Sound by bob
“There are certain elements to entertainment that should not be noticed. Elements that only attract the subconscious. The background players, fusing with other components to make something better. But the second they notice it, the whole thing is blown. The illusion is gone. And you’ve ruined the whole point of it existing in the first place.”
-Anonymous
—————————-
The kitchen is conspicuously spick-n-span.
The place is small, and swiveling around we can see the theme of sheen pristine applies to everything behind these walls in entirety. It’s as if a team of maids from the finest establishment known to this galaxy and the next one over came in and cleaned all the surfaces until they were like new again. Until they were as if they had just been created in this very moment. Then, the interior decorators most renowned in this galaxy and the next put all of their competitive disagreements aside and furnished a minimalist mecca. When they were done, they wept. One bent over, saying “I think… I think this might just be my masterpiece. Our masterpiece.”
There are only two things truly out of order in this temple, this apartment that could pass as a the apartment of the coolest motherfucker you know. The one you wish you were.
The one thing out of order first noticeable, the one we should first tap into, is the leaky faucet. For a place on such a precipice of perfection, the DRIP DRIP DRIP from the kitchen sink is a tiny little needle-size hole in an otherwise unsinkable vessel. It doesn’t do much if any damage, but its owner knows it’s there and that’s all the damage that needs to be done for it to do damage.
In the bathroom, there’s a toothbrush and a towel and a sleek razor of some Gillette variety. The normal average bare minimum shit you would expect to find in any bathroom, but it’s the toilet paper I think we all can agree is just a little bit odd. It’s folded. With precision. Into a little triangle shape. Like you would find in a hotel or a motel that holds its cleaning crew to certain standards. Not in a domesticated, private joint.
It brings up a lot of questions that we don’t have time to get to now as A BLARING alarm clock goes off and it’s time to brisk over into the bedroom. It’s time to meet our host. We can delay longer, but we should not and we shall not. It’s time for some fresh hell to be wrought. His name is Bob and he’s sticking straight up in bed. His face is pulp and shit and beat into some kind of pugilistic oblivion. He wipes the remainder of sleep from his puffed eyes and tears out of bed towards the bathroom.
In the bathroom, Bob pokes his mushed mug into the mirror to examine some of his most glaringly crimson fresh wounds. There’s a particularly gnarly one on his left cheek. Bob procures a first aid kit from a cabinet under the sink. He opens the lid and rummages through, finding the bandaid he was looking for. From his sweatpant pocket, he pulls his phone. He unlocks the phone and finds the app he’s looking for: Voice Memos. He hits the big apple red record button.
Rolling…
He opens the packaging on the bandaid, as close as he can to his phone AKA his recording device. He places it on the gnarly wound. Touches at it with gentle fingertips to secure it.
He swivels his head to the right side. He hones in on one wound already covered by a bandaid.
His eyes shift down. He checks his recording device.
Still rolling…
From there, he RIPS the bandaid from the already covered wound. He does it fast. Painfully. We hear every bit of bristle of his facial hair and the skin and the muscle and the cells beneath it pulling in the process.
This is the second thing out of order here: Bob is a fucking nutcase and we are the only ones who know.
—————————-
Bob goes running. We’re right there along with him somehow.
Bob runs a lot. We can presume this is to clear his head and/or to exercise and/or to punish himself. He runs about 26.22 miles a day. The length of a marathon. So I think we should lean more towards the conclusion of punishment. Some days, the worst of days, he can’t run that much due to life’s other obligations. Some days, he runs more than 26.22 miles a day, presumably to clear his head and/or to exercise but really, most likely, to punish himself.
It’s one of those beautiful days in Los Angeles where the sun is shining and the children are in the park playing and everyone is wearing shorts even though it’s January. It’s not too hot, it’s not too cold. It’s somewhere in the mediocre middle. There is an abundance of squirrels scurrying about. They feed and squeal and scurry and outnumber the humans. They get their nuts. It must be their mating season because there really is an abundance. Other than those little fuckers, everything is normal and average until there is a CRASH and a SCREAM and a SCREECH in that specific succession.
Bob hears this and we hear this even though Bob is wearing headphones. After a brief moment of consideration, Bob runs in the direction of this mysterious cacophony.
That’s where we find him. A cyclist who has been hit by a car. A car that hit the cyclist and then floored it the fuck out of there, away from accountability and surely right into the hands of hell one day.
The cyclist is yelping and withering and rolling about in some impressively contorted poses of pain. Bob approaches but watches this play out for a little bit from afar. He’s obviously a little bit amused. He adjusts his pants.
Bob figures all this hooting and hollering will eventually attract others, that though his senses are keenly attuned to cries of agony, other samaritans of varying varieties will likely appear sooner rather than later.
Bob hovers over the cyclist and the cyclist acknowledges his presence.
“HELP! PLEASE HELP! I’VE BEEN HIT BY A CAR!”
Bob squats down, hovering over him.
“Are you OK?”
“NO! I’m not fucking OK! I think my ankle’s broke!”
“OK. OK. Did you get the license plate?”
The man screams and writhes and rocks before he musters his next sentence.
“NO! I WAS TOO BUSY MAKING SURE I DIDN’T FUCKING DIIIIE MAAAN!”
Bob studies the cyclist more closely. The ankle is discolored and bulbous and does appear to be in some extreme degree of distress. It carries the appearance of some sort of purpled and blackened root vegetable protruding its ugly head from the soil.
“It was the squirrels maaaaan. They’re out to GET ME! One jumped right out in front of me and I SWERVED INTO THE ROAD!”
