Forever, Jack
Page 27
Despite saying I didn’t need to know, I was desperate to understand what had happened when Jack left and why he hadn’t come back. It was obvious now too, after two failed attempts at speaking in person, that it was impossible to be around him long enough to hear him out before the fight or flight response I was so damn good at, kicked in. And he’d obviously realized it before I had and known this might be the only way to reach me. And the only way I might believe he wasn’t just spinning me a line.
God. It was real.
He was real.
This was real.
I unfolded the pages and started reading.
I can’t believe I’m back here. In England. I’m fucking freezing. The air is white, and wet, and thick with tiny, icy, droplets. The green everywhere I look is so deep and dark, I feel like no other colors exist.
My mum used to give me blank journals when I was younger to help me “sort things through” she’d say. “Put it on paper if you can’t talk, and get it out of your head so it doesn’t fester.” That was how she’d found out about the drugs when I was sixteen. Getting me to write everything down was a smart move on her part.
Of course, I went to see Mum as soon as I arrived. I needed to apologize for not coming home when I’d been in London with Audrey. Of course she forgave me. She always does. I went to bed in her and Jeff’s guestroom and slept for two days. When I woke up, she gave me a cup of tea and this bloody journal. There’s nothing like being with a parent to regress you straight back to childhood. “I don’t need it,” I told her. But here I am already, baring my soul to the pages of a book instead of to the one person who has ever even tempted me to open up.
Keri Ann.
Just writing her name causes a weird current inside me. Like I shouldn’t be writing it.
It’s an echo of what I experienced when I was with her. Like she was too good for me to drag into the bullshit that comprises my life. I should have listened to myself.
I’m on set. I just met all the crew and the screenwriter today (Alistair McGowan) and he’s a total prick. I hate to say that about people I hardly know, but he was drunk at the meeting at seven this morning and proceeded to stick his hand up the skirt of this poor runner girl who was delivering coffee to us. He laughed it off and told her she shouldn’t wear a skirt to work. Like I said, a prick. If I hadn’t promised Peak I’d get this project back on its feet in return for them keeping Audrey quiet and stop her from bringing her scorned woman act down on Keri Ann, I’d walk.
We’re all going into London tomorrow night, the cast and crew. Luckily we’re only twenty miles out. It will be my first opportunity to have some pap pictures taken. Duane texted me to say Audrey’s been rocking the boat again, complaining the fans still hate her, and I needed to get on with my part of the deal. Maybe I’ll ask that runner girl, Suzy, if she’d mind having pictures taken with me. We can ham it up. I’d rather it be someone I can sort of trust, rather than a potential stalker nutcase. Give Audrey what she wants as quickly as possible and hope to God Keri Ann doesn’t see it and think I truly don’t give a shit.
I’ve been playing the part of the happy, go lucky, flirty movie-star for so long I’ve begun to believe it. At least I had started to believe it before I met Keri Ann. I wore the cockiness, the surety, the knowledge that I could, if I wanted to, have anything, and do anything I wanted. Wearing that skin had become easier. I’d buried my true self so deep inside, I’d forgotten him. Or I didn’t think he was ever worth digging out. I’m still not sure.
The problem is, I love what I do. Today really reminded me of that. I hate the shit, the fakeness, the shallowness, the games you have to play. The little dances you do to stroke egos and keep people happy and show the precise amount of gratitude and humility. But today, we were shooting a particularly emotional scene where my character leaves the love of his life and hurts her … crudely and deliberately. It was, or could have been, a brilliant scene, but we’ve been taking swings at it for days and still haven’t nailed it. I’ve been giving it everything. The scene … it was just … written wrong. I could see it so clearly. I finally got the balls to say something to the director, Dan, and he let me do it my own way while Alistair, the tool, was doing whatever the fuck it is he does when he disappears off for hours. Why is he even on the set? His consulting period is not supposed to be ongoing.
Ok, rant over.
I miss her. How can you miss someone you haven’t really spent much time with? I think it must be my soul that misses her then. It’s the only explanation.
I’m really getting into the head of my character, this artist, and I keep wondering what she would say about this. What advice she’d give.
