Comic by Sherry Flanders
Comic by Sherry Flanders
By Lara Shelton
The building I worked in was called the Egg. It was a beautiful piece of brickwork and brass with an airy inner court, which sat just across the street from the Universal lot, and was scheduled for demolition when the Metro Line came through. Every morning I spent a few minutes in the car becoming appropriately tense for the day while the Metro workers in their glaring orange uniforms dissected the building with scopes. A casting office occupied half of the Egg, and the front entrance was a study in factory-floor dehumanization. Budding actors and actresses would enter as if on a conveyor belt, their headshots and resumes tucked into manila envelopes, and exit a short while later, having been processed by the rejection mill into something lifeless and uniform.
Most mornings the sidewalk near the entrance was claimed by a homeless man with a puppet, the kind with long boneless arms which looped around his neck in a listless hug. The puppet had mangy blue fur, and sang gospel in a booming baritone.
Precious Lord, take my hand!
Lead me on, help me stand.
I am tired, I am weak, I am worn!
The man was blind, but apparently the puppet could see perfectly. He looked me up and down with his bulging plastic eyes. I liked his mangy appearance, the immediate and ironic contrast he made with the people entering and exiting the casting office. When I gave them a dollar, the man took my money and put it in his shirt pocket without pausing in the song:
Through the storm, through the night
Lead me on to the light
Take my hand, precious Lord, lead me home!
Before I could get through the doors I heard Kathleen sweetly bellowing, “Is that my favorite assistant?” I was her only assistant. Somehow she made me feel like a kept woman.
“We’re interviewing Production Designers today,” she mouthed around a headful of phone. “I need you to pull files.” She gestured to the dozen or so Post-It notes she had stuck to my desk:
Call Lightning Dubs about trailer
Return reels to:
Send Thank You to Evelyn Marsh Agency for lovely (!!!) flowers
Find a new office! The Egg closes in three weeks!
I nodded and silently went about my business. The office was always fraught with tension, even when it was only Kathleen and me. We were packaging a Virtual-Reality Twilight Zone rip-off, to whom an aging male actor who had enjoyed a hit sitcom in the early eighties was attached. We were currently working on designing a “look”, yet from the mood of things anyone might have thought we were preparing for war.
I was not a paid assistant. I was an intern. What nobody tells you is that going to film school does not prepare you, in any sense, for working in the film industry. What they do tell you, over and over, is that you’ve got to pay your dues. Nobody tells you what those dues are, exactly. And so even though, as a recent film school graduate, I couldn’t find a paying job, I threw myself into everything, including helping Kathleen design a “look,” for long hours and no pay, in a kind of quasi-religious penance. I sat in on meetings. I went to screenings. I fielded hundreds of hand-scrawled Post-It notes. Most of what was talked about, or screened, or written, had very little to do with my reasons for attending film school in the first place. But I had to pay my dues.
Kathleen had a vaguely feline aspect to her. She was languid and derisive. She always seemed to be thinking about what others could do for her. She was neither attractive nor unattractive, but there was a certain self-possession which cast a spell. She had no room for doubt or even self-reflection. But there was also something about her which made me think she had been an ugly child, or at the very least, a child who had been told often that she was ugly. At some point, I reasoned, she had made the decision to become powerful, and this image of herself somehow sustained her through the inevitable insults.
One day her Post-It note had read:
While I’m in London:
Call Lightning Dubs about trailer
Research a new office space before they tear the building down!
Handle phones and office. Be present.
I’m taking you to lunch today. I appreciate you. So make a reservation.
By then I knew her well enough to schedule my “thank you” lunch at her favorite restaurant. Her impending trip had made her wistful. “I remember what it was like,” she said over a plate of farfalle, “huddling on the beach without a permit on a cold winter night, trying to get off those last two shots. And your feature has shrunk to a short because you’re so far under budget. Somewhere along the line, you have to compromise that naïve college student integrity. You have to kiss ass. What you hope is that some day, after all the ass-kissing, you’re in the position to kick it.
