Produce, Me? | Episode Two (Luhrmann Edition)

…do you realize??…

Jun 01, 2024

You’ve chosen the Baz Luhrmann edition of Episode Two.

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My apartment is a wreck of toppled civilizations. Last night’s skirmish: the Chinese were beat back by crafty Italians. But it was a sloppy massacre – bamboo spears against a phalanx of miniature plastic lawn tables. Burp! Armageddon is only a stiff arm and a garbage can away.

The train is full of babies holding briefcases wearing nice shoes. The doors open, babies waddle out. I follow, sighing as tourists block my path, all looking up at the skyscrapers. Idiots. Locals never look up.

The restaurant is hoity; I don’t belong. Frenchy-French-French: “Chant du cygne.” A jazzy samba plays. I’m escorted to a long bench, people on either side. Al’s seat is empty across the table. Pretty people chatting, gesticulating, slurping mimosas on a weekday? Dilettantes. I dry gulp my meds. A Yorkie-in-a-purse yaps next to me, the owner peels the layers of a croissant like she’s in an ad. She’s supermodel-pretty though, gives me a smile, looks at the dog and shrugs. She shushes, it ignores her.

A man in sunglasses studies her, then me. He knows I don’t belong here, she does. Can he see my hands shaking under the table? Where is Al? Waiters flow by in ironed aprons, coiffed eyebrows. Everyone here is pretty.

The dog keeps barking at me, yelling: Intruder! I have to pee.

I thought the French bistro Muzak was piped in but here we are, listening to a band. I guess they’re okay. My toes tap. Jazzy. Maybe a little spacey. I guess there are worse things. This is like being stuck in an elevator with pretty people who smell good.

Putting her manicured hand on my shoulder, the croissant model leans toward me, “Watch my things?” She motions to the dog. Only in this restaurant would someone say that. Privileged. I nod and try to smile. She gives me a slow, thankful blink as she slides the dog over.

She’s standing and…singing? It’s a solo right here in the restaurant. Do I realize…what?

Sunglasses man is standing. Ugh, not an effing duet…nope. He’s motioning to the band. The dog starts howling along. I try to pet it, shush it. Damned dog nips me with those tiny teeth.

Eek. Guitar player is walking this way. He’s spinning around making his way through the crowd. How he manages to keep from knocking shit over I have no idea. Oh gawd…they’re all coming. The Showbiz pâté band has come to life.

Everyone in the restaurant is turning chairs around, swaying at their tables. Restaurant staff flow by in their pressed shirts, they push on the glass wall of the restaurant – it slides open to the street! Cooks carry pots and pans, tapping, scratching, thumping.

The supermodel grabs my hand, pulling me up. We’re in a swirl of people pouring out of the restaurant. The inside band is now outside. She continues to sing, but now to…me? I have a beautiful face, she says.

An army of babies with briefcases all peel away, synchronized, like they're in some old musical. I can see a flatbed semi…with an orchestra! Rows of violins, cellos, trumpets, French horns. A tympany!?

What the fuckaroo? Where is…

I stop and think: Hollywood Al. Of course! Master of the musical. Auteur of dance extravaganzas. I spin in the street looking for cameras.

I’m in a movie!

HI MOM!

Sunglasses man exits the restaurant running. He jumps onto the flatbed (a leap he does with Spiderman-like ease). Are those tails on his jacket? And a baton? The music now kicks up a notch as he points to the orchestra. I’m struck by the sound, all that power in such a small group. D-d-don’t tear up, I think. Damn musicals...I-i-i

A giant cymbal rings…glitter is falling from the sky. A Pickup truck with a harp in the back pulls up to meet the orchestra. A magical flood of sound rings as the woman (why are harpists always women?) swishes as the crowd of dancers slows, slows, slowly falling to the ground.

We’re all stopped, hundreds of us: babies in suits, a hot dog vendor and his cart…all frozen. A garbage man begins to bang a metal lid. He’s starting a rhythm — a boom-boom-bat. Then another across the street. It’s just them making any sound. Eerie. Like everyone along the avenue, high rises all around, we are waiting for something…

From a rooftop someone yells, calling for: “Yoshimi!” Then another. They point to the end of the street.

A horn blares ringing like an air raid siren through the streets. The garbage cans give way to the typanies, a building thundering sound. Boom-boom-booooooooom. We’re all moving now, almost marching, away, backward.

A massive head, then a body float at the end of the street –– A GIANT PINK ROBOT.

Everyone on the street screams in mock horror, they run in circles. Some kneel and shoot Roman candles toward the robot. I’m lost in all of it, surrounded in the chaos.

A little Asian girl steps up to me. She’s wearing what looks like a flight suit, but fashionable, ready for action. She smiles and grabs my hand. I can’t help but smile as we continue to move our way down the street.

On the the flatbed – a band rises up, start to sing…”Her name’s Yoshimi, she’s a black belt in karate”

The pink robot – really just a thanksgiving day parade balloon - follows us, it’s big boots stomping down the street. A dozen handlers are pulling and letting go of ropes, twisting their way up and down with each step.

More pink robots arrive, marching down the street. Dozens of them, smaller. People in suits.

Yoshimi throws up her hands as air cannons go off from somewhere behind us. The rush of air throws confetti toward the robots, the wind pushing them back a little.

It’s fucking manic, brilliant and getting louder…

We’re making our way toward the waterfront. A group of schoolchildren run out, parents in tow. They all raise their phones at the sight of us, the cacophony. The robots keep marching forward, pushing us to the edge of the dock.

Yoshimi and I are dancing with the crowd. I wonder in the swirl of it all…what happened to the supermodel? The yappy dog? Shrug. Dance more.

People from office buildings have flooded the street. They all copy Yoshimi’s poses, her kicks. She’s teaching them all karate. She won’t let those robots win. What’s that feeling? Nevermind. STFU.

Now thousands of us. We are ALL play-fighting the robots. Kick. Punch. Confetti everywhere. The smaller robots start to fall.

I. Will. Not. Cry.

Music is now at a pitch, the crowd is howling, dancing. The orchestra is fluttering at full tilt as Yoshimi waves back the crowd. A massive circle forms around us letting the giant robot in close, pushing us to the edge of the dock.

Our back to the water, she taps me on the shoulder — “follow my lead”

Our arms spinning, flailing as we wind up for one last faux punch at the massive robot following us.