Shanghai Triad

Furlough Film # 7
(Every furlough day Dublin and Robert Fong get together to view a film and have a discussion about it. This time Bob Fong's neighbor Paul joined them as well. The following is a transcript of that discussion.)

P: This is Chinese?
R: Duh!
D: This was the same guy who did Raise The Red Lantern right?
R: Yep. Zhang Yimou. He's good.
D: Great.

(They watch the movie)

D: Wow.
R: You guys like it?
D: Loved it.
P: I don't know, I was expecting more of a gangster movie.
R: I was too. But then the end came and it was all good.
D: What do you mean?
R: Well, you got this kid that works as the servant to the mob boss's mistress. She's a straight bitch. Then a gang war breaks out and they all have to hide out on an island with a farmer woman and her daughter and what the f__k. Straight art movie s__t.
D: And then?
R: Right, and then there's a betrayal and next thing you know eighteen guys are getting massacred and thrown in a mass grave along with their boss who gets buried alive. Real motherf__king gangsta!
P: But it threw me for a loop!
D: How?
P: Well, it was art house for a long time. All those big dance numbers at the club in Shanghai. Even the violence was arty up to a point.
D: Right, when the kid's uncle is killed and all that?
P: I thought it was a dream.
D: Me too, because of lighting and the sounds and the slo mo and all that.
P: Then they go out to the island and I think "okay, now we're going to have a funny little sequence where the boy and the mistress bond and it'll be filmed nicely and be light hearted." But no, the stupid mistress gets the farmer woman's lover killed and it's all bad. It was.......I don't know.....
D: Devastating.
P: Yes, exactly.
D: That's why it was good, no?
R: Exactly, s__t was tough. I liked it because it seemed like it was going to go soft and then it just got rugged. The farmer lady even got wacked.
D: That's right. And her daughter is off to be sculpted into the next high end gangster moll of Shanghai. Not a happy ending.
P: The main actress was really pretty.
R: You kidding? Gong Li is hot as hell.
D: That was Gong Li?
R: Yeah, she was in Miami Vice.
D: She looks so different.
R: No she didn't.
D: She was in Farewell My Concubine. And Curse of The Golden Flower.
R: That's right. Curse of The Golden Flower was Zhang Yimou too. They were actually married or something in the 90's
D: I don't think I recognized her because of the eye brows. They are usually so expressive and in this one she had them shaved off so she would look more like the 30's era.
P: You know, I haven't watched a lot of movies from China. The ones I have seen are usually way over the top emotionally, you know what I mean? But this one was a lot more, kind of, laid back?
D: Subtle?
P: Yes.
D: You can actually find a lot that are subtle. What are the one's that you have seen that are all over the top?
P: I'm not sure. I saw them all at Bob's house.
R: Well s__t, those were all John Woo. He doesn't have a subtle bone in his body.
D: That's true. One of my favorite movies of all time is Chinese and is all subtlety.
P: Really? What?
D: Lust Caution.
R: Subtle? What?! That movie's a f__king porno! And it was made in Taiwan!
D: It is not a porno. And are you sure it was made in Taiwan?
R: No, I'm not sure. But it is a f__king porno.
P: What is this movie?
D: It's amazing. I've never seen anything like it. Ang Lee did it.
R: Yep, Mr. Brokeback Mountain himself.
P: Brokeback Mountain is a good movie.
D: Yes. Ang Lee brings the same touch to Lust Caution.
P: We should watch it!
R: Hell no. I'm not sitting here with you guys watching Brokeback Mountain.
P: No, Lust Caution.
R: But we have both seen it.
D: But Paul hasn't. He can be the tie breaker.
R: But I never said it wasn't a good movie.
D: Well do you or don't you?
R: I guess I don't know. All I remember is the sex.
D: Okay, well throw it on your Netflix queue and let's do this thing.
P: What about this one, Shanghai Triad? Final thoughts?
D: Very good. Thought it was great.
P: Much better than other Chinese films Bob has shown me.
R: Gong Li is hot.

Taken from a transcription by Peggy Menchstone on 01/20/12

Paintings of Empty Rooms

1
Paul has always painted well but never introduces himself as a painter since his work has never sold or been hung for public enjoyment. He sits behind the counter at Best Regards Flower Shop, where he works, and he day dreams of being a great artist with a name that people know and respect. Calls come in for flowers that interrupt his day dreams but once he has filled out the orders and passed them to Clare in the back to be put together he retakes his position behind the counter and falls back into the vision where he left off.
Six o’clock comes and he dawns his black jacket and slowly walks around the lake in the center of the city to return to the apartment he shares with his girlfriend Helen. He walks slowly, dragging his feet, and he takes his time because once he gets home he will have to paint but he does not know what and that is his problem.
When he gets in the door of the apartment he takes off the jacket and after a beer he stands in front of the easel that holds a blank canvas. He’s proud of himself for the discipline he shows by always going to the easel and standing before it. He stares at the canvas for some time and then he looks around at the rejects and half painted sketches that sit around the room gathering dust. Many of them are recreations of scenes from magazines with mythological themes added. He watches these failures for a series of minutes, waiting for their value to reveal itself, until he decides he will try something new with a fresh direction and turns back towards the canvas. He stares again, looking deeper and deeper, probing into the very fiber of it, waiting for what he will paint to sprout from his imagination until he hears Helen’s key turn in the lock of the apartment and she is home from work.
They sit at the small yellow dining table in the nook of the kitchen and eat dinner together. They take turns cooking but they have run out of ideas and their meals have become a limited series of five different dishes. They talk, at least Helen does, mostly about her job and her brother who is having problems with his wife and is suffering in a dysfunctional marriage. Paul listens but not closely because he has heard it before. He and Helen have been together for two and a half years themselves and rarely go out for dinner because they have agreed to save money to get a house.
They go to bed after brushing their teeth and both of them fall asleep quickly. On the occasion that they stay up Helen will turn towards him and Paul will attempt to make love to her. He tries not to think of his painting and lack of inspiration but it always enters his head and he performs poorly. She looks away from him, at the wall, waiting for something significant to happen.