Bob nods. Grabs the cyclist’s hand.
“I’m sorry this happened to you. These squirrels are really getting out of hand. I’m actually on the city council and this is an item we are going to bring up immediately. You can count on that.”
“HEY GUY, CAN YOU CALL ME A GOD DAMB AM-BU-LANCE!”
“An ambulance? An ambulance won’t get here on time. You see, I’m a doctor. I’m a doctor and I’ve assessed your ankle and you’re right. It’s broken. Very broken. You could wind up losing this foot or hell, this whole leg. We’ll need to act fast.”
“WHAT?!”
“First, I need to ascertain where the break is. I’m going to pull your foot in an upward motion, then in a downward motion. You’ll tell me where you feel pain.”
We watch Bob as Bob watches the cyclist writhing around in pain. The cyclist’s demeanor changes as a certain threshold is reached and the pain leads to a state of tranquility the mind sometimes brings you to when it perceives such veneers are needed. A naturally-produced morphine.
“Um… wait. Ahh, what? You’re a doctor? You’re using a lot of a big words and I don’t really understand…”
Bob looks around. It’s still just him, the cyclist, a few odd squirrels and the pavement. He procures his recording device. He lays it steadily and stealthily down in a prime position.
Rolling…
“I want you to tell me when you feel immense pain. You do so however you can. Do you understand?”
“Man, I—-“
“Shhhhh.”
“OK.”
“Do you feel immense pain?”
Bob cranks the foot forward. The cyclist howls like a hyena.
“Good. Do you feel immense pain?”
Bob cranks the foot backwards. The cyclist tilts his head into the heavens and gives a sound surely heard by its denizens.
Bob checks his recording device.
Still rolling…
“Well, this is truly unfortunate.”
“WHAT… WHAT IS?!?!”
“Your ankle. It may never heal properly.”
“Jesus fucking… DON’T TOUCH ME!!!!! Help!!! My ankle is broke!!!!!”
“Broken. Not broke. You keep saying broke. Are you even educated?”
“Help meeeeee! Somebody, please! Help meeeeee!”
“Say. Is that a Cannondale?”
“A WHAT??”
“Your bike. Is that a Cannondale?”
“YES IT’S A GOD DAMN MOTHER FUCKING CANNONDALE! YOU SICK MOTHER FUCKER IT’S A CANNONDALE. NOW CAN YOU PLEASE CALL AN AMBULANCE!?”
“I’ve heard they’re great bikes. Always wanted one.”
“HEEEEEEEEEEELP!”
Bob notices the cyclist’s gaze is fixed on something else. Over Bob’s shoulder.
Bob turns to see some woman approaching. He grabs his recording device, pops it in his pocket and turns on his Academy Award for Best Actor performance.
“Ma’am. Please. Can you call 9-1-1? My friend, he’s been hurt! ”
The woman approaches rapidly now. She looks like a women who sticks her nose everywhere, whether it belongs or not.
“What happened?!”
“A car viciously swiped him and then drove off! Oh Lord! It was terrible!”
Bob pulls tears from some well and employs them dramatically.
“God damnit! This is the third hit-n-run on the street this week!”
She presses some buttons on a phone with the sausages she uses as fingers.
“Yes. Hello. There’s been another hit-n-run. Yes. De Soto and Erwin. Yes we need an ambulance. Yes thank you. Yes just one person hit. He IS on the pavement.”
Bob watches her. The cyclist continues his tormented routine.
“Yes I’m still here. Yes I’ll wait.”
She looks at Bob and she shouts.
“Sir, they’re sending an ambulance!”
But we’re already off with Bob, far down the southbound road. Sirens screeching in the distance.
—————————-
Screaming from down the hall.
It sounds familiar. And recent.
More sounds.
“Well, this is truly unfortunate.”
“WHAT… WHAT IS?!?!”
“Your ankle. It may never heal properly.”
“Jesus fucking… DON’T TOUCH ME!!!!! Help!!! My ankle is broke!!!!!”
“Broken. Not broke. You keep saying broke. Are you even educated?”
“Help meeeeee! Somebody, please! Help meeeeee!”
“Say. Is that a Cannondale?”
“A WHAT??”
“Your bike. Is that a Cannondale?”
“YES IT’S A GOD DAMN MOTHER FUCKING CANNONDALE! YOU SICK MOTHER FUCKER IT’S A CANNONDALE. NOW CAN YOU PLEASE CALL AN AMBULANCE!?”
“I’ve heard they’re great bikes. Always wanted one.”
“HEEEEEEEEEEELP!”
PAUSE.
We’re in Bob’s apartment and we turn a corner into a room we have not yet been.
This is Bob’s workshop. It’s a customized, retrofitted, pretty much one-of-a-kind, sound proofed and totally kick ass sound recording and editing suite.
There’s a desk with a real slick-looking Macintosh machine. There’s an operating table with a clean white sheet over top. It has all kinds of toys on it. Things mechanics and doctors would find useful in their respective rackets.
There’s a baseball bat unceremoniously leaning in one corner. It’s covered in an ambiguous red substance.
The lights are dim and we find Bob propped up against a wall. Down to his skivvies. He has his phone down next to him and he’s listening to the day’s catch.
Bob cracks a big, devious, Cheshire Cat smile. We’re at his favorite part.
“HEEEEEEEEEEELP!”
Bob screams along with the recording.
He rewinds it back again. He’s about to hit play when something unexpected happens.
The doorbell rings.
Bob sits for a moment. Eyes wide. Listening. Breathing. He pauses the recording and stands.
