1. STUDIO LIGHTS
Los Angeles: Thursday 24th May 1990.
I just don't wanna be here right now....
The studio lights are bright.... Very bright......
Too bright.....
Blinding.......
The host is some creep called Max O'Brien. He's what the yanks would call 'An asshole': Bright white veneers; comb back bouffant; a tasteless pinstripe suit.... Predictably Blue....
He has the facial expression of a dead fish. He shuffles his cards, banging them on the desk in front of him. He bangs the cards aggressively. His aggressive gestures let everybody in his immediate radius know of his importance..... This man....
This man interviews celebrities for his livelihood. He hosts a major television network show at a primetime slot. He addresses the President by his first name.... You there! Down on one knee pal.....
"You'll be fine," he coldly states, staring ahead at the audience.... No eye contact. I say nothing but look at Hymie, giving him 'the look'..... This was his fucking idea.
The producer- Guy called Len, is keen to ease the tension in the studio; it's his job to ensure the show runs smoothly. Max has little time for me because he doesn't know who I am.
Backstage he was kissing the arse off the other guests: An overweight, bald comedian; an old hippie Princess, clutching a battered looking, green guitar; some ugly, ginger child actor with a load of freckles.......
Good ol' fellow Americans....
He flashed his crocodile smile and gave the bullshit chit chat. When he came to me, his face dropped- Visibly.....
The dead fish expression was in place of the crocodile grin.
"You're the writer guy?" He said, trying to sound like he knew what he was talking about..... Trying not to sound ignorant in front of the other 'guests'...
He said:
"I don't really agree with what you write about, I have to say..."
I responded:
"Which of my one of my books has troubled you Max?"
I doubt he has ever read a book in life; that's why I asked the question.
At that moment you could have cut the tension with a knife- Even Hymie kept schtum.
"I haven't read any of your books. My producer has kept me informed of-"
I cut him off before he could finish his pre rehearsed sentence. I made him look a fool in front of his celebrity guests. I told him he should read a book before he criticises it. Max struck me off his Christmas card list. Aww Dang.... So....
Here we are.....
Face to face.......
About to do an interview with the whole of America watching. I am the first guest- The stooge; the fodder.... Filler until the big boys come on. The guests who are important. The guests who the audience know and love.
Fellow Americans.....
I didn't want to even do this interview; it was Hymie's idea. Hymie has spent the entire day arguing with Len. Needless to say, I doubt I'll be asked back as a guest. ..... Ever.
They probably wouldn't even have me and Hymie in the audience. I wouldn't say we've burned our bridges- Just bombed the bridges, burned the American flag with paraffin and urinated on the ashes in front of Ma, Pa...... And the American way.....
...... Fuck 'em!
Len says:
"Okay guys, we'll be going live in two minutes! Just keep it light. The ten minutes will whizz by Antonio. Over before you know it....."
Len calls me Antonio. He's heard Hymie call me Tony; even the dead fish sat next to me calls me Tony..... It's written on the front of my novels:
TONY M RICHARDS.
..... The novels Fish Face hates. The novels he told fish face to hate.
Hymie gives me the thumbs up. He looks a right prat: A bleached blonde French crop; Elvis Presley Aviator, thick, gold rimmed sunglasses; an Acapulco shirt under a petrol blue, sharkskin suit; large, garish jewellery that would make Liberace blush. He has a six o'clock shadow.....
Why do I associate with such a prat? I dunno.......
In Hymie's head: He looks like the Rolling Stone Journalist and sub-celebrity he is. The reality: Hymie looks like a low level pimp from Las Vegas..... Hymie doesn't need a stylist...
He doesn't need a psychiatrist....
He doesn't even need reality....
Nobody can tell Hymie anything. He refers to himself as "Superman's Worst Nightmare".... You can come to your own conclusion on that alone.....
Hymie is a mate. Well...... I call him a mate. We have a strong bond. He's one of these guys who-
"OKAY GUYS!! WHO'S READY TO HAVE SOME FUN?!!" Len shouts through a microphone at the troglodytes in the audience. I have never seen so many ugly, overweight people in my life. This could be Portishead in 1978.
"WHO'S READY TO BE ENTERTAINED?!!"
The crowd say: "YEEEAAAH!!"
Gullible twats. Truth-Justice-And the American way......
"WHO'S RRRRREEEEADY FOR THE MAX O'BRIEN SHOOOWE??!!"