On his days off Paul walks to the park near the apartment and sits on one of the benches waiting for inspiration. He watches the Goldeneye ducks make their way around the park’s pond. He enjoys them but has no interest in painting them and he watches the mothers push the strollers and the children play along the grass and the old Filipino man drop pieces of bread for the birds. The park is comforting to Paul and he spends hours there but never leaves with any inspiration or an idea for a painting.
One day he is sitting at his regular bench and he runs into someone jogging along side the pond that he has not seen for many years, an acquaintance from high school named Alfred. It is a small world when they realize Alfred has a friend at the same company that Helen works. Paul is happy to hear that Alfred himself is working as the manager of a new art gallery in the warehouse district, one that Paul has heard of but not attended. The two men discuss the current state of art with much agreement and shared passion and Alfred relates to Paul that he remembers his paintings from school and was always impressed by them. He is further impressed to hear that Paul is still painting and asks to see some of his work.
They take the four block walk back to the apartment and every step is one of dread and regret for Paul. He wishes he had never mentioned his painting at all. He knows that as soon as Alfred sees his work he will recognize it for all it’s cliche and lack of inspiration. He tries to think of an excuse not to go home but his mind is as blank as the new canvas and soon they are in the main room looking over his old work.
Alfred stands very still and keeps a respectable silence with his arms crossed, one hand rubbing it’s finger along the length of his mustache. When he speaks he is honest and describes the work as rather dull and uninspired. Paul is impressed by the frankness of the criticism and is grateful when Alfred tells him that, although it’s not ready now, he senses something developing in Paul’s work that just hasn’t arrived yet. He gives Paul a sleek looking business card with a phone number and an e-mail before leaving the apartment.
Paul is spurred on by Alfred’s criticism and begins to paint on the blank canvas. He randomly applies different colors and he throws strokes of blue and green within flares of yellows and reds and violets. He doesn’t hear Helen when she comes home and he doesn't smell the dinner she cooks or notice when she has gone to bed. He works all night and when the sun is beginning to creep up in the window of the main room he stops and looks at all the colors and random marks spread about the canvas and knows that he has not painted something good or original, just a mess of colors forced together in desperation.
He goes to work pale and bleary eyed and can not concentrate as customers come in and the phone rings with orders. People order flowers for retirements and baby showers and birthdays and Paul is slow and overwhelmed. He is too tired to conjure up any day dreams or think of painting at all and each passing minute is torture. When six o’clock comes he is relieved to dawn his coat but when he gets out the door and begins to make his way along the street he realizes that the bad painting will be waiting for him in the apartment. He slows his pace and decides to take the long way around the lake even though it is cold outside and he is very tired.
When he gets in the door he expects the painting to be the first thing he sees but is surprised to find Helen’s face looking at him from the main room instead. She has come home early and Paul senses something strange in the room. She does not kiss him but instead takes a deep breath before informing him that she is leaving him. He can stay in the apartment, she will find her own place, but she wants no drama and she doesn’t want to discuss it.
Paul demands to know why and she waits to answer, looking him in the eye, trying to decide if he is worthy of a reason. She says that it is time for a change and they both have become complacent in the relationship. Paul tries to argue, tries to think of something that will prove that he at least has not become complacent and is therefore not at fault. He stutters over his words and as he stutters he comes to realize that he doesn’t much care if she leaves or stays. He stops short and tells her that he is unhappy with her decision but accepts it and they hug awkwardly, both proud of the maturity they show the other.
That night she sleeps in the bed and he sleeps in the lazy boy chair in the corner of the main room, among his unfinished paintings. He has vivid fantasies of himself as the spurned lover, the tortured artist, and he can not sleep, almost giddy with the possibilities. He will paint beautiful models and they will spend the night with him and talk about art; not their job or their brother’s awful marriage.

The next day is Saturday and Helen moves out with all of her belongings including the small yellow dining table that they have always eaten dinner on. She says she will put her things in storage and then stay with her friend April until she finds a place of her own. April stands at the door and waits for her and Helen looks at Paul with a forced smile that fails to mask the disappointment. Paul resents the look. It’s not his fault she feels like she has wasted the last few years. He was put on earth to paint, not to be a boyfriend.
He watches through the window in the main room as the two women drive off in April’s Scion and then he goes to the easel. It is only him and the easel now. He walks to the art store downtown and he buys a new canvas and marches it back to the apartment. He puts it up on the easel and the whiteness of the new canvas makes him feel refreshed and ready for the future. He doesn’t want to just throw colors together like he did after Alfred’s visit. He stands in front of the canvas and waits for a real idea to come. He watches it, waiting, and then he sits in the lazy boy chair to rest his eyes. When he opens them again it’s the next day and he has to go to work.
He finds himself enjoying the flower shop, chatting with the customers, and being pleasant and steady with Clare. The idea of going home and painting is always waiting on the perimeter of his mind but when he returns to the empty apartment he is exhausted. He looks at the canvas and then he looks around the room surrounding it which seems larger now without Helen’s belongings. When the apartment no long interests him he goes to the window and watches the people go in and out of the bar across the street.
On his days off he goes to the park and all though he enjoys it there he still does not leave with any ideas for a painting. He eats his meals alone in the lazy boy chair in the main room. He finds it boring eating alone and drags out some of the books about artists that he bought in school. He reads them while he eats. Some of his favorite artists lived lives filled with adversity and tragedy and it makes him wonder if that is why he can not paint, that his life has been too easy and monotonous.

2
A month goes by and the canvas remains blank. Paul continues to enjoy his time at the flower shop but realizes the enjoyment comes from the job distracting him from painting. The neighbors down the hall in his building, Adena and Raul, invite him to dinner and he is glad to go since it will take him away from the blank canvas. At dinner Adena describes the preparations for her and Raul’s wedding in the spring and then becomes solemn because she thinks it may depress Paul after his break up. He appreciates her sentiment but thinks it silly. Their wedding does not upset him because he is free and soon he will be painting.
Without someone to help with the rent and other expenses Paul is forced to live on an even tighter budget. He gets some satisfaction out of this because his school books describe many of his favorite artists living poorly as well. He eats noodles out of Styrofoam and watches the canvas, waiting for the idea to come. He moves all his old paintings and sketches into one corner of the main room and piles them up on top of each other which makes the apartment seem even bigger and makes him feel more free.
One day he is sitting at his regular bench in the park and sees Alfred jogging by the pond again. When Alfred asks about his painting Paul lies and says that it is going well. Alfred tells him he was sorry to hear about his break up with Helen through his friend at the company and Paul says it’s fine, it’s freed up his time to get more work done. Alfred asks if he has met Helen’s new boy friend and Paul has to take a moment before saying no. It’s obvious to Alfred that Paul was unaware of the relationship and he apologizes.
Paul walks home, letting the idea that Helen is seeing someone new fully develop in his mind. He tries to tell himself that he’s happy for her. For a while he doesn’t feel much of anything and then he thinks of the little yellow dining table that they always ate on and he pictures someone else sitting with Helen, having a conversation over dinner, and he feels bad. He tells himself that it is just his ego that is hurt, nothing else. Sure, she is talking to someone, but all she is talking about is her work and her brother’s bad marriage and at least he doesn’t have to listen to it. When he tells himself this he feels better.
That night he goes to the little bar across the street and has a few drinks by himself. There is a girl sitting by herself just down the bar from him and he starts a conversation with her. She is nice enough to smile and nod and reply to his questions and statements. He orders them both a round and then another and then another. Paul moves to the stool next to the girl and he is speaking loud when he tells her love is a myth that was created by movies and advertising. He tells her that he is free and that others lock themselves into prisons made of delusions and false expectations.
Paul has two more drinks before he realizes that the girl has gone and the bar tender in telling him that they are closing. He stumbles home, his vision going in and out of focus as he climbs the stairs of his building. He passes out in the lazy boy chair and when he awakes the next morning his head pounds and his tongue feels and tastes like a piece of leather. He is too hungover to paint or do much of anything and when the sun goes down he goes to bed as well.
He wakes up at five o’clock that morning thinking of Helen. He has the distinct impression that he was dreaming of her but he can’t remember. He lies in the bed and he is sweating and then too cold and then sweaty again. He has never been unable to sleep before and it irritates him. The sun light gradually begins to stream into the apartment and the dread of the morning forces him up and out of the bed.
He goes to a coffee shop and has to wait for it to open because it’s a Sunday and nobody is up or on the street. While sitting with his coffee he decides to call Helen and on the way home he does but it goes to voice mail and he hangs up. He sits in the apartment and he waits for her to call back. He goes to the park and sits with his phone on the bench next to him. He goes home in the evening and sits in the lazy boy and tries to remember what Helen was really like as a person but he hadn’t paid enough attention the last year or so and it’s hard to remember.
He wakes up the next morning and checks his phone but there are no missed calls. He is paralyzed in the bed and calls into work sick. He stays in the bed until he forces himself up to make coffee and to send Helen an e-mail. He writes that he is sorry about what happened and that he would like to talk about it. This makes him feel good enough to eat ramen noodles and macaroni and cheese and he spends the day looking out the window at the people walking by. Some of the girls look a lot like Helen with similar hair and walks. He turns away from the window and the apartment no longer seems big, just cold.