The doorbell rings again.
Bob runs rapidly to his bedroom. He pulls on the first pieces of clothing he can find and cautiously approaches his front door as the doorbell rings yet again.
“Just a god damn—“
He jabs an eye at into the peephole and decides not to finish his sentence. He stiffens his back and opens the door.
“Pamela! To what do I owe this pleasure?”
Pamela is ball of energy with big Topanga Canyon mom on a weekend at a farmer’s market energy. You can practically hear her arms fold and her brow furrow.
“Dude. Did you forget we had a session today?”
“No.”
“What the hell’s with your face?” says the woman as she grabs Bob’s face to inspect and passes the threshold through the front door simultaneously.
“Got in a fight.”
“Jesus man. Take a boxing class or something next time you wanna go acting all macho.”
“Uh-huh.”
Pamela is fully inside now, in the kitchen to be exact. We watch her examine the joint.
“Typically, this is when you would say, ‘you should see the other guy.’”
“You should see the other guy.”
Pamela smirks.
“I dig the place. Very clean for your age and marital status. You’re not married if I recall?”
“Thanks.”
“Thanks?”
“So are we recording or what?”
Pamela pushes Bob playfully. It pisses him off for a millisecond but he swallows it and keeps on.
“You totally forgot, didn’t you?”
“Actually, the opposite. I was just setting up and couldn’t hear the doorbell ring. My home studio is very soundproof. We could go in that room right now and do just about anything and the world would never know.”
She stares him down. Right through it.
“Well it’s good you have something like that. Who the hell knows how long we’ll be working in these conditions. Shit. We may never go back to the way things were. Investing in a home studio, in your line of work. Hell of a move.”
“Well. Shall we?”
“We shall.”
Bob smiles that big shit-eating smile again and motions with his hand. Pamela follows him to the sound room.
—————————-
“Listen here, this town ain’t big enough for this both of us. A crocodile, and an alligator? How ya think that s’posed ta work, partner?”
STOP.
“Hey, the read was good. Try and hit that middle section with a little more… incredulity. Like Al can’t fathom that a crocodile would even think coexistence was feasible.”
“I know what incredulity means, man.”
“OK, just try it.”
Bob is behind his machine, large headphones wrapped around his head. He’s pushing buttons and talking to Pamela, who stands in a little makeshift recording booth with a microphone and a spit guard propped in front of her. She stares Bob down and he can feel it, even in the dark. The two have a bit of a short hand like that.
“Look, I’m just reading the notes Wolf sent over and trying to execute his directorial vision.”
“Yeah well, he could have been here himself to do that. You and I are putting ourselves at risk while bigshot gets to sit up there in his big castle.”
“C’mon. It’s not like that. The guy’s like, 180 years old.”
“Where’d you get that number?”
“Can we just do the line, one more time?
“Yeah, yeah. Run the fuckin’ thing.”
Bob hits a button.
“Sound speed. Whenever you’re ready.”
“Listen here. This town ain’t big enough for this both of us. A crocodile. AND AN ALLIGATOR? How ya think that s’posed ta work, partner????”
“Anddd cut! Nice one. I think that was it.”
“If you say so man. I don’t think there really is much nuance in an animated children’s show. But I’m glad you’re happy.”
“Whoa, whoa. Al E. Gator Runs for Mayor isn’t just some animated children’s show. I mean it is, but it’s also so much more. It’s about finding your place in the world, sticking to your guns, standing up for yourself, doing the right thing. A lot of important messages that will trickle into young minds subconsciously. To me, this is the smartest kind of programming for young ones. They don’t wanna eat their vegetables outright, so you gotta mix it in with the tasty stuff. Think about all the lessons you learned as a kid, without realizing you were learning lessons. You learn them in hindsight.”
Pamela stares at him.
“Sure Bob. Whatever you say. Get to my age and tell me you still feel the same way.”
Bob laughs. He finishes some file management as Pamela removes her headphones and reaches for her bag. As she does, she notices the baseball bat with a peculiar red substance on it.
“Hey Bob. What’s with the bat?”
Bob tries to hide his eyes as they go wide for a brief moment. Whoops. Forgot to put that away. He shakes it off. He stands. He walks over to Pamela and towers over her.
“Oh, that? I just use that to kill people.”
The air sucks out of the room like a balloon slowly, painfully, surely deflating. The eye contact between the two remains but the discomfort in Pamela’s gaze increases by the second. Bob finally decides to put her out of her misery.
“Pamela, I’m just joking. It’s Donny Donowitz’ bat.”
“Donny who…?”
“Donny Donowitz. The Bear Jew. From Inglorious Basterds. QT gave it to me as a wrap present.”
“You worked on Inglorious Basterds?”
“Pamela, how long have we known each other?”
Bob seems to be growing taller, or perhaps Pamela is shrinking.
“I should really get going. I have to pick up my kid.”
Bob stares at her a moment longer.
“Of course.”
Pamela scurries out of the room, past Bob. Bob follows her to the door.
She hurriedly puts on her shoes and proffers some small talk as a hopeful diversion.
“Any big plans this weekend?”
“Nothing at the moment.”
Bob pulls out that smiles again.
“But you know me. I always find my way into something.”
Pamela rushes out the door and Bob pokes his head out to watch her. She spins around once she feels as though she is at a safe distance.
“Oh, and Bob?”
“Yes, Pamela?”
“You have a leak.”
Bob turns to check his kitchen sink. Sure enough. DRIP DRIP DRIP. He had almost tuned it out. It had almost become ingrained as part of the sonic tapestry of the apartment.
