Brief Pose by Wesley McCraw
Victor nods, a tear running down his cheek. How many people did Loo help before I killed her?
A COUGH from the audience brings me back to the present.
“I wanted control, and when you have other people in your life, you have to relinquish some of that control. After my first term in college, I came home for Christmas. My parents were shopaholics; they were pretty far in debt. Maxed out credit cards. Anyway, they fell in front of a subway train. My dad died right there, and my mom, she passed away in the hospital. It damaged me. It was so fucking meaningless. It destroyed everything: I had to drop out of college. My friendships fell apart. After that, I didn't want to build a life if that life could die again. I stayed numb, even if that numbness was slowly killing me. But Loo wouldn't accept that. She forced me to face my issues. And so I killed her.”
The crowd gasps, but I’m not sure they believe me. Maybe some of them think I’m joking.
“I killed Loo. I followed her after she left my apartment and pushed her in front of a car.”
Two police officers come down each isle and converge on the pulpit.
I raise my hands in surrender and lean into the microphone. “My parents. Their death ruined me. Don't let Loo's death ruin you.”
16.2
INT. POLICE CRUISER - DAY - TRAVELING
Yuki and I ride in the back on hard-plastic seats with little leg room, both handcuffed. Her cuffs look tighter than mine, though; they dig into her wrists. If this were a movie, outside would probably be created using a green screen. It’s cheaper and less complicated than filming in an actual moving car.
Clear Plexiglas divides the front from and back seats. I want to tell the cop that Yuki’s cuffs are too tight but repeat to myself that she isn’t real. My thoughts are the enemy. I’m going to prison, maybe for the rest of my life. If I panic, who knows what will become of my reality. Yuki might only be the beginning of my delusions.
“Listen to me,” she says. “You can escape this.”
“Shut up.”
I need to be punished. If I don’t face reality, there will be nothing left of me.
“You can go to paradise. All you have to do is think of the catalog, and I will take you there.”
“Stop it! It's over. I'll never see another BP catalog again.”
16.3
INT. INTERROGATION ROOM – DAY
SMASH CUT to the BP catalogs dumping out of a box onto a table. Most are the Spring Break issue, with Dan on the cover, but some are from the previous Back-To-School season. If I close my eyes, I could look through them without lifting a finger. I could picture ever expression, ever curve and every line of every perfect body.
A barrel-chested MALE DETECTIVE drops the empty box onto the floor, rolls up his sleeves, and reveals especially hairy arms. The stern FEMALE DETECTIVE stands near the door, clutching the doorknob.
Yuki has finally left me alone with them.
“These were all over your apartment.” He jabs the catalogs a few times with his index finger.
“They're Brief Pose catalogs,” I say.
“We know what they are,” the female detective says with a harsh edge. “What we don't know is why you have so many of them.”
“What do you want me to say?”
The male detective takes out an audio recorder from his breast pocket and plays the message I left on Loo’s phone: “Actually, a lot of pages. I didn't want you to see how pathetic I am. That's why I didn't let you in. And that's why you're dead. So now you know.”
“All you have to do is explain your message.” The female crosses her arms.
The male detective takes a catalog off the table. “It's a neat catalog.”
“If you say so.”
As he flips through the pages, someone sobs in the distance. It must be a guy in an interrogation room next to mine.
“You know what I always think when I'm looking at these things?”
I shake my head.
Reflected in the one-way mirror, but not in the actual room, Loo drips with water. She’s not real, but I’m glad to see her anyway. She has always been on my side, even as a ghost; I just need to let her help me.
He continues. “I wish I was that close with my friends. Damn, everyone is so hot too. Look at this girl here.” He purses his lips. “I bet she wouldn't say no. Is that what upset you? Did Loo say no?”
He thinks that I’m some kind of monster. I glare at him and keep my mouth shut.
He slams the catalog across my face.
Brain rattled, I put my hand to my bleeding lip. My eyes water.
“You're going to pay for what you did to Marty's little girl.”
