The piece I remember
Did it start as another sunny southern California day? Or was it a gray awakening from the coastal marine layer with the impersonal downtown high rises laying flat against a depthless sky? It was the year of El Nino, I remember that much. In fiction the weather is a great device for setting moods, emphasizing emotions and even foreshadowing. In life weather is the earth’s natural and chaotic whim, which tells us not much more than what we most likely should wear for the day, and even then (in cahoots with many a weather forecaster) in may deceive us into false expectations. So each day when we wake up, sip our morning coffee as we check outside the window and hope the news is correct in it’s assessment of what may be, and based on these unreliable tidbits of information don our vain (yes, no matter who you are: punk, prep, or prim conservative – you express yourself through the clothing you choose to lay down your hard earned pay or maybe even payola for) outerwear to show the world who we are as we roll the dice hoping we’ve guessed the gods' climatic intentions for the day.
Did I wake up in my studio coughing in a haze of smoke choking the room? Was I off balance and foggy from yet another night of double fisting beers and vodka and tonics while smoking (always too many cigarettes) and writing my first screenplay which no one would buy? Maybe I’d had a good night’s sleep and been a good boy the night before and was up and alert and had a well balanced breakfast with my cowboy coffee (I didn’t have a coffee maker at the time so I boiled water, threw in the coffee grinds and strained that through a paper towel into my eagerly awaiting mug to get that all important caffeine kick in the morning). These memories are lost in the mist of time passed swirling and mixing with the haze of smoke that most likely hovered in the all in one room.
Did I work that day at the little downtown coffee shop dwarfed by the surrounding buildings where they paid me next to nothing to do next to nothing. I apologize to baristas everywhere, but you are not creative or inventive like chefs or bakers. You pack the grinds properly, run the water through the machine and make sure it gets into the cup. While there are many boneheads who cannot get even that right, it is not hard. Or did I have the day off work and instead pack envelopes with my seven sentence synopsis,
“’ Vacation’s Key’ is a drama about two hit men on vacation in the Florida Keys. Vince has been hardened by his work, but sees that it is time to leave the trade and cleanse his soul; his passion for oriental literature will not make him as peaceful as the Buddha. John, the rookie, has an immediate distaste for their work; it’s not as easy (physically or mentally) as he thought. Vince finds love with a beautiful bartender named Sabrina. John struggles with inner torment over having committed cold calculated murder. The pair are given an order for a hit in the Keys which they plan to make their last, but the target of their previous operation isn’t as dead as they think and now he’s on their tail. As they try to finish business and set their souls straight, someone else is planning to send their souls straight to hell.”
How many envelopes were packed with that gem of a teaser? How many stamps did I lick mailing it with great expectations to any and all production houses accepting unsolicited scripts? How many waste paper baskets became the final resting place of seven sentences which summarized a year’s hard work and dreams from a young and optimistic writer?
How do you know that today your life will change? In John Irving’s The Hotel New Hampshire Franny observes, “In this world, just when you’re trying to think of yourself as memorable, there is always someone who forgets that they’ve met you.” And again I reference that evil traitor we call Memory! Memory is capricious and most likely in cahoots with our unreliable friend the weather. It taunts us and teases us with many pieces of the puzzle but almost always inevitably guides a piece to the floor where it will get knocked unseen under the sofa not to be added to our whole picture of the world, of yesterday, of today or even nine years from now.
What piece of the puzzle will be added today? I do not know, but I cannot wait to find out. Nine years ago today, on August 21, 1997, in forgotten weather conditions while working on an unmemorable, forgotten script I met my wife. Many pieces of the puzzle picture of that day are missing, but as I see the piece with my wife laughing across the room catching my eyes, that one piece is all that matters. It tells the story which leads to today. So as I walk out the door into the world of experience today and remember that beautiful memory from nine years in the past I have only great expectations of what beautiful little puzzle piece I’ll remember of today nine years from now.
Did I wake up in my studio coughing in a haze of smoke choking the room? Was I off balance and foggy from yet another night of double fisting beers and vodka and tonics while smoking (always too many cigarettes) and writing my first screenplay which no one would buy? Maybe I’d had a good night’s sleep and been a good boy the night before and was up and alert and had a well balanced breakfast with my cowboy coffee (I didn’t have a coffee maker at the time so I boiled water, threw in the coffee grinds and strained that through a paper towel into my eagerly awaiting mug to get that all important caffeine kick in the morning). These memories are lost in the mist of time passed swirling and mixing with the haze of smoke that most likely hovered in the all in one room.
Did I work that day at the little downtown coffee shop dwarfed by the surrounding buildings where they paid me next to nothing to do next to nothing. I apologize to baristas everywhere, but you are not creative or inventive like chefs or bakers. You pack the grinds properly, run the water through the machine and make sure it gets into the cup. While there are many boneheads who cannot get even that right, it is not hard. Or did I have the day off work and instead pack envelopes with my seven sentence synopsis,
“’ Vacation’s Key’ is a drama about two hit men on vacation in the Florida Keys. Vince has been hardened by his work, but sees that it is time to leave the trade and cleanse his soul; his passion for oriental literature will not make him as peaceful as the Buddha. John, the rookie, has an immediate distaste for their work; it’s not as easy (physically or mentally) as he thought. Vince finds love with a beautiful bartender named Sabrina. John struggles with inner torment over having committed cold calculated murder. The pair are given an order for a hit in the Keys which they plan to make their last, but the target of their previous operation isn’t as dead as they think and now he’s on their tail. As they try to finish business and set their souls straight, someone else is planning to send their souls straight to hell.”
How many envelopes were packed with that gem of a teaser? How many stamps did I lick mailing it with great expectations to any and all production houses accepting unsolicited scripts? How many waste paper baskets became the final resting place of seven sentences which summarized a year’s hard work and dreams from a young and optimistic writer?
How do you know that today your life will change? In John Irving’s The Hotel New Hampshire Franny observes, “In this world, just when you’re trying to think of yourself as memorable, there is always someone who forgets that they’ve met you.” And again I reference that evil traitor we call Memory! Memory is capricious and most likely in cahoots with our unreliable friend the weather. It taunts us and teases us with many pieces of the puzzle but almost always inevitably guides a piece to the floor where it will get knocked unseen under the sofa not to be added to our whole picture of the world, of yesterday, of today or even nine years from now.
What piece of the puzzle will be added today? I do not know, but I cannot wait to find out. Nine years ago today, on August 21, 1997, in forgotten weather conditions while working on an unmemorable, forgotten script I met my wife. Many pieces of the puzzle picture of that day are missing, but as I see the piece with my wife laughing across the room catching my eyes, that one piece is all that matters. It tells the story which leads to today. So as I walk out the door into the world of experience today and remember that beautiful memory from nine years in the past I have only great expectations of what beautiful little puzzle piece I’ll remember of today nine years from now.
posted by Sam Barboo at 1:04 PM
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