Bob turns back to look at Pamela, but she’s gone.
—————————-
Bob’s under the kitchen sink. We hear the clink… clink… clink of a twisting wrench.
He stands up. Brushes his hands off. The dripping is no more.
He sighs. Smiles proudly a bit.
—————————-
Bob’s at his desk. It’s time for some real work to be done. The sort of thing that pays the bills around here.
It’s so quick and artful and complex the way Bob works in his editing software. We hear snippets of someone being strangled over and over and over as Bob conjures his magic. Each time it’s sweeter. Crystalline and precisely focused.
Bob packages the audio into a Dropbox folder titled The Housewife. He shares this folder with wam@moonpictures.com.
—————————-
Bob’s on the couch with his phone out. Scrolling intensely. The plan is very clearly to get into something highly particular and strange tonight.
He scrolls through all of the heterosexual dating apps you can think of, perusing photos, swiping endlessly. He chats with a few “lucky ladies.”
He then moves on to other kicks, of the same sex variety. Things get a bit lewd in the chats. The types of comments that might make one pull their jacket closed in discomfort, shift their weight to another side. Vocabulary and particulars that perhaps someone like Armie Hammer might feel at right at home with.
But none of it seems to thrill Bob beyond a whim. It’s all just swimming at surface level and Bob is looking to go much deeper than that.
He pulls up his contacts list and writes a text message to someone named Harper.
“I know you may delete this message as soon as that little grey box pops up with my name on it. But if you’re still reading this I think you should come over. I have the wine you like and the ravioli you like and I think life is too short and the world is not for long and if you’re reading this I think you should come over.”
—————————-
Bob’s jumping rope in a little section of his apartment that he has designated as a workout space. He’s dripping sweat and he has his shirt off and the incessant whipping of the jumprope and the grunting must be perturbing to the person at the other end of the line of the phone call he’s on. His sleek earbuds make this a one-sided call for us.
“Yes I know.”
“I’m aware.”
“I’M AWARE.”
“Yeah I know.”
“Yes. Yes I know. OK.”
“Yeah things have been fine really. I have a few more recordings I need to do for this one project I’m working on…”
Bob drops down and begins an excruciating set of pushups.
“Yes I’m exercising. Of course talking to you is important, I’m just very busy so I need to multitask. OK. OK good. Yes I know. OK. Yes I told you already, I sent it back because they spelt my name wrong. Frank, not Franklin. Well yes, it is a big deal. I’ll be by to pick it up this weekend. Yes. OK. I love you too. Bye.”
—————————-
Harper comes over and we see him for the first time and he’s striking. He’s tall and tanned and sculpted. He has veins in his arms that pop in all of the right places, adding a perfect touch to the prototypical palette of a young and handsome man who is lusted after by innumerable suitors.
He greets Bob awkwardly, hovering and hesitant at the front door. He only crosses the threshold inside at the behest of Bob. Bob is good at getting him inside because Bob understands that if Harper came this far, he will go further and perhaps even all the way. Bob knows what pins to prick and what salves to smooth over, and at what time and with what pressure.
Harper ambles in, following the trail of incredible scents coming from Bob’s dining room. Bob coaxes him over to the dining table and they sit down to eat. We are there too, of course. But we can’t eat, or do anything at all of much use. We can sit, we can listen, we can laugh, we can cry, we can wince, we can shake, we can writhe. But we can not look away. We can marvel at the horrors, we can paint poetry around them, but we can not look away.
We tuck ourselves in, and the conversation begins.
“I didn’t think you would come.”
“I didn’t think I would either.”
“Yet here you are.”
“Here I am. When I left, the last time, I thought I would never be back. I didn’t see anyone romantically for a long, long time. I found someone, down the road. So I continued down that road and enjoyed my time there. But the longer I spent, and the further I got, I realized something one morning after a long and colorful night. I woke up the next morning, I looked at him, and I realized he wasn’t you. So I got up, and I left, and I walked down the road and it led me right back here.”
“Well, it hasn’t been as long as you make it out to be. But it has been long enough for me to change, to realize my ways and to fix them as much as I can. I’m not necessarily better, but I’ve made progress, and I’m going to keep making progress. Seeing your face, being here with you now. It reminds me that it’s all worth it.”
“That’s the wine talking.”
“Maybe, but doesn’t mean it’s not true.”
“I didn’t come here to plan tomorrow, or the next day. I came to have a good night with you. Everything else is off the table for discussion.”
“Of course. Of course. I can do that.”
“You know I have to ask…”
“My face?”
“Your face.”
“I saved a squirrel from a very perilous situation.”
“Because that doesn’t sound made up at all…”
“Almost got hit by a cyclist. The fucking cretin.”
“Cyclists are the worst. I’m so sick of them feeling like they own the road. They have no care in the world except riding fast and fuck whatever else.”
“So you see why I did why I did.”
“I suppose. It still doesn’t completely explain the outcome, but I can take a hint. It’s OK. You can tell me another time. Anyways, how’s work?”
“Work has been… taxing. You know me. I’m dedicated to my craft, and authenticity is key. My employers keep expectations high. In fact, they keep raising my hurdles higher and higher. So far, I’ve been able to jump them all.”
“But you’re afraid you might trip one day?”
“Sooner, rather than later.”
“Maybe you need to find a new job.”
“No. I’m doomed to this racket for eternity. I’ve already accepted it.”
“Nobody’s doomed to anything for that long.”
“I am. When you are the way I am. It’s the only plausible outcome.”
“If you say so.”