“The world sometimes seems glossy,” she said, “like an Interview or an Entertainment Weekly. You tell yourself you deserve these things and it’s as if you really belong there—you really belong in Aspen, or at the Venice film festival, because you think that somehow you’re better than other people. Somehow more entitled. And the more you keep telling yourself that, the more ambition you have for yourself, the farther you’re going to go.” She paused, looked out at the traffic on Cahuenga. “So maybe I’m nothing special,” she said. “I try not to think about it.”
It’s hard to convey the mood of utter hopelessness which had descended on me following college, but I suspect it wasn’t unusual. There was a period where I couldn’t shake the feeling that the world was a very hostile place. This was shortly after the Rodney King verdict and the ensuing disorder. Los Angeles was huge, and there was a sense in which the connective tissue which had once held it together was strained to breaking. Chaos threatened to erupt from the thin crust of asphalt. People on the freeways kept their windows rolled up. Gang bangers flashed signs on street corners. Junkies shot up on the Walk of Fame.
In the world of the industry, everything was surface. Most of the people around me seemed content to get caught up in the glamor and intrigue, to touch the hems of various celebrities’ garments and snipe about them behind their backs, or to penetrate the inner sanctums of power and afterward deride their decorating schemes. Being in film school had been the most exhilarating experience of my life, and a number of my professors had commented that I was one of their most promising students. I still dreamed of some kind of artistic fulfillment, and the snarky insider anecdotes I was gathering seemed poor compensation for the sense of losing touch with my dreams. I was broke, living with my mom, and working for Kathleen. For free. It was a harsh comedown.
While Kathleen was in London I was required to attend her social events. One was an Industry party where there was supposed to be ample opportunity to make good contacts. However, most of the executives had sent their assistants as proxies and we all drifted around the room, partaking of sushi and business cards. After an hour or two I began to feel completely disassociated from myself and sat down at the pay bar.
A girl whom I knew only in passing sat down next to me. “I get what you’re doing,” she said.
“What am I doing?”
She smiled an odd little apelike smile which I only belatedly realized was her way of removing a fleck of seaweed from her teeth. “You’re trying to look important,” she said. “You look important by looking disinterested.”
I wondered if the sense of disassociation I was feeling was a hallmark of the important people in the Industry. If there was a look. And if the look was everything. “So why aren’t you mingling?” I asked.
“I’ve schmoozed all the good people,” she said. I surreptitiously watched her face as she scanned the room. She had a big face, and I think that was why I had remembered her. I thought, this girl’s face belongs on a Rose Parade float, three stories tall. I could almost see the little driver behind her eyes pushing his animatronic buttons as she careened down Colorado Boulevard. “Are you going up to Santa Maria this weekend?” she said. “A bunch of us are going up for a cheap weekend.”
“It’s the first I’ve heard of it,” I said.
“I figured Patty had asked you,” she said. “We’re going to find the ruins. At the beach.”
“In Santa Maria?”
She nodded. “From when they filmed The Ten Commandments. They’re buried up there in the sand.”
The night was pink with neon as I careened down Sunset after the party. I was in a bad state. Everything was surface, and every surface was shiny and vacant. A man dreams a dream, and then takes a picture of that dream. And the picture becomes the reality, and what is left behind is only ruins, and they make for a cheap weekend.
When Kathleen got back from London something was revealed at work. First, the puppet man was gone, and his absence was eerie, like the silence of birds preceding an earthquake. I found myself singing the words precious Lord, take my hand, as I entered the office. And meaning them.
Inside, Kathleen was speaking with the IT guy who was on staff in the Egg building. “It froze up on me,” she said, as she gestured for me to sit down and listen as well. “I can’t get at any of my files.” I pulled up a chair and sat down next to her. The IT guy was showing her how to use the fax modem. Kathleen was talking to him as if she wanted to get him into bed. She was wearing a white man’s shirt, no bra. As she leaned over to speak to him her shirt, buttoned too low, fell open and her right breast, small and pointy, nosed outwards. And I was close enough to see the dark hairs which surrounded the nipple, like a man’s. Once again I got the sense of the girl who had been told, over and over again, that she was ugly. Something about this made me immeasurably sad. I got a stronger sense, somehow, of what the dues were. I knew I did not want to pay them.