Two days later Helen replies to his e-mail. She writes only two sentences; the first saying it is good to hear from him and the second saying it would not be a good idea to see each other. He goes to the bed and stays there until the morning but can’t remember if he slept or not. He curses Helen out loud and is ashamed. He forces himself up and off to work and he sits behind the counter and is able to distract himself with orders until they run out and the day becomes slow.
It begins to rain outside and at six o’clock he dawns his black jacket and walks around the lake in the rain. When he gets home he removes all of his wet clothes and stands in the main room. The rain has picked up and is pounding against the window. He feels thin and empty but not hungry. He thinks of Helen and he is wasting away.
It is very cold in the room and he takes a few steps forward and begins to sketch on the blank canvas with a pencil. He sketches out three walls of a room and then mixes some paints together and begins to color it. He paints until he has created an empty room but it doesn’t look quite right. He paints in the yellow dining table with two plates, one clean and the other covered in a half eaten meal. The sun is up when he finishes and he looks at the canvas in the morning light and recognizes that he has painted something very sad. It makes him feel better, a weight lifted inside him.
He goes to work and counts off the hours until he can return to the apartment. When he gets home he paints over one of his old sketches and creates another empty room, this one with the slight shadow in the corner of someone leaving. He works all night again and when he goes to the flower shop the next morning he can barely keep his eyes open. He makes mistakes on orders and receives harsh words from Clare in the back who has never raised her voice to him.
He spends money he doesn’t have on new paints and brushes and fresh canvases. Weeks go by as he paints through the night and comes to work late, bleary eyed and always exhausted. This goes on for almost a month until the owner of Best Regards shows up and tells Paul that he is being let go. Clare comes out from the back to tell him that she will miss him but he barely notices, his mind already taken up with the next empty room he will paint.
He works all day and night now, coming up with ideas on how to create scenes of people’s loneliness and failures with out showing the people themselves. He paints books left open on chairs, empty bottles neglected under tables, photographs on dressers left face down in their frames, and he continues to play with the shadows of human figures leaving the frame.
He has no income and is dangerously low in his savings but all that matters is the work. He goes to the park for fresh air and thinks of painting and when he is not thinking of painting he thinks of Helen. He imagines her in her new relationship and that she is unhappy and lonely and that she thinks of him.
One night he paints another empty room but adds a photograph hanging from the far wall. He paints Helen’s face onto the picture, half covered in shadow. He makes her look sad and dejected and realizes that the face looks more like his own and less like Helen.

3
One day Paul sees Alfred again in the park, jogging along side the pond. Alfred is surprised by Paul’s appearance, he looks much thinner and more pale than he looked the last time they saw eachother. Paul tells him he would like Alfred to take a look at some of his new work. Alfred is hesitant at first, saying that he doesn’t have a lot of time, but Paul is desperate, almost begging him until he agrees. They go to the apartment and the main room is filled with paintings. Alfred makes his way around, taking in each scene individually, rubbing his finger along his mustache. At first many of the new paintings seem similar, some almost identical, but as he takes his time and concentrates on each one individually he sees that every scene is intriguing in its own way with its own unique life and story.
Alfred does not speak for a long time and finally looks away from the canvasses and sits down in the lazy boy chair. He continues to sit in silence and Paul becomes overcome with shame, realizing he has allowed another person to see his fears and pathetic loneliness. He is surprised when Alfred finally speaks and tells him it is some of the best work he has ever seen. He offers Paul an exhibit in a new art show going up that very week. He reveals that by presenting Paul’s work he will be bumping another artist who is more established and better known than Paul but that he thinks it is important that people see the paintings of empty rooms.
In the few days leading up to the gallery show Paul is filled with doubt. He looks at his new paintings and tries to imagine if anyone will understand them. He’s not sure if he understands them himself. He wonders if Alfred is letting him into the show solely out of pity. When people see the paintings, what will they think of him, the person that created them? Will they think his is pathetic, wallowing in self pity and fear, even crazy? He thinks about calling Alfred to ask if it is necessary that he be there at the opening but decides against it. He thinks about calling Helen and asking her to come and even picks up the phone with her number on the screen but decides against it as well.
The night of the opening is heavily attended. One of the other three artists who has their work in the show is well known for his paintings of animals mixed with machines and many people come to view his work. The crowd streams in the door to get their glasses of wine, then make their way over to the established artist’s work before they stroll through the gallery and view the lesser known.
As the night goes on more and more people are gathered around Paul’s paintings until there is a congestion in that part of the room. Older men look the paintings up and down until they seem to have some sort of realization and they go back to the first painting to start the series again. A young woman looks at a painting of a room with the shadows of an adult and child in the bottom corner and tears begin to flow down her cheeks. A group of students get into an animated discussion with an older couple about the meaning of one of the paintings until the couple become angry with the students and buy the painting out of spite.
Three of Paul’s painting are bought before Alfred suggests that they knock the price up. Even with the the higher price four more paintings are purchased until there is only the painting with the photo of the girl left. An older woman approaches Paul and asks if he is the artist and when he admits that he is she takes his hand and looks into his eyes for a full minute until black tears are pushing through her mascara. Other people seek him out as well and use words like “profound” and “honest” when praising his work. He nods in appreciation and swallows, trying to dislodge the lump of disappointment in his throat that has developed from Helen not showing up.
Alfred introduces Paul to a man that wants to show Paul’s work at a private function in his home the following month and Paul agrees. He works tirelessly for the next twenty days, creating new paintings of rooms that feature the same mysterious and undefinable loneliness that defined his previous work. He is paid handsomely for the gallery show and is paid well again for showing his work at the man’s home which is a loft in a high building overlooking the lake.
Paul has bought a new suit and he stands around drinking champagne as people with expensive clothes and jewelry mill around the loft conversing and taking long looks at his paintings. He notices a woman watching him from across the room and when they make eye contact she approaches him and introduces herself as Christine. They talk about his work and she confides to him that it is hard for her to describe it except to say that it invokes a deep rooted sense of loss and yearning that she has not felt for years and that she thought was buried long ago. She half jokes that she’s mad at him for unearthing that feeling in her and they drink champagne together for the remainder of the function.
He goes home with Christine that night and while they are both lying in her bed and she is sound asleep he watches the moonlight pulse through the blinds on the window. He thinks of Helen and he imagines her doing simple things in her new home like sweeping and cooking breakfast and it makes his chest hurt.

