You ever see The Fifth Element? Even if you have, I’m guessing it’s been a while. I don’t know why I’d guess that. It might be because I almost never see it on any of the movie channels. ‘Course it’s possible, however unlikely, that you’re just as big a Bruce Willis nut as our native Jellwagger. In that case, you probably just saw this flick an hour ago. If you have, I’m really sorry in advance for giving a rundown of what this whacky reel of celluloid is about. First off, right? It’s in the future. It’s really important to state that first ‘cause that’ll help explain all the other whacky shit that goes down. Okay. Now Bruce, right? He’s this guy called Dallas, Korben Dallas. Catchy name, I admit, but it’s no John McLane. Anyway, so this Korben Dallas fellow is a cab driver and former soldier. As you can guess, it’s that former soldier part that comes in handy pretty much right away. And by the way, his cab is a flying cab. Again, this is a good couple or so centuries in the future, so all the vehicles fly, okay? Anyway, there’s this force of evil trying to destroy the world. And it’s working in concert with this nasty fuck called Zorg, played by the always nasty Gary Oldman. So Zorg wants to help bring chaos to the world so he can profit from it. That’s when Ian Holm enlists the help of Korben. Here’s the thing, though. In order to stop Zorg and his goons, Korben needs to protect this redhead hottie known only as Leeloo. She’s a hottie, but she’s also barely old enough to drink and hasn’t a clue how to use a gun. So she’s kind of vulnerable. Making it extra complicated is that, while she looks human, she’s actually an alien. So she doesn’t speak a lick of English. That leads to one of the best lines of dialogue Bruce has ever had: “Whoa, lady, I only speak two languages: English and bad English.”
I’ll spare you too many details. Just know this, though: You are so much better off watching this movie while throwing down a few o’ those tall ice-cold ones, which is what our man was doing on this particular night, while his new Bruce buddy Kit Figures was throwing down that bottle of Chardonnay she’d brought with her because of her quite accurate suspicion that Jellwagger wasn’t a wine person. Seriously, have a few drinks when you watch this. That’s probably what the screenwriter was doing when he wrote the fuckin’ thing. This thing’s a trip. You take Gary Oldman for instance, as Zorg. I mean shit, look at the dude’s hair. And what’s with the alien opera? Seriously, during that awesome finale, there’s this freakin’ opera going on with this gorgeous water-blue alien soprano belting out a tune so out of this world you won’t know if it’s supposed to make you laugh ‘cause of how weird she looks or cry ‘cause of how beautiful she sounds.
This was just the kind of escapism Jellwagger needed when it came out. He’d been on the cusp of finishing college and was scared shitless of what the future held. His father had told him he was going to have to move out as soon as he was done with school. More than once during his senior year, he’d spring up in bed in the middle of the night, all in a sweat, wondering what in Christ he was going to do with himself. The Fifth Element couldn’t’ve come along at a better time, both for him as well as for Bruce.
While Jellwagger had nothing but respect for the Balding Beast, the same couldn’t be said for a good share of the movie-going public. Bruce signed on to The Fifth Element right after Twelve Monkeys and Last Man Standing. The former was one of those flicks that people were only going to realize was great fifty years after the fact. As for the latter, it would never be appreciated for the B Western gem that it was. ‘Course, he’d just done Pulp Fiction and Die Hard 3: Die Hardest just before that, and even Helen Keller could’ve seen how awesome those flicks were. As always, though, the audience had amnesia. It was like, “That was then, Bruce. Whatchya got for us now?” And then Bruce showed them all, didn’t he? Who could’ve predicted he’d do something as out there as The Fifth Element? Like Jellwagger, maybe this was Bruce’s way of escaping for a while, doing some balls-out weirdo sci-fi flick with an eccentric French director who, not surprisingly, wrote the screenplay for this pup when he was still in high school.
Jellwagger had a hard time getting comfy at first. He took his usual position, spread out on his recliner with his Spaten, his ‘corn, and Chump, but he couldn’t help stealing the occasional glance at the statuesque black gal on his couch with her feet up, nursing that glass of Chardonnay with an ice cube while picking at the Nachos. Soon enough, though, it became pretty obvious she was a big Bruce fan. She and Jellwagger laughed at all the same scenes, cheered at all the right moments. Within a half-hour or so, Jellwagger took her presence for granted. By the end, and because of Kit, he’d enjoyed the film more than he ever had. It was almost like watching it for the first time.
Jellwagger turned the lights back on and got them both refills. Kit asked him if she could dip into that can of cashews she’d noticed when she poured herself that first glass of wine. He warned her that they’d been sitting in his cupboard since forever, but she didn’t care. Jellwagger plopped himself back down on his recliner and left the TV on with the volume low. The eleven o’clock news was on.
He watched Kit scarf those cashews like it was her calling in life. She glanced at him and then back at the screen. “My metabolism is like an Olympic distance runner. It just keeps running and running and never lets up.”