The crowd say:
"YEEEEEAAAAHHHH!!"
This is the reason books don't sell in America..... The Yanks have a bad grasp of the English language; they have a small range of words.... Small brains...... An eagle is national emblem of America. Eagles have small heads- Thus, the term 'Bird Brain'.......
Fish Face turns on his crocodile smile again. He bangs his cards on the desk again....
These lights are so hot. The black suit I've worn is now like a wet towel....
....... Boil in the bag chicken....
My neck is chaffing against my collar. This is fucking-
The house band starts up. The grossly overweight drummer pounds the skins; he's sweating after twenty seconds- Anybody for McDonalds? The sound is deafening.
Len is souping the crowd up again:
"AAAAARE YOU REEEADY FOR THE MAX O'BRIEN HOUSE BAND?!!!!"
"YEEEAAAH!"
"AAAARE YOU READY TO CHEER?!"
"YEEEAH!!"
YEEEE-HAWWWW..... HEY MA! GRAB THE SHOTGUN! WE GON' HAVE OURSELVES A HANGIN' TONIGHT......
The Hammond organ starts up; the chap playing it is as thin as a pencil and has a porn star's moustache....
AHHHHHHHHH! MY HEAD IS POUNDING!
The drums, the lights....... This is too much..... Right now.... My nerves are shredded.
Len counts:
"WE'RE ABOUT TO GO LIVE IN.....
FIVE!
FOUR!
THREE!
TWO........."
An anonymous voice shouts from an anonymous room, through an anonymous microphone over the anonymous studio sound system, into a million anonymous television sets:
"WELCOME TO SATURDAY NIGHT!!
WELCOME TO LOS ANGELES!
WELCOME TO THE ONLY SHOW WORTH YOUR TIME. DON'T YOU GO FLIPPIN'......
THE BEST, WORST KEPT SECRET IN AMERICAAAAAHH!!
WITHOUT FURTHER ADO......
WELCOME TO THE MAX O'BRIEN SHOOOOOW!!!!"
The cheesy house band hit their stride.
This is deafening!
Saxophones squeal, the Hammond organ is like a nightmarish, hypnotic swirling ice cream
van choogle. The drums and bass thud away, shaking the ground beneath me..... It feels like my head is splitting open..... This is......
.....Horrible.
THE LIGHTS! THE FUCKING LIGHTS! I CAN TASTE SMOKE IN MY MOUTH!
THE LIGHTS! THE FUCKING LIGHTS! THE FUCKING LIGHTS!
THE SMOKE IS CHOKING ME!! THE SMOKE FROM THE FIRE! THE FIRE FROM THE LIGHTHOUSE! THE LIGHTS! THE FUCKING LIGHTS ARE BLINDING ME FROM THE LIGHTHOUSE..
Whoa! Tony, c'mon now.... Take it easy son. Get a grip. You can do this.... Ten minutes mate.... Then Fish Face can fuck right off....
Fish Face addresses his audience:
"WELCOME! WELCOME! WELCOME...... TO ANOTHER ACTION PACKED SHOW! What we have in store for you tonight is something worth telling the neighbours about, let me tell you...."
These idiots cheer, Max shows his big, pearly whites. I can see a thick bead of sweat roll down his chargrilled tanned skin.
"We have a fabulous array of guests for you tonight, quite a treat I can assure you..." Yeah right....
"Later on the show, Chuck Winters..."
The crowd say:
"WHHOOOOOOOO."
"We also have William Perry, better known as the 'Refrigerator'."
The crowd say:
"WHOOOOOOOO."
"Not to mention comedian, Fiona Striessel..."
This, is a freak show... Audience, your turn:
"WHOOOOOOO"
"As if that wasn't enough, we have performances from Andrew Dice Clay and Bobby Caldwell..."
The freaks clap. How much did they pay for the ticket? I'll fucking kill Hymie....
Nobody appreciates a freak show like Americans.... This is considered... 'Light entertainment'......
A nation of freaks and the brain dead ... Cheeseburger eating, emotional retards! Bird brains!
The greatest country in the world. The land of the free....
Max is in his element. He has the world at his feet. He dreamed of this day. All of his life, he dreamed of this day. Sitting in front of the cameras; smiling at the whole of America......