Paul and Christine begin to see each other regularly which Paul doesn’t notice until he realizes that she irritates him. She is very beautiful but she comes from money and speaks in a flamboyant way, using words that Paul isn’t familiar with. She sometimes accompanies him on walks to the park but instead of enjoying the day in silence and watching the ducks she feels the need to talk about a restaurant she went to or a pretty dress she is going to buy. When he is alone and painting and becoming inspired she interrupts him with a call just to say hello. This is especially irritating because he is stuck on a new painting that he can’t quite finish. It is of an empty room, and just as good as his past work, but there is something missing.
They have been seeing each other for two months when Paul has some of his work shown at a large exhibition downtown. Christine is at his arm all night and her voice and topics of conversation begin to grate on him. At one point the gallery owner and her partner are speaking to them near the entrance and Paul thinks he sees Helen coming in the front door. He steps away from the conversation in a panic and when he gets near the bar he sees it’s another girl with dark hair.
He does not pick up or return Christine’s calls after that night. He continues to work on the new painting but there is still something missing. He stands in the main room of the apartment staring at the half finished painting for a week before putting it to the side and starting on a new one.
A month later the wealthy man with the loft overlooking the lake asks Paul to show his work at another event and he agrees. He regrets it when he sees Christine in attendance. She makes her way over to him and demands to know what happened to them. He almost tells her about Helen but it has been nearly a year since Helen moved out and it feels ridiculous to admit how much her leaving has isolated him. He stands mute and Christine continues to wait for an answer until the stone in her face breaks away and Paul recognizes the unmasked devastation in her eyes as she leaves the room.
That night he picks up the canvas he had put to the side and paints in a mirror on the wall of the empty room. He paints a woman’s reflection into the mirror and he tries with all his skill and talent to recreate the look Christine gave him at the loft. The next day a journalist from the city paper comes to write a profile on him and she takes a picture of the painting with the mirror in it and Christine’s face. She asks him what he will sell that painting for and he tells her that he will keep it for himself.

A prestigious gallery dedicates an entire wall to Paul’s work and he attends the opening with Alfred who now serves as his representative. People Paul has never met approach him throughout the night and praise his work. Everyone explains to him their own interpretations of his paintings and they are much more complex and interesting than anything he could have thought to say. One man says it invokes a family and the collective grief over the death of one member. An old woman tell him that it seems that they are all about searching for a true home. More and more explanations are brought to his attention, all of them different and personal to the individual offering them up.
Paul drinks wine until his lips are numb and then makes an excuse to Alfred that he is not feeling well. He escapes the gallery through the front entrance and while he is preparing to cross the street he finds Helen walking up on the sidewalk.
“Hello,” she says.
“How are you?” he asks.
“Pretty good. You?”
“Not bad. Doing alright.”
“I was coming to see your show.”
“Really? That’s nice.”
“Are you leaving?”
“Yes.”
She nods and he wants to hold her close and explain all the pain and emptiness he has felt for the last year and how much he needs her and how much he regrets having ever lost her at all.
“I guess I’ll see you later.”
He turns and begins to walk away but she calls out to him and suggests they have coffee. All the cells in Paul’s body fall into place and and he feels whole and renewed as they walk through downtown. They find a diner where they order coffee and pie and Helen talks in length about her job and her brother who’s marriage is still dysfunctional yet still undissolved. Paul takes in every word and responds with answers he’s thought about late at night when he couldn’t sleep and Helen is surprised by his insight and renewed interest in her life.
They laugh like the old friends they are and the world makes sense to Paul again. He feels like he felt when he was a young boy and his whole life was ahead of him and full of possibility. It doesn’t bother him when she mentions the boyfriend she is returning to that night. He doesn’t want to know the man’s name or what he does or what he looks like, all he cares about is the person in the booth with him. They talk for an hour, until Helen leaves, and Paul watches her disappear down the street and wonders to himself why he didn’t tell her anything.
He walks through the city alone and the world is as terrible and as beautiful as he ever imagined it to be. He enters the apartment and he can’t remember how he got there. His mind is overcome with thoughts of a long and pitiless future and he doesn’t know what to do with his hands so he fills them with a brush and paints a new picture, a new room, all gray with the light of early morning. He paints himself in, sitting in the chair, alone in the corner, and he paints a sun in the window, red as blood. The sun could be coming up or it could be setting, Paul has no opinion, and the painting is his masterpiece.
When morning arrives he walks to the park and watches the Goldeneye ducks push their way through the pond, the mothers push the strollers, the children play along the grass, and the old Filipino man drop pieces of bread for the birds. Everyone is alone he decides, it is only how you deal with it that matters. He walks the long way home and picks up a new canvas, an afternoon of painting laid out in his mind in the day ahead.
He is surprised to find Helen waiting outside the apartment. She explains that she has left her boyfriend to be back with Paul. She follows him up to the apartment where he places the new canvas on the easel in the main room and they spend the next day and a half in bed. Helen takes the next week off from work and Paul uses some of his earnings to pay for two plane tickets to Miami where they take a cruise around the Caribbean. They lie on the beaches of the Cayman islands and hike through the Mayan ruins on the Yucatan peninsula. They spend two days in Jamaica where Helen asks him how he spent his time away from her and he explains that he did nothing but paint. She says that she is proud of him and he believes her, and for the first time Paul feels that they are on a level field in their relationship, both equally in love with other for the first time in their lives.
They spend the last few days in their cabin, floating in the boat together. When the ship gets into port they catch a taxi to the airport and spend the flight back home drinking champagne until they plane is over the Grand Canyon and Paul asks her to marry him. She excepts and the people in the neighboring seats applaud. When they return to the apartment they make plans to retrieve Helen’s things from storage so that she can move back in, then she prepares and dresses for work. He kisses her at the landing and watches her descend the stairs, disappearing through the front door and out into the street.
The apartment feels more empty than it has ever felt before and Paul picks up a brush to make himself feel better. He stands in front of the the blank canvas and holds the brush up but does not touch the canvas. He lets the brush fall. He waits for an idea to come, staring into the canvas. He waits and stares into the very fiber of it, oblivious to the noise outside on the street and his own hunger. He stares until the sound of Helen’s key can be heard from the door as she returns from work. The canvas continues to sit, blank.

Dinner for Schmucks

Furlough Film # 7
(Every furlough day Dublin and Robert Fong get together to view a film and have a discussion about it. This time Bob Fong's neighbor Paul joined them as well. The following is a transcript of that discussion.)

D: So we've given you the choice Paul and this is what you've brought?
P: You guys haven't seen it right?
D: Nope.
R: Uh uh. We never watch comedies.
P: Great.

(They play the movie)

P: Paul Rudd is really funny.

(About 12 minutes into the movie)

R: Okay. That's enough.
D: Yeah.
P: What?
R: I've seen enough. Turn it off.
D: Yeah, this is not good.

(They stop the DVD)