I didn’t quit, not exactly. When Kathleen sent me to check out a new office facility to move into, I just left and never came back. I left a Post-It on her windshield wiper which I hoped would convey my feelings:
I can’t do this any more. Please don’t call me.
She did call me though, again and again. This, too, made me immeasurably sad. I felt bad for not being able to tell her directly why I couldn’t work for her, but how do you tell someone that she is a ruin? Moreover, how do you tell her she is a ruin of something that never really existed in the first place?
A couple of weeks later the Egg Building was torn down. I drove by just to see the empty space where it had once been. I got no satisfaction from this.
Eventually, in another, very different life, I made my way up to Santa Maria. The beach there was lonesome and vacant, and I thought about the ruins, hidden underneath the sand. They had once been part of someone’s vision. Now they waited to be discovered, like the bones of something huge and dangerous. I didn’t venture out to find them, though. I wanted to let them lie.
By Andrew Fort
Imagine you are having a dream. Any dream; insert your random montage here. Trying to shop for Brussels sprouts, for example, but the plastic bags are turning into jellyfish which threaten to sting you. Or you desperately need to go to the bathroom, but Chevy Chase is blocking the entrance, and he’s being really mean. And anyway the bathroom is not a bathroom, but a Ferris wheel. Chevy still won’t let you by.
Now imagine this random montage of absurd imagery is also deeply emotional. It is, in fact, making you weep with a sudden depth more profound than anything else you have experienced. And it’s happening while you’re awake.
And then imagine it’s over in an instant.
They might have been visions sent from God, if God had Captain Beefheart for a playwright and Salvador Dali for a set designer. They might have been visitations from dead relatives, if my dead relatives were Jane Curtin and Bozo the Clown. Or they might have been acid flashbacks, if I’d ever done acid.
As I began to figure out what was happening, I became aware that I was being revisited–usually about ten times a day, not counting the ones that happened while I was asleep–by long-forgotten dreams. And they weren’t the meaningful ones. They were just any old dream which I might have had over the course of a lifetime which has probably been too stuffed with surrealist art, pop-culture references, and hand-wringing philosophical quandaries. But somehow they were always paired with a sudden spasm of free-floating grief.
What was clear to me from the start was that this was something which originated in the chemical or electrical processes of the brain. My thoughts and emotions had never followed this particular pathway before. With a little sleuthing from my wife, we came upon the culprit: TLE, or Temporal Lobe Epilepsy. Everything written about it said that it emanated from a small–often microscopic–scar on the brain which caused localized seizures and didn’t affect motor function. As the Temporal Lobe controls memory and emotion, it seemed entirely plausible as the source of these profoundly gut-wrenching inanities.
My doctors were a little slower on the uptake. I first had to see a therapist who, despite being perfectly pleasant, was clearly concerned by the end of session two that I was wasting her time. About six months after the incidents began I made it to a neurologist, who instantly recognized what was going on. Still, it took a month or two to find the right medication to get this to stop. In the meantime, I began to experience a depression like I’d never had before.
I understand that others probably experience depression differently, and it can be debilitating for many. But that wasn’t the case with me. True, everything seemed meaningless. True, nothing held my interest. True, everything was colorless. But ironically, it was a very productive time. Nothing held any meaning any more, but since nothing held any meaning, there was no reason why I SHOULDN’T continue to work on my novel, or do the dishes, or open an IRA. Since none of it meant anything, everything was weighted equally—inaction as well as action. I got a lot done, and I lost thirty pounds to boot, because eating also didn’t interest me.
But where it really hurt, aside from the random finger-jabs of inconsolable weeping, was that I couldn’t listen to music. None of it. All of the music that has brought me comfort over the years and helped me become who I am, it all reminded me only of myself. It was no longer a communication from someone out in the world to me, but only a communication from my own poorly-wired brain to itself, and it seemed as meaningless as the sudden Sisyphean dream-memory of a cat trying to retrieve a bean from the top of a flagpole while I watched from below and a boom-box played “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go.”
So what was I left with? Silence.
When the medication eventually kicked in, music began to creep its way back into my life. In fact, it was as if it had never left.
