Creamy Bullets (11 page)

“I had a meeting with the drummer of Hand Over Fist.”

He looks confused for a second. “Oh. I think I understand. Did this meeting change your perspective?”

“Yes,” I answered. “Changed it. Altered it. Made me like rock music.”

The drummer for Hand Over Fist re-entered just then and gave me some obscure hand signal. It looked like he was talking to himself as he moved through the crowded room. He eventually stumbled over to us. “What’s shakin’?” he said to us as he pulled out a candy cigarette.

“The Vikings,” Shane said. “The Vikings are about to shake.”

“Shit, yeah,” said the drummer. “I love The Vikings. Have you seen them before? I bet by this time next year they’ll be huge. Like playing big jazz festivals and shit.”

As the two guitarists tuned up, the singer of the band addressed the crowd. “The reason we’re here tonight is to raise money for a water buffalo.” The room got quiet. Libby applauded a few claps and stopped. “Thank you,” said the singer. “This is a good example of how we can all make something productive happen. We’re not the most political band around but we really wanted to play this show when our friend Shane told us about it. He was a sponsor for a kid who died last month and told us about him. His name was Raul. He liked soccer, his grandparents, and his bow and arrow. He was a normal kid and he was punished by fate, by global catastrophes, by the imbalance of food and power in this world.” I glanced at Shane to see his reaction to this speech. It seemed like everyone was looking his way. He looked tense, holding his breath, a tear ready to drop.

The singer swallowed hard, pausing for his own emotions to calm. “If Raul had a water buffalo this never would have happened. He would have prospered. He would have learned more skills. He would have grown into a man. And maybe he would’ve come to America and live with Shane or raised his own family. He might have become a famous soccer player.” The crowd started to tune him out a little. The singer’s sentiment was getting carried away. He shouted over the din. “This is for Shane. This is for Raul. This is not for America.” The drums, guitars, horns, keyboards all started blasting then. There were eight people crammed on the stage. Most of them wore Viking helmets. I saw Libby cover her ears and retreat to the back of the room. Her face looked caked with tears. I realized that I was also crying. From happiness or sadness, I wasn’t sure. I let the swoop and blur of The Vikings’ music wash over me, hit me in the gut, and squeeze my heart. Fifteen minutes later, at the end of the first song, Libby and Shane were standing beside me, their arms around each other. My head felt like it was shaved clean and then grew more hair and then was shaved again. By the end of the set, I felt like I was surrounded by hair, and it was sticking to me by tears or sweat. Libby grabbed me by the jacket, pulled me toward her, and stuck a water buffalo pin on my chest.

I went outside and sucked in some fresh air. I waited to see if Shane and Libby would want to go to the Black Bear or somewhere else to drink. They came out holding hands and bumping shoulders. I quickly ducked around the corner of the building, then took the long way home. I stopped at a convenience store and bought a carton of chocolate milk and a bag of chips. I sat in a park and listened to my crunching drown out the sound of crickets. I nervously walked through a burned out warehouse and saw three people sleeping in a corner. They looked like a family. I stumbled out of there and made my way through backstreets until I could see my apartment building a few blocks away. As I walked through the 2am darkness, I wondered what time it was in Bolivia. If people were opening their eyes as I closed mine. If they were hungry. If they had hope.

The Show

T
he curtain opens and there are four people sitting in folding chairs, looking uncomfortable. I am the actor, moving my mouth at them. My body drains of any momentum it may have had going into the show. I feel let down.

I kept telling myself before the show: It’s okay if there’s not a big turnout…It’s a small theater…The show will have an intimate charm.

But the four people do not look charmed.

I try to decide if I should interact with the audience or if I should keep them separated from the character I’m playing. The fourth wall as they call it. I am the only one on stage for the whole show, except for the scene where the old lady comes out and mops the floor in front of me. It is a serious show. A show about the United States.

Afterwards, I spend an hour putting everything away before going to a friend’s birthday party. When I arrive there, she tells me that I’m still five years older than her. I drink coffee, while everyone else is careless and drunk.

The next night, there are thirty-five people in the audience. When the performance is over they all clap their hands enthusiastically and I feel a renewed optimism about the upcoming eight shows.

Hey you, nice message. This is Jackie from the theater. There’s been a slight mix-up with the scheduling. I’m afraid you’ll have to do your show in ten straight nights, rather than five weekends. I forgot that we had those magicians from Spain coming in a couple of weeks. I hope this doesn’t mess you up too much. And remember to leave your rent check in the office on Thursday.

