I take the drink in my hand. I lick the salt off my wrist, drink it,
squeeze it, squish the lemon rind in my teeth and slam down the shot. I push the bottle in front of Charles.
Your turn.
He goes through the motions
and once he’s finished his drink, drops the shot on the table. I catch it before it can roll off the
side. I reach for the bottle but Charles
protests, holds up his hand as if to say enough is enough. He’s probably right. I sink down in my seat and run my hands cross
my unshaven face. I check my watch and
remember I’m not wearing one.
So God told you that He’s inside your TV.
Correct.
Is He trapped in there or –
I don’t think so.
So why’s He there, man?
Beats me.
He told you?
Not exactly.
Why?
He showed me.
He showed you when?
Not too long after Natasha dumped me …
Unofficially.
Unofficially?
Yah.
Un.
The first time I got
dumped, all it took was a phone call.
The second time I got dumped was at Disneyland. On the Peter Pan ride. The third time I got dumped, she said we
could still be friends – and we were.
Right until the moment she dropped me home. Then I tore her number out of my little black
book, took her picture out of the frame on my night stand, ripped it up and ate
it. Natasha never told me she was
dumping me. Like I was supposed to
figure it out. Like I’m supposed to be
like: Oh. She hasn’t called me in three weeks. I guess she’s dumped me.
Here’s how it
happened. We’re at my apartment, we’ve
just had sex and we’re trying to fall asleep because we both have work
tomorrow. But for some reason, she’s
tossing and turning and hogging the sheets so I turn to her and ask her if she
wants my pillow – like maybe she wanted mine.
Made sense. Normally I sleep with
one pillow, but it made sense to me how some people might need two to get a
good night’s sleep. She turns to me and
tells me she doesn’t know what she wants.
I thought she was talking about the pillow.
Maybe I wasn’t
courteous enough. Maybe I talked too
much. Or maybe it’s because I came and
she didn’t – it doesn’t matter. What I
do know is that while I was sleeping, she dumped me. And ran.
Charles goes to the
fridge for a Pepsi. I turn my head and
strain my neck to see what’s on TV.
Julius. Genesis. The emperor of hardboiled tabloid
journalism. Everybody knows this guy. He started off writing a column for the Times Metro section. Next thing you know he’s this news anchor for
Channel Seven’s evening news. Ratings skyrocket. The pigs cheer. Women adore him, men fashion their lives
after him. Two thousand clones. In royal blue shirts and yellow ties,
marching through intersections with cymbals in their hands.
Flashback two years
ago. Warner Brothers forks over a modest
eight million dollars for him to star in this action flick called No More Mister Nice Guy – a more or less
biographical feature. Up to the point
where Genesis is interviewing the President of the United States and a group of
terrorists take the station hostage.
Then it’s up to Genesis to save the President and kill off the bad guys
one by one. With an uzi. The movie bombed and Genesis returned to
television primetime with his own weekly news program called The Message. Channel Seven put his mug on every billboard
and bus bench in town. You turn a corner
and there he is, staring at you. Blue
eyes, curly blonde hair, bronze tan, and, of course, the infamous Julius
Genesis nose – a glorifying tribute to the aging Roman aesthetic. A triumph for toucans everywhere.
Genesis says a Downtown
warehouse party just got busted. LAPD
show up, gas the joint and take a gang of kids in for inciting a riot. Minor drug charges. Clip of cops batting a sixteen year-old kid
wearing an Elmo backpack. Cut to kids
laughing and giggling. Cut to kids
squeezed into squad cars. Some of them
flip the camera West Side signs. I
wonder if John is in one of those cars.
Charles is nodding
off. I nudge his elbow.
Hey.
Hey, what time is it?
I dunno.
Hey.
What?
Are you drunk?
What?
You never get drunk.
Wrong.
Charles never gets drunk.
Don’t – don’t –
I don’t HAVE to be Charles.
I belch. I’m blitzed.
Charles leans back in his chair and tumbles backwards. His right hand reaches for the carpet to
cushion his fall while his left hand shoots for the table leg in vain. He lands on his head and laughs.
Hey, Justin. I was just thinking –
You’re drunk.
Why one god, man?
Why not?
Cuz the Greeks, man. Those guys – they knew where it was AT,
man. They had a whole bunch of gods
like, up on the mountain. Cuz they
realized, they thought, like, one god is WRONG.
He’s more likely to fuck things up.
But man, you got like a THOUSAND gods up there and each with a
designated job … Now you’re in business.
You just – that’s it, man. And
with a thousand gods and stuff, it’s easier to pass the blame.
Get outta my house.
Naw.
I was just leaving.
Hey.
I didn’t mean it.
Naw, I gotta get home, hit the sack.
Why don’t you crash here?
Frankly, your TV frightens me.
You’re drunk.
And God help any driver who gets in my
way. G’night.
G’night, man.
And when you see me tomorrow, I’ll be a
NEW MAN.
You’re not getting a sex change, are you?
The New Charles flips
me off and stumbles out the door.
Night.
Night.
I turn off the TV and
jerk my body towards the couch, balancing elephants on my head. The closer I get to my destination, the
heavier the elephants get. I lie down on
my stomach, shut my eyes and the elephants are gone. I wonder if Natasha is
awake right now. Right before I pass
out, I hear the TV. It’s on.