This Monkey's Gone to Heaven

Chapter 5, This Monkey's Gone to Heaven

Chapter Five







One week later I was driving in my car, heading west. The radio was blaring Neil Diamond. I think the song was "Rainy Day Woman." I'd had the car tuned up, new plugs and an oil change, so I had renewed faith that it would actually get me to L.A. I was very happy, leaving all my troubles behind. Forty Winks to Heartache and Misfortune, my script, at ninety five pages, finished and professionally typed, was sitting in the seat next to me. God, it was great. I was a free man. The day was bright and sunny and I felt like I was sitting next to a gold mine. If I thought about Beth Ann, which I did, a lot, I thought nice things. I hoped she'd be happy with her new husband for instance. I mean, what could I do? I could do nothing, so why not make it nice, for myself and everybody? She was being nice about it and her parents were, too. In fact, they even offered to pay for my lawyer and I was going to let them. There was nothing to fight about. I didn't want anything we had owned together. She could have it all. I'd get the kids for the summer. That was fine by me, too. I got to keep the dog. He was being shipped down to my folks. They'd take care of him until I got back from L.A. Well, my mom would be taking care of the dog. My dad had moved out. He was living at the Chicken Coop.
Turns out my mom was serious. I thought she was just saying that, bringing up the thing about a divorce just to make me feel better about my own. Apparently, earlier that day my dad had caught Dorothy and Mom in the act. He had followed them to Dorothy's and waited outside the bedroom window. He left the wheelchair in his van and crawled on his belly all the way across the lawn and into the bushes to keep from being noticed. He heard the same thing I did, the poor guy. My mom continued to deny it.
"Can you believe he actually thinks that, Emmett? I mean, it's disgusting. Me with Dorothy? The man's lost his marbles."
I kept it out of my head. I couldn't believe my dad would go through with it, the divorce I mean. It was a scare tactic. It was his way of getting attention. By the time I got back from L.A. I believed things would be smoothed over and he'd be back living at home.
I kept on the interstate and stayed at cheap motels even though I had imagined myself sleeping in the backseat of my car. But how many times does a guy travel cross-country bound for Hollywood? I was going to splurge a little. Beth Ann had even put more money into our joint account. I had nearly two thousand bucks to my name. It was a loan she said. "You'll be rich next month anyway, right?" she said. She must have been feeling guilty for leaving me for the young Mexican. I didn't want to think about it. Nice thoughts, just keep thinking nice thoughts. (Why a Mexican? Of all the nationalities in the world, it had to be a Mexican. And why was I so appalled by it?) Ah, screw it. I'd visit them, go fly down in my private jet. Maybe he and I would become best friends. I'd teach him how to fly. "Easy, easy on the stick, Paco! Come on now." I'd buy him his first plane. "Eemmeett, so nice of chew!" And I'd remind him to check his fuel. Of course, he wouldn't and that would be the end of that.
In western Nebraska I was so bored with myself I started picking up hitchhikers. The first one, he was about eighteen, I'm guessing, a skinny little kid named Tim. I had the feeling I knew him somehow. He seemed so familiar to me, but he kept saying he didn't know me from Adam. Then it struck me. It might sound far-fetched, but at the moment after two sleepless nights I saw him as Jimmy, the character in my script. I couldn't believe it. And their names--Tim, Jim, Timmy, Jimmy--were so similar it gave me goose bumps. I was very excited. I told him about the movie, I told him about everything. I started rambling.
"I don't know if the studios'll let us use amateur actors," I said. "But I'll fight for you to be in it. You're him. I'm telling ya, you're him to a tee."
"Yeah, I don't know. Like I say, I'm not an actor. Story sounds kinda weird, too."
"Weird's what gets you noticed," I beamed.
"Maybe. But I've never done any acting before."
"You're a natural, trust me. When I get to L.A., the first thing I'm going to do is tell my agent. He'll be thrilled."
There was a long pause. He seemed disturbed.
Finally, he said, "If you're so highfalutin, how come you drive such a shitty car?"
"Highfalutin? Who said I was highfalutin? I'm broke. I don't have a penny to my name," I said proudly.
"Well, you talk like you know a lot of celebrities and stuff. And you got an agent and the studios are fighting over your script and you keep saying, 'six figures against a mil'. Six figures, that's like a hundred thousand dollars, isn't it? That's highfalutin to me. I've never known anyone with a hundred thousand dollars."
