Teaser 005: It’s a Gift
I stepped to the sink to wash my hands, which always seems a pointless exercise at a rest stop that offers only cold water, like trying to put out a raging forest fire with steam. I washed my hands anyway, now considering the totally incongruous position I had forced myself into, since I had failed to write any screenplay titled The True Cross. In fact I had never written any screenplay at all and I was betting John Drury wasn't thinking that thought. Now what am I gonna do? I had conceived of a story I called The True Cross, in a fit of obsession about the cute little Mexican actress who had smacked me with a ton of bricks dropped from stories above when she appeared in the movie about a painter—the canvas kind not the house kind—and did the scene where she hardly wore any makeup at all—yeah, I know, it's a shock—and I had never seen any image of her without the mask she constantly wore until then. What happened? I kept looking at the face on my TV screen—forgetting about the movie since my suspension of disbelief had been thoroughly disrupted—and couldn't stop thinking that I had seen that face before. That face, not the made-up, hiding, deceiving one. Where have I seen that face? It had been a while, decades actually, and I hadn't thought about her regularly and usually when I wanted to go through my sex experiences so I could explode my sausage—that's sex solo, or masturbation, for those of you who are a little metaphorically slower—but the recognition finally hit me a minute or two later. I have seen that face! It was the same face of a little Mexican-American girl I met in, of all places, Watsonville, California, a whopping twenty-two years before! No! Yes! No! It's the same fucking woman! Holy crap! They're the same height, the same hair, the same thick, bushy black eyebrows—which I adore—the same nose, not exceptional but in the right proportion, the same dramatic angle from the cheek bones to a soft chin, the same throat, the same neck, the same bountiful breasts, not huge, but on a smaller woman they are abundant, the same waist, the same curvy hips, the same luscious thighs, the same well-rounded butt, heck, even the feet were the same! Why didn't I see the resemblance years and years before? I'd seen this cute little Mexican actress for years, even saw her on the talk show during a rerun on Telemundo, broadcast in Spanish which means nothing to me, so I turned the sound off, turned on my stereo, and sat on my sofa watching this cute babe bounce around in her blue dress on a chair opposite the host, narrow her eyelids to a menacing stare, flash an expression of resentment, even hatred, frequently, all so animated I thought it was the best performance I had ever witnessed on a talk show, and so did the director and his wife in Texas, the ones who contacted this cute little Mexican actress about a role in their next movie, which of course launched her acting career. He's one of the few directors I've met who I actually like, mostly because he's insane, though not as insane as I am, but he is so insane he can barely tolerate me, which is fine with me because there are days, even weeks, when I can barely tolerate myself. When I met him the first time, during a trip with the cute little Mexican actress, I couldn't wait to ask him the one question about their first meeting, so I had to wait until Serena was out of ear shot.
“Hey, I've got a question for you, if you don't mind.”
“Shoot,” he said without any real interest.
“When you first met Serena, did you ask her to run for you, about fifty feet or so?”
“Yeah,” he replied, and suddenly looked at me suspiciously. “I did.”
“But she doesn't run in the movie, because you saw the way she runs and that was not going to work in the movie, so you wrote out any scene where her character was running, didn't you?”
“Yeah, I did,” he replied, now with a suspicion heightened to the extent of life-threatening concern, either his or mine. “Nobody knows, so how do you know? She didn't tell you, did she?”
“No. Serena's never said anything about it and I've never asked.”
“So, how do you know?”
It's a gift of course, how I figure this shit out. Or insane. It's one of those but I can't decide which one. I haven't really stopped to analyze it. I'm always busy analyzing this shit around me. It keeps me busy. There's always a lot of shit. I may be a fly there's so much shit.
- Just Desserts, Segment One “Welcome to Lost Anglos” by Gregory R. Schussele, © 2021
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