Produce, Me? | Episode Four | Spill The Beans
…spill the beans…
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I nod toward the blue folder: Spill the beans
The supermodel — erm, spokesmodel — nods. Oh man, she’s good. There’s no judgment at all in her reaction. She turns to make the other folder disappear into a satchel.
She steps behind the wheelchair. Hospital staff move into place and pull open the doors. My face is flooded, smacked by light and a cacophony of voices.They’re shouting questions. In the distance I can hear people outside. There must be TVs outside, too. They’re chanting: Hero! Hero!
Vomit-burp. I remind my stomach not to let fly today.
The Mayor stands there. My wheelchair is pushed toward her. She’s not going to sit next to me, though. That would wrinkle her impeccable suit.
The supermodel flanks the other side, she has the folder ready. The crowd quiets.
“We’re here to say thank you to a hero among us…” the mayor starts. It’s a good start. I feel like shit about it but I kinda like the opener. It’s followed by, “selfless” “do-gooder” and something about “the best of us.”
Do I let her finish?
I’m waiting for the right time to, uh, grunt something. I want to come clean, to make up for it all. I don’t even know how to talk, how to say that I…
“He’s a FRAUD!” someone shouts from the back. There’s a commotion. Cameras swivel.
Phones buzz — the feed on a hospital TV changes to the picture of Al, me and the stack of cash at the bank.
The voice moves forward, it’s the Pleb! One of Al’s assistants – the one who called me a prick at the waterfront. She’s holding up a print out of what’s on the screen and rushing toward me. She’s vaulting, weaving. Security can’t stop her. She’s the Termina…trix?
”He’s not a hero…he paid for it all!” The Pleb’s voice is getting louder as she approaches.
The Mayor shrinks back.
The Pleb pulls out a gun. Where is security?! The crowd falls to the ground as she waves it — all but the camera people, of course, gotta get that shot. Jerks.
She leaps up in front of me and pushes the gun at my chest. Her voice is a tearing, quivering scream, “You don’t deserve…I went to NYU! I should be the famous one…”
This is how it goes down, I guess. I see the headline: Drama student murders liar
“You paid your way in…you-you…”
I think she’s going to say “fraud” again. Everything kinda goes into slow motion. Then I see the spokesmodel leap for the gun. Her body is posed in a beautiful arc, superhero-like, arms outstretched.
But she’s not in time.
Maybe gunshots aren’t loud like the movies? I don’t know what happened after that.
All I hear is, “Sorry, kid.”
It’s Al. He’s puffing on a cigar. We’re at a restaurant. Fancy-schmancy. I can see my reflection in the silverware. We’re alone. It’s plush. Gilded. But a bit like sitting inside a whiskey cave.
Al sees the expression on my face as I look around, bewildered.
“I know, I know, it’s a little gaudy. My people would have made the afterlife look modern…at least it’s not that white void shit, right?”
I hear a flame whip up, smell a steak cooking somewhere.
“So…being somebody? All you hoped it would be?”
I touch my face. No wires, no gauze. My shoulder and arm move freely.
He lifts his glass, tinkling the ice — another, please? An immaculate waiter pours. Looks like three-fingers. Probably Macallan.
“Want some?” Al says, “you paid for it.”
I signal to the waiter for a pour and take a deep breath. So, this is the afterlife. Huh. It's different than I imagined. So much sharper, too.
My head tilts and the words tumble out, “You know it was always your money.”
Al he leans on the table, setting his cigar down, “When did you figure out I was your great uncle?”
He’s smiling that Hollywood wry smile. I smile back, like a mirror. It feels good to smile.
My drink arrives. I sip. “You might have four ex-wives but your shelf is missing one gold statue”
He puffs and lets fly with that crazy laugh, the one that unhinges his jaw. Our steaks arrive: rare with a side of sautéed mushrooms. The waiter leaves the bottle.
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Music to read by: Heaven by Talking Heads
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