

Until he discovered that small place hidden in the alleys of San Pedro.

***

His mother had never told him his real name.
She'd legally changed it to Cary Grant when he was four years old
–
partly because of his black and white life, and partly because Cary Grant was her very favorite actor.
She'd called him
My Little Movie Star
and had clothes specially made for him.
Sleek and dark, the fine poplin and silk suits matched the styles of his namesake.
Each new movie meant a new outfit, his mother clapping and giggling as he tried them on in front of perplexed tailors.

Cary
had always been eager to please his mother.
With no father and only an estranged aunt who lived somewhere in the
Florida
panhandle, he and his mother were alone in the world.
"It's just you and me kid.
We only have us to count on."
That knowledge had kept him from telling his mother about the bullies and the teasing.
She'd have been heartbroken to know that her infatuation with a dead actor had created a misery no child should feel.
So instead of complaining, he'd learned to protect himself by embracing his role.

He'd spent hours learning how to speak in the signature clipped cadence.
He'd studied the actor's mannerisms.
Although it had taken him months to perfect, he'd learned to move with the casual elegance that had made women swoon and men envious.

By the age of sixteen the girls loved him.

By the age of eighteen the boys tried to emulate him.

It wasn't until he'd reached the age of twenty that his mother finally asked him when he was planning to give her grandchildren.

"Is there someone special?" she’d asked.

"Only you, Ma."

"I mean a girl.
You do like girls, don't you?"

"Of course I like girls.
I just haven't found that one yet."

"You worry me sometimes, Cary.
Most kids have already been in love.
When I was in high school, I thought I'd found the love of my life several times by the time I'd graduated, the emotions so powerful I thought my heart would break in two."

"I'm not most kids, Ma."

"People think of love as a color, you know?
Like the valentines you give me every year.
The cards are red, because the heart is red.
Red is the color of love.
Maybe you can't feel it, because you can't see it."

"Blood looks black to me."

"My black and white boy with the black heart, color is only perception, you know?
Whether you know it or not, that black heart of yours is as red as red can be."

"I wonder if blind people love."

"I'm sure they do."

"Then why can't I?"

"I don't know.
I'm sure it's only a matter of time."

"I wish I could make you happy."

"You make me happier than any mother has the right to be.
I just worry is all."

Lung cancer claimed her three years later, leaving him alone in the universe.

For the next fifteen years he'd lived in one apartment or another, working as a waiter, doorman and busboy.
Unlike most people in San Pedro, he didn't have the desire to work as a longshoreman.
It wasn't that he didn't mind a day's work, it was just that his persona of elegance couldn't make the transition.
After all, longshoremen don't wear wingtips.

***

The coming of night promised the opening of Momma Desta's which was
only
open during the hours of darkness.
No advertising, no sign, only word of mouth allowed fo
r new clientele
–
or those lucky enough to stagger through the back-alley warren to find the single story windowless stucco amidst its equally indistinct neighbors.

Tudose told Cary Grant of the place a month ago.
"You wanna be like me?
I gots just the place for you," he said in his thick Romanian accent.

Now, after a thirty-seven block trek down
Pacific Avenue
, he slipped inside and headed towards his stool at the end of the bar.

Momma Desta's didn't look special.
Decrepit
was a word that came to mind.
Little had been done to decorate the paint-peeling walls.
Here and there stained streaks cascaded through cracks in the ceiling and down the walls like frozen sluices from the broken tiled roof.
Half-a-dozen tables covered with checkered tablecloths hugged one wall, while a long wooden bar made from a shuffleboard court of a long dead cruise ship hugged the other.

The space behind the counter was off-limits to all but Momma Desta herself and no one dared trespass.
At least 300 pounds, she was anything but obese.
Taller than six feet, the weight was distributed evenly upon her wide-shouldered Jamaican frame.
An afro grew unfettered and obstinate.
She used tinsel-like thread to
capture and subdue it
.

Cary
slid into place.