“I do.”
“So what shall I do with you? If you’re doomed to some racket for eternity with some horrible outcome, what am I to do?”
“Who said horrible outcome?”
“Was it not implied?”
“…We can enjoy tonight.”
“That, we can do.”
The two toast their wine glasses and continue chewing on their fine dining. They reach the bottom of their beverages, which seems to signal something in Bob.
“I’ll grab another bottle.”
Bob rises suddenly and struts over to the kitchen, before Harper can weigh in on the matter of more wine. Harper’s back is to Bob. He’s facing us. He looks to be at a calm crossroads. A man realizing where his heart lay, ready for whatever that means, pragmatic logic be damned all the way to hell.
Bob is back, hovering behind an unbeknownst Harper. Bob has a wine bottle, but it’s an empty one. In the other hand, a recording device. A red light flashes from it.
Rolling…
Bob seems to be deep in contemplation, but doesn’t take too long considering the extremity of what follows.
He use the empty wine bottle to strike Harper in the back of the head with an exacting gust of force and precision. The smack it makes is odd and disturbing. Long and slender and oblong glass waging against skull and skin and tissue. A small yelp from Harper, like a doe hunted down in the one moment it didn’t expect it.
Harper goes to the ground, and Bob goes with him. Both hands firmly clenched around Harper’s neck.
There isn’t much blood, not as much as one would think. Harper doesn’t take long to die. After a few moments of realization leading to acceptance, he succumbs to the fate Bob has willed for him. The worst part is when he musters a last bit of energy into his windpipes and vocal cords to tell Bob he loves him. This does not diffuse Bob, as Harper likely intended. It only enrages him further. It only seals the deal.
You may try to look away. I have tried many times. Alas, we are confined by and beholden to some rotten and unknown Ludovico.
—————————-
Bob sits there for awhile with the crumpled cadaver. He has his recorder in his hand and he looks lost in some fugue daze.
When these things happen, I try ascertain Bob’s pain. His remorse. Every time, they seem to grow deeper and further. Every time, my disdain for him, my disdain for this situation, grows deeper and further.
—————————-
Bob wakes up in the morning, stretches the stretch and yawns the yawn of a man renewed by his slumber.
He ambles into his living room and finds the big fat reminder of what transpired last night.
Back to reality. And something must be done.
Bob scrambles back into his cavernous bedroom and pulls on some clothing. He looks around. The smell has registered in his nostrils, taking hold and consuming. The air in the room is still and murky. Almost visible.
DRIP DRIP DRIP from the kitchen sink.
Bob walks outside, to his patio. He finds his bicycle propped up in its mount, right where he left it. It’s a Cannondale.
Of course it’s a fucking Cannondale.
DRIP DRIP DRIP from the kitchen sink.
He wheels the unwieldy bike frame inside his living room and struggles to prop the body onto the bike. A few false starts and comedic stops prevail until Bob gets the right balance to make this happen. He wheels the body on the bike straight through the front door and out into the atrium of his apartment building. It’s empty, which is quite lucky for Bob in this moment as the body crumples a bit off the bike and eventually completely crashes onto the pebbled floor. Bob whips his head around in a panicked frenzy. Eyes bloodshot as the fear takes hold. A dog barks in the distance, and a gate slams somewhere nearby. But the coast remains clear.
“C’mon buddy, up ya go. I told you you shouldn’t have had those last fews glasses.”
Bob pulls the body back onto the bike and wheels it through a gate, trickling out onto the street. A bit of hustle and bustle in the neighborhood, nothing major. Those present are not really present at all.
“There ya go pal. I got ya. Almost there.”
Bob finds his truck, parked parallel to the curb. He carefully pulls the body inside the cab and straps it neatly into the passenger seat.
He tosses the bike in the bed and jogs over to the driver side. Once inside the cab, the body slumps a bit. Bob corrects this. He tucks the body back in place neatly. He turns the truck on, pops it into drive and carefully pulls out, onto the road ahead.
—————————-
Bob is halfway down a windy dusty canyon road making all of his best efforts to drive normally and carefully at the highest speed currently accessible by the speed limit.
Not many on the road today. Bob kicks up a cloud of tan dust as he sharply bumps a left down a blink-and-you-missed-it road.
—————————-
Bob’s halfway to the cliff with the body when his phone starts ringing.
It startles him. Aside from the birds and the bugs and the trees, Bob’s the only one making noise out here. We are there for every moment but we don’t make noise. Every piece of brush under our boots is silent. The universe does not detect us.
Bob scrambles to answer his phone and of course the bike and the body unsupported go careening and eventually plummet into the soil.
The tune of Bob’s ringtone rushes through the greenery like shockwaves until—
“Yes! Hello Wolf! No, I didn’t forget. I just had a family emergency. Can you give me an hour?”
—————————-
We’re back in Bob’s apartment. He races in, covered in grit. He almost slips and breaks his neck on the lake of water slowly forming in the kitchen under his sink.
He makes his way over the wet obtrusion, into the bathroom. 58 minutes have elapsed and it’s almost time to call the Wolf back.
Bob races to make himself even semi-presentable. Splashing water and scrubbing grime. Brown matter sweating from his brow and his cuts. He grabs a towel to polish the rest of it away. It’s not perfect, but it will do for now. Bob knows he will never truly be clean.
Bob finally makes it down in front of his machine in his office when Wolf calls him for the second time. This time it’s a video chat.
“HOLY SHIT!!!!!!”
“What?”
“Your face!”
“Oh, yeah.”