I have often heard people say that if it weren’t for modern pharmaceuticals, they wouldn’t be able to function. I’m sure, given the mildness of my condition, I would have continued to soldier on. But I have also heard it said that music is like medicine. For me, the two are now inextricably tied.
By Jennifer Fort
I collected my childhood in songs: the alphabet, how to count, parts of speech, sharing is good, C is for Cookie, Love American Style. I learned that Jesus loved me and Mr. Rogers was really counting on me to be his neighbor. Commercial jingles and jump rope rhymes and hymns and theme songs slosh and spill into my life even now as I carry them like a brimming coffee cup I forget I’m holding.
One song sinks to the bottom like bitter stray grounds. I sang it for my little sister. I sang because this particular song could make her cry. And, oh, I wanted her to cry. I wanted her to howl, to give voice to my existential eldest child frustrations. I don’t know the exact moment, but at some point it became clear that music had power. The box had been opened. Music could evoke responses mere words could never generate. I understood that I could use music to manipulate my sister’s emotions; I had a new weapon.
That weapon was Ten Little Indians.
On the surface it is a simple counting song. The version found and used currently is simply a count of little Indians, forward and then backward, usually to the tune of Michael Finnegan. It is simple and mind-numbing and politically incorrect. The version I learned was more complicated and recounted the horrific demise of each Indian boy, one by one. I can find various poems that must have been the basis for the song I knew. There is death by choking, death by bee stings, death by giant fish. One is killed by a bear. One roasts to death on a hot day. One gets chopped in half. It is a nursery song directed by Quentin Tarantino.
I don’t remember who taught me this song. If it was an adult, it hardly seems like a good call. But to be fair, it was the 1970’s and there was a lot of impaired judgment. What seems to me now like obvious racism and attempted genocide tucked into a song for children went unnoticed and unheeded in those groovy days. Fairy tales were served raw with some carob and wheat germ on the side. The only line I remember singing is the last one. It is not the traditional ending and appears to be a unique and violent adaptation. It is this line that would generate the tears and I sang it to full effect:
One little Indian found a gun. Shot himself, and then there were none.
My sister found this horrifying because how could that little boy’s parents let him play with a gun? It sounded like a simple open-and-shut case of suicide to me, but she insisted upon a complicated story of tragic parental neglect. My sister was and is a maternal person, always caring for the dolls I did not hesitate to throw headfirst into the dark well of our toy box when the work got tedious. She was the good shepherd for those left behind on our block. She was kindly captain of the little sisters and brothers, the kids nobody had time for. She was the democratic underdog, the unheard and unheeded middle child giving voice to the voiceless up and down ticket. And me? I was Donald Trump.
I was the monster that music built. I was the one-note bully in the obnoxious trucker hat: Make this family great again. These siblings had showed up, uninvited and unwanted, and I was doing my best to deport them. And then there were none. When I wasn’t singing to make my sister cry I was acting the terrorist, beheading my hapless Sunshine Family dolls in full view of my little brother. This was an incredibly satisfying act, as it made him scream and sob and seek a more hospitable country. When he was not providing me with useful menial labor as a shopkeeper in our pretend store I was busy building a wall to keep him out of my room.
I could get myself in trouble with the authorities for throwing a book at my brother’s head or pinching my sister; I had gone these routes and been spanked for them and knew I needed to be more creative. I could be faulted for physical violence, but this music let me manufacture all the misery I desired with impunity. If I was careful, these drone strikes would fly undetected by preoccupied parental radar and devastate their targets. Who would punish me for playing with dolls even if what I was doing belonged at a public execution in Riyadh? Who could chastise me for singing to my little sister?
The enemy I imagined in my sister no longer exists, has been replaced with an ally. The tormented has long since forgiven her tormentor, if she remembers at all. The actual words I sang have melted and evaporated from memory like ice cubes on the broiling summer sidewalks of my California childhood.
But this remains:
Someone taught me a song.
Someone opened the box.
Sometimes the wind is right and a song rises from the depths and I can hear things that have been silent.
Sometimes I hear my sister crying.
History of Ten Little Indians
Editorial from Indian Country