Marrakech

It had been 24 years since I started working here in the Djemaa el Fna. I began coming with Father when I was eleven years old. Eleven was a ripe age filled equally with a hunger for knowledge and a hunger for breasts, slightly siding on the side of the latter. I'm not sure why I hadn't noticed them before this time, but this particular summer that I came to the souq with Father, they seemed to be everywhere. Though mostly hidden beneath layers of cloth, I knew that they were there.

Indeed, it has been many years since that growing obsession and I think that I can honestly say that I am through with it. All that remains now is the hunger for knowledge. Father was very good about this. Teaching me. Teaching anyone who sought it out. He considered himself a student of life and he always listened to the teacher. When the wind swept through the alley, Father kept his ears open. When the tourists spoke of foreign lands, Father took notes. After all, he was storyteller. Like myself.

I loved the air here. Something about the life within it. Both literally and metaphorically, the air within the market contained life. When I would arrive in the mornings, the square would be mostly empty. Some remnants from the night before. Signs that the night could not be silenced. Shopkeepers setting up their booths. The snake charmers setting up their baskets. Charmers always looked to be hungover to me. I half imagined seeing a charmer walk into the morning light with a cup of coffee and cigarette in his mouth. Then the cobra would come out of the basket. With a small cup of coffee and a small cigarette. This was always a funny thought to me. And the charmers always wondered why I smiled so widely at them.

There wasn't much required for myself to get set up. I had a small wooden box for listeners to leave gratuities. I had several small pillows to sit on. One small stool made of wood and goat leather, for myself. And sunscreen. I hated being as dark as I was. I was always hot and, maybe this is just my own neurosis, I thought if I applied sunscreen more often I could possibly stop the darkening of my skin. I don't think it was working.

Of course it depended on what day it was, but generally I would have my first listener around 10 in the morning. People have officially woken up, embraced their lives, and now looked for escape. That was my job. And it always began with a question -- What is your name?

The answer to this question alone can inspire an entire world within my head. Names have meaning. Names have histories. Emotions. I once met a man named Thomas. Something about the way he said his name reminded me of a small home in Brussels. I can't quite explain why. I closed my eyes for a few moments. Smelled the fresh waffles. The chocolate. Then I asked Thomas to sit.

I spoke to him of love. As I often do. My mind drifts towards love. This is something that I embrace about myself. All people have things that they want to change within themselves. This "gift", however, was something I did not. When listeners sat with me, they opened their ears first, then they slowly opened their hearts. And with this newly opened heart I would watch them rise and take in the market. It was beautiful. Love makes everything brighter.

Once you have felt it, things are never the same. You can never close that door, though people try. You can never take back the moments. Though I have tried. To have loved and been loved in this lifetime -- Is there anything else? Is there anything more important?

I can say this now because I have lived it. I have loved. I have lost. And anyone who has lost love becomes an expert storyteller. They may not believe that they are, but they are. I challenge you to approach someone on the street. A stranger. Ask them if they have ever loved before and then sit back and watch their eyes. Glazing over, lost in memories. In moments. They time travel to a cafe, to a park. To an ocean, to a bedroom. And they can describe to you the smallest details of that scene. They may have trouble putting it into the right words, but give them a chance. They can do it.

People love my stories because even if they haven't loved before, I give them an opportunity to feel love. And if they have felt it before, I let them feel it again. There is a sublime feeling that rushes over me when I see a tender smile appear on the face of a listener. They are giving in. They are surrendering. Because to surrender -- this is the only way to feel true love.

I was nineteen when I met her. I knew her for only a half of an hour. And I would never be the same.

It was an early morning and I had just finished setting up. Father had recently stopped coming with me due to his increasing health issues. So, I sat alone with my tea. Waiting.

Are you open? I heard a voice like I had never heard before. Looked up into the morning sunlight. She was silhouetted and I could not see her face. I raised my hand above my eyes, blocking the light, and my eyes fixed themselves to the light. Her face became visible. The face that would imprint itself on my thoughts for the rest of my life.