R: What a piece of shit.
P: It wasn't that bad.
D: It wasn't good.
R: It made my hair hurt.
D: The only good thing I saw was Jemaine from Flight of the Conchords.
P: Paul Rudd is funny though.
D: Not in that.
P: Steve Carell is super funny.
R: You can't tell from that piece of s__t. This is why we don't watch comedies. They suck a__.
D: They didn't always suck. There was a time when comedies were good.
P: We didn't even give it a chance. I think we should finish it.
D: No, we saw enough. It was off. The rhythm was off. You know what I mean?
R: You got to have likable characters in a comedy and nobody was likable in that story.
P: How do you know? They may have become likable towards the end.
D: Paul, if it didn't work out you wouldn't want us both resenting you for wasting our time.
R: Okay, look at the Paul Rudd character. His main motivation is to be a big shot in an advertising company. But who gives a s__t?
D: This thing was directed by Jay Roach. What did he do?
P: "Meet The Parents"!
D: Did he do the sequels?
P: No! You guys just hate comedy.
D: No we don't.
P: Name one comedy you like.
R: "Bad Santa".
P: Besides "Bad Santa".
D: Ammmmmm....
R: "Blazing Saddles"!
P: Another!
R: "Young Frankenstein".
P: Something Mel Brooks didn't do?
D: "The Man With Two Brains".
P: Something after 2000?
D: You know it's funny, but there are not a lot of big screen comedies that I'm feeling in the modern era.
P: What do you mean?
R: He means that TV is ruling comedy.
P: Like what?
D: The British "Office".
P: You don't like the American office?
D: Haven't seen it.
R: "Arrested Development".
P: That's genius though.
D: Yep.
R: "Community" is f__king great. 30 Rock too.
D: True.
P: But what was wrong with what we were watching?
D: Too obvious.
P: That's actually based on a European thing by the way.
R: I liked "Role Models". That had Paul Rudd.
P: Good. How about "Super Bad"?
D: No. Not good.
P: What?
R: Jonah Hill is a bitch. He's so annoying.
D: I wouldn't call him a bitch, but yes. I don't care for him.
P: "Forgetting Sarah Marshall"?
D: I liked that.
R: I didn't. Annoying.
P: Bob, you are what is called a hater.
R: I am not a hater. My favorite s__t is Airplane. You can't hate on that.
P: It's very dated.
D: I've never seen you so worked up Paul. It's just a movie.
P: I think we should finish it.
R: Uh uh. That's wasted time. No way.
D: Yeah. Not this time.
P: But we didn't even see what Steve Carell was going to do!
R: We saw him for a few minutes.
P: Exactly.
R: It was painful. The poor bastard was drowning.
P: What do you mean?
D: I think he means that the director and the writer and everybody else had no idea what a schmuck was so Steve Carell was just left to his own devices, struggling to create some sort of character out of just playing a jack a__.
R: It's true. It was sad to watch.
D: The whole thing about Steve Carell is his natural likability. He can play a jack a__ but he's got to be likable. They made a huge mistake and made him unlikable.
P: I see what you mean. But what is a schmuck any way?
R: A foolish or contemptible person. So says my phone.
D: Maybe he nailed it.
R: Steve Carell is a whore. For every "Little Miss Sunshine" there are of eight of these s__tty things
D: Sad but true.
P: You can't hate the man for taking advantage of a flare in popularity.
R: Sure I can. Don't tell me what to do.
D: I'm sorry it didn't work out with your movie Paul. We'll give it a month and you can bring another one in.
R: At least it wasn't "Ghost".

Taken from a transcription by Peggy Menchstone on 12/8/11

When Rappers Act

By: DJ Undacut
(NOTE: All the views expressed in this essay are those of the writer and do not necessarily reflect those of Dublin's World)

What up. A lot people consider me the highest ranking official on hip-hop knowledge that they know. I know hella shit. Any time they have a question about the minutia of the infinite world of rap they step to me. After they ask about what song sampled what, and I drop game on how Sugerhill Gang never paid Grandmaster Caz for "Rapper's Delight", we get to the usual question that always comes up when non-heads want to talk head talk: why do rappers always have to act?
This is an age old question and instead of having to repeat my thoughts on it over and over again I'm gonna just put it down and let it lay here for the rest of time till man evolves into cyborg and cyborg evolves back to monkey and so on.
Check it out: singers and pop stars have always been inserted into films to increase their popularity and bring kids to the drive in. Elvis is the obvious stand out. He became his own one man studio pretty much starting with "Love Me Tender" and ending with the documentary "Elvis on Tour" five years before his death on the toilet.
The first rapper to be featured in their own vehicle on the big screen in an actual narrative film was a group. The Fat Boys starred in "Disorderlies" after having a cameo in "Krush Groove" (a film that deserves a future essay of it's own) and it wasn't very good. I saw it when I was eight and I don't remember really liking it. I got excited when "The Fat Boys Are Back!" came on during the opening credits and it was all down hill the rest of the way pretty much.
Rappers had cameo's here and there through the remainder of the 80's but it wasn't until 1991 that rappers straight took over the silver screen with what I like to refer to as the Ice Age: the onscreen emergence of Ice Cube and Ice-T.
Ice Cube seemed like the better actor of the two at the time, not because he necessarily was, but because he made better choices with his roles. His debut was "Boyz N The Hood" for God's sake. It was perfect for Cube because he got to just chill out and be hard and play the tragic thug that drinks forties and tells crack heads to: "get yo baby out the street!" It was probably the best film debut by a rapper ever.
Mr. T came out in "New Jack City" around the same time and wasn't really as sly with his choice. While Wesley Snipes got to play the all American bad ass king of the streets Nino Brown, Ice T had to run around playing a grungy looking back stabbing cop of all things. He was supposed to be the hero but who the hell was rooting for him? Everyone was loving Nino Brown while he destroyed the city with top grade crack and looked cool doing it. Ice T was left to say God awful lines like: "I want to shoot you so bad right now my dick is hard." C'mon.

Both "Boyz N the Hood" and "New Jack City" were hugely successful films and showed Hollywood that rappers could give movies something that Van Dam and Stallone just weren't providing anymore: credibility. Here were scary men that could play tough guys and in some cases were actually tough guys. Ice Cube had an honest to God curl and Ice-T had "managed" women before he picked up the mic. To Hollywood these guys weren't acting, they were the real thing, which is ironic since both men became known for "gangsta rap" which is mostly acting anyway.
The Ice Age came to it's zenith when both Ice's came together to helm the completely forgettable "Trespass". It was in that movie that you realized Ice-T could actually act and Ice Cube was just sort of doing his thing. Years later Ice T kind of has the last laugh with his winning over of America in the role of Finn on "Law and Order: SVU" while Ice Cube has people who remember NWA scratching their heads because of "Are We There Yet?", and people who don't remember NWA scratching their heads because "Are We There Yet?" is so fucking horrible.

Speaking of horrible we should throw in one last thing about the Ice Age. In 1991, the same year "Boyz N the Hood" was released, another Ice made his screen debut: Vanilla Ice. The name of the film was "Cool As Ice" and it is not only the worst film starring a rapper it could very well be one of the worst made period. Mr. Robert Van Winkle can't fucking act his way out of a bag from a Cross Colors store. The script is sitcom trash, the plot is nonexistent, and the acting is atrocious. In fact it is so bad I would rather watch it than "Trespass" any day.
Next came the rapper who's film career almost out shined his rapping: Tupac Shakur. Compared to all three Ice's and pretty much all other rappers come actors Tupac is one of the most talented (acting not rapping). In fact he is such a talented and committed actor that after playing a gun toting psycho named Bishop in the 1992 film "Juice" he actually did a Daniel Day Lewis and became a gun toting psycho for the rest of his life. You can argue which of his movies Tupac shines brightest but I think it's "Poetic Justice" since he plays just a regular dude and made it cool and believable.
Mos Def is a funny actor, he has a comic timing that is spot in and I enjoy him in most of what he does. One of the stand outs is an early indie film he did called "Where's Marlow?" (if that floated under your radar, which it most likely did, then I recommend you peep it). He's also good in "Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy". But somewhere around there in his career he seemed to suddenly start getting cast as the partly retarded guy (both "16 Blocks" and "Be Kind Rewind" are evidence of that). It wasn't until I saw him on Real Time as a panelist that I realized Mos Def is actually semi retarded. I like his music but dude is not smart, seriously.
People always like to think of Snoop as warm and cuddly but he did have his body guard murder someone back in the day and I think he's best when he's playing a straight dick head like in "The Wash" and "Baby Boy". Ludacris is just alright, not terrible but not good enough for me to have an opinion. Method Man is pretty good all though all the great actors in "The Wire" made him kind of seem shitty. RZA is fucking terrible at acting. LL Kool J is an alright TV actor but no Ice T. 50 Cent is not good yet his DVD's just keep popping up on the shelves, what gives?