“No shit, Shaft.”
“That suits me fine. I’m not big on meals.”
“Say, Kit. You never said a peep during Happy Hour about being a Bruce fan. I told you I was planning to watch The Fifth Element, and you were like, ‘Whatever.’”
“Baby, in my line of work, I’ve gotta be careful about what I tell people. I didn’t know you then. I still don’t know you really. Well, I’ve seen your apartment, I’ve talked to you. I know enough not to feel threatened by you.”
“You’re not afraid I’ll jump your Jersey-bred bones?”
“Oh baby, I’ll kick your ass if you try anything.” She chuckled. The Mr. Hyde look came back. It wasn’t even for a second, but it was enough to make Jellwagger gulp some spit. “You don’t understand, if there’s one thing Daddy taught me? Besides discipline? It’s how to defend myself. I’m not scared of walking down the street late at night, so I’m certainly not intimidated by a skinny white guy.”
“Oh yeah? Well. Good! ‘Cause my heart belongs to someone else.”
“Do tell.”
“Bitch! I’m not telling you shit.”
She laughed. “You’re crazy.”
“I think Ian Holm is one of the most underrated actors of all time. Don’t you agree?”
“He’s good.”
“You saw Alien, right? I just saw that again last year. I hadn’t seen it in ages. Man, he’s good as that android. I was like, watching it, if I hadn’t seen it before, I totally never would’ve guessed that he was an android.”
“Of course not. That’s what they call a plot twist.”
“And with The Fifth Element, that’s now two movies our man Ian has done where another character was named Dallas. You had Bruce in this one, and Tom Skerritt as Captain Dallas in the other one.”
Kit frowned at him for a second, then laughed. “Boy, you. Are. Crazy.” She started rolling on the couch. Seeing a woman in her forties, who just a few hours ago stood before him like a model of composure and professionalism, rolling on her ass like a giggly schoolgirl was just too much.
“No more grape juice for you, missy!”
“Oh yeah, thanks for reminding me.” She headed into the kitchen with her black pantyhosed feet sweeping along the shag carpet and then the kitchen tiles. She came back not only with a refreshed glass of Chardonnay with a new ice cube, but also with a long-neglected bag of baby carrots.
“Jesus, Kit! I forgot I even had those little orange fuckers!”
She plopped herself on the couch and started munching away. “Ian Holm’s a great actor. I know they won’t get him to play the Hobbit in the prequels, but that’s a damn shame. I think he’d be brilliant.”
“Who are they getting?”
“Cream of some-young-guy. Nah, I don’t have a clue. It’s going to be someone who’s, like, ya know, in his twenties. Even though Bilbo, as we who actually read the books know, was in his fifties. And then in Rings he was, like, what? Over a hundred?”
“It was the celebration of Bilbo’s eleventy-first birthday that kicked off The Fellowship of the Ring.”
“That’s right!” Kit said through a mouthful of stale baby carrots.
“I wish I could go back in time and see what he was like as a teacher.”
“Aw hell to the yeah.” She giggled. “Eleventy-first. Damn, I love how that man writes. All right, that’s it. I’m going back and reading all those books again.”
“Do I want to know how many times you’ve read those damned things?”
“Don’t. Even. Ask.”
“It’s a million pages long. Don’t tell me Daddy made you read it or whatever.”
“He didn’t make me read those books, but he was pretty strict about setting aside one hour a day for reading. One hour a day, every day. Including weekends.”
“Shit.”
“Nah, it was cool. Listen, baby, this started when I was, like, what? Eight? So every single day of my life since I was eight I’ve had my face in a book. Who else can say that?”
“Say, Kit. Listen up. You did a yeoman’s fucking job making me feel like a little skid mark at Happy Hour. Don’t ya think…? I mean, don’t you feel like you’ve done enough damage to the ol’ Jellwagger ego for one day? Or shit, for one year?”
“Jellwagger. Come on now. You made yourself look like a skid mark all by yourself and you know it. A tire shaving on the Turnpike, baby.”
“Which exit?”
“Exit five. That’s as far south as I’m willing to go.”
“So why are you a fan of Lieutenant McLane anyway?”
“I don’t know. Why are any of us fans of anything? You admire someone, you identify with them. I don’t know.”
“You identify with a rich white man? Now Kit, honey, you’re falling right back into what I was talking about in that spinning lounge.”
“Please, please, puh-LEEZE don’t go there.”
“I didn’t, you just did!”
“Jellwagger…” She stuffed a few more carrots into her mouth and shook her head. “Mm mm mm.” She chewed and swallowed some of it before she said, “What am I going to do with your skinny little white ass?”
“Don’t even tell me you wouldn’t have his children if he offered.”
She ignored him and continued eating carrots.
