| on his couch, in his living room, in his apartment |
[18 Nov 2003|12:02am] |
I'm not going to go, Astin tells himself. Nope. No doing. It'll be just like last time. And the time before that. Not going to fucking pretend to socialize, not going to stand around, hold a drink, and stare at the leaves floating in the pool while porn stars (who would probably rather fuck each other in said pool with the floating leaves) chat beside him. Not exactly beside him, though, because they usually move away quickly when they realize that he's just staring at the pool and has nothing to say in the matter of contacts or real jobs outside of The Business. So he's left there with his drink and his baseball cap still on, wishing he were back at home tinkering with his cameras.
They all dress up for the parties. Astin never dresses up. In fact, he refuses.
So he sits on his couch, in his living room, in his apartment. He drinks orange juice, rubs his hands together, runs his hands through his hair, and says fuck the party. Fuck them all.
He glances at the telephone and wonders why the hospital hasn't called him yet. He wonders why he hasn't heard Betty-Anne's or Mary-Sue's voice on the phone to tell him that his mom's quite all right, Mr. Astin, she's resting, she's had her medication, don't worry, and Mr. Astin? Please stop calling us. Why don't you go to the party like a big boy?
Because Astin doesn't party, Astin doesn't want to party, Astin doesn't fucking need a party.
What he needs is a drink besides orange juice.
There's alcohol at the party.
Fuck the party.
Johnny told him to be there, come on, Astin, please, for me, come on.
Fuck Johnny.
When's the last time you left the house for anything but work?
...Fuck you.
Go.
I.
Sean. Go.
It takes a few tries, mainly because the material has all but melded to his body, but Astin rises from his couch. He exits his living room, and after a moment of deliberation, he leaves his baseball cap in his apartment.
He unplugs the answering machine before he goes.
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| answering machine: |
[17 Nov 2003|11:37pm] |
you have... one... new message
playing message...
november seventeenth two thousand and three... eleven thirty-seven pm
beep
Bro! Bro. You there? Pick up the fucking phone.
No? Okay, well here's a joke, stop me if you've heard it.
I won the lottery.
*chuckles*
Sorry, couldn't resist.
Hey, um. Seriously, though. I heard about mom. I, uh. I don't think I'll be able to come down to see her this time. Shooting that pilot I told you about, remember? It's going great, man, just wait until you see it. So far it's not much of a part for me, but Sylvia says that if the pilot makes it through, I'll be swinging, man. The money will be rolling in! Hey, I might even get to pay you back sooner than I thought.
So. Just give mom my love. And, hey, look. Don't worry. I know you worry about every fucking little thing, but it'll be cool. We've been through this. You've been through this. Things get better. They always do. She'll be back to her old self in no time.
Yeah. Well.
Call me back, okay? You never do.
Funny. Sometimes I forget I have a brother. Crazy, huh? I know, I know. Sometimes I forget I have a brain, too. I know you were thinking that.
And, hey. Sometimes I don't think I say this enough. But.
I love you, man.
click
message deleted
you have... no... new messages
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[29 Sep 2003|10:03am] |
I don't dream a lot. When I do, though, it's usually in black and white. I can stop, rewind, re-play, pause, fast forward. I'm the director of my dreams. Just me.
Last night I had a dream, but I can't remember exactly what it was about. It was composed mostly of reds and yellows. Glowing, swirling, reaching out. I tried to rewind it at one point, because I thought I missed something. I couldn't. It was like tripping on a flight of steps, like I did when I was young, and unable to do anything but let yourself fall.
I bet that means something incredibly deep and insightful. All I know is that I was pretty fucked up about the whole thing. The one thing you'd think you could control suddenly taken away from you.
I'm wearing all blue today. My favorite red hat isn't even going to be worn for a while.
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[29 Aug 2003|10:09am] |
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I couldn't sleep last night. Mars was staring at me through my window.
Stepped outside and stood there outside the door of my apartment. There was no air, no air at all, and a couple times I thought I had stopped breathing. But it was better than being inside, even though there was air conditioning and some special on Egyptian gods that I've seen bits and pieces of but I've never actually seen the whole thing in one sitting.
Sometimes I wish I were in Ancient Egypt. Only they didn't have film back then. I could have been one of the men who made the pyramids. Some experts say that they weren't slaves, after all. They were hired to do it. They wanted to do it. I would have done it.
