Stalking the Average Man
Feeling used and drained, I sat down; if I was going to feel like an ass either way, I might
as well be comfortable.
-Two things you need to take away from this conversation: in a matter of only a day or two,
you went through denial, anger, depression, bargaining, and finally acceptance of your own
experiences, which means you have grieved the loss of some core illusions. Now you need to fill
those voids, or the crappy ramifications those illusions generated will come back. |
-What ramifications? |
-Your rage… you‘ve seen where a lot of it comes from so this… |
-Not all of it? | I quipped.
-I told you, you tucked away the fear your journey generated so this is a grand opportunity
to excavate it by picturing all of your disturbing memories as pieces of a puzzle that form a
quest. | She leaned my way. -All I‘m asking is that you grant me a little more trust, like you did
with the morgue scene; have faith that your search for a life purpose will lead you to the certain
knowledge that you have one. |
-Is this what the confrontation scene is about—faith and trust? |
-Until you don‘t need either, yes. |
-Then what? |
-Then you‘ll know. | Bonnie stood up. -Brunch is on me, | she said, turning to walk toward
the commercial of core of West Vancouver.
The Road to Damour
The next morning, I worked on my book until eight-thirty then I showered while steeling
myself for a push to the payoff scene I suspected she had not written: Bonnie had been dead right
when she said I couldn‘t live in between pivotal events—I had finished writing a decent grant
proposal that she knew nothing about, but it was missing a credible ending. Finishing the actual
screenplay was off the table—she could do that—the fifty- fifty split for work she had claimed
wasn‘t far from being finished wasn‘t exactly a lie, but it was nowhere near the truth of my
experiences. Extreme experiences.
My plan would be to point out her lie, and leverage it to find out more. Her choices would
be to give up her full plot, or try to distract me. My position would be that there is no reason not
to start the application process, now that we had crunched so me of her society‘s premises into
shared assumptions, but I couldn‘t do that without an ending. If she was not forthcoming, I could
disengage from our daily meetings, and polish the crap out of the mediocre payoff scene I had
drafted. If she gave up key information before I was finished, because she had too much invested
to let me walk, then great. If not, fuck it, I would submit the proposal myself. The advance check
would come my way. The second half would go to her when she submitted the complete
screenplay on her own; she could add all of the complicated shit she wanted. That‘s why they
called it a development grant.
Arguing to learn her dramatic closer meant I couldn't lose focus, I reminded myself as I got
dressed, because she could twist a phrase so smoothly that by the time I realized she had
skewered my objection I had to wonder whether I was narcoleptic.
I also couldn't telegraph my intentions, I thought as I motored into the park minutes later.
With Bonnie, one word out of place would be like trying to hide a cow in a closet, bell and all.
I should wait for her lead, I chanted as I ramped down to Marine Drive.