Excerpt from Book:
chapter 1
A good traveler has no
fixed plans,
and is not intent on
arriving.
-- Lao
Tzu --
Boiling heat, summer
stench
'Neath the black the sky looks dead.
-- "Black Hole Sun" - Soundgarden --
This is my life and by the time you read this, I'll be a distant
shadow in the past, the present, and the future. A footnote in someone's
fading memory.
This is my journal, and what you're about to read is the Truth,
pure and eternal and delicious. At least my Truth. Everybody has their
own version of the Truth and this is mine.
Max interrupts, "Not a very good beginning. Start over."
Damn. I knew he'd criticize. I tap the delete key and start
again:
I'm a newly born snowflake, formed in the frozen womb of the
night sky, fluttering down onto an unforgiving lake of ice, taking
flight again as the winter wind eddies, sending me aloft toward the
cold, apathetic stars.
Max rolls his eyes. "Are you writing Hallmark cards for the
permanently stoned?" he barks. Goddamn, he's a grinder.
Take three. I type again:
My mind is different now and I'm not sure who or what I was am
now or will be and although I may appear to be here I am not all there.
"Chaz, don't be afraid to use a comma. Rest."
"Max, I don't have time to rest."
He
chuckles. "'What can I tell you, kid? You're right. When you're right,
you're right, and
you're right.'" He
shoots me an inquisitive look, "You know where that line's from, don't
you?"
"Ah... Dog Day Afternoon?"
"Chinatown."
"Oh, yeah. The Nicholson character."
"Jake Gittes. Did you see it?"
"Well, ah..."
"Put it in your bucket," he laments.
My fingers return to the laptop:
My Life has morphed into Lewis B. Carroll, Hugo Ball, and Luis
Buñuel as it cascades into places and experiences that are esoteric,
euphoric, abstract and liberating. My
existence is Dadist, free from conventional norms, now on an
uncharted journey of self exploration.
This is my Reality, even though I question whether Max is real or
anything I'm about to write is real. Both Max and I may be a product of
my own imagination or psychosis or drugs. The following pages contain
the grains of salt to help you understand. Take as many as you need.
Max exhales and with a patronizing smile says, "I'm so glad I
could be here to help you live out your avoidance of reality. Your
drug-induced fantasy."
"Just shut up. You're real. I know you are," I snap.
"Illusion."
"Don't mess with me."
"Chaz, you're an illusion too."
"God, you're an annoying little mutt. Leave me alone and let me
write this." Max snickers like a machine gun on helium HEE-HEE-HEE-HEE
as I inhale a deep toke from my Northern Lights and continue:
I am clear about one thing: In spite of the danger, there's no
sense in worrying about Death: Been there and done that. It's where I am
now. I do not fear having a near-death experience. My concern is that
the last twenty years was only a near-life experience.
Max feigns a yawn and closes his eyes. "Wake me when you're done
taking this metaphysical crap."
I ignore him. I'll begin this story soon before it ends. In
August of 1999. I type:
It's 168 degrees and the shimmering highway lies ahead, a
glistening black serpent
coiled on the horizon of this Utah desert, or Arizona wasteland,
or perhaps planet Mercury, maybe even "Planet Claire," but it's hot
enough to make a dead man sweat. With the pavement a scalding ribbon of
molasses my tires leave a puddle, my sandals are liquid and I'm feel
like a Dali pocket watch as Hell pours into my 1959 Cadillac
convertible, as all around tumbleweeds burst into flames, spontaneous
combustion taking place both within me and without, a fire that's
hotter than anything I ever set, burning worse than the Death
Valley conditions where Von Stroheim directed
Greed, and this Inferno world is melting, melting, with buzzards
circling overhead piercing the arid air with their Margaret Hamilton
cacklelaughs, looking down at this poor bastard trying to find himself
but in imminent danger of losing himself.
The vultures are drowned out by Brenda Lee's "Rockin' Around the
Christmas Tree" blasting from the rear right speaker that vibrates like
a tuning fork. The left speaker died years ago when it was peed on by
Max, my pitbull, my trusted traveling companion and a damn-fine unique
canine with astonishing abilities and a brilliant mind.
He prefers to be
called a Staffordshire Bull Terrier but whatever his breed, he is a true
Mensa dog. The only dog I ever met who quotes Kierkegaard and can
expound at length about the hidden messages in Kubrick films. Max would
read the Paris Review and smoke expensive Cuban cigars if he could, but his
lack of opposable thumbs prevents him from doing so. Besides, I don't
want him to damage his lungs. There's nothing more pathetic than a dog
toting around a portable oxygen tank while rasping like Pat Welsh.