“What the hell happened? Your old lady catch your shtoopin’ the neighbor? Hehehe. Don’t worry. Happened to me too once pal. Maybe more than once…”
Silence.
“Seriously. What happened?”
“I was riding my bike and a squirrel jumped out at me.”
“Jesus kid. That’s all you got? All this time to make up a story, and THAT’S all you got?”
Silence.
“Uh-huh. Listen, kid. If you forgot the meeting, you forgot the meeting. It’s not a big deal. No need for some big elaborate scam. I’ve been around the block more than a few times. I’ve heard every variation of ‘dog ate my homework’ there is.”
Wolf has an old-timey sorta vibe. Like cigar-chewing film studio executive from the 1920s fell into a time machine and found himself running shit in the 21st century. Think Al Pacino in Once Upon a Time in Hollywood… except bigger dimensions. Maybe even something that crawled from the same crevice Weinstein once crept from.
“Did you have a chance to listen to what I sent you?”
“The Patricia stuff?”
“The Patricia stuff and the other stuff.”
“Patricia’s stuff is great. Patricia’s stuff is always great.”
“And what about the other stuff?”
“The other stuff is what I wanted to talk to you about.”
“And…?”
“It just didn’t sound… real enough.”
“Real enough?”
“Yeah. Real enough. It’s a women getting strangled, not a chicken running around with its head cut off.”
“You ever heard a person getting strangled before, Wolf?”
“What kind of a question is that? Look, I’m making horror pictures here. They may be cheap but I don’t want them to feel or sound cheap. You’re one of the best in the business. I just expected more.”
“You may have to find someone else.”
“Oh, come on! Just take another stab at it. And don’t forget about scene 15.”
“I already submitted for scene 15.”
“Yeah, again. Not real enough. I want to hear the wind in dress as she plummets to her death.”
“Well, maybe all I need to do is go out and find a woman to push out of a window and record it. Maybe that will sound real enough for you.”
“OK, smart guy. I see I’ve pissed you off. Look, I know I’m tough on you but here’s the thing I learned in life about bosses. Everyone has one—“
“Wolf, I gotta go.”
“What’s the rush? Jesus you’re a terrible date.”
“I’ve got a leak.”
Bob hangs up before Wolf can proffer a ciao.
—————————-
With boots and a raincoat secured to his body, Bob treads into the kitchen looking like some wayward character on the packaging of a box of fish sticks. He wades through the knee high water. Lighting in the room darkens. A breeze blows and a light drizzle sets in. Thunder crashes down somewhere in the near dark distance.
Bob finally makes his way under the sink, pulling himself through the cabinet despite waves crashing all around him. A wrench clenched between his teeth as his arms push against the harsh water.
He pulls the wrench from his mouth, gritting against the ghastly and sudden conditions. He finally secures the loosened bolt.
Bob lets go. He falls back and the water takes him. He floats down the kitchen, into his partially-submerged living room in some surreal and horrible scene.
—————————-
Bob wakes up. Bundled and tucked comfortably in his bed. He rises. Well rested. Dry.
He wanders into the kitchen. No ocean. No troubled waters. Not even the incessant DRIP DRIP DRIP. It’s calm and serene and practically, dare I say downright god damn peaceful.
He sticks his head under the kitchen sink. Nothing. Normal. Like it never happened.
Bob smiles for what feels like the first time in a long time.
—————————-
It’s afternoon and Bob is on his couch, exchanging messages with some new potential paramour named Frankie.
“Well, why don’t you just come over?”
“I don’t do things like that so quickly, Bob. What sort of girl do you take me for?”
“I don’t mean to take you for anything less thana lady, Frankie. But I do think we have something here and I don’t want to waste any more time.”
“What’s a few more days? That way I know you’re not a creep. Or at least, I’ll be very certain.”
“You never can be too sure, can you?”
“Precisely.”
“Life is too short, and the world is not for long. So I think you should come over.”
“How often does that line work.”
“It’s not a line. It’s the truth.”
“Wow. You’re full of them.”
“Well, I’m not giving you anymore unless they’re in person.”
“Darn, what a shame. Whatever will I do for entertainment?”
“Sounds like you’ll be endlessly bored.”
“If I were to come over, what would we do?”
“Whatever you wanted.”
“What do you want to do?”
“I want to make you dinner, drink a bit of wine with you, and then get you an Uber home because I’m a gentleman and do NOT kiss on the first date. You should know that about me and I’m sorry if it’s disappointing.”
“Who said it will be a date?”
“Me.”
“And what if I want to kiss you?”
“Then perhaps I will be able to oblige you, and break my rules. But I can’t make any promises.”
“Well, I suppose that will just have to do.”
—————————-
The elevator spits Bob out on the 6th floor. The top floor.
It’s a quiet and beautiful and bright day. It’s that time in spring when the bees are buzzing all around certain types of flowers, and the sunshine seems infinite.
Bob finds the planter he’s looking for on the balcony walkway. He snakes his head off the ledge, looking up at the rooftop. He smiles and snakes his head back in.
Bob’s placing a Zoom recording device in the planter when a voice beckons behind him:
“Hey! Just what in the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Bob spins to meet his aggressor or new friend or whoever this is. He’s crumpled and old, his rheumy gaze wandering yet piercing. He knows Bob is there, in front of him somewhere, but can’t focus in with any sort of laser precision. He must have lost that long ago, with a lot of other things that no longer matter to the primal existence he now inhabits.
“Hello sir. How are you today?”
“Did you hear a god damn thing I just said to you?”
“Yes I did sir. You’d like to know what I’m doing.”