I look to his partner for help, but she has already left the room.
The Male Detective comes around the table. I stand, knocking over my chair, and back away with my hands up.
“I’ve already confessed!”
He punches my stomach, and I double over, wheezing.
He slugs my face, knocking me to the floor. Before I fully understand what’s happening, he kicks my stomach.
I roll onto my back. He gives me time to catch my breath. The floor smells of cleaning chemicals. Water collects on the ceiling like there’s a broken pipe. The distant, male sobbing gets louder. The water drips onto the catalogs in the box. I notice there is a catalog on the floor close by.
I try to reach it but get kicked again.
I clutch my arms over the pain in my abdomen. If I could get to the catalog, I could escape. I reach out again, exposing my stomach to another blow.
“Face reality,” Loo says.
“What do you want from me?” I cry out.
“Why did you kill her?” the detective says, thinking I’m talking to him.
Loo kneels and whispers in my ear, “I want you to face the real world and not try to escape.”
“I have nothing left. Just let me go.” The catalog is a foot away.
I get up on all fours. He kicks me down again.
“Life is hard,” she says. “But that doesn't mean it’s not worth living. My life was worth something. For part of it, I was using it to help you.”
She doesn’t need worry; I can’t get to the catalog anyway. The detective won’t let me. But then he squats, picks up the catalog, and hands it to me. “Look at it. Tell me what it means.”
I look to Loo for her permission. She’d forgive me if I escaped, but I don’t want to disappoint her again. I clutch the catalog to my chest. This is my way out. I can picture the fantasy and fall into the arms of a community of lovers. Or I can go to prison. Yuki said it was an easy choice.
“It means escape.” I don’t expect him to understand, and it would be too hard to explain.
He glares down at me with loathing.
I hold the catalog out to him. “If you want me to go to prison, you have to get these catalogs as far away from me as possible.” He doesn’t take it, and so I stand and toss it back into the box.
“You don’t like the catalogs anymore? But I thought you couldn’t get enough.”
I shake my head as pain blooms and throbs across my torso. My legs give out and I collapse.
No one comes to my aid. I’m too weak to move. The side of my face presses into grit. They’ll have to carry me out or let me recover right here on the sandy floor. When was the last time they swept this place? Sand sticks to my hands and cheek.
“You hear that?” The detective sounds confused. “I hear the ocean. I can smell it. Do you smell that? I used to visit the beach with my parents when I was a kid. It smelled just like this.”
I look up. The walls of the interrogation room are fading. I can see blue sky. No! I don’t want this!
“You need to get the catalogs away from me!” I plead. “They’re making me hallucinate.”
The walls transition into the IMAGINARY TROPICAL BEACH. Loo stands in the ocean a good distance away, the water up to her waist. The water current is pulling her out to sea. She reaches for me, but it’s too late. Fantasy has
It’s not your fault, Loo. This is my failure. You did everything you could. The water pulls her under.
“It's so beautiful,” the detective says. “Where are we?”
Models, in various stages of undress, MATERIALIZE around us. I push myself up on my hands and knees in the sand.
Dan goes to the detective and starts unbuttoning the detective’s shirt.
“My! You’re friendly, aren’t you?” He seems amused and befuddled. “Who are they?”
“The only friends I have left.”
“You know these people?”
I muster my strength and stand back up, feeling steadier this time, but still nauseous. The pain in my torso is quickly fading. “I'm having a nervous breakdown.” I brush sand off my knees.
“And I'm along for the ride?” The detective grins and pulls off his undershirt, revealing his hairy chest and six-pack.
I roll my eyes. Apparently, I had to make even the detective a sex object.
“You are the ride,” I say. “No one can see my delusions except me. You’re part of this. You’re not real. Just like Yuki.”
The detective points his gun at my chest.
Dan steps back, surprised that the detective would want to hurt someone in paradise.
“Start making sense! What have you done to me? What’s happening?”