The third night is a Sunday and seven people sit in the audience. All but one of them is holding a bible in their hands. I am distracted and shamefully edit myself by not saying words like “Shit” and “Lesbian”. The old lady who mops the floor on stage while I do the monologue about Florida is nowhere to be seen. I try mopping while still doing the monologue but I slip and fall. All seven people laugh at me. I don’t improvise well and soon they are cursing and spitting on me. The one without the bible however, is a friend of mine, and he calls 911 on the outside phone.

If you need more chairs,
the woman points out to me,
there is a door here to the basement. And when you’re done, everything is expected to be as clean as you found it. Here is the key. Lock both locks, and give us a rental check by Thursday. Also understand that there is no drinking allowed inside.

Nobody shows up on Monday night. There are six more nights of the show and I think about canceling them. I’ve been feeling sick all day and I’ve thrown up twice. This may be due to the previous night when I inadvertently swallowed someone’s spit. I walk down to the corner store and buy some champagne. Back at the empty theater I drink on the edge of the stage while listening to a New Age CD that someone left by the sound board. Someone opens the door around midnight but I tell them that the show is over.

There is a sign on the theater door when I get there at 6:00 Tuesday. THIS SHOW HAS BEEN MOVED TO 10th AVENUE STUDIOS. I go to the 10th Avenue Studios and there is a line of about eighty-five people. I become nervous and agitated about this sudden change.

I go through the back doors and there are a dozen people running around, looking for me. I am overwhelmed. Usually there is only myself, a lighting person, and the old lady, who also takes the money at the door. I raise my hand and they hurry me out to the stage, telling me where exactly to stand and what kind of facial expressions I should use. Then, crouched over like tennis ballboys, they scuttle off to the side of the stage and the curtains open. All the seats are filled, but it is not even time for the show to begin.

As I begin my performance, the old lady comes out with the mop. I give her a curious, almost angry look. She is blocking my focus on the audience. I maneuver to one side, then the other. I hear a few people chuckle, and I notice that the old lady is really hamming it up with the mop, almost dirty dancing with it, stroking the handle, straddling it, smiling eyes closed in the lights.

I look over to stageside and the people who took me out on stage are smiling, nodding their heads briskly, upper teeth biting their lower lips in glee.

The audience is loving the lady’s dance and my words are buried in the din of catcalls and stamping feet. I walk over to the men at stageside and one of them hugs me, while the other musses my hair like an uncle.
That was great
, the uncle-type says to me,
this is just what the show needs. Somebody to play off your straight man. Some kind of Jerry Lewis.

I try to tell them that it’s my show. I wrote it, I’m in it, I’m directing it. They are too busy laughing to hear me.

For the rest of the night I must perform while the old lady dances suggestively and makes lewd remarks to the audience. At first I am angry and then I somehow get caught up in the chaos and start to really play up the new “straight man” role. The men at stageside give me the thumbs up and slap their knees.

Hello, this is Jackie from the theater. We heard about the show the other night and we decided we’d rather not be associated with people like you. We’d like the rent check and the key today.

The sixth and seventh nights are much the same. I feel somewhat betrayed the way the show has changed so much but I am at least making the rent money. One of the director guys even cuts pictures of me out of the newspaper review and puts them on the ticket booth window.

On both of these nights we receive standing ovations, and one person tells me they think I’m doing a good job with my monologues, even though she calls them poems and lyrics. One of the directors overhears the person say this to me and says,
That’s it! Why don’t you write stuff that rhymes and we’ll get a drum machine and some hip hop guys. We can get rid of the old lady and do the show for another month.

Friday night is show #8 and someone has set up about fifty more chairs. Halfway through the show there is an explosion behind me. It is a shower of fireworks of some kind. The audience is dazzled and several people ooh and ahh. There is loud music and several people in giant cat suits bound onto the stage. The old lady seems alarmed as well and begins beating them with her mop. She is collectively booed and, at the end of the show, she is fired from the last two nights.

I go to her dressing room and help her gather her belongings. She is crying and leaning on me. I brush her hair slowly and hold her. She pushes me away and looks down at my pants. Her face is hard and pale as she slaps me.

That’s real classy there, Desmond. Now, keep in mind that the guy is talking about Florida, and the drum is super-bassy, so really gyrate your middle there, like you haven’t had any pussy for weeks. Act like you’re one of the 2 Live Crew. Yeah, yeah, make it jump out.

Now Lisa, change your face more often. Grit your teeth. Do some pain, do some pleasure. Pretend you’re with all these hot black guys showin’ their underwear and their caps on backwards. You gotta get nice and hot for that final scene with all the tattoo guys. They’re not going to be very happy if you’re not warmed up. Let’s see some of that UCLA technique.

The curtain opens on Saturday night and I’m exhausted. Two more nights to go and I feel like putting myself on auto-pilot but I know that I need to end the show’s run strongly. A short, Chicano girl named Lisa has taken the old lady’s role, but we have not rehearsed at all together.
Just go with it
, said the two guys at stageside,
things will be great; Lisa’s a natural
.