Yes, I am open. You are the first of the day. She smiled at me. That was the first. Please, sit down.

Thank you.

For a moment, I forgot where I was. Who I was. There wasn't any more room in my mind for myself. She consumed all of me. Then I came back. Long enough to ask her the important question.

So, what is your name? No matter what it was, I knew it would be perfect. I just wasn't prepared for how perfect it would actually be.

Shahdokht. Her accent was Iranian.

Tehran? I asked.

Yes. Am I that transparent?

No. I laughed. I am just that good at dialects.

She laughed with me. Her laughter made me want to immerse myself in warm water and float for awhile.

So, are you going to entertain me with a story?

Yes. But first, I have one more question for you. What does your name mean?

She gave me a curious look.

I'm sorry but, Farsi is not my strong suit.

She laughed again. My name means "princess" or "daughter of the shah".

I nodded. Smiled. If I were to name her, I would have given that name as well. And treated her as such. She was petite. Not tall. Maybe a little over one and a half meters. She looked as if she were about my age. Eighteen or so. But not like the other girls that I had known. She was not a girl.

She was a woman.

Her hair was long and black. It reminded me of waves. Not like the violent waves of the world's oceans, but the waves that I see in the great Sahara. Soft and rolling. Her skin was pale, unlike mine. Like a pearl. Unflawed. Her eyes dark like the night. And just as infinite. I could see the constellations in her eyes.

Apparently, I was staring.

What is it? She asked.

For the first time in my life, I was at a loss for words. I didn't know how to answer. I wanted to be honest with her, but I was scared. I couldn't feel an answer coming any time soon, so I decided to just deny the impulse and do what she was there for --

Tell her a story.

Shahdokht, "the princess" -- Are you ready for your story?

I am.

Good. I will begin.

I adjusted myself on my stool. Trying to release some of my nervousness.

Before you start, I just have one question for you. Do you mind if I ask it?

I swallowed my excitement. Unsure of what she would say to me. Most listeners that come to me, just want to be indulged in a story. But I was curious. And I felt young.

Please. I welcome your question.

A breeze picked up. A lock of ebony hair blew into her face. She swept it aside. Licked her lips.

What is your name?

This I can answer. I stood slightly and introduced myself. My name is Amal.

Amal. She nodded. My name had never seemed to fit me as much as it did when she said it. And what does your name mean, Amal?

For a moment I retreated into my memories. I remembered asking Father the same question when I was just a child of five years. We were walking in the early morning. He was holding my hand. When I asked the question he looked down at me. Swept me up into his arms and held me in front of him. He wiped my hair from my face and kissed me on the cheek. Then he answered.

As did I.

My name means "Hope".

She smiled and repeated my name.

Amal.

Poor Boyle

Boyle Langston Hughes was not a particularly happy man. He'd managed to reach the ripe age of 26 and he managed to do it pretty much alone. Quite a feat for anyone. Something about genetic makeup had managed to pigeon hole him into a life of seclusion. First, there was his name -- "Boyle". His mother had always liked the name "Boyle" mostly because she was obsessed with the film "Young Frankenstein". At one point she had even toyed with the notion of naming him "Gene Wilder Jeffries". Instead, it was "Boyle". Not a horrible name, if it's a last name, but if it's a first name and you have a glandular issue that makes you more robust than the average kid, "Boyle" can be a nightmare. "Gonna pop you like a Boyle, fat-ass!" "Eww, is that a Boyle on my dick?" Mom didn't really think that one through.

Then, there was "Langston". And "Hughes". The last name was inevitable, but the middle name...this was his Dad's call. His father considered himself a bit of a poet. He was constantly turning everyday situations into prose. Even when it was embarrassing, MOSTLY when it was embarrassing. That aside, his middle name had gone mostly unnoticed until a ninth grade English teacher pointed out the origin of his name in front of the entire class. It wasn't meant to be derogatory, but when you're then asked to read a poem by the author who is your namesake, in front of the entire class, it can be "socially harmful". Especially when the poem is titled "The Negro Speaks of Rivers".