We can't forget the rappers that really went for it in the acting world before realizing their limits and retreating back to the studio. Andre 3000 definitely comes to mind. After popping up on the big ("Be Cool", "Four Brothers") and small ("The Shield") screen he just kind of disappeared. My thought is that here was a guy with a ton of talent and charisma that had always done things well but when he acted it just wasn't quite... there yet. I like to think he recognized that and retreated. Saul Williams burst on the scene in "Slam" and was the new hot shit for a minute. To be clear, I love Saul Williams, I think the man is one of the rawest, illest living today, but after getting praised in "Slam" I kept noticing him popping up in bit parts in stupid new age movies where Kevin Spacey plays an alien come to earth to teach us how to live and Saul was always playing weirdo's and crazy men and way over acting to where I cringed every time he was on screen. True story.
Probably the best actor who was once a rapper is Queen Latifa and I say that because who the hell even remembers that she was a rapper once? She spent years languishing in that piece of crap sitcom "Living Single" before doing parts in movies and then turning heads in "Set it Off". "Chicago" is what won her a real deal seat at table Hollywood and now my Mom gets excited when she see's her name in a cast. All hail the Queen!
That about does it in this one. There's about ten thousand rappers that acted in some capacity that I don't feel like mentioning because I forget them or they were just so stale and unimportant in their role that it wasn't worth wasting ink. I just mentioned who came to mind. Any way, thanks for reading and I'll be back dropping game on that ass soon enough. Until then, remember: "keep yo baby out the street!"
-DJ Undacut, 01-06-12

Part 4: The Temptation of Marsha Bates

Part 4
The phone and my head have been smashed together for ten minutes and I ease up on the pressure and let the ear breathe. I believe he may have stopped talking but I can’t be sure and wait to see if he is going to continue.
“So what’cha think now?” I hear him ask from his end and I panic when I realize I haven’t been listening to what he has been talking about.
“I think it’s a fine idea,” I offer and and wait in to see if he buys it.
“Good. Good. I know this isn’t something you have had to touch on in any of the debates thus far but I wanted you to know our stance on it so you can decide for yourself. You don’t come from a border state but neither do Ackley and frankly, from what he has come out and said lately, I don’t think he has a clue. Now whatcha’ want to do-”
The Governor's voice is making it’s way into my ear but it is not breaching my head. Nothing is entering my head because everything has been overtaken by the feeling. It’s hard to describe exactly. If I had to explain it I guess I could say it feels and tastes like youth, or at least what I remember of it. I have a sense that everything and anything is possible.
The feeling is strongest in the mornings before I’ve had a chance to see Will. My dreams from the night before seem to continue into the day and don’t let up until I see him in the flesh and blood. His skin and his eyes and his lips are all in my head and nothing can take my mind off them. When I see him in the office he smiles at me and I nod politely like I do with all the interns and volunteers. Then Clay is talking and I can concentrate on other matters because Will is no longer just in my head, he is there in the room, and the feeling burns lower, to a manageable level.
“Does that make sense?” the Governor asks and I reply that it does although I have no idea what he is talking about.
“Great, you get ‘em girl. You’ve got the backing of all the Evangelicals in my state, including me, and I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before you got the backing of all church folk. I mean Ackley can’t stand next to you! Sure he goes to church on Sunday but please, the man don’t have the Lord in his life-”
Every time I’m with Will it feels like it could be the last and it’s gotten to the point where when we have a situation where we can be alone then we don’t hold back, we attack each other. There is no control and I scare myself which creates the feeling that lingers with me. When we met by the ice machine of the hotel the night before last I noticed his back was covered in long red scrapes from my finger nails and I helped him put his shirt on so I wouldn’t have to look at it.
“You are aware that this is his second wife are you not?” the Governor asks and I take a deep breath, trying to clear my head.
“Ackley?” I ask.
“Yes. Did you know this was his second go around?”
“I’m not sure. Someone may have mentioned it,” I reply stupidly.
“Yes siree, his second. This one he got now? She worked for a lobbyist firm that dealt with his people and it was six months after she came on board before Ackley had his Jew lawyer out writing up the divorce papers. You follow me?”
“I believe so.”
“Now don’t tell me there whatd’nt no hanky panky with them two now. Please. This is not a moral man. They can go and start a new marriage but the record shows it; this is not a moral man.”
“Emm hmm.”
“Now you and Don are the portrait of a Christian marriage and I salute you for it. It is too bad that there are no children but that does also allow you to follow the path that you are on now.”
“Yes.”
“Remember, we’ll all be watching the California debate and we’lll be praying for you.”
“Thank you.”
“God bless you Marsha.”
He hangs up and I’m relieved and worn out by the conversation. I’m not worried about the debate but everybody else seems to be and that irritates me. Don’t they know what I’m capable of now? Anything can be mine once I put my mind to it. It is God’s will. He gave me the feeling so I would understand that I can’t be stopped.
I have been in the cramped little office for almost two and a half hours and I step out into the bustle of the headquarters. I can’t see Will when I first step out but I can feel him and when I do finally spot him at one of the tables with Sandra he looks up like he can sense me too. I ask Pam where Clay is and I am relived when she informs me that he won’t be back from Washington until late that night. I make my way around the room, taking my time, and when I get to Sandra and Will I explain that I need to get over to a session with Frank Wagner and that Will needs to drive me. Sandra looks puzzled and glances at her smart phone.
“That’s not in the agenda Mr. Logan e-mailed this morning. I thought that-”
“Clay does make mistakes Sandra.”
My voice is harsher than I mean it to be and I try to cushion the moment by grinning at her. She looks shocked before the round face softens back to it’s cunning sweetness.
“You sure look beautiful Mrs. Bates. Have you been doing something different?” she asks.
I force myself from grimacing and keep the grin on. I’ll be gosh darned if I’m going to take any needling from her.
“What do you mean sweetheart?” I ask softly.
“You just look good Mrs. Bates. Your skin looks great. Have you been using something on it?”
“No. Just been eating well. Thanks for saying so sweetie.”

