“I think that’s probably the most common sort of delusion,” says Kyle, checking back in. “Thinking that people really care about what you’re doing.”
“Yeah,” says Jack. “But if you’re like, way above it, like a fuckin’ Buddhist monk, you could just fuckin’ take off all your clothes and just walk down the street and say rude things, because you know it doesn’t matter. I can’t do that, but that’d be cool.”
''Step on it, JB. I think I see... could it be...''
'' ... Sasquatch!''
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“I get maybe five or 10 minutes a month like that,” I say, “where ego takes a hike. But the rest of the month is mirror-bubble. It’s all Dick Cheney’s fault.” I rise. “I must pee. Say important things.”
Kyle rises too.
“Where are you goin’, Kage?” says Jack.
“I gotta go take care of business.”
“I can’t do it alone.”
“Yeah, you can.”
I stick my head out from the bathroom. “I can leave the door open and ask shit from here, if you like.”
“It’s okay,” says Jack, tilting his head back, placing fingers on eyes, David Lynch–style. “I’m just gonna monologue it.”
I aim for porcelain and listen.
Jack says: “I was thinkin’. I was thinkin’ that there’s so much shit going on in the world. And when you’re a kid, ?you think there’s a plan to all of it, and that your parents understand the cosmic plan, and that when you get older, you’ll get to know the Ultimate Plan. But then, slowly but surely, you realize there’s no Tooth Fairy, and there’s no Santa Claus, and then there’s no God, and then there’s no plan. Everyone’s just on this fuckin’ weird little globe, spinning through space. There’s all kinds of different shit you can do, but no one’s at the top controlling it. Yeah, you can blame it on Cheney, but Cheney doesn’t have any control either. He’s fuckin’ spinnin’ around, making bad decisions, but he’s not like an overlord minister of destruction as much as he is just another fuckin’ schlub who doesn’t know what the fuck is goin’ on.
“Same thing with the Hollywood industry. Early on, when you’re young, you think, ‘Yeah, I’m gonna get in there and do some movies or something. I’ll break into the thing. I’ll break into the industry club, and I’ll fuckin’ know how it works and what it’s about. But then you get in there and you realize there’s no real club or industry, or any rhyme or reason. Everyone’s just floatin’ around, doin’ weird jobs, and it’s a very fuckin’ random, Nietzschean universe of fuckin’ endless, empty, mindless destruction. Sometimes there’s good shit in there too. There’re some rainbows.”
Jack opens his eyes. I’m back, sitting across from him.
“I’m good with the monologue,” he says. “I like to just monologue. No need for questions.”
“Keep going, if you like.”
“I was thinking not.”
The D’s stylist, Roz Music, enters with a selection of T-shirts for an impending photo shoot. Others enter and leave. Someone goes to retrieve more shirts from Jack’s room. I shut down the Celebritone 2000T and start packing.
“Dude,” Jack tells Kyle. “You missed it. While you were gone, and D was gone, I just started doing a fuckin’ ‘Dust in the Wind’ monologue.”
“Dude!” says Kyle.
“That’s going to be the focus of the article,” I say.
“You should just print that, dude,” says Jack. “You might win a Pulitzer.”
“What?” Kyle asks.
“HE MIGHT WIN A PULITZER!” Jack yells.
“Has anyone at the Weekly won a Pulitzer?” Kyle asks.
“He might win a Nobel Peace Prize!” ?says Jack.
More T-shirts have arrived. Jack says, “Get a load of this, Dave,” and pulls his shirt up to expose his chest. “Print that in your article: Jack takes off his fuckin’ shirt!”
The hallway is buzzing with promotional conversations — who’s scheduled to go where and do what next, and for how long, and will they have food. The new T-shirt seems to work. Just as I zip my last bag, Jack begins serenading Kyle with a variation on some old Styx song, full volume: “LAYYY-DEAHH!! WHEN SHE’S WITH YOU, I’M SMAHHHY-LEEEEEENG!! SEE YOUR LAYYY-DEAHH!! WILL YOU SEE HER TONIIIIGHT? SHEEAH’S YOAHHR LAYYY-D’sh-guh-guh-guh-guh-guh-?guh-guh-guh-guh-guh-guh-guh-?guh-guh- . . . ”
Needle stuck in the groove.