A disgusting growth on your body and a famous African-American poet. Then there was anemia. Boyle had it. Low red-blood cell count. He got tired a lot. Bruised easily. God forbid he got a paper cut. It wouldn't stop bleeding. This always made for some fun on the playground. There were constantly games to see who could run up behind Boyle and "tag" him. Whomever left the biggest "tag", won. Boyle hated this game, though he was never really involved with the rule-making aspect of it.

A childhood that was solitary and meek, which led into an equally depressing adulthood. He went directly from high school into a job working at his local grocery store. He stocked at night. Saw it originally as a chance to work with very few people. He could work by night, sleep by day. Limit his "exposure". This had lasted for the past nine years. And, so far, it had worked. Women? Not really. He had slept with one woman. Her name was "Trudy". At least, that's what she said it was. Boyle knew that probably wasn't her real name, but it was all he knew. He saw her once, paid what he had to pay, and that was it. And to be perfectly honest, he was worse off because of it. When she left his apartment, he felt an emptiness that he'd never experienced before she had been there. It had been a little over three years since that night.

Things were bad for Boyle. Always had been and he didn't really see a light at the end of the tunnel. So when that hooded motherfucker asked him if he was "ready to die", Boyle looked him in the eyes and said, "I've always been ready to die".

Only thirty minutes before that --

Things had been going on like normal. Boyle finished work at 9:00 am. Grabbed his bi-weekly paycheck and walked down to Ed's Coffee Shop. He went there every morning to eat some hot cakes(one of his few pleasures in life), and read the "calendar" section of The Times, just to see the lives that others lived. After his cakes he walked to the bank and waited for them to open at 10. He could have easily deposited his check through the ATM, but Boyle never really trusted those things. Not with deposits. He had always feared that he would put a check in and then it would tell him to deposit his check again. Not acknowledging that he'd already done so, and then it would escalate from there. So -- he waited.

But not alone.

A girl was waiting, as well. An attractive girl.

A very attractive girl.

She was tall. Taller than Boyle. That wasn't saying much,( Boyle was only 5'7"), but she was pretty tall, nonetheless. She looked "carved". Sculpted. At least she did to Boyle. Due to his introverted lifestyle, he rarely got the opportunity to enjoy some of the finer things in life. Things like mid-afternoon tea, picnics, and the smile of a pretty girl. Yes, she smiled at Boyle.

The doors unlocked. She walked in first. There wasn't a puddle but if there was, Boyle would have thrown his coat down. She walked to one of the loan officer desks and sat down. Boyle watched her. He tried not to make it too obvious, though it was. Very. He filled out the deposit slip. Watched her.

"Sir?"

He continued to watch her. She was so cute the way she complained about her adjusted APR.

"Sir?" Boyle turned. He was "Sir". He walks up to the teller.

"Sorry. I was..zoning out."

"That's okay." the teller said, a young Latin man of about nineteen years. "I get it."

Boyle realizes just how obvious he was.

"I..."

"Bro, don't worry about it. She's fine. I follow you."

The teller looks at her. So does Boyle.

"You gonna talk to her?" asks the teller.

Boyle turns to him. "I don't know. I mean, I could, like, maybe go over and..."

"You should."

Boyle looks at him.

"Listen Bro, girls like that...girls that look like that, sometimes they feel alone too. They feel alienated 'n' shit."

Boyle not quite following. The teller reaches for his wallet. Pulls it out, opens it to a picture of a breath-taking Latin woman.

"Who's that?" inquires Boyle.

"That's my wife, bro. Now look at me. I'm nothing special. I ain't rich. Not particularly good-looking or nothin'. Can't carry a tune to save my life. But what I did have was the balls to walk up to her and tell her the way that I felt. Now she's my wife. And I still tell her the way I feel. Everyday. That's why she loves me."