I stay in the car while Will gets the room and then I watch him make his way to the back of the motel before I follow him. I walk through the parking lot and I think of a photographer over by the freeway and and another near the lobby and a cold finger makes it’s way up along my spine. I kept my eyes peeled since we got out of town and I could tell Will was looking as well but we never talked about it. We never talked much at all the whole way. Luckily I can usually feel when a photographer is nearby, it’s just a sense that I have, and I also know that the Lord doesn’t give rewards just to take them away again.
I let the feeling engulf me once we’re in the room. I let all the layers of Marsha Bates presidential candidate fall away and I let instinct and desire free to roam until we are both exhausted and we are lying still among the sheets. I roll over in the bed and drape my arm over Will’s chest. His face is pointed up towards the ceiling but his eyes are closed and he looks content. We have been in the room for forty five minutes and neither of us has said a word since the door closed.
“You remind me of a boy I knew in high-school,” I tell him and his eyes open slowly.
“A boyfriend?” he asks.
“Just someone I knew. He was young and sweet and handsome like you. And weird.”
“Am I weird?” he asks.
“You don’t say anything. Usually everybody wants to talk my ear off.”
“But you don’t talk either.”
“I do enough talking. You know that.”
I inch closer and kiss him along the side of his face and neck.
“This boy from high school, did you like him?” he asks.
“I always sort of wondered about him. But then I went to college and I met Don.”
I thought saying my husband’s name there, in the bed of a cheap highway motel, would have some sort of effect on me but I don’t feel much of anything. I sense Will go a little stiff but just for a moment.
“He’s odd,” he says.
“Who? Don?”
“I just get sort of a ‘vibe’ from him.”
“Vibe? What does that mean?”
“What is it he does exactly?”
I’m a little annoyed that we’ve talked so little and now that we have some real time to ourselves the topic of conversation is Don. I also don’t appreciate him calling my husband ‘odd’.
“He’s a licensed therapist. He helps people cope with self damaging behaviour,” I say sharply.
“He works with gay people right?”
“Mostly gay men, yes.”
“And he does what? Straightens them out?”
“That’s not the way he would describe it but yes, he tries to temper their learned behaviour.”
“He doesn’t think people are born that way?” he asks and I’m surprised. I turn my head so I can look into his eyes which are open and staring back.
“Of course not. And I don’t either.”
We’re going to have to go soon and return to town. I’m going to have to apologize to Sandra and tell her it was my mistake that I had put Frank Wagner in my calendar. I’m going to have to lie and I don’t care but I do want this time to be worth it.
“You don’t think there’s any possibility that people are just born that way? You’ve never questioned it?” he asks.
“No.”
“But why would people go through what they go through? It doesn’t make sense.”
“What who goes through?”
“Gay people. Why would they go through all the insults and the degradation. Why would they risk their lives to be that way and live openly?”
“Maybe they like it? I don’t know.”
“They like it?”
“How should I know. I don’t know any gays.”
He goes silent and turns back towards the ceiling. I want him to look at me. I want every moment to be concentrated on me.
“Are you willing to admit that it’s possibly a natural thing?” he says, still looking at the ceiling.
“No.”
I peer up at him and and I can see he’s thinking about it and preparing to speak again so I give in a little bit.
“Maybe,” I say. “People’s attitudes are changing.”
“So it’s possible?”
“Maybe.”
I’m hoping that will shut him up and just to make sure I put my mouth on his and crawl on top of him.

A few days later I have a real session scheduled with Frank Wagner. Will drives me and I’m silent and annoyed because we left too late to stop somewhere and we have to get back for an event that evening and won’t have a chance to get a motel. I sit in the passenger seat with my chin in my hand and stare at the endless misty fields off of the freeway until Will takes my hand and holds it. It’s simple but it brings my mood up and we drive the rest of the way with my hand in his.
Wagner is slightly drunk when we get there but I don’t let it bother me. He is excited about the progress I have made and he speaks loudly and uses his hands to make his points, spilling his drink on the carpet.
“This debate on California is your moment, you understand? People are looking for the upset. This is when you go in for the kill.”
He flashes a ferocious smile at me and I want to share in his enthusiasm but the feeling is with me and I don’t feel anger with Ackley or anybody else. I can feel Will on the other couch watching me and I think about what it would be like to take him up to one of the bedrooms upstairs and ravage him.
“I watched the last one and not only were you sharper but Ackley was off his game. His presence is limited and when he allowed you to go toe to toe with him he looked like a genuine jack ass. I know his people are in a panic.” He grins at this and takes a sip of his drink. “They are going to prep him specifically against you. They’ll bring up the connection with Courtier and few other dingbats and try to force you into a corner.”
I think of what it would be to have never joined the school board or run for congress. I would be a woman like any other. I would have the freedom to be with Will however I wanted. People would judge, they always do, but it would not be a nation. There would be a freedom to it. A long time ago I dreamed of being in the position I am now but this day, sitting in Frank Wagner’s living room, I am not so sure it is what I really want. Maybe I am not the person other people think I am or even what I think myself. God has given me Will to realize this and I’m not frightened but grateful.
“Marsha?” Frank asks and I look over at him.
“What?”
“Where is your head? You have a big fucking opportunity and you're out to lunch.”
“What do you mean? I’m here.”
He puts his drink down and leans towards me.
“I just mentioned Bob Courtier and dingbat and you didn’t even flinch. What the hell is going on?”
His eyes are probing into me and I glance over at Will on the other couch. I catch myself and bring my eyes back to Frank but it is too late. He has gone strangely pale and he slowly eases back into his chair before looking over at Will with contempt.
“God damn it,” he mutters and his eyes fall to the carpet.
“What is it?” I ask and try to compose my face to what I hope he will perceive as my own irritation with his behavior. He doesn’t look up, he just stares at the carpet for a long silent moment.
“This session is over now,” he says and gets up from the chair without looking at me.
“What do you mean it’s over?”
I stand up as well and try to get angry but the feeling has me numbed.
“What are you doing Frank?” I growl at him. “We haven’t even started.”
He’s already gone down the hall and is slowly making his way up the stairs.
“This is totally unacceptable. My campaign has paid your fee. Now get back here and let’s go over the strategy!”
He’s disappeared up the stairs and I look over at Will who sits petrified on the couch. I pick up my coat and put it on. The old drunkard knows nothing and I will be darned if I let him effect me. I head towards the door and Will follows and I am already thinking about how Frank ending the session early has given us at least an hour to stop at a motel on the way back.


Will comes back from the bathroom and sits on the side of the bed. The scratches along his back have healed quickly but there are a few fresh one’s on his right shoulder from ten minutes ago.
“That was weird with Frank,” he says and I pass my hand lightly down his back along his spine.
“He’s a drunk. I’m going to tell Clay to fire him.”
“Should you tell Clay?” he asks and he turns towards me wide eyed.
“Of course I should tell him. Frank has no right to act like that.”
“Maybe he knows.”
I sit up in the bed and pull the sheet up so it covers my chest. I have never been happy with my breasts, they vary in size, the right noticeably larger than the left, and I don’t want Will to have enough of a look to notice.
“He doesn’t know a freaking thing. He’s a drunken idiot. And I’ve never liked the tone he uses when he talks about faith.”
Will turns towards me and his face looks pained.
“He seemed to know. You saw the look he gave me,” he says.
“Nobody knows anything. We’ve been careful.”
He turns away from me to stare at the wall.
“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” he mutters and I wish I could see his face when he says it.
“Everything is God’s will,” I tell him but he doesn’t turn around and I have no idea what his face looks like.