I step toward him so that the gun barrel presses against my breast pocket.
“If you were real, you wouldn't be able to see all this. Like I said, you're a hallucination, the same as Yuki. The same as these models and this place. The only thing I’m trying to figure out is when did I escape into fantasy? Was it when I got arrested?”
“You’re crazy.”
“I know. That’s what I’m saying. I convinced myself that I kill Loo. Her death was an accident.” The police were never waiting for me at her funeral. It was all a trick to get myself to escape to avoid Loo’s real funeral. “I never gave Victor directions.”
“Who's Victor? What are you talking about?”
“You can stop now. I’m not fooled anymore.” My suspension of disbelief has been spoiled. Now it all feels like a game of pretend. A police interrogation? It’s ridiculous. My life isn’t some melodramatic detective show. The only mystery is how I’m gonna live with my depression without losing my mind. “It's over.” If I stop playing along, I’m sure I’ll snap out of it. “I still need to call Victor so he can pick me up.”
The detective is now Victor in his smart suit. He still presses the gun against my chest. “You have me. I was there for you. Why do you need the other Victor? He doesn’t even care about you.”
“Because the other Victor is real and you’re not.”
Victor is now Yuki. “So it's that simple?”
Before I have a chance to answer, she SHOOTS me point blank in the chest.
Wow. That’s startling. I didn’t expect that. I look down.
Blood soaks my dress shirt. Yuki, my ideal soul-mate, just shot me. I don’t feel anything. In real life, I often don’t feel anything emotionally, but I’m sure I’d feel a gunshot wound. Or would I? Maybe I’m in shock. Maybe the pain comes later.
My head swims. “You already inflicted a worse injury when I found out you didn’t exist.” Of course, I would imagine her shooting me in the heart. “I loved you, but yeah, it is that simple.”
My loveseat, my bed, the workout bench, my cell phone, it all manifests in the sand around me.
The beach takes its time leaving, but eventually it TRANSITIONS back into my apartment. Yuki FADES AWAY as my imaginary wounds DISAPPEAR. The box of catalogs is on the floor, in my apartment, not in an interrogation room. Bit by bit the special effects budget is rising for my little indie drama. Maybe I can get Michel Gondry to direct.
I take a moment. I need time to feel solid. I hear traffic down on the street. On my walls, the images in the catalog pages thankfully stay still. The clock keeps ticking.
I snatch up my phone and call Victor. There’s still time.
“Hi, it's me. Sorry, I would've called sooner, but some stuff came up. Do you have a pen? The directions are pretty simple. Oh. Sure, that will work. See you soon.”
I text him my address, so he doesn’t need to write anything down. I feel like an idiot.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Dark Night of the Soul
17.1
Dressed in my black suit, I throw the box of catalogs into the dumpster outside my apartment. I don’t know for sure if the catalogs are to blame, or if it’s all me, I’m not sure of much anymore.
Scrawled across the dumpster is a big loopy LB. I wonder if it’s Loo’s tag. Loola Black.
A rundown van pulls up in front of the alley. Apparently, Victor doesn’t drive an SUV like I’d imagined. It makes more sense for a broke-ass artist to have a clunker.
As Victor drives, I watch out the window for more LB tags. After a long silence, I say, “Thanks for the ride.”
Victor nods. He wears a light pink dress shirt and a striped bow tie. I’m tempted to ask him about it, but don’t.
I smell oil paint. The back is all exposed metal, without seating or siding. Smudges of paint run along the side ridges.
We park near an interfaith community center. Why would Loo’s funeral be here? She loved Gothic churches, even if she wasn’t religious.
It’s not a funeral, it’s a memorial, and it’s not at all like I imagined. I walk into what looks like a wedding taking place in a bland office-like conference hall. Instead of wearing black, the MOURNERS wear white or pastels. Am I even in the right place? Victor sits in the front row. I spot JuanCarlos, along with some of my old coworkers from Mermaid Coffee Co. I don’t want them to know I’m here because of the shame I feel from quitting without telling anyone.