When I start to speak my voice seems louder than normal. Some kind of synthesized drumbeat begins fading in and Lisa begins to shed her clothes until she is wearing what looks to be an aerobics outfit. Four men appear on the stage, walking menacingly toward her. I try to focus on my words, hiding my concern for her. I shift my body to see the director guys nodding and smiling, letting me know that things are fine.

Lisa does some kind of karate-style move and the men fall in line behind her, dancing a choreographed routine. All five of them smile and display an energetic happiness. The audience starts moaning derisively and some even throw up their hands and leave the theater. Lisa and the dancers become more lewd and aggressive with their movements but the audience has already given up on the show and within minutes the theater is empty.

The men at stageside act as if they don’t know me when I walk over to them. Then one of them says,
You blew it, man! You acted like you didn’t know what to do. What’s wrong with you
.

The other one just pats me on the back and musses my hair,
It’s okay
, he says,
keep yourself together. Just one more night and it’ll all be over
.

Just over an hour ago, following a sold-out show, a suspected arson fire broke out and engulfed the 10th Street Theater. Officials say there have been bodies found inside the theater but details are sketchy. People at the neighboring Wilson Hotel were evacuated immediately. Police say there are no suspects at the moment but the few clues gathered thus far do indicate an arson fire…

A friend calls me that night. He has seen the story on the news and wants to make sure I’m not among the dead bodies. I have no idea who the dead bodies could be. There is a message pinned to my door on Sunday morning. It’s from somebody telling me that the last night of the show would be at the smaller theater it was originally at. I am surprised at first, then happy, realizing that Lisa and the director guys must be okay if we’re still doing the last night.

There is a long line for the show when I get there at 6:30. I am grabbed by two women in leather jackets and hurried into the back door. They give me some pills to take and a six-pack of beer. They lock me in a dressing room painted brown.
Everything will be alright
, someone whispers from the other side of the door.
We don’t want the police to disturb you, we want you to be fresh
. I eat the pills and drink the beer as I try to relax and go over the show once more in my head.

Two hours later, a sullen man speaking Spanish opens my door and leads me to the stage. As soon as I walk on stage, a large smiling man in a tuxedo grabs my arm and leads me to a giant box at mid-stage. It is on top of a metal platform, with wheels on the bottom. I am puzzled at first, and then I see Lisa standing there. I smile at her. Her hair is blonde tonight and she is a few inches taller. She holds my hand as I get into the box. There is a padded hole at one end to place my neck, so my head sticks out when she closes the top. I start doing my monologue and the audience explodes in laughter as if my voice is the funniest thing they’ve ever heard. I am flustered and I begin to cry and laugh at the same time. Lisa pushes me down flat into the box. Her arms are more muscular than I remember. I look over to stageside, trying to catch a glimpse of the directors but only see the two women in leather jackets, wearing large hats and holding rabbits in their arms.

The tuxedo man says something in Spanish to the audience. I feel sick as Lisa closes the box over my body. Then the man spins the box around so the audience can see all the sides. The man is addressing them as he does this. Both of his large hands are over my ears, as if he’s using my head as a steering wheel. His voice is muffled, ghost-like, foreign. The audience laughs uneasily about something and then becomes very quiet.

I start to feel my legs being pulled, and then quickly a rush of air by my knees. My fingers search in the darkness for what’s going on but there is nothing to be found below my knees, just a flat piece of metal where my legs should continue. I wiggle my toes and feel them rub inside my shoes, but they seem far away, on the other side of the stage. I wonder if my feet will live without me.

I hear some people gasping, shifting in their seats. Lisa pushes the part of the box with my legs inside near my head so I can see what’s going on. She takes off my shoe and tickles my feet. I feel it and laugh uncomfortably. She pulls off the sock and kisses my toes. The audience applauds. She pushes the foot into my face and tells me to kiss it. I do. The audience roars with laughter. She pushes that part of the box aside then. The man in the tuxedo pats her on the back pocket of her tight glittery shorts and she moves away. The audience hoots and applauds. Suddenly, his face becomes very serious and he snaps his fingers at Lisa. She brings to him what looks to be an over-sized razor blade. I start trying to push out of the box but it doesn’t budge. The audience begins cheering on the man in the tuxedo.

I begin to yell, THIS IS NOT PART OF THE SHOW! THIS IS REAL! But no one hears at all. There is a small slit in the box where my chest is. Lisa helps the man slide the blade in and down. I feel it tearing into my clothes. The audience is in hysterics, hooting and hollering, stamping their feet. The man lifts up a sledge hammer and the volume increases. It becomes deafening when the blood begins to drip out.