Boyle looks at the picture. Then at the girl.

"Here ya' go". The teller hands him his deposit receipt.

"Thanks." Boyle nods. "I think I might just hang out for a few minutes."

"Good Luck, bro." the teller smiles.

Boyle walks over to the chairs in the waiting area. Sits down. He flips through various brochures. Different types of accounts and such. Reads about student loans, for a brief second wishing he went to college. Almost immediately thinking against it. Reads about some new checking accounts that has really low interest rates as long as the balance never drops below $10,000.00. Boyle has never had that amount of money in his checking account. Or savings. Wishes he had more money.

She's still at the desk. Still talking it out with the loan officer. Probably a student loan. She looks "learned". She looks like she maybe went to an Ivy League school. Or Pepperdine.

CRACK!!

Boyle quickly turns! Sees the security guard drop to the ground! His head split open by two armed men!

"Nobody fucking move or a bullet goes into the head of this dumb fuck!!" His Glock pointed at the fallen guard.

The other hood runs over to the loan officer desk and grabs the guy by the back of the neck. Gun to his head.

"Listen to me very carefully. You are going to walk me behind the counter. Then you're walking me into the safe. It's just that simple. You trip an alarm? You die. Someone tries to call out? Another dies. Anything even remotely stupid, someone dies. Do yourselves a favor and don't test us. There are only..." He takes a silent headcount. "...seven of you in here. Mistakes can accumulate quickly. That number could drop faster than you'd like."

The loan officer nods. Walks him over to the counter and types in a code. They enter.

In all the chaos, Boyle has just stayed in his chair. Frozen. Not really noticing that "she" has made her way over towards him. She's retreated as far back as she could get. Just so happens that happens to be right next to Boyle.

"I'm sorry." She whispers to Boyle. "I just -- I'm scared."

"Me too."

"Really? You seem...not. You seem calm."

"You two!! SHUT THE FUCK UP!!" yells the lobby gunman.

They stop talking. But only for a second. Boyle isn't going to miss his chance.

"You can be both. Scared and calm. -- Ever been bullied?"

She shakes her head.

"I have. Once you lose count of every time it happens, a calmness hits you. It becomes an inevitability. Doesn't mean you're not scared, though."

She looks at Boyle. She's shaking like a leaf. Petrified. But she still notices that he's cute. And probably the most honest man she's ever met.

"I'm Emma."

"Boyle."

She smiles. "Oh my god, Woof"

Boyle just looks at her.

"Young Frankenstein? The Mel Brooks movie?"

Boyle is silent.

She shakes her head. "Nevermind."

BLAMMM!!!!

A gunshot from behind the counter! Blood and brains all over the security glass!! The safe gunman stands up on the countertop.

"I told you all not to test us. But this bitch had to go for the silent alarm. And let me warn you, if the cops are on their way then I ain't got no reason to keep you alive. Cuz that means we ain't leavin' either. There's six of you now. Don't make it five." He goes back to the safe.

Boyle looks down. Emma's arm intertwined in his. She's gripping him.

"I don't want to die." She whispers. Pure terror in her voice.

He rests his hand on hers. "You aren't going to die. Trust me."

She looks at him. Not sure why -- but she does trust him. Completely.

Boyle looks around the scene. One security guard, unconscious on the floor. One masked man above him. Two tellers behind the counter, against the wall.(one of which is his friend). One loan officer in the vault with the other masked man. One young woman named Emma. One young man named Boyle.

"Hey Fat-man", the lobby hood calls. "The fuck you looking at?"

Boyle just shakes his head. "Madness."

"Say what?"

Boyle clears his throat. "I said, madness. I'm looking at madness."

The gunman takes his foot off the security guard. Starts walking over towards Boyle.

Emma's grip tightens. "What are you doing?"

"You'll see." Boyle whispers.