Now that we’ve mostly gotten “Alistair Molester” removed from the set, things are going brilliantly. I’m really involved, it’s been a pretty awesome experience. Dan, the director, is talking about giving me a writing and directing credit. Word’s been getting out and we’ve had some press asking to get past our closed set policy. I’ve pushed back. I need to keep my contrived off-camera persona separate from what I’m doing here. I’ve had a few more photo ops with Suzy and some friends of hers. They’re cool girls and good for a laugh. And mostly blonde, thank God. It’s bad enough when I’m feeling bloody lonely and half a bottle in, that sometimes I think if I met someone with her exact hair color, like burned caramel, it would be easy to just pretend. For a moment. I’m not sure why I don’t actually. I mean at this stage she’s got to have moved on. Maybe it didn’t even take her this long. Or maybe she’s seen the pictures and assumed the worst.
Maybe I should move on, too. I just … can’t.
Maybe, what we had wasn’t “all that.” Maybe I imagined it all. Maybe she never gave a fucking shit, and I’m the only one who read more into it. I wanted her to see past that ridiculous coat of confidence I wear, but what if she never did? Or what if she did see me, and I wasn’t enough for her?
Conference call about Dread Pirate Roberts’ movie today. It was good to hear Devon’s voice on the phone. Some guys from Peak were on the call too, and a money guy from right down the road here in London. I’ve been pushing for them to set the movie in Savannah. I knew Devon would be on board since he has a place near there that he doesn’t get to enjoy enough. I went on about the history of the city and the riverfront docks, etc. We’ll see. I just need a way to spend a LOT of time there. No guesses as to why. I called Duane back again after everyone else hung up and practically begged. We’ll see what the price is down the line if he goes for it.
Fuck, I’m depressed. It’s good for my role. The part I’m playing is as morose as they come.
It doesn’t even fucking rain here, it’s just wet. Like a constant bone-deep chill with the incessant grey drizzle. I keep remembering the rainstorm I trudged through to get to her house, before I … shit, I can’t write about that right now.
Now that’s what you call a raindrop. Just one of those things’ll drench you all by itself. They don’t mess around with rain there. This shit is just taking the piss.
I found a tiny old copper sea turtle on a leather cord while I was on Portobello Road last week. I seem to be carrying it around in my pocket all the time. Apparently a tattoo on my foot isn’t enough. Who knew I was this sentimental? Not me …
God. It was real.
He was real.
This was real.
I unfolded the pages and started reading.
I can’t believe I’m back here. In England. I’m fucking freezing. The air is white, and wet, and thick with tiny, icy, droplets. The green everywhere I look is so deep and dark, I feel like no other colors exist.
My mum used to give me blank journals when I was younger to help me “sort things through” she’d say. “Put it on paper if you can’t talk, and get it out of your head so it doesn’t fester.” That was how she’d found out about the drugs when I was sixteen. Getting me to write everything down was a smart move on her part.
Of course, I went to see Mum as soon as I arrived. I needed to apologize for not coming home when I’d been in London with Audrey. Of course she forgave me. She always does. I went to bed in her and Jeff’s guestroom and slept for two days. When I woke up, she gave me a cup of tea and this bloody journal. There’s nothing like being with a parent to regress you straight back to childhood. “I don’t need it,” I told her. But here I am already, baring my soul to the pages of a book instead of to the one person who has ever even tempted me to open up.
Keri Ann.
Just writing her name causes a weird current inside me. Like I shouldn’t be writing it.
It’s an echo of what I experienced when I was with her. Like she was too good for me to drag into the bullshit that comprises my life. I should have listened to myself.
I’m on set. I just met all the crew and the screenwriter today (Alistair McGowan) and he’s a total prick. I hate to say that about people I hardly know, but he was drunk at the meeting at seven this morning and proceeded to stick his hand up the skirt of this poor runner girl who was delivering coffee to us. He laughed it off and told her she shouldn’t wear a skirt to work. Like I said, a prick. If I hadn’t promised Peak I’d get this project back on its feet in return for them keeping Audrey quiet and stop her from bringing her scorned woman act down on Keri Ann, I’d walk.