Jellwagger mentally kicked himself in the ass for sounding like a prick. Man, was he fucking it up with Kit or what? He had to assume he’d be seeing her again in some capacity or other, whether it was ferrying something to or from her and Pat, or getting together to watch another Bruce-tastic flick. If he kept letting his beer talk for him, every meeting with her hereafter would be chillier than that God damned glare she shot at him now and again. ‘Course, it was his fault he’d even had to deal with that glare in the first place.
He didn’t even know she’d gotten up until he heard her feet swish past him again. She opened and closed the fridge, then the cupboards. “You’re pretty much out of everything except the microwave popcorn. Is it buttered? Perfect. You want another beer?”
“Yes, dear.” For whatever reason, the sound of the popping corn sounded different than when he was popping it for himself. Now that his microwave, for the first time in history, was being used to pop corn for someone else, he didn’t take the noise for granted. Wow, and you know what? It sounded wonderful. Jellwagger closed his eyes and fucking reveled in both the sound and the smell of the popping corn. It was like a symphony to his appetite. Damn it! He should’ve told her to take another bag out for himself. As if reading his mind, Kit emptied half the bag into a cereal bowl for him. She came out of the kitchen and set the bowl and a brand new ice-cold Spaten on the card table next to his recliner before going back to get the bag and a refreshed glass of iced white wine.
“So this screenplay. The one you’re working on for Bruce Willis.”
“Okay, confession: I’m not technically working on it for Bruce. And if you must know, he doesn’t know I exist. If I can’t get him to play John Lane, I guess I’ll live. But it’s like the Native Americans say: If you’re going to aim, aim for the moon, right?”
“Baby, if you get this thing produced at all, that’ll be hitting the moon. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to get a script produced? Especially a spec by an unknown writer?”
“Wait a second. Kit! What the hell is your line of duty? Are you a fucking Hollywood power player or what? No, really. Please tell me before I serve you my guts.”
“What’s it about? In one sentence.”
“John Lane’s a middle manager at Wal-Mart whose family’s gone to hell. His marriage is on the rocks. His daughter’s gone gay. Life couldn’t suck bigger balls, right? So he decides he wants to take his family on vacation and get away for a while. But instead of going to those horrible equatorial clichés like the Caribbean or Hawaii or whatever, he decides to take everyone to Greenland. Here’s the funny fucking thing, though. You ready for this? He really thinks that Greenland is, ya know, a green God damned land. But as we all learned in grammar school, it’s anything but. Erik the fucking devious Red called it Greenland to fool his retard enemies. It’s Iceland that’s got more green. Greenland, man. It’s a fucking barren tundra. Except that there are people who live there. They’re like Eskimos, except they’re called Inuit. It might be the same thing. I’m not sure. Anyway, what most of us didn’t learn in grammar school is that Greenland’s the property of a certain little Scandinavian country called Denmark. Well, when John Lane and family get there, they check into this hotel, right? That just happens to be the HQ of this underground Inuit movement to shed the Danish yoke once and for all. Check it out: This hot Inuit babe works at the hotel and is secretly part of this movement. When she gets whacked, that really sends our John over the edge. He was sort of looking at her as the daughter he wish he had. Now I know what you’re saying: What a homophobic fuck, right? He comes around, though. He’ll be a really different dude by the end, after he becomes the George Washington of the Inuit people. That’s right, Kit. For it’s John Lane, this unassuming middle manager from Wal-Mart, who becomes a hero to this entire frozen island nation. Once and for all he helps them expel those fucking Beowulf-worshipping Danes. And by the way, he does have a line in the script, somewhere toward the climax when it’s really getting hot and heavy, where he pretty much says exactly that to the head Danish motherfucker. Where he says that since they had to hire some Swede to help them with Grendel, how could anyone expect them to deal with a whole fucking country?” Jellwagger was rolling on his ass at this point. “You believe that shit? John Lane talks a tough talk with those Danish baddies. A real tough talk. Sometimes he’s an arrogant motherfucker. Gee, does that remind you of a certain John McLane?”
Kit was just finishing her bag of microwave ‘corn. She wiped her hands and took a long pull of her Chardonnay. “So much for the one sentence.” After one more sip, she said: “Okay hold up. Here’s a problem I have with it right off the bat. Okay? It’s being told from the point of view of a middle-upper-class white man.”
“No, silly. I said he was a middle manager.”
“Right. So he’s doing okay for himself. He can support his family and put his kid through college. And then you have him go off to some place where he imposes his will and authority on people he views as inferior to him.”
“Now you wait there, young Kit.”
“Of course he views them as inferior. Doesn’t he trust them to work out their own problems by themselves? Why do people in this country think that other countries always need our help? It’s ridiculous.”
“It’s a vacation, silly goose.”
“Right. So why can’t it just be a vacation?”