The air conditioner died long ago, but playing holiday tunes as I
plod through Hell makes me feel cooler, like
trompe l'oeil, but this is
more like tromper l'oreille.
Max, with a heavy pant, barks, “Remove the fucking fedora and you'll
feel even cooler.” But I need to wear my black fedora because I never
know when I may be thrust into a film noir and I want to be ready. Paul
Muni always kept a Tommy gun under his bed after filming
Scarface. Ann Sheridan was
never without the necklace she wore in
Nora Prentiss. Bengt Ekerot kept the chess set he used to play
Antonius Block. It's why I keep an old pack of Chesterfields in the
glove compartment and practice blowing smoke rings from the corner of my
mouth while talking about dangerous dames with nice gams who fire off a
few rounds from a gat. I want to be prepared for any opportunity that
may present itself on my doorstep.
Max is so erudite he pronounces the 'G' in 'fucking' instead of
dropping it and substituting an apostrophe. That canine has class they
just don't bottle anymore. He makes Asta come across like a mangy street
mongrel.
I found Max at a shelter, or as the saying goes, perhaps he found
me. We connected with an instant, metaphysical bond that transcended the
ages, communicating as though we had known each other for centuries. Max
may be four or five years old or maybe ageless, but he's accompanying me
on this journey, just as he's accompanied me on countless journeys
before. Max kids
me, saying he was so desperate to get of the shelter he would have gone
home with a starving Vietnamese family. At least I think he's kidding.
Owning Max has been both a blessing and a curse, all rolled into one big
hairy package.
I take a final swig from
the pisswarm Coors nestled in the crotch of my underwear. I stripped off
my pants and stuffed them into a trash barrel at a highway rest area
many miles and inhibitions ago somewhere outside of Ogden. My decision
to go pantless was not impulsive. I thought about it since Idaho and
finally decided to do things in life without regrets. I never want to
limit myself because of fearing someone else's disapproval. Max tells me
that's the way to write: Write from your heart, but edit from your
brain. Write like you don't care who reads it. "Create with no
inhibitions," Max says. It's become easier for me since everyone I may
have worried about reading and judging my writings are now dead and
gone.
It's so freeing to not wear pants and I vow to never wear them
again. How would Mormons react if they knew a man was driving through
their state wearing only his underwear? I know Mormons have their own
special underwear, magical shorts that ensure happiness on their own
planet in the cosmos, but I'm wearing Hanes boxer-briefs and the
exhilarating feeling cools my jewels. There can't be a law against
driving around in your underwear. I never see road signs showing a stick
figure removing their underwear with the international slash mark
through it. I hope I'm not breaking the law because I don't want to be
sent back to Ju-vee Hall. I drown out Brenda:
"Let's be jolly, deck the halls
with boughs of holly."
In the rear view mirror Max shakes his head, "You sound like
you're getting a root canal without anesthetic."
“You wouldn't know good singing if it bit your hairy little ass.”
“You sing as well as you write,” Max mumbles. The words sting. He
may have a point. Inside one of the totes in the trunk are my thirteen
screenplays, in written form but also stored on my laptop and burned
onto CD's. All homeless, all unwanted, and all with no destination. Like
me. Paraphrasing Capote's remark about Kerouac, maybe I don't write.
Maybe I only type.
Brenda wails:
"Everyone's dancing merrily in the
new old fashioned wwwaaaayyyyyyy."
Max throws back his head to howl, drowning out both me and
Brenda, which may be a good thing. The shadows from the blood-red mesas
hang like deathheads in the torrid atmosphere as the Caddy darts through
the desert air like a honeybee slicing through August sunshine. We're
moving about 50 miles per hour in some deserted part of the universe,
past sage brush, beer bottles, pieces of a shredded tire from a semi,
and other people's unwanted memories. I open Final Draft on my laptop
and catch Max in the rear view mirror cutting me with a stare. Just as
he barks, "Keep your eyes on the road!" I'm rattled by the ear-splitting
blast of a big rig horn as I swerve the Caddy back to my own lane with
the semi thundering by, missing the car by inches. The laptop flies onto
the floor and Max bounces around the back seat like he's on a
trampoline. I'm shaking and I feel like Dennis Weaver hunted by an
18-wheeler.
"Okay! Okay! Everything's under control," I tell Max, my voice
quivering like a katydid on speed. I take a deep breath and retrieve the
laptop.