Clay has me booked solid for the next three days and I see nothing of Will. I want to ask Clay why he doesn’t have Will drive me to some of the events but it is a bad idea. I think about bringing up Frank Wagner and making sure Clay knows I don’t want to work with him any more but there aren't any sessions scheduled before we go to California so I let it lie. I speak before crowds and do interviews and I let the feeling carry me through it all.
We are in a car on the way to a rally when Clay hands over the list of interns being flown out to California. I see Will’s name towards the bottom and the feeling pulses through me. We will have two days there, the debate being the only thing on the schedule that I won’t be able to get out of, and it will give us time to be together if we play our cards right. I hand the list back to Clay and he is on his phone and oblivious to the smile that has spread across my face.
I get back to my hotel room that night around nine o’clock and I find a note from Don explaining that he has gone back home to oversee a group session at the clinic. I call Will right away using the hotel phone and he is at the door in less than an hour. I know it is risk but I can’t take it anymore. My body has been calling for him since the moment I woke up that morning and it has distracted my mind while I was rushed from event to event. We shower together and then we are in bed together and it is a tremendous relief. It is passed midnight when we are finally resting with the sheets wrapped up around us.
“Why are you doing this?” Will asks with his arm under my neck and cradling my head.
“What do you mean?”
“The campaign. Why are you putting all this time and work into something that’s such a long shot?”
“What kind of question is that?.”
“I know you have said that God asked you. You actually heard a voice? Is that what you meant?”
I feel more at peace in that bed than I have in years and see no reason to hold back.
“It just seemed like the next logical thing to do. Everyone always told me I should get involved in politics.”
“But you never heard a voice say: run for president.”
“No, but everyone around you is saying you should; isn’t that a way of Him telling me to go for it?”
He pulls his arm from under me and rubs it above the elbow to get the blood flowing again.
“Do you think He is on your side?”
I turn my body towards him and he glances at me and continues to rub his arm. He has a sweet face, an innocent face, but there is a confusion on it like someone who has just woken up from a dream.
“What would He think of this? What we’re doing?” he asks.
I prop myself up on my elbow and try to kiss the worry off his face.
“I think He brought us together,” I tell him and he rolls slightly away so that I have to stretch to kiss him.
“Something like this has never happened to me, believe me,” he says “I never expected for this to happen. I can’t even explain what happened. You of all people. It’s very strange. And I think you're a good person-”
“That’s why you joined the campaign isn’t it?” I say and he looks over at me with even more confusion. “You thought I was a person that was doing the right thing.”
He looks away and peers into the hotel carpet next to the bed. He blinks and seems on the verge of saying something but no words leave his lips. He looks like a little boy and the guilt I have been waiting for bubbles up ever so slightly into my stomach.
“I’ve let you down, haven’t I?” I mutter and I roll away from him. “You expected more of me. But all the words people use for me are too much to live up to sometimes. I am only a human being Will. I didn’t expect this to happen but it did. This would have never happened with anyone else. What we have together is, unique. Special.”
He nods slightly and forces a smile but his face looks pained.
“You are a human being,” he whispers and I know that I love him.
He gets up and begins to put his clothes on and I want to say something to stop him, to get him to stay all night with me, but I can think of nothing and soon he walks over to the bed fully dressed and gives me kiss on the cheek. I watch him go out the door and the room feels much colder. I pull the sheets and blankets up over my head and stay under them.


The morning comes and Will is the first thing I think of. Don will be gone at least until that evening and I don’t need to go the campaign office until that afternoon. Will and I can spend the entire morning together. I shower and put on one of my robes before calling him. His cell phone goes right to voice mail so I call directly to his room and there is no answer there as well.
I put on a my gray jogging suit and take the elevator down to his floor. The thought crosses my mind that one of the other interns may be staying on the same floor but I am ready with the excuse that I have left some debate notes in Will’s car. I get to his room and the door is partly open. I enter and find the maid vacuuming the carpet. She turns off the vacuum and looks at me with a puzzled expression. She probably recognizes me but isn’t sure where. I feel a panic building inside of me and I quickly leave the room, unsure if I can control myself.
I take the elevator all the way down to the lobby, my heart beating faster and faster.
“Mrs. Bates, good morning to you,” says the man behind the desk. He uses a cheery upbeat tone but I know he is a liberal of some kind and despises me. I can tell by his eyes. I fortify myself and bring my heartbeat down.
“Good morning. I’m trying to track down one of our interns. He was in room 242.”
“Have you called the room?”
I repress the need to reach over the desk and slap his face and simply say: “I have. I thought there might be some sort of message left for me by my staff.”
“I can check.”
He begins to click away at his computer and I peer around the room searching in vain for Will. Two business men notice me and begin to whisper to each other. I bring my eyes back to the desk clerk and use all of my strength to keep my composure.
“I don’t see any messages left by your staff,” he reports “Surely someone would have called you if there was something important?”
He flashes a quick look over his glasses and I force myself to nod.
“As far as room 242 goes it looks like the occupant checked out,” he says.
“When?” I demand and he looks up, startled by the urgency in my voice.
“Well, I have that they left around five thirty this morning.”
I walk away from the desk like a sleepwalker. I feel the clerk saying something to me but I don’t hear and don’t acknowledge it. I get on the elevator and when the doors close and I am alone I feel like I have been punched in the stomach. I steady myself with a hand against the wall of the car. I feel bile in the back of my throat and am worried I may vomit until the doors open on my floor. The hallway is silent and vacant as I rush back to my room and once I’m inside I throw myself onto the bed and smother my face into the pillow. The gravity of the earth seems to have increased and I am smashed deep into the mattress. I stay like that until my breathing goes back to normal. I avert the panic and tell myself that something must have come up with the campaign and that Will must have been summoned by Clay or someone else. It must be that since nothing else makes sense.

Sandra calls later in the afternoon and I have her drive me to the headquarters. We are downgrading to another office as the campaign shifts to New Hampshire and most of of the main office has been cleared out. Boxes full of computer monitors and phones sit near the door and Clay sits alone at one of the conference desks and chats into his phone. He spots me and hangs up as Sandra and I approach him.
“Moore has dropped out,” he says cheerily. “It’s a pretty much accepted fact that the people following him are shifting our way. They don’t like Ackley and there’s a good chance that Moore will endorse us if we have a good debate.”
I nod and give him a weak grin. I was hoping there was a chance that Will would turn up here and I mask my disappointment by looking over the empty room.
“This was one of the nicer offices,” I tell him.
“Sure, but wait until we get to New Hampshire. We have a place right downtown with a whole team already in place. You’re going to love it. And I made sure you had a good sized office to yourself. I had Pam send me pictures of it and it’s about five time bigger than the closet we have here. Not that you’re going to have a lot of time to spend there. We’re going to have you out pounding the pavement. With the momentum we have right now we can-”
I drop into one of the chairs that has been left behind and go limp, my head sagging back so that I’m looking up at the ceiling. There is a tightness in my throat and I feel more tired than I have ever felt before.
“Marsha, are you okay?” Clay asks and I want to tell him that my guts are tied up into knots and that I can’t eat and just want to go back back to the hotel and hide in the bed.
“Just tired. I didn’t get a lot of sleep.”
“Well you better tonight. We’re flying out right at twelve and we’re going to do an in studio interview with Fox that night in LA so you need your rest.”
I try to nod but I don’t have the energy.
“Sandra, can you take Mrs. Bates back to the hotel? She needs some rest.”
“I thought you wanted her on the phone with the Moore people?” the intern says and I have a sudden vision of putting my hands around Sandra’s flabby neck and strangling the life out of her.
“I can take care of that. You just make sure she gets back to the hotel and takes it easy,” Clay replies and he pats me lightly on the shoulder.
I force myself up out of the chair and me and Sandra make our way towards the door.
“By the way Sandra,” Clay calls from the desk “You’re going to be driving Mrs. Bates around when we don’t have hired service from now on. That kid who was driving, the Cedar kid, he quit on us. He left me a voice mail this morning. Said he was already on a plane out of here and didn’t give an explanation or anything. Completely unprofessional. Don’t even think of doing that to me if you want a recommendation in the future.”
She smiles and nods back at him and it takes ever ounce of will and self control for me to make it outside and into the car and then out and into the hotel. I get back to my room and everything shatters. I don’t make it to the bed, I’m on the floor with the tears pouring full and hot down my cheeks. I stifle the cries into the carpet and hope that no one comes to my door.

To be concluded in Part 5.