Jellwagger tripped over his response and then laughed. Finally he pulled himself together to say: “Wait a second, Kit. If it’s just a vacation, then it’s not a movie worth writing. You’ve gotta have conflict.”
“This is the problem I have with it. Okay? And I’m not saying you should throw it out, I’m just saying the premise has a glaring flaw as you’ve described it. And maybe what I’m saying’s redundant. Maybe you didn’t describe it enough.”
“Hence my inability to encapsulate it in a single sentence.”
“But the way it seems now? It’s just… I mean, there you have John Lane, his wife, and his daughter. They take a vacation to Greenland, which is bizarre off the bat. Who takes vacations to Greenland? Do you? Do you know anyone who does? I don’t. So if John Lane’s going to go against the grain like that, it seems he needs a real motivation. Maybe he’s been reading up on it or something. Maybe he reads travel books as a hobby, or he saw a documentary. Whatever. But Jellwagger, really, it’s all about motivation. Assuming he has it, and he gets to Greenland, what is it about him that would make the Inuit in their right mind put him in charge? Think! What the hell does a guy who works at Wal-Mart know about the God damned Inuit Greenlanders? Who the hell is he to just come in there and rip shit up like he owns the joint?”
“He wants to save them!”
“Who is he to decide that they need being saved? The Inuit, I’m guessing, have been there since time immemorial. Am I right? Jellwagger, hello? I said, am I right?”
He shook his head like someone dealing with an audience who didn’t get him, then took a pull from his Spaten when he discovered it was empty.
“So let me understand.” Kit jumped up and snatched his empty bottle. “You’re writing a screenplay, the majority of which takes place in Greenland, and you don’t know anything about Greenland?” She dropped the bottle into the recycling can and opened the fridge to get another. She also put another bag of ‘corn in the microwave. “Jellwagger, I’m so glad I met you before you finished the first draft. ‘Cause really, heaven forefend you should’ve slaved over this, writing and rewriting and submitting it to agents, all without having a God damned clue what you’re talking about. Now listen. I think it’s a pretty safe assumption that the Inuit have been there a long time. And I think it’s safe to say they know Denmark. If they have a plan of forcing the issue in terms of becoming their own stand-alone nation, they would know what the hell they’re doing. So for a white guy from Middle America to just waltz in there and show them how it’s done… Puh-leeze.”
She came back out with a freshly popped bag of ‘corn and another ice-cold one for our poor demoralized writer. She set the beer down next to him and emptied half the bag into his bowl, but he didn’t take any notice of it. You’d’ve thought he was just an outgrowth of the chair.
“Are you listening? Baby, I’m not saying the whole thing’s worthless. But you have to consider the point of view of the oppressed people. My people were oppressed in this country. Did anyone take our point of view into consideration after the Civil War? Yeah, it ended slavery, and that was great, but that was hardly the end of it. You had racism in the so-called heroic North like you did in the South. You’ve still got racism today. There’s no panacea for that kind of shit, Jellwagger. So it seems to me that while John Lane can be a hero, he should probably have his fair share of prejudices and preconceived notions about the Inuit. Think of those Eskimo stereotypes people have. How they all live in igloos and beat baby seals to death so they can eat them.”
“I didn’t know Eskimos have stereotypes.”
“You could find stereotypes about everybody. Jellwagger, get with it! Believe it or not, and this may shock your ass back to Jersey, but there are even stereotypes about white people.” She let her mouth fall open and opened her eyes wide in mock shock. “And as a bonus, it sure would make this John Lane fellow a much more interesting guy if he had some flaws, you know? Yeah, the audience could sympathize with him for, say, having a wife who cheats on him or something. And by the way, that was a nice touch about his daughter’s lesbianism sending him into a tailspin. You see? So he’s got a touch of homophobia. Now throw in a dash of Eskimo prejudice, and he’ll be both flawed and sympathetic. And by the end of the story, he’ll have changed. By giving your hero flaws off the bat, you’ve given him room to grow and change, and you’ve given yourself a reason to tell the story. Because if he’s going to be the same asshole at the end as he is at the beginning, then I don’t care if it’s Bruce Willis or how much action there is. There’s no reason for me to pay fifteen bucks to see this movie.”
Jellwagger took a couple pulls of his Spaten. Amazing really, how a beer that normally tasted so good could suddenly have no taste at all now that his stomach felt like it was ready to expel its contents back through his mouth. Seriously, our boy felt ready to hurl. Instead of puke, though, what came out was: “Unbelievable. I don’t think I told Pat at all about my script. Maybe a little bit. Does it matter? He could’ve found out from Betty that I was working on Bruce’s next masterpiece.”
“What are you saying?”
“That it could hardly be a coincidence that my first delivery for him is to a movie producer.”