I didn’t know any of Loo’s other friends. I’ve never met any of her family.
I sit in the back, isolated now more than ever, with my black suit. I don’t know these people. I was supposed to wear light colors. It was all arranged beforehand. No one bothered to tell me.
There’s no coffin. No body. Upfront, a table displays flowers and Loo’s picture. I can barely see it from here.
The pastor reads an Edger Alan Poe poem--at least that’s something in character--but it’s hard to hear from the back row.
People, one at a time, stand and talk about Loo. I can hear some better than others. Apparently, Loo volunteered at a shelter for LGBT youth that was somehow connected to this community center. She also taught an art class here once a week. I thought she was all talk, besides her vandalism, but she was doing what she could to make a positive change in the world.
“Does anyone have anything to add? This is your last chance.”
I sit there, numb and removed.
“Refreshments will be in the Pearl Room.”
In the Pear Room, a GOTH GIRL with a rainbow unicorn T-shirt consoles LOO'S MOTHER. Despite the girl’s bright clothing, her raven black hair and black eyeliner give her away. Loo’s mother is petite like her daughter and wears a floral dress.
Victor talks with a group of hip art friends I don’t know.
I don’t have anything to do. I stand in a corner, sip punch, and try to figure out which of these people are gay. Does pink hair mean you’re gay? Do earrings? Gaydar is such a load of crap.
JuanCarlos walks over and stands next me. We both watch the room.
“Where's Tara?” I say.
“She didn't really know Loo.”
We awkwardly continue to stand next to each other, obligated because we worked together for over a year. But we’re not coworkers anymore. We have nothing in common besides Loo’s death.
I walk away from him and wander over to Loo's Mother. Loo once told me that her mom didn’t like morbid stuff. That’s why this service is bright and cheery like a wedding. Loo must have requested it in her will or something, putting her mother first.
“Your daughter so kicked ass,” the Goth girl says.
“That's kind of you.”
Feeling as though I’m interrupting, I say, “My name's Eric. I was your daughter’s supervisor. I'm so sorry. For your loss, I mean.”
Loo’s Mother nods, but I’m not even sure she heard me. I know that lost, numb look. I want to shake her hand, but that seems too formal, and a hug seems too intimate, so I just stand there.
Goth Girl looks at me with contempt. What did I ever do to her? She edges me out of the conversation, almost bumping into me. “I can't believe she didn't want us to wear black. But isn’t that just like her? She loved to subvert expectations.”
I am, of course, wearing black. Goth Girl wants me to feel like an asshole who doesn’t belong. It works.
Properly shunned, I go back to my corner. JuanCarlos has gone back to some other people he must know. Loo told me to come, but it wasn’t Loo, it was my delusional, messed-up brain.
The walls of the church fade to black. The darkness pulls in until it’s just me in the corner.
17.2
Victor drives me home.
We sit in silence until I say the only thing that comes to mind: “Thanks for the ride. I really appreciate it.”
Victor doesn't respond.
“I don't have a car, so it was cool of you.”
“Yeah. I know. You told me.” He’s curt, but not because of me. I don’t mean anything to him, good or bad. He’s projecting his anger over Loo’s death. I’ve been taking my frustrations out on other people for as long as I can remember. I get it. We thankfully go back to the awkward silence.
So, this is it. I’m not even sad. All I feel is a vague disappointment with myself for thinking this funeral, this memorial, would change things.
I stare at nothing, letting my eyes lose focus, ignoring the world passing by, and say, “I feel guilty… for not feeling anything.”
“You wanna get coffee sometime?”
I look over at him, confused that he would offer. I stare at him for a long time, not caring if he thinks it’s weird. He doesn’t look over at me, but I’m sure he knows I’m staring. I wonder what it would be like if we were together. Loo was right matching us up. In another life, I think I could have fallen for him.
This is not that life.
“Victor, if you could leave this place, escape and never look back, would you?”