“You’re god damn right I’d like to know. I’m sick of you people coming around here making changes like you own the place.”
“We do own the place, sir. I work for MG Properties. You see this device?”
Bob holds up his Zoom recorder as the old man squints to register it.
“What in the hell is that?”
Bob moves a bit closer.
“You stay right where you are, mister.”
“Yessir. I will. This device? This device is a refractometer monocharia. Or, a fancy way of saying a device that attracts monarch butterflies.”
“Jesus H. Why in the hell would we want to attract butterflies?”
“Well, it’s part of the beautification project we have been working on sir. Surely you’ve heard of the communal beautification project?”
“Surely I HAVEN’T.”
“Right. Well it’s exactly what it sounds like. We’re going around working on projects that make this a better place to live.”
“Yeah, well. You wanna know what will make this a better place to live?”
“What’s that sir?”
“Lowering my rent.”
“Right sir. Well I’m not on the leasing staff, so surely you can appreciate I have no jurisdiction in that capacity.”
“What in the hell did you just say? Was that English?”
“Sorry sir. I’ll be on my way momentarily. I just need to finish placing my device.”
“You’ll do no such thing near MY apartment.”
“Sir, you don’t have a choice in the matter. It’s in your lease.”
“Like hell it is.”
“Sir. I’d hate to raise this matter with higher authorities…”
Bob steps forward a bit.
“But I’m glad to do it. If that’s what we need to do.”
The old man recoils and practically hisses.
“You people are all the same. A bunch of bastards. Sick individuals.”
“Well sir, funny you should mention. I was just going to say. We do take community volunteers. And we always can use a good man or two. Or basterd.”
The old man shrivels his face.
“I’m in apartment 409. Name’s Cody. Feel free to stop by anytime if you change your mind.”
The old man slams his door in full performance. Bob finishes rigging his recording device and shuffles back into the elevator.
—————————-
Frankie is a marvelous creature. Far more beautiful and charming and vibrant than one could imagine or anticipate. She is colorful and lively and immediately commands that effect on the room.
Bob is clearly taken by her as she waltzes through the threshold of the door, aromas of some delicious cuisine wafting through the air.
“Mmmmmmmm. Smells so delicious in here.”
Her accent is French but some of its romantic musicality has been hammered away by time spent in the states and sculpted into something more American.
“I’m really glad you came. Are you hungry?”
“Famished.”
Frankie takes in Bob’s place.
“Your place is so cute.”
“I’ve heard it described in a lotta ways. But that’s a first.”
“Oh my gooood. I this the SOUND ROOM?”
Frankie moves towards Bob’s dungeon.
“Why don’t we have some food first? And then I’ll show you what I do.”
Bob smiles that smile and Frankie proffers one to match as he shows her to the dining table. Bob has repurposed his workout area as a dining area with candles and roses. These slight veils are what Bob the spider employs to entangle his prey.
Bob pulls Frankie’s chair out for her and she sits. He take his place across the table from her.
The food does look scrumptious. Bob genuinely pulled off a feast. His feats and accomplishments today alone make all those including the devil look downright unproductive.
Frankie tucks her napkin into her blouse as Bob pours her a glass of wine.
“So, Bob. Where do we start?”
“Wherever you’d like, Frankie.”
Bob pours himself a glass of wine. Sips and smiles.
“Well, that’s certainly a lot of power.”
“Is that what you like? To have a lot of power?”
“Don’t we all?”
“Not me. Not particularly. But it does seem to always get thrust upon me. And I believe in seizing the moment. Doing what you have to do.”
“That’s deep, Bob…”
“Just speaking the truth. But make fun of me, all the same.”
“Awwww, you’re cute when you’re embarrassed. Looks like it doesn’t happen very often.”
Bob gulps down a big drink of wine, hoping this will provide an increased shade of flush to his face to hide his chagrin.
“So. How do you like what you do?”
“I love it. It inspires me. It’s why I wake up in the morning. Do you know what it is to not have direction in your life, and all of a sudden, BOOM. You find the thing you were meant to do. That’s special.”
“Remind me, what is it you do again?”
“It’s OK. You didn’t forget. I never told you.”
“Ah.”
“All in good time. I’m shy. Certain people react funny when I tell them what I do.”
“And you think I might be one of those certain people?”
“I’m not sure yet, Bob. But you never can be too careful these days.”
Well, I must say Frankie. If you don’t want to tell me, you don’t have to tell me. I respect your wishes and your timing. Whenever you think it’s the right time. I will be there with open ears and an open heart.”
“That’s sweet, Bob.”
“Shall we eat?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
Bob serves the first course.
“So, Bob. What will we do tonight after we dine?”
“Well, Frankie. I’m glad you ask. You see, I do indeed have a plan.”
“Do you now?”
“I do.”
“I can’t wait for you to tell me.”
“Well, you see. There is a fireworks show in the area tonight.”
“A fireworks show?”
“A fireworks show. You know us Americans. We love a good firework. Even if it’s not Fourth of July or New Year’s Eve. We’ll light those fuckers off any good old time we get the opportunity.”
“I can’t say I’ve ever been to a fireworks show.”
“Well, it get’s even better.”
“Oh does it now?”
“It does.”
“Tell me.”
“It just so happens that the rooftop of this building has a panoramic view of the entire city. The type of panoramic view that would be quite ideal for the viewing of a fireworks show that was close by.”
“Well Bob. It sounds like we’re in the right place, at the right time.”
“I think it does indeed sound that way Frankie. But before you go fully saying that, I would like to say something.”