“Baby, if I was a producer? Okay? I’d produce your ass out of town and tell you to go back to Jersey and rethink your career. Nah, seriously, Jellwagger. I’ve got nothing to do with the movies, okay? What I am is a huge movie fan. Like you! You’d be a terrific judge of your own work if you just knew how to take a step back now and again and give yourself a healthy dose of self-criticism.”
Jellwagger let out a deep sigh and took another pull. “Cut to the chase, Kit!”
As soon as she swallowed the ‘corn she’d just scarfed, she said, “Rewrite the motherfucker. And when you’re done, rewrite some more. Do a page one rewrite if you have to. Cool thing is, you’re barely into the first draft. Because what would really suck is if you had already written a bunch of drafts of this God damned white man Die Hard wannabe marching into Greenland like he’s the expert on what the Inuit should do.”
“You know what would really be awesome, Kit? If you could tell me how in fuck you can throw down all that booze and all that food and not gain a freakin’ ounce, man.”
Kit didn’t say anything for a good long while. At first Jellwagger wasn’t sure the unbelievably opinionated and well-dressed gal had heard him. He was going to press the issue but decided he was too God damned tired and frustrated to give a flying fuck about her metabolic rate. Her critical bombardment of Exit the Danish had really left his ass wiped clean. Sure, it was nice having a polished crack, but the rest of him felt exhausted. He was dozing off in his chair when Kit jumped up and swish-swished to the kitchen.
Judas fucking Priest in a popcorn bag, was the Nubian sculpture on her way to finish off whatever he had left?
She was in the kitchen for quite a while, and a lot of the time, in between the occasional swishing of her feet and the clanking of ice cubes, Jellwagger couldn’t hear a thing. What was she doing? Several times he was on the verge of blowing his top with her about gorging herself on his every morsel, but again, the Spaten, coupled with his exhaustion from the week, made him resign himself to whatever she wanted to do. God, did he want to sleep! Look at Chump with his cute little head on Jellwagger’s lap, out for the count, the lucky little bastard. That patch-worked purebred could sleep through a seven-point-oh building killer for Christ’s sake. How Jellwagger wished he could emulate his best friend sometimes. I mean sure, our curmudgeon of a hero could’ve conked out right then and there and slept a good, solid ten hours or so, but in the morning he would’ve been wracked with guilt about the whole having-a-guest-in-the-joint thing.
It wasn’t until Kit splayed herself on his couch that he realized he’d been nodding off. But for how long? Wow, Jellwagger really had no sense of time at all now. When was the last time he’d been so delirious? Seriously, our man thought about it for a good several seconds or so. During college, what with seventeen-credit semesters while holding down part-time jobs, things could be hectic. Sure enough, there’d be the occasional night when he conked out doing homework. Tonight, however, was a completely different story. What he was feeling now was the accumulation of restless nights ever since he’d made the shit-for-brains decision to start stalking a comet-headed madam with a billionaire ex-hubby. This particular Jellwagger was so tired, so worn out, so rubbed into the ground, that in a certain sense, he didn’t feel tired anymore. If he were to strip down to his skivvies and hop under the covers to get a normal night’s sleep, he wasn’t entirely sure he’d be able to do it. He’d heard of people being too exhausted to sleep but never knew what that meant. Now he did.
His eyes snapped open again when Kit started talking. Her voice was so low that Jellwagger thought she was having a conversation with herself. It was safe enough to go back to sleep. If she needed him…
He jerked awake with such a start that even Chump’s eyes opened, sort of, for a few seconds, before he was back in doggy dreamland. What was going on? It took him a sec to realize that Kit was saying something to him. Judging by her voice—holy shit—this was something incredibly important. Amazing, really, how the very timbre of a woman’s voice could get Jellwagger’s adrenaline flowing again with such ferocity that the fumes he’d been running on just a second ago were replaced by a fresh tank of gas.
“Besides Daddy, I haven’t told anyone what I’m about to tell you,” she said.
Trying to seem like he wasn’t missing a beat, he said, “Oh now, Kit. Surely you jest. Whatever you tell me, you’ve told Pat Dinner. And Carla Houde. It’s totally cool.”
Her voice barely rose above a whisper. “Hold up, Jellwagger. I don’t know anyone named Carla. And my relationship with Pat Dinner has always been professional. Most of what I’ve told you tonight, I’ve never told him. He has no idea about my being from Jersey, my being a Bruce Willis nut, none of that.”
“How is that possible?”
“I’m going to tell you something that no one besides Daddy knows. And even he has only known since last year. Okay? Swear to me that you won’t tell a soul.”
“Oh, what am I going to do? Say I don’t swear?”
“Jellwagger, if you tell anyone what I’m about to tell you…” She took a sip of her iced wine and stared at nothing in particular.
Jellwagger was beyond awake now. No amount of Starbucks Breakfast Blend from the Powell and Powler break room could’ve made him feel more wired than he did this instant.