With cautious furtive glances from the road to the screen and
back again, I type the scene as if I were handing it to John Ford to
shoot:
EXT. DESERT – DAY
LONG SHOT - Pan left
to right. A lone car on a dusty road is dwarfed by
towering sandstone buttes.
MEDIUM SHOT - Through windshield.
A man and a dog look distraught and sweaty as they anticipate
death.
Max looks over my shoulder to read it. A blast from another big
rig's horn and I hiss "Fuck!" as I swerve the Caddy back into my lane
with tires screeching. Max screams, "Oh, that's just brilliant.
Multi-tasking while driving. Just hasten your death and just get it over
with. Spare yourself any insight as to why you're on this journey."
I gulp hard, "I can't let the writing muscle atrophy. When I got
the itch, I have to scratch it. Gotta write something, even if it's a
last will and testament." I throw Pam Grier into neutral, turn off the
key, and coast to a halt in a dirt clearing off the road, kicking up a
cloud of dust. I leave the ignition on to continue playing the holiday
tunes.
I grab a Blue Dream from inside the brim of my fedora, light it
up and take a long drag. It's as welcome as another tomorrow. Blue
Dreams are usually good for priming the creative pump even though I
suspect the well has been running dry.
"Max, I wanna tell you something. Even though you probably don't
care."
"You're right. I don't care."
“My face is gonna melt like
The House of Wax. Ever see it?”
“The 1953 version was the best,” he says. “In 3D. Directed by
Andre de Toth.”
"Wasn't that Charles Bronson's first movie?"
"No. He had a bit part in a 1951 movie you probably never saw.
The Mob."
“Damn! You're an encyclopedia of film.” Max retained his
cinematic knowledge from his previous life when he was a Hollywood
director. He claims to be Samuel Fuller reincarnated as a dog and who am
I to doubt that? Reality has proven to be too painful the last two
months so with much exuberance and weed I've embraced fantasy which is
much easier to grasp in one hand. I don't know what Mr. Fuller did
during his life to warrant the Big Wheel of Karma
returning him to Earth as a dog. Especially my dog. I never
thought to ask but I think I know the answer. It's probably because
Fuller made Shark, a film so
bad he asked the director's guild to remove his name from the directing
credits. Perhaps being yoked to me is his cosmic punishment for making
that film. Guess everyone has at least one door locked tight to keep any
embarrassing incidents from flying out and being exposed to the light of
day.
I ask, "You wanna talk about
Shark?" just to poke him with
a stick.
Max lifts his leg and hisses, "Listen pinhead, you mention that
movie again and I'll
obliterate your right speaker."
He's a hoot when the fur stands up on his back and he flashes his
canines to appear so intimidating. Trying so hard to resemble that
genetically engineered dog in
Man's Best Friend.
Next up is Burl Ives and I singyell:
"...oh by golly have holly jolly
Christmas this year..."
"He'll always be Big Daddy Pollitt,” Max says, staring at me for
several beats like Alex Trebeck eyeing some dumbass contestant who goes
the entire show without ever buzzing in. I know this is a test and Max
waits for an answer.
"Ah... East of Eden?" I
blurt out.
Max makes a buzzer sound BBBBZZZZZZ and sighs, "Cat
on a Hot Tin Roof."
"I'll put it on my list," I say and Max snorts. I return to my
attempt at singing, which Max says sounds like Ethel Merman on crack:
"Oh, ho the mistletoe hung where you can
see. Somebody waits for you, kiss her once
for me."
Max joins in:
"Have a holly, jolly Christmas and in case
you didn't hear, Oh by golly have a holly
jolly Christmas this yeeeeeeeaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrr."
I step out of the Caddy, look both ways down the road, and
inhale. My windpipe and lungs are singed like a newbie circus performer
attempting to eat fire for the very first time. No one approaches from
either end of the serpent. I could be the last man on Earth. I envision
being on a David Lean set and seeing T. E. Lawrence riding his steed
over a dune. Without the car's muffler growl, the desert is still. The
quiet of a cemetery after a snowstorm in January. The only noise is the
sun sizzling in the liquid sky.
I pop the trunk to grab Max's bowl and a bottle of water from the
cooler. The ice cubes melted miles ago, but I pour the water bottle into
the bowl and place it on the back seat. Max takes a few laps and winces.
“My own piss would be cooler,” he spits.
The trunk contains empty Subway wrappers, Jack Daniels bottles,
beer cans, books about writing screenplays, dirty socks and underwear, a
sleeping bag, my cello case, and novels. When I was about ten I remember
seeing a list of the top 100 greatest works of literature and I was
determined to read them all. By the time I was 15, I had.