“What’s that, Bob?”
“There is but one problem to the plan I have laid before you.”
“Is there?”
“There is.”
“And what is it?”
“Well Frankie, I’m a fast eater. And as I see you eat the last bites of your portion of the first course, I hope you don’t mind me saying but, I can see that you too are a fast eater.”
“I would say that your observation is correct, Bob.”
“And to my calculation. It will take us roughly another 45 minutes to finish this meal in its entirety.”
“Well Bob that does seem quite specific. And I will take your word for it. The thing is, I still don’t see where the problem you have alluded to is.”
“Well Frankie, let’s say my math is correct. Let’s say my math is not just correct, but spot fuckin’ on. Pardon my French.”
“It’s pardoned.”
“Let’s say my math is spot fuckin’ on. If my math is spot fuckin’ on, and we finish this meal in 45 minutes, the sun will not be down.”
“It think that assessment is most likely correct.”
“And if my math is spot fuckin’ on, and we finish this meal in 45 minutes, and the sun is not down, then that means the firework show will not yet commence.”
“It won’t?”
“Frankie, I don’t know how the French take in their fireworks. But us Americans, we like it dark when we shoot thos e fuckers up.”
“Makes sense Bob. Well, I guess that means we will have some time to spare.”
“Yes Frankie. You guess correctly.”
“So what is it you propose that we do, in that time?”
“Well Frankie, you see. I am a gentleman. I would not impose anything or any idea upon you. So I ask you. What would you like to do?”
Frankie finishes her last bite. Chews slowly. Never losing eye contact with Bob.
“Well Bob, I do have some ideas.”
—————————-
The pills hit Bob hard.
There’s no way from telling where we’re standing what variety they are, but when a beautiful woman hands a man something and winks at him, you can’t fully blame him for popping that something in his mouth and hoping for the best.
Bob and Frankie are laying on the floor in his sound room. Bob’s eyes are woozy and his head is bobbing around as if he’s falling through some sort of kaleidoscopic dreamscape on his ceiling.
“Bob. I’d love to hear some of your work.”
“Without context, it’s not much to listen to.”
“Perhaps we can listen, and you can fill me in.”
“Frankie, I gotta run to the bathroom. But I’m afraid to stand up.”
“Why are you afraid?”
“I might fall over. This stuff is heavy.”
“There’s nothing to be afraid of, Bob. Not when you have a friend to help you carry the weight.”
Bob starts rolling around, attempting to stand. Frankie bolsters him and helps make it happen.
Bob stumbles his way out of the room into the hall.
Once he’s out of Frankie’s eye line, he straightens up. Adjusts himself and his posture like some kind of killer robot from space doing a system reboot.
Bob beelines for the bathroom and barely notices the DRIP DRIP DRIP from the kitchen sink.
—————————-
Bob stares at the reflection in the mirror. A million thoughts and fantasies and outcomes rush by in his head. We see them all flash before us too. They are indiscernible, and they barely even matter at all because none of them are attainable. There is no way this ends in anything other than oblivion.
Bob procures a lavalier microphone and receiver. He wires the lav beneath his jacket and tucks the receiver in his front pocket.
ROLLING…
—————————-
Bob re-enters the sound room and Frankie is not where he left her.
She’s over by his editing machine. She has a particularly gruesome recording of a woman in agony playing very sharply and loudly across the soundscape. Bob probably would have heard this from the bathroom had it not been for the incredible work done on soundproofing this room.
Bob’s wallet is splayed out near the machine. There’s a Driver’s License in there with Bob’s picture on it. If you squint closely enough in the dark, you can see the name on it says Franklin McGiver.
“Hiya, Bob.”
“Hi, Frankie.”
“How’re you feeling?”
“I was just starting to recover a bit…”
“I hear ya.”
“Well, Frankie. What do we do now?”
Frankie launches at Bob first. He dodges her easily and gets her in a hold. She starts to fade but is able to grab a weird little sharp item from Bob’s workspace table and stabs him straight in the right quad.
The two go down to the ground. Panting. Reeling.
They both just… succumb. Neither taking action.
And then finally…
“Bob?”
“Yeah, Frankie?”
“There never was any fireworks, was there?”
Pause.
“No Frankie. No fireworks.”
—————————-
Bob winds through the canyon in his truck at top speed with the windows down. It’s late and the night air is crisp and refreshing. It’s just what he needs to heal a bit in the moment.
He drives for what seems like an eternity but is likely just minutes. For us in this vessel, the length of time no matter how short feels infinite and immeasurable.
It’s not long until Bob hears the banging. He catches the source in his left side view mirror. Fireworks. Off in the distance.
We’re still there too, of course. Along for the ride, just like we always are. Just like maybe we always have been. I don’t know why or how long I’ve been here. Now that I say this out loud, I think perhaps I have always been here. But you. YOU have not always been here. You’re new, which is why I suppose I’m doing this. Are you too forever doomed to this voyeuristic journey? To watch without control? I must say I hope it’s not the case. I would not wish this fate on anyone. To live as one in a Spike Jonze script is a life worth living only in the interim. Eventually, the ride must stop because to keep going beyond that is cruel and unusual. But also, the world we exist in has allowed something like this to happen in the first place.
But that’s what it is and that’s where we find ourselves. One could argue that this existence is not far off from one those live in modernity. We are all in some sick and perverted scheme of scrolling and swiping and watching without control. That might just be a case worth making, but now that you’re here it is truly beside the point.
You have not yet chosen. You can turn back now and stop looking and start living not as some vicarious vessel, but as a real human being.