He turned to Kit and locked eyes with her. “Listen to me, Kit. I swear. Okay? From one Jersey kid to another: I swear I won’t betray whatever horrible secrets you’re about to unload on me. I wish you wouldn’t do it, Kit. Right? I’ve sort of got enough on my shoulders as it is. But hey, you wanna fuck it up, go right on ahead.”
She sat there for what seemed like an eternity.
He snapped open his eyes with a start. Shit! How long had he been asleep? He looked over and, sure enough, Kit was still there, her legs straight out, one foot resting on the other, the glass just about half drunk. And the ice cube hadn’t melted completely yet. Okay, so he hadn’t been out that long. But had she changed her mind about spilling whatever can of beans she’d had the urge to spill earlier?
“So this is how it is.”
At first Jellwagger wasn’t sure if a voice in his head had said that or if Kit Figures was at long last about to give it up about Kit Figures. Had he ever felt more delirious in his life?
Just as Kit opened her mouth, someone tapped on the door.
Jellwagger jumped what felt like several feet into the air. While he managed not to fall out of the recliner, that poor little Mr. Chips was not so lucky. At least he landed on his feet, though. He shook his head several times, his ears flapping, and then decided it was time for a few slurps of water.
Kit, meanwhile, took a sip of her wine before going back to her staring-into-inner-space mode.
Jellwagger got to his feet and waited for the dizziness to pass while holding onto the back of the recliner.
The tapping came again.
“Hello, Michael,” Connie said with her usual imperturbable smile. “I was just wondering, has Christian been by here?”
“Hey there, Kit? You seen a five-year-old squirt with scruffy blond hair named Christian?”
“Oh I’m sorry, do you have guests?”
Kit returned from the dark place, got to her feet, and was at Jellwagger’s side faster than Christian would’ve flocked to candy, that gorgeous smile spread across her smooth face as if in response to Connie’s smile. No, it wasn’t like they were competing for most wattage. It was an animal coming across a member of its own species for the first time in years. “Hi, I’m Kit Figures, a friend of Jell…er….Michael’s.”
“This is Connie, best landlady ever.”
They shook hands. “He’s too nice. How are you?”
“Where are you from?” Kit said.
“You mean my accent? Yeah. I’m from Denmark originally.”
Kit gave Jellwagger a long look, while our man’s eyes glued themselves to his feet and his cheeks felt like melting beets. She turned back to Connie with a look and tone oozing with interest. “Really?”
“Originally. Although I’ve lived in this country for over ten years now. I lived in Miami first.”
“Which is where you met the man you thought was the one.”
Connie was about to say something, then nodded and laughed.
“And now look, girl. The man can’t even be counted on to share custody of your boy. Can’t even be counted on for child support, can he? And you look back and wonder what the hell you were thinking shacking up with him. A volcanic lay a great father does not make.”
Connie’s face was now as red as Jellwagger’s. She took a couple steps back into the courtyard and laughed.
“Say, girl, we were just sitting around having drinks. You want a glass of wine?”
“Actually, I’m looking for my son.”
“Oh that’s right!” Kit laughed and pressed a hand on Connie’s arm.
“Hey!” A man from one of the third-floor apartments on the opposite end of the courtyard was waving at Connie. “You looking for Christian?”
Connie’s smile vanished, replaced with mild alarm that looked ready to break out into panic at a nanosecond’s notice. “Have you seen him? You know where he is?”
“He’s in Anna’s place. Air guitar.”
A big gust of air left Connie’s chest as the smile came back. “Oh okay.”
“I just thought you should know.”
“I was looking for him. Thank you so much, Tony.” Connie stood there with her hands on her hips as Tony continued talking with one of his drinking buddy neighbors.
Kit came out and put her hand on her arm again. “Girl, between managing this building and being a single mom, don’t you know sleep has become a scarce commodity.”
“I feel like I’m managing two buildings. Christian’s an amazing boy, and I love him dearly. I would die for him, you know? But he’s like another building.” She laughed.
“Hey there Con,” Jellwagger said. “I remember you telling me once that you’re always tired.”
“That’s true.”
“That you just take it for granted.”
“I’m tired so much I don’t even think about it anymore.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Kit said with a wink at Jellwagger. “With a tenant like him?”
“Michael’s one of my best tenants. He never complains. He hardly ever bugs me about fixing the smallest little thing. His cute little doggie is always so well behaved. No one ever complains about him.”
“Fuh-REE beer for that one!”
“Seriously, girl, now that you know your boy’s okay, why not have some wine and some girl talk?”
“You don’t mind, Michael? ‘Cause I don’t want bug anyone, you know.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Kit said. “By girl talk, I actually meant you and him. You and I can talk too if you want.” They leaned their heads toward each other as they giggled.
Jellwagger, with Chump E. Chips now at his feet, opened the door wide. “Get in here, Con. For the way you were so honest about my sterling tenancy, you can have as much booze as you want. If you’re hungry? Well, I’m afraid you’re S.O.L. courtesy of that one.”
