"For years he had lain in bed watching movies, immersed in a series of two-dimensional worlds that he chose himself and totally controlled.He ran his favorites over and over, the sound turned up to accommodate his impaired hearing, the dialogue booming and reverberating in the darkened room. He had run his No. 1 choice, Ice Station Zebra, more than 150 times, until his functionaries knew the entire sound track by heart."As we sat there in the dark, the prison searchlight hit me from behind, warming my ears and neck, turning the baby hairs white, exposing me. I know she recognized the same traits in me. She's seen me stay inside for days, naked, unshaved, avoiding phone calls and tiptoeing around when there's a knock on the door. Not because I'm a recluse, just because I don't want anyone to see me this way if I'm not showered and ready yet. And like I said before, I get a little quiet and shy. It's peaceful when you're alone. Intrusions are painful.
She's come home from the night shift and found the telltale towels I've sometimes forgotten to remove from the windows before she returned. Not because I'm paranoid. Just so anybody who passes by can't see me whacking off. Like the neighbors, or in case a friend of mine comes by, or one of my enemies to check out my house and spy on me. Or worse, use the opportunity to pull out the digital camera and humiliate me on the net and in my industry, for the rest of my life.
She's seen me chant the same phrase over and over, and has a name for it. She's witnessed me listen to the same song, watch the same movie, even rewinding and replaying 10 seconds of one, over and over for hours. Not because I'm obsessive, it just sounds good. Look at techno music, for example.
She's seen my jars of urine in my storage unit. Not because I'm crazy, just because I get distracted and end up in there for hours and there's no restroom there; also the urine might be useful somehow, like pour it in the mail slot of one of my enemies or someone who's fucked me over.
And when he crashes the plane on its test flight and winds up with the scars on his face and the bridge of his nose, she had to be thinking it was way too similar to my scars across my face and the bridge of my nose, from my crash of my own Millenium Falcon. Anybody who knows me would watch that scene and think "You know who this crazy fuck reminds me exactly of?" And that's where the beginning of the end gets its foot in the door.
Likewise, she's seen my genius. And my persistence. And my sometimes-successes. Even when the rest of the world said I was wrong, I turned out to be right. That's how I made my money.
Why does this matter? Because I know how her mind works. I'm sure I'll lose her. Someday she'll have had enough, or she'll see me going crazier and crazier, or who knows what, and she'll leave. And then I'll really be fucked.
I know I'm right about that last bit - that I'll be fucked without her. In fact, I just found a quote about it from Hughes himself: "Every man has his price, or a guy like me couldn't exist."
Problem is, I'm not a billionaire, or even a millionaire. I can't exist without her. I think I'd barely get by. I'd stay employed but not for long. I'd come in later and later after whacking off all morning, until they got sick of it. Sooner or later (always later) I'd get another job when I was out of money, but I do get the feeling that I might slip past even that if I were really alone. I might become so timid that by the time I was ready to get a job, it'd be too late, and I'd come home to find the locks changed and then I'd REALLY be fucked. Once my spirits were that low I'd end up homeless for sure, and once I was homeless it would be pretty dicey to bet on me pulling myself up out of it.
I better get on the program. I need to get my act together, build up some self-discipline, a routine, and some new habits, for another shot at it.
I'm 35, soon I'll be 40. And then I'll really be bitter if I haven't made some real money. What happened to my youth? I'm pissed I didn't bang more 20-somethings. They're so goddamn delectable. I feel like 22 year olds are unavailable to me now, like they think of themselves as kids and of me as an old man. What the fuck happened? Where was I? Oh yeah, working for chump change at something I enjoyed. I was learning, networking. Only I didn't use it right. Assholes I know who were my age, now they all have houses and nicer toys than I do. And I'm far smarter than they are.
If I end up an old man with completely unrealized potential I'll be unswallowably bitter. I'll never be able to get my arms around it. So I need to get it straightened out and make my fortune now, so I can coast and go nuts peacefully, rather than broke and bitter.
Anyway. Here goes nothing.
~
I need to get some medication, so I can think straight. I have all these thoughts and ideas and inventions elbowing their way to the front of my consciousness. I know there's something weird about the way my mind works.
One time, late at night driving in the canyons this side of Malibu, I came upon one of the outdoor sets where Lost Souls was being filmed. The set wasn't busy, and I found the craft services table was unguarded.
All the sausages and bacon were cold as a corpse and I knew they were going to go to waste, so I proceeded to stuff the pockets of my jeans and my jacket full of them, walked back to the car, and continued on my way. I knew the dogs would love it, and I was hungry myself. You really can't eat very much cold sausage and bacon though, before the congealed grease coats the roof of your mouth and throat; it's rather sickening. Anyway, I know that's probably considered weird. But what did I care? On paper it made sense.Anyway, that was just a testament to how weird my mind must be. At least compared to everyone else. But my point is - as I just inadvertantly proved - that I can barely keep a train of thought going. They say that stimulants like Ritalin calm some people down, which clears up their thought processes and makes them act less like a meth fiend. Maybe it would work on me; it seems to me that there is something similar between a crank user and someone who is a tweeker biologically.
For example, one afternoon I was at my friend's shop where he stores and works on his race cars, working on something of my own, and I started cleaning my car out. Naturally, I got a plastic grocery store bag (I usually have a stash of them in the car) and made it my trash bag. Then I got another bag for recyclable trash. And another for the little stuff floating around my car I didn't want to throw away: CD cases, a small red vinyl case containing a micrometer, a pair of pliers, an extra cell phone battery, etc. Then I got another bag for papers and business stuff that had gotten loose and slid around, mixing with all the other clutter. Then another bag just for the three bottles of motor oil I found. Since the motor oil was at hand and I knew I was a quart low, I popped the hood and topped up the engine.
My friend's buddy (race cars are magnets for a peanut gallery) laughed, without malice. "You're just like a tweeker!" "What?" I feigned ignorance mixed with a difference of opinion, but I knew he was right. I wasn't going to admit to it, and I wanted to learn more about how the aberrant mind works - and why it was so easy for this barely-literate ex-con to see through me.
"You know how a tweeker is."
"No. How?"
"You know. They start cleaning their car, then they go in the house and get distracted and start doing something else. They get ten different things going at once and they don't finish anything. Their car is still sitting out front with the door open and stereo on. Fuckin' tweekers."
I turn and look at my car, with hatchback, both doors, and the hood open. The stereo is on, but quietly.
I laugh and agree that tweekers are a problem, I just have a lot of shit in my car, et cetera,
et cetera,
et cetera.
Anyway, like I said: Here goes nothing.
I hope not literally.
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