"Well, it's not like the money's in my bank account, you know what I'm saying. I mean, I'm broke now. But it's looking like those days are over. You should count your lucky stars I picked you up. This is your lucky day, Timmy."
"Tim, my name's Tim." He shot me a look.
I felt like I was losing the guy.
"The character, his name's Jimmy and I just..."
"Yeah, so you keep telling me. And I keep telling you my name's Tim."
"Sorry, man."
"So you keep saying." He seemed agitated. He took a deep breath. "You know, in your story...I don't get why the fat dude killed his wife? He's fat and ugly and he's got a pretty wife, why would he kill her? That's fucked up."
"Oh, I guess I forgot to tell you. Before they moved back to the old farmhouse, they'd been living in Spain. He was training to be a bullfighter. But he was a coward at heart, he knows he's gonna screw up somehow. Sure enough, the first time he steps into the ring to fight a bull with his wife beaming with admiration in the stands, the bull starts charging him, bearing down on him, getting closer and closer, suddenly the fat guy throws down his cape and pulls out a pistol from his jacket, it was hidden in his jacket and he shoots the bull dead. The guy concealed a pistol in his outfit, 'cause he knows he might freak out. You believe that? He shoots the bull. Right in front of his wife, right in front of everybody. There's a moment of silence. Everybody, they're just stunned. Then the crowd goes berserk. They'd never seen anything like that before."
Tim started laughing. "Hey," surprised. "That's pretty funny. And the fat dude, he's dressed in those tights and stuff. Now, that's funny. I like that."
"Well, he wasn't fat at the time. See, they get kicked out of the country, out of Spain, and they have to go move back to this old farm house back in America. It's real shitty, falling apart, infested with vermin, you know, he's nervous, so he starts eating...a lot. And he gains all this weight. His wife, she's lost all respect for the guy for what happened in Spain and he knows it. So, he starts writing and pretending he's making inventions, 'inventions for the future' he calls it, because he's trying to win her back. But the guy's just a dreamer and she feels even more disgusted, because not only is he a coward, now he's a fat buffoon, too. She can only stand it for three months. Finally, one day she comes home and tells him. She tells him she's going to leave him. He can't take it. He loves her, she's the reason he lives. They have an argument. She ridicules him and tells him what she really thinks. He can't believe it. His mind snaps and he kills her. He shoots her with a pistol. He loses his mind and spends several days on top of her as her body decomposes underneath him."
"Dude, that's nasty. Man, that's weird. How could you come up with something like that?"
I pointed to my head and grinned proudly. "Like I say, weird's what gets you noticed. Just look at David Lynch."
"Who's David Lynch?"
We had a short discussion about directors. Of course, he was a Spielberg fan.
"Jurassic Park, man. Now that's a good movie. You know Spielberg? Maybe he could do your movie. That'd be cool. Me acting for Spielberg. Dude, that'd be cool."
We pulled into a truck stop outside of Denver. Tim opened the door. He hesitated, then turned to look at me.
He said, "Dude, I've been thinking about it. That story you wrote, it could be your life story, what you've told me, anyway. You know, I mean, here you are, you're a big guy, you're a wannabe writer...You're kind of a scaredy-cat...I mean, them flying stories you told me, you get freaked out pretty easy it seems to me and just look, how many wives have you had that have left you. Two, three? I mean, that's your life in a nutshell, ain't it?"
"Well, that's crazy. I've never killed any of them." Somehow I was offended that he saw a correlation.
"Shit, I'm just saying, don't get mad. There seem to be...you know, things the same in both. You know? Anyway, you got my number. Tell Spielberg Tim Jones says 'Hey'". I heard him snicker as he shut the door. He walked across the parking lot, laughing, the bony ingrate. Somehow I couldn't see myself on set with this guy for two months straight. He had an attitude problem. My enthusiasm for him was starting to wane. Who did he think he was anyway?
As I started to leave the parking lot, I noticed a young couple standing there with backpacks. They were looking directly at me and the guy kept pushing at his girlfriend's shoulder, trying to get her to go my way, but she was hesitant. They seemed friendly enough, so I drove right up to them, told them I was heading west and asked if they wanted a ride. As they tossed their backpacks into the trunk, I promised myself I'd keep quiet and keep the visions of my future to myself for once.