Connie and Kit got settled on the couch while Jellwagger switched from Spaten to a tall glass of soda water. He watched Letterman and massaged the out-for-the-count Chump’s smooth little head, only listening to the gals part of the time. Kit was going on and on about growing up in Fort Dix. After Connie talked a little about her upbringing in Denmark—she wasn’t nearly as forthright as Kit—Kit marveled at how similar their upbringings were and how amazing that was, considering they grew up thousands of miles apart. At one point Connie did go into detail about her ten years in Miami and how she ended up with Christian’s father and how that whole arrangement eventually went the way of punk music. Jellwagger wanted to know more about that, but he’d always been too chicken to pry into that part of Connie’s past. Who knew what sort of hardships she suffered during her stint in the Sunshine State? What if even a single prying question from our boy here set her off on some tirade of indignation that switched him from number one tenant to number one on the shit list?
The dozing he’d done before Connie showed up gave his brain enough extra juice so that he didn’t feel tired at all now, although he knew this second wind wouldn’t last more than an hour or so. At one point, while mostly focused on Letterman’s Top Ten List, he could’ve sworn he heard Kit say something about a son.
At some point after midnight he was finally invited into the conversation when Connie said: “Really? Is that true, Michael?”
“What’s that, Con?”
“You’re working on a screenplay about Denmark?”
“Not quite.” He gave Connie the rundown on Exit the Danish.
“Oh no!” Connie said with a laugh. “You’re making the Danish people the bad people in the story? I see. Why? Have I been such a bad manager?”
“I know you jest, Con, but please don’t worry. It’s just a simple action picture. It’s Bruce Willis trekking off to Greenland and helping the Inuit gain independence.”
“But you do know they are independent, right?”
“Oh no he didn’t,” Kit said with her face in her hand. “Jellwagger, research!”
“When did that happen?” he said.
“No, you’re right,” Connie said. “They are a province of Denmark. But they’re an independent province.”
“I knew it!”
“But that only means they have Danish currency, they have the same sort of… How would you say? The same way of governing themselves.”
“The mother country is the template, if you will.”
“I don’t really know why they’re a province, know what I mean? I didn’t study it for very long. Once I was done with school, I was done with that whole, you know, world.”
“I heard that,” Kit said. “And what you’re really talking about is…” She nodded at Connie. “You know…” She put her arm on Connie’s. “I won’t say anything if you won’t.”
“But still, Denmark’s my home country, I’m proud of it. I just hope you don’t make the Danish characters in your movie a bunch of, you know....” She laughed. “These big monsters or whatever, know what I mean?”
“She’s saying they should be well-drawn three-dimensional characters. People the audience can identify with, even if they are your story’s antagonist.”
“Jesus, Kit! Are you absolutely sure you’re not a.…oh I dunno.…”
“Just focus on your story. You have two people here, in your apartment, on a school night, supporting you and your work. We think you have the makings of a good story, but with a whole planet-full of room to improve. Think of Die Hard. Remember Hans?”
“Best villain ever.”
“What made him such a great villain? Was he just this scary guy who came in and caused problems for no reason? No, he had a personality. He was actually kind of charming. Great sense of humor. You always looked forward to the next time he was on the screen. So far, it doesn’t seem like you have that.”
“Denmark’s a big country, know what I mean?” Connie said.
“Oh come on, Con.”
“Okay, it’s a small country, but it’s big. It’s got millions of people. Some of them might support keeping Greenland as a province. Others might be against it. Did all Americans support going into Iraq? Since your story has Danish troops coming into Greenland, who’s to say that some of them don’t have reservations about what they’re being told to do? Again, think of American troops in Iraq. A lot of them didn’t agree with it. Or at least they had doubts, know what I mean?”
