I’m a son of a bitch, says Miller. That’s great video.
Huck turns to get a shot of the monkey.
It’s a Disney moment, I think. Everyone loves God’s noble creatures.
The monkey screams and leaps away as Daphne’s head comes splashing through the Mustang’s passenger side rear window with a rain of sparkling glass. It seems like it takes forever for the glass to stop falling and Daphne’s head flops hard against the side of the car.
Thrilled. I can see by Miller’s face that he’s weirdly thrilled, and so am I.
But I need to be angry. I prepare to improvise. Daphne’s head is bleeding but I don’t move. Huck is coming around the car to get a close-up of Daphne through the broken window but then he is distracted by me. He zooms on my face. He wants a shot of my reaction.
What is my reaction?
Vaguely horrified, now. I scroll through my consciousness and there is little else. Detached spontaneous compassion, perhaps. The thrill is gone. I pollute my lungs with smoke and contemplate how my behavior is affected by the presence of the camera, how I am holding the cigarette the way I imagine James Dean might hold it, if he were hungover. But upon reflection I decide I am more interested in Casper the monkey than Daphne’s bleeding head. Daphne’s not going to die and anyway she agreed to this shit, yeah. But head wounds are tricky. The blood is running freely down her neck and her hair is thick with it and she will probably need stitches but I have a feeling it’s just a minor laceration.
Anyway.
Huck cuts away from me, to the interior of the car. Miller stands behind me, cursing.
Did you see the monkey? says Jeremy.
Daphne touches the back of her head and her hand comes away red.
Did you? he says.
Daphne scrambles into a ball against the rear door, away from him. She makes herself as small as possible. Jeremy hops out of the driver’s side, humming to himself. He is naked and evidently pleased with himself. He comes around to the front of the Mustang and peers closely at the hood.
Monkey footprints, he says. How fucking cool is that?
He cocks his right hand into an imaginary gun and fires several shots into the sky, then raises both hands over his head. He does a manic little dance and stops suddenly, his face shining.
Children everywhere will weep tonight, he cries. For Curious George must die.
Jeremy shrugs happily and cruises around to the passenger side. Huck backs away from him. Jeremy opens the rear door and extends a gallant hand. Daphne hesitates, then allows him help her out. By now she has pulled on a pair of black silk pants and she stands in the driveway in black pants and bra, the blood still wet on her face and shoulders.
Daphne is obviously confused. What with loss of blood and so forth.
I glance at Miller, who stares at the sky as if he despises the sun.
Thanks, says Daphne.
No worries, says Jeremy.
He stands there, nodding. Then turns and begins to knock the remaining shards of glass from the broken window frame. He glances at Daphne.
You might want to go inside, he says. You’re bleeding pretty good.
Daphne stares at him. You’re a fucking psycho.
Jeremy smiles, pleased. Have a nice day, he says.
Daphne hurries up the steps and now my humanity kicks in and I have half a mind to ask if she’s okay, if she wants me to look at that head wound, but according to Jeremy’s brief instructions, Poe had too much to drink last night and it’s got him in a bad mood, so he must leer at her instead.
I barely notice that Miller has stepped into the shadows.
Daphne’s breasts are fantastic. Unreal, but fantastic. The red bra barely contains them and she is so skinny that her belly is concave. Daphne doesn’t look so healthy, when I think about it. Daphne looks like a starved junkie with a boob job. She looks like your average Hollywood actress. It may be inappropriate but I can’t help remembering that hypnotic massage she dropped on me at the Paradise.
Despair, alienation. Loneliness and hatred, oh boy.
There were visible threads of each of these between us but still she had the hands and mouth of a fallen angel. In that brief moment before I punked out, Daphne was divine. She could have turned my friends into pigs. But a hired blowjob is no way to start a friendship and now Daphne brushes past me, slamming the door. I finish my coffee and wait for Jeremy, who is whistling as he removes a pair of jeans from the trunk of the Mustang. I watch as he hops around the driveway, pulling his pants on over skinny legs.
He approaches me, now.
Big brother, he says. How goes?
Uh-huh. When did you get out? I say.
Yesterday. He stands on the bottom step, grinning at me.
That’s a nice car.
Umm, he says. It’s stolen.
Bad luck about the window.
Tragic, he says. Fucking tragic.
Who’s the girl?
Whore, he says. Asian, isn’t she. There’s nothing like yellow pussy in my book.
Sure, I say.
Anyway, he says. She doesn’t speak English. Don’t pay her any mind.
I just heard her call you a psycho, I say. In perfectly good English.
That’s strange, he says.
It irritates me to realize that this scene isn’t half bad. And the monkey carried it.
You can’t stay here, I say.
Why not?
I shrug, tired of the conversation. It’s not safe.
Jeremy grins. Did you see the monkey?
Jingle, jangle.
Miller steps out of the shadows, coins jingling in his left fist, and Jeremy stops laughing as if his cord were yanked from the wall. He peers up at Miller like a kid sweating for approval, glowing and nervous at once. Miller wipes at his mouth and I see that he’s drooling slightly, he’s losing his cool and he’s losing it in a slow, dangerous boil. His eyes seem to shrink and the white trickle of drool reappears at the corner of his mouth. His face turns gray and cloudy and a single vein stands out in his forehead.
Jeremy looks nervous.
But not nervous enough, I think. He stands too close to Miller, smiling now and puffing out his chest stupidly.
You nasty boy, says Miller. You nasty little pup.
Take it easy, says Jeremy. Take a pill. You’re going to pop a blood vessel.
Easy, says Miller.
What did you think? says Jeremy, softly.
Miller stares at him, his jaw bulging. I think we have a failure to communicate.
But the scene, says Jeremy. What about the scene?
The scene, says Miller. The scene was ill-advised.
I’m trying to help, says Jeremy. I thought another character or two would add depth, man.
Miller is spitting, now. This is my project, my fucking project.
Jeremy frowns. Phineas said it was okay with him.
Oh, is that right?
I shrug and smile and say nothing, looking from one to the other. I wouldn’t mind seeing Miller throw a massive hissy fit, personally. I think I would enjoy it quite a lot. I also think it would be best to push his buttons carefully.
Don’t get waxy, says Jeremy.
Miller smiles, a horrible gray smile. There is a long, shimmering silence. I light another cigarette and wonder if I should say something to ease the tension, or something to aggravate it.
I loved the monkey, I say. That was a nice touch.
It was a pure moment, says Jeremy. And purely coincidental.
That monkey saved your life today, says Miller. He turns and walks inside.
Jeremy looks at me. What did you think?
It was a hell of a nice scene, I say. But apparently not appreciated.
Yeah, he says. The old man is mental.
Maybe. But I would be careful with him.
Jeremy shrugs. It’s boring to be careful all the time.
He strolls inside, humming. I flick my cigarette and follow, slowly. Huck with the camera is a shadow behind us. The wheels are turning in my head. Miller is vulnerable. Daphne is stretched out on the stainless steel island in the kitchen under bright, white lights. Jude crouches over her. She is sewing up the cuts in Daphne’s head and face with black thread. Daphne has a big loopy smile on her face.