We’re all going into London tomorrow night, the cast and crew. Luckily we’re only twenty miles out. It will be my first opportunity to have some pap pictures taken. Duane texted me to say Audrey’s been rocking the boat again, complaining the fans still hate her, and I needed to get on with my part of the deal. Maybe I’ll ask that runner girl, Suzy, if she’d mind having pictures taken with me. We can ham it up. I’d rather it be someone I can sort of trust, rather than a potential stalker nutcase. Give Audrey what she wants as quickly as possible and hope to God Keri Ann doesn’t see it and think I truly don’t give a shit.
I’ve been playing the part of the happy, go lucky, flirty movie-star for so long I’ve begun to believe it. At least I had started to believe it before I met Keri Ann. I wore the cockiness, the surety, the knowledge that I could, if I wanted to, have anything, and do anything I wanted. Wearing that skin had become easier. I’d buried my true self so deep inside, I’d forgotten him. Or I didn’t think he was ever worth digging out. I’m still not sure.
The problem is, I love what I do. Today really reminded me of that. I hate the shit, the fakeness, the shallowness, the games you have to play. The little dances you do to stroke egos and keep people happy and show the precise amount of gratitude and humility. But today, we were shooting a particularly emotional scene where my character leaves the love of his life and hurts her … crudely and deliberately. It was, or could have been, a brilliant scene, but we’ve been taking swings at it for days and still haven’t nailed it. I’ve been giving it everything. The scene … it was just … written wrong. I could see it so clearly. I finally got the balls to say something to the director, Dan, and he let me do it my own way while Alistair, the tool, was doing whatever the fuck it is he does when he disappears off for hours. Why is he even on the set? His consulting period is not supposed to be ongoing.
Ok, rant over.
I miss her. How can you miss someone you haven’t really spent much time with? I think it must be my soul that misses her then. It’s the only explanation.
I’m really getting into the head of my character, this artist, and I keep wondering what she would say about this. What advice she’d give.
Now that we’ve mostly gotten “Alistair Molester” removed from the set, things are going brilliantly. I’m really involved, it’s been a pretty awesome experience. Dan, the director, is talking about giving me a writing and directing credit. Word’s been getting out and we’ve had some press asking to get past our closed set policy. I’ve pushed back. I need to keep my contrived off-camera persona separate from what I’m doing here. I’ve had a few more photo ops with Suzy and some friends of hers. They’re cool girls and good for a laugh. And mostly blonde, thank God. It’s bad enough when I’m feeling bloody lonely and half a bottle in, that sometimes I think if I met someone with her exact hair color, like burned caramel, it would be easy to just pretend. For a moment. I’m not sure why I don’t actually. I mean at this stage she’s got to have moved on. Maybe it didn’t even take her this long. Or maybe she’s seen the pictures and assumed the worst.
Maybe I should move on, too. I just … can’t.
Maybe, what we had wasn’t “all that.” Maybe I imagined it all. Maybe she never gave a fucking shit, and I’m the only one who read more into it. I wanted her to see past that ridiculous coat of confidence I wear, but what if she never did? Or what if she did see me, and I wasn’t enough for her?
Conference call about Dread Pirate Roberts’ movie today. It was good to hear Devon’s voice on the phone. Some guys from Peak were on the call too, and a money guy from right down the road here in London. I’ve been pushing for them to set the movie in Savannah. I knew Devon would be on board since he has a place near there that he doesn’t get to enjoy enough. I went on about the history of the city and the riverfront docks, etc. We’ll see. I just need a way to spend a LOT of time there. No guesses as to why. I called Duane back again after everyone else hung up and practically begged. We’ll see what the price is down the line if he goes for it.
Fuck, I’m depressed. It’s good for my role. The part I’m playing is as morose as they come.
It doesn’t even fucking rain here, it’s just wet. Like a constant bone-deep chill with the incessant grey drizzle. I keep remembering the rainstorm I trudged through to get to her house, before I … shit, I can’t write about that right now.
Now that’s what you call a raindrop. Just one of those things’ll drench you all by itself. They don’t mess around with rain there. This shit is just taking the piss.
I found a tiny old copper sea turtle on a leather cord while I was on Portobello Road last week. I seem to be carrying it around in my pocket all the time. Apparently a tattoo on my foot isn’t enough. Who knew I was this sentimental? Not me …