Interviewing people he couldn't give a fuck about and knows nothing of. I'm Max! I have the world at my feet. I have a big house, on the big side of town. I have a study full of books, books I'll never understand because my brain is small and my ego is the size of a small continent. America loves me, but I'm dumb. It doesn't matter! My AUDIENCE is dumb!
YEEEEE-HAAAWWWW! HEY MA! GRAB THE SHOTGUN!!
My nasty side is emerging. It's emerging because I'm scared...... Because I'm having a flashback.......
A flashback I cannot stop. Even if I wanted to.
I'M BLIND! THE LIGHTS! LIGHT FROM THE LIGHTHOUSE! SMOKE! I'M CHOKING!!
My neck is red raw, my clothes are soaked in sweat... The show goes on... Max continues....
He turns to face the camera for another angle. An angle on his good side, Len will ensure...
"Now, my first guest is a rather controversial figure to say the least...."
I CAN TASTE SMOKE!! MY MOUTH IS DRY! I NEED WATER!
"He is a man who has been in the spotlight recently due to his controversial new novel..."
THESE LIGHTS! THESE FU-CK-ING LIGHTS! MY SKIN IS BURNING! I CAN SEE THE LIGHTS! I CAN TASTE THE SMOKE!
My throat burns....
".....The Cannibal's Cookbook, which has divided opinion. To say it's divided opinion is an understatement. My next guest has polarised the media and his own fans like no other....."
I'M BLINDED! I'M BLINDED BY THE FUCKING LIGHTS!
"Please welcome... Tony M Richards..."
I don't walk on to the stage, I have a prosthetic foot- It isn't 'cinematically pleasing' for me to limp on using a stick..... Max merely pushes his hand out with an open palm.
I CAN'T FUCKING BREATHE! I'M DYING! I'M BLIND FROM THE LIGHTS! THIS IS-
I pick up the glass of water in front of me. The water is the only real thing in the building at this moment.
I'M BLINDED!!
"Welcome Tony, I understand you've just arrived in the United States..."
I can't talk, my throat is blocked with smoke! I can taste burnt wood! I'm blinded by the lights......
I pull the glass up to my lips. The glass I can't see, but can feel in my hand. I pull the glass to my lips.
Max says:
"Tony? You okay pal?"
I'M NOT YOUR FUCKING PAL!
My hand is slippery from the sweat. I drop the glass. It all happens in slow motion.....
SMASH!
The glass is now fragmented, broken into a million pieces. The soothing water is soaked into my trousers and socks; the rest rolls down the polished studio floor.
Len shouts:
"CUT TO COMMERCIAL."
"WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS LEN? JESUS?! REALLY?! WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?!" Shouts Fish Face.
"SHUT IT YOU FUCKING ARSEHOLE!!" I respond, angered by Fish Faces knee jerk reaction.....
The cunt just stares at me, mouth wide open. The crowd gasp.
I threaten the bastard, my Bristolian accent returning with vengeance after years of suppression:
"YOU WANT ME SMASH YER FUCKING FALSH TEETH OUT!"
Max shouts:
"SECURITY! LEN! SECURITY PLEASE!"
I'm up and walking away; hobbling off the set. Right now I need to be alone. Anywhere but here.....
Alone.....
Leave me alone. The fucking lot a yers!!
My stick is the only thing holding me up right now, any second I'm gonna collapse into a heap and melt into the ground.
I go past the confused looking security guards and past the crew. I'm down the hallway backstage. The neon toilet sign is my saviour right at this moment- Its high up and calling me to safety, like a lighthouse beam shot into the deep sea in the dead of night.... Guiding me safety.
The walls are holding me up as I stumble into the toilets; the lights are brighter in here than they are in the studio.
I stumble to the sink and run the tap, splashing the cold water over my face and neck, my heading is spinning and swirling- I'm lost completely, disorientated...... I look up at my reflection and there he is. In the background. Tobey! It's Tobey.....
He still looks like he did in 1982, except he has no eyes- Just black holes.
"Fuck me Tobey, I'm so sorry....."
He says nothing but stares into the mirror.
I turn to face him, but he's gone. Disappeared. Tobey.......
I'm starting to choke again. The lights are blinding....... I stumble into a cubicle.... Lock the door.
Once inside the cubicle I scream at the top of my lungs, coughing out the smoke that isn't there. I scream until I can't scream anymore... Then I scream again. I can hear my voice bounce of the cold, tiled walls. My voice bounces of the walls.....
..... Bounces off the wall like it did when I was trapped underneath the lighthouse.