There's a young couple that lives next to me. Fuck you, she screams at least twenty times a night. Cunt, he calls her at least forty. But standing outside, I could nonetheless hear the sound of their bed frame smacking into the wall. Gaining strength, gaining momentum. Blocks being put atop of blocks.
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| answering machine : |
[24 Aug 2003|09:17pm] |
you have... one... new message
playing message...
august twenty-fifth two thousand and three... eight fifty-two pm
beep
Hey, bro! Mack, here. Oh, man, you are a fucking savior. I'll pay you back, I swear. It's just, you know, kinda tight at the moment, 'cause of the film eating itself and everything. But the agent (got a new one, did I tell you?) says that she'll be able to pull some strings, and... well, we'll see, I guess.
*laughter and clinking glasses in the background*
Hey, save some for me, guys! *chuckles*
So, anyway. Just wanted to drop a note, say you're the best older brother on the planet, if you ever need a kidney, man, I've got your back, and we should totally get together. Soon! Maybe when I'm in town. Don't know when, but, hey. You know what it's like... life's a bitch, right?
*woman's teasing voice:* Ma-ack...
Fuck, I gotta go, man. We're gonna paaartaaay! You know the drill. I bet there's all kindsa crazy shit that you have to put up with, you dog, you... all of those gorgeous women hanging all over you... how the hell you manage to work is beyond me, ha.
Hey, um. Before I go. Do you think you could send me a little more help? I just had to move, and the rent is fucking killer. Just a little more to help keep me on my feet. You know I'll pay you back once I've got things rolling, and...
*again:* MACK!
Okay, okay! Fuck, I'm on the phone.
So, er, yeah. Say 'hi' to mom for me, okay? Talk to you later, bro!
click
message deleted...
you have... no... new messages.
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| {random bit} |
[19 Aug 2003|08:34pm] |
- several hours after this</i> -
Even before his eyelashes are able to become unstuck and separate, Astin can see the little red light blink... blink... blink on the very tip of his answering machine. His alarm (set to seven-thirty on the dot) hasn't gone off yet, but that's not exactly the point, because he's awake for some odd reason, and his light is blinking, and who the hell would...?
Of course it's Johnny. There hadn't been a message at one in the middle of the night (morning?) when Astin had gone to bed, and his family (really the only people who happen to have his number) certainly wouldn't call him that late (early?) unless there was an emergency. Would they even call him if there was an emergency? He's not sure. He wouldn't call himself if there was an emergency.
He listens to Johnny's sex-tainted, smoke dripping voice. Listens to his pauses, his soft chuckles, the sound of promise that can never really be fulfilled, but hey, you can't be picky this day and age, can you? No. Beep, end of message. Astin's fingers creep forward over his pillow without being told to do so, and press the 'replay' button. Johnny's voice, exactly the same before, fills the semi-dark bedroom. "Good night," Johnny says, and Astin smiles. Just a little.
His eyelids slip closed, fuse together once more, and he falls back asleep to the sound of Johnny breathing.
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[15 Aug 2003|12:33pm] |
| [ |
mood |
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 okay |
] |
There's an old man who has been sitting in front of my apartment building since before I moved in here six or seven years ago. He sits on the curb next to the rusted bus sign in a ragged, mangy suit that twenty years ago would have been the cutting edge in fashion. He sits there rain or shine, scanning the street and the passerby. I've never seen him leave. Though, yeah, I'm sure he does. He's got to eat, after all. But where does he get the money? No one really knows.
I wake up in the morning, step outside, and there he is. I come home in the evening, and there he is. No one knows his name or where he comes from. People pretend he's part of the decor. He doesn't beg. Sometimes he'll mutter to himself. When I walk past him, trying to keep my eyes on the ground or my building nearby, I think for a split second that he's talking to me. Like when you're in public and someone calls a name that sounds almost like yours, and you turn around, expecting someone to be walking up to you, but it wasn't and they don't and it's not.
Last night when I was coming home from work (my neck aching from being bent over a camera all day long, working nonstop, and even when Johnny said, hey, man, let's go get something to eat, I pretended I didn't hear him, because there was so much to do, so much work for the new film, and if no one does it, then nothing will ever get done, and fuck, Johnny, get your head out of your ass), I stepped around his outstretched legs, his feet covered with scuffed and filthy shoes that at one point matched his suit, when something brushed my wrist. Fingers, gnarled and twisted. I turned, almost tripping over my own feet, and there. There he was. The old man, looking up at me, right at me, his eyes yellow rather than white, pupils mud colored rather than black. My feet wouldn't move. We stared at each other. I could hear his raspy breathing.
