|
The actor wakes up. It’s 6:45 a.m.,
Mountain Time according to his ‘Indiglo’ Timex. He’s
staring at the sun-faded color blow-up of the Grand
Canyon mounted above the T.V. in a cheap frame. The
picture’s warped. The wall it hangs on is phony pink
adobe. Actually, it’s sheetrock with pink crud smeared
on it like curdled Pepto Bismo. The “Fun Things to do in
Williams” brochure propped up by the lamp on the bedside
table, accompanied by yet another dizzying helicopter
view of the deep gorge, reminds him that he has spent
the night at the “Gateway to the Grand Canyon.” The
giant sun is just beginning to burn through the one
window. The High Desert peeks in: Yucca and Candelaria.
Now he remembers. He’s on his way to L.A. to finish up
some looping on a film he shot last summer. A film he
cares nothing about anymore and can’t remember why he
wanted to do it in the first place. A film he can’t even
remember the title of. Is that true? It must be, he says
to himself. Yes, it’s true. I can’t remember the title.
I have no idea. No inclination. He swings his very white
legs out from under the Navajo print blanket and just
sits on the edge of the mattress staring out the window
for a while. He’s trying to adjust. He sees a low red
bluff in the distance turning slowly to blaze orange. A
crow flies languidly past. He pictures the same old
route he’s always taken east to west; down through
Kansas City on 35, cutting across to Wichita, down to
Tucumcari and picking up 40 West, paralleling the fabled
and long abandoned Route 66—the highway he grew up on.
He stands slowly, hoping his trick knee doesn’t suddenly
give out on him. He remembers the last new item on T.V.
before he fell asleep. It just pops into his head. A
very attractive blonde reporter with flashing teeth all
excited about Special Forces closing in on Osama Bin
Laden somewhere near the Hindu Koosh. Supposed sighting
of at extremely tall figure dressed as a woman, riding a
donkey over the mountain pass. Very biblical.
Suspiciously vivid. They were sure they had him
cornered. The C.I.A. had reliable contacts they said.
They’d infiltrated the villages. He walks to the T.V.
and flicks it on then heads to the narrow bathroom and
throws water on his face. His face—he can’t stand his
face anymore. Pathetic—no longer young. A self-pitying
shroud around the eyes and forehead. Widow’s peak
receding dramatically. Teeth (which never were his best
asset) have grown gray and his disappearing gum line
gives them the aura of wax fangs or an Appalachian
miner’s mouth. There’s a stale stench too coming from
his mouth, which is a bad sign he thinks. (He’s always
looking for signs.) He wonders if maybe it’s an
indication of some deeper internal disorder; something
to do with the liver or lower intestine or maybe worse.
What could that be? He shudders to think. There’s a
sharp voice from behind him that makes him jump and turn
around. A female voice. He turns off the water to listen
then remembers he’s switched the T.V. on. He listens
while he brushes his teeth, bearing down on the plaque
ferociously. A woman is being interviewed by Larry King.
What is it about Larry King’s voice, he asks himself,
that’s so irritating? King is asking some hot-shot woman
reporter if it’s true that she got a face-lift because a
rival news network had offered her a better position if
she improved her looks. She confesses that she went
along with this proposition and doesn’t regret it a bit.
She likes her new face—her new career. He turns the
water back on. He spits in the sink, rinses and turns
the faucet off. A semi roars down Highway 40, right
outside the window. He goes back to the T.V.; changes
channels searching for the Bin Laden story but finds
nothing but daytime talk shows, soap operas, cooking
shows, Christian Gospel shows, shows featuring pathetic
victims of their own bad judgment, weeping and shameful
screaming shows, repentance shows, violent cartoon
shows, NASCAR shows, pornography shows, Spanish-language
melodramas with gorgeous Mexican women in catfights
shedding real tears, gay wrestling shows, knife
collectors auction shows, diet shows, dog grooming
shows, Big Game shows with Cape Buffalo being blown away
on Texas ranches and crashing into the Brazos,
motorcross shows with spectacular wipe-outs, flying
burning metal in slow motion, wind-surfing wrecks,
deliberate car crashes into buildings and walls and gas
fires, men in yellow jump suits running with red fire
extinguishers but nothing at all about a mysterious tall
figure dressed as a woman riding a donkey across the
Hindu Koosh—the most wanted man on the face of the
earth. It makes me want to quit show business
altogether. |