Jellwagger felt the feedback smack him in the head like a big fat pillow: He hadn’t asked for it, but ultimately it would make his life easier. Holy shit! Of course! That could be one of the subplots, right? These two brothers in the Danish army: One of them’s all gung-ho ‘n shit about killing as many Inuit as possible, but the other guy, the soft-hearted kid brother, would have his doubts. At first he’d keep them to himself, but by the end the two come to blows. The kid brother will naturally go over to the Inuit side to help John Lane. That’s how John gets the crucial information he needs to kick the Danes back to their little land-spit of a country once and for all. Hey, Jellwagger knew. Maybe the head bad guy was the father of these two brothers. He’d be like a general or whatever, part of a long line of military heroes going all the way back to that one guy who fought side by side with Beowulf against Grendel. So you know, the two brothers would have a ton of tradition to live up to. One of them would have to die, and it was pretty obvious who it would be: The soft-hearted kid brother. After going over to help John Lane plan this massive attack, the older asshole brother sees that he’s going to lose but orders a counterattack anyway. He’s an asshole, so what do you expect? It’s the last hopeless thrust that kills a bunch of the Inuit revolutionaries….as well as the soft-hearted kid brother. Both the older brother and the general father live. And that’s how they lose. That’s how Exit the Danish would stand a level above all those other Bruce Willis action-tastic masterworks. The head bad guys would live, and that would be their punishment. After John Lane becomes a hero—Jellwagger wasn’t sure if he’d go back home or stay to run the new Greenland nation—and before the credits roll, we see the general arrive back in Copenhagen racked with doubts about the life he’s led, about the career he coerced his boys into, about the military tradition of his lineage, every-fuckin’-thing. He wouldn’t commit suicide. Jellwagger didn’t want a coward for a villain. He’d resign his post or something, much against his surviving son’s wishes. That asshole wouldn’t’ve learned a God damned thing by the end. He’s as hard-headed and bent on revenge as Grendel’s mother. His father leaves him to it and goes off somewhere to rethink his whole existence. So that’s how it ends. The head villains enter this sort of living purgatory, which anyone can tell you is a fate worse than death. Meanwhile, John Lane helps the Inuit rebuild their lives.
“The end!” Jellwagger shouted. “Fuckin’ A, Con! Fuck. Ing. A. You’re a genius!”
“…while some of the people there could be sort of divided too.”
“Oh I’m sorry, Con. Were you saying something?”
Connie smiled.
Aw shit. Jellwagger wanted to bop himself with one of those empty Spaten bottles. Connie had just gone on and on about something, and he’d been too busy living in his script. That’s when Kit piped in. She laughed with Connie before saying:
“I know, right? Men. What she said was, some of the population of Greenland includes whites who are Greenland born but are descended from Danish immigrants. You’ve got a mix of those two languages there: Danish and Greenlandic. Connie was just saying how you might have internal division there just as you would with the Danish army. So in essence, Jell… I mean, Michael. You’d have the A plot with the invading Danes and John Lane and all that. Then you’ve got two B plots: The internal division within the Danish army as well as the conflicts within the Greenland population. Now you could have unrest back in Denmark, but then you’re getting into TV miniseries territory, where you’d have the room to explore all that. But you don’t have more than an hour fifty minutes.”
“Huh?”
“So maybe you could sort of allude to the domestic unrest, right? You know what I’m saying? Just like we have protests outside the White House whenever we invade a country, in your piece you could show John Lane or someone watching TV, just something really quick, a news report about demonstrations in Copenhagen.”
“’Kay but back to the one-hour-fifty-minute thing. Where did that come from?”
“Michael. Please. You have no track record. You’ve never sold any scripts. Nothing you’ve written has ever been produced. You don’t want to give agents and producers any reason to throw your script into the recycle bin. So in addition to coming up with three-dimensional characters the audience can sympathize with, and interesting bad guys, you need to have a tight script. If you could keep it below one-oh-five, even better.”
Jellwagger leaned back and gazed up at the cottage cheese ceiling. “You guys are killing me, man. You’re killing me!”
“You can do it. At least we caught you before you got too far.”
“Now all’s I need is time to get back to this thing. But with Pat…” He didn’t even have the energy to bitch about Pat Dinner. And he sure as shit didn’t want to tell them about Carla. Kit didn’t even know who she was.
Well, if she didn’t know her, she would in the next minute. Everyone turned with a start toward the sliding door that opened onto Jellwagger’s balcony. With his apartment on the first level, his balcony was low enough to see the underground parking of the dingbat next door. It was also low enough to the ground that anyone walking by could grab the bottom of the bars and pull themselves up.
That’s exactly what was happening now. They all turned upon the sound of clanging against the bars. Jellwagger jumped up in time to see the outline of someone climbing over the railing. The other dingbat had enough lighted windows that Jellwagger could clearly see that this silhouette belonged to a woman. She stepped up to the sliding door and tried to open it. Jellwagger always kept it locked on the off-chance that an intruder would try this very tactic. But shit, he never thought it would actually happen.
Kit and Connie stood up in slow motion. “Jellwagger?”
“I’m calling the police,” said Connie, pulling out her cell.
“You don’t need to do that!” came the woman’s voice. She tapped her nails on the glass several times. “Jellwagger, open up. Come on, man, it’s cold out here.”
Jellwagger stepped up to the sliding door and pulled the curtain aside to see none other than Stefania standing there. Good God, no wonder she was cold. The hottie wasn’t wearing much more than hot pink floss. He unlocked the sliding door and pulled in open, sucking in a string of drool.Stefania stepped past him and took a quick assessing glance at the other two women before turning back to our lucky boy. “Carla sent me here to fuck, sweetie. Do not give me any shit. Do not be weird. I don’t have the time. And then she’s got other stuff for you to do.”
To be continued...