Momma Desta nodded her welcome and pulled a cordial glass from behind the counter and placed it in front of him. He licked his lips and pushed an errant strand of hair away from his face.
Closing his eyes, he prayed.
If only this time it would last.
If only this time it would last forever.

When he opened them again, his cordial was filled with a shimmering gray liquid.
With a trembling hand, he brought the glass to his lips.
Eager for the transformation, he swallowed the thick alcohol in a single gulp.

He stared at a bottle on the counter that stood twice as tall as a normal bottle.
It had a fluted neck curved like a swan's.
As he watched, the gray contents shifted to an almost neon red liquid bending and transmuting the light.
An oval label displayed Portuguese writing surrounding a wickedly-grinning, red devil dressed in a Victorian-era suit complete with top hat and cane.
Below the devil in letters that seemed to swim across the surface of the bottle were the words
Sorrow Da Cisne
–
The Swan's Sorrow.

"My boy be wanting some more now?" asked Momma Desta, chuckling in a deep accented voice.

Her
Caribbean
dress was a montage of browns, oranges, yellows and reds.
A gold tooth winked in her mouth like a jovial exclamation point to her smile.

Cary
spun around and noticed several other patrons.
Blue jeans.
Red shirts.
White shirts with blue pin-stripes.
Paisley
.
Mauve, chartreuse, indigo, puce, taupe, purple and a hundred other colors he'd only recently discovered bombarded him from every corner of the room.
His was no longer a world of monochromatic monotony.
He'd been transformed and changed whole by the miracle of The Swan's Sorrow.

Cary Grant spun back around on his stool and regarded Momma Desta with a wink and a grin.
He was all smiles as he gestured for her to fill his glass again.
This time w
hen he drank, he laughed hearti
ly.

***

He remembered his first time.

"How you know you aren't seeing things now?" Momma Desta chuckled.

"Cause this feels real.
Not like a dream."
He felt the stickiness of the bar.
He smelled the stench of a longshoreman slipping off the stool beside him.
Cary
ran his hand over the battered edge of the wood.
A splinter drew blood.
He regarded the drop that welled up for a moment, then dipped it into the red liquid of the glass as if it were filled with his own blood.
"No, this is real."

"So whas the matter?"

"I need to figure out how it works.
The Swan's Sorrow you say.
I must understand it."

"Is just a liquor."

"No.
Never just a liquor.
Listen.
I wasn't kidding when I told you I couldn't see any color.
This liquor.
You tell me it's red.
I've never seen red before.
Hell, I've never seen any color before.
You could tell me it's blue or yellow or orange.
Whatever you tell me I'd have to believe.
Don't you see?
Other than black white and a million shades of gray, I haven't seen anything."

"A whole new world open to you."

"No kidding.
But how?"

"Swan's Sorrow is very special thing.
She made from swans."

"Swans?
As in the bird?"

"Of course.
Heart's blood, distilled into brandy.
Is very special and can make things happen."

"
Swan's blood
?"
He'd never imagined it.
"How do they get the blood?"

"How do you think?
They keep the swans in cages, then remove the heart for...how you say...distilling."

"Fuck but that's cruel."

Might be cruel, but is magic."

"Yeah.
Right,"
Cary
scoffed.

"You don't believe?
Then tell Momma Desta how you see.
Hmmm?"
She leaned forward and poked a long-nailed finger towards his face.
"Just because you don't believe doesn't make it not real."

***

He'd had ample opportunity to prove that this last month.
From blue-assed primates to the brilliant tail feathers of the male peacock at the zoo, he'd seen things he'd never believed possible.
At the
Getty
Center
he'd seen art that had made his heart break with its beauty and the realization that he'd spent a lifetime not knowing.
He'd spent hours wandering through Del Amo Mall, aghast at the universe that had been denied him, staring openly at a thousand things he'd taken for granted, wondering how a person could decide what to wear everyday with such an assortment of colors.
Finally, confused and tired, he'd found himself in the toy aisle of the Super K
–
Mart in
Carson
.
Sitting on the bench of a child's plastic picnic table, he wept as he examined and re-examined a box of 64 reasons to hate God, coloring in a book made for children.