"I see you," he whispered, looking directly at me.
I stammered a 'w-what?', my arms breaking out into goosebumps, but he had already looked away. Already turned his head, scanning the empty, dark street. Waiting for his bus or his ride that was supposed to pick him up ten years ago but never showed up.
I don't know why, exactly, but I smiled at that old bastard over my shoulder as I walked away. For a split second, he looked at me. He looked right through me and saw something on the other side.
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[11 Aug 2003|12:42am] |
| [ |
mood |
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 melancholy |
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It's just now turning dark. The party won't be over for hours to come. The pool water will still be warm from the heat of the sun, and the guests will drink champagne while lounging with their feet hanging over the edge and splish-splashing. Clink, clink, let's have a toast!, they'll insist, and Johnny will stand up, stand tall, whilst people whistle and give catcalls. John-ny, John-ny! He'll say something devious and fun and Johnny-like. The opium talking, or the alcohol? A mixture of the two, perhaps.
Johnny will feed his guests orange halves, dripping with juice, fresh from his own groves while music drones on in the background. In one of the guest rooms there will be three or four people getting it on, and when they pass out from sheer exhaustion, Johnny won't have the heart to make them go home. The more, the merrier!, he will say, and he'll probably even take them to breakfast in the morning. Somewhere dark where the bags under their eyes will not show, and no one will bother to ask questions.
I listened to the message he left hours ago. And then I listened again. Astin, baby, where are you? Astin, man, you're missing all the fun. Astin. Come on.
It's amazing how much of the world you miss when you don't pay attention to it whizzing past your face. I spent the last three hours watching the History Channel: where the past comes alive. One hundred and eighty-two years ago, Missouri became a state. One hundred and fifty-seven years ago, the Smithsonian Institute was created. I haven't been to either. Missouri's the 'show me' state. What a claim to fame.
It's dark. The tiki torches will be lit. The men will slip out of their wet swimming trunks, and the women will wrap themselves in their sarongs. Those who are staying longer will return inside for a smoke or a puff or a gulp or a fuck. Maybe all four.
Johnny's voice whispers in my ear along with the crackle of static. He tells me that he knows I'm listening, he sighs when he knows I will not pick up, and then, finally, click. But it happens only after the series of cheerful and carefree voices asking, Johnny, honey, who're you talking to? Come on, you're missing all the fun...
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[08 Aug 2003|01:21pm] |
| [ |
mood |
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pessimistic |
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The mirror is cool against his flushed forehead. He leans forward, pressing his skull against the glass, hard, harder, until the sharp bam, bam, bam of pain behind his eyeballs dulls ever so slightly. Breathe. In. Out.
Okay. That's better.
Pulling away little by little, he opens his eyes slightly, blinking at himself. His reflection (fuck, does he look horrible or what?) blinks back at him. His white-knuckled grip on the sink relaxes. The grimace tugging at his lips twitches and slides away as his head falls forward, hanging by a thread. Sigh.
"Don't stress, he says," he grumbles, fingers fumbling for the taps. Cold water runs and splashes. "Everything'll be great, he says... fucking Johnny..."
All of the paper towels are gone, so he wipes his face and hands with his t-shirt. The baseball cap gets stuffed over his hair once more. There's a red splotch on his forehead and a grease smudge on the glass. He pulls his hat down further over his eyes, hiding most of the angry, red mark, and rubs noncommittally at the smudge. It spreads, and doesn't disappear. It'll probably be there for weeks. Months, maybe. Yeah.
"Astin? You in there?" Knock, knock, knock.
Yeah, he thinks, giving his reflection one last frown before turning on his heels and walking away. Great.
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[06 Aug 2003|01:58pm] |
I ran out of extra strength Tylenol this afternoon, there's three set-ups left to shoot, not to mention the fact that the lead boom operator has some sort of Malaysian stomach flu, so the rest of us have to cope, and jesus christ, Johnny's been in and out of the bathroom all damn day, and I know damn well that no single man can piss that often without dying of dehydration.
I can't work under these conditions.
Oh, who the hell am I kidding...
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