The man walks over. Stops in front of them.

"So, madness, huh?"

Boyle knows what's coming. "Yeah. That's what I said..."

CRACK!! The pistol gets whipped across Boyle's jaw. He spits blood. A huge bruise almost immediately appearing.

"That's fucking mad. You're turning violet, Violet!" The masked man begins cracking up.

BLAM!!!

The laughing stops. The man looks down at his chest. A smoking hole through it. Looks back at the security guard who has woken up long enough to fire a round right through the guy's chest. Then the security guard passes out again.

The masked man falls to the ground. Dead.

"What the fuck!!!" The other man runs out and sees his dead partner on the ground. Gun still in his hand. Looks at the security guard. Gun still in his hand, as well. "Stupid motherfucker." He makes a b-line for the security guard and then fires a slug into his skull. Blood everywhere. He looks back at his fallen partner. Walks over and rolls him to his back.

Talking to his dead partner, "Forgot to take his fucking weapon, bro. Big mistake. Big one." His voice emotional. He's trying to sound hard, but he's not fully pulling it off. This one will linger.

But he "feels" something. Someone watching him. He raises his gaze to meet Boyle's. Who is staring him right in the eyes. His partner's Glock in his hand. He stands slowly, setting his own gun on the ground.

Boyle stares him down. His hand shaking. "Big mistake. Big one."

"Listen, pal. You don't have to do this. You and your girlfriend are free to go, if you want. Just walk right out the door. Pretend nothing happened."

"Nothing happened? People died here. Innocent people!" Emma runs over to hit him...

"Emma, NO!!" Boyle screams!

She runs right into Boyle's line of fire! The gunman draws a blade from his sleeve. Slamming it into Emma's stomach!

She gasps --

Falls right on top of it, collapsing on to it. The guy spins her around and holds her in a chokehold, facing Boyle. The blade at her throat. Her stomach bleeding badly. Trying to cope with the immense pain. She looks right into Boyle's eyes.

Boyle looks into hers. Unsure of what to do, but feeling connected to a person. For once.

"Lower the weapon or your girl is fucking dead."

Boyle doesn't see any other way out. He delicately lowers his arm. Defeated. "Please, just...just don't hurt her anymore. Please."

The gunman, still holding on to Emma, bends down and retrieves his gun.

"Well, someone has to pay for this shit. We told y'all not to fuck with us. I would most definitely call this "fucked with"."

Boyle looks at her face. Her eyes. So soft.

"I'll pay for it. Take me." Boyle says, never feeling so sure of anything. But still scared.

"No shit? Dying for your girlfriend?"

"She's not my girlfriend."

The gunman scoffs. "You stupid then, man. Must be ready to die. That right? You ready to die?"

Boyle sets his gun down. Looks at her. She looks at him. At his heart. His soul.

"I've always been ready to die -- I just never thought it would be for love --

BLAM!!!

Boyle takes a shot to the chest! Catapulted off his feet, against the wall. He slumps down.

"Boom!!" The gunman throws Emma to the ground. "Hope you know what had when you had it, bitch. I sure as fuck wouldn't die for your sorry ass."

He walks over to Boyle's body. To finish the job, if he's not already dead. "Yoo-hoo..." Rolls Boyle's body over --

SHTICKK!!

Boyle jams a utility knife into the guy's throat! Rips it out, dragging most of his throat with it!! The guy collapses. Dead.

The knife falls to the ground. Boyle gasping for air. He has a massive sucking chest wound. Emma crawls over. One hand over her stomach. Holding her wound. She perches herself above Boyle. Puts her other arm under his head, cradling him.

The other people, the tellers and the loan officer, pop up. Boyle's latin friend, "I called 911!!"

Emma nods. Notices the utility knife.

Boyle, struggling with his words. "I...I'm a stocker."

Confused, Emma looks at him. "You're a what?"

Seeing the possible mix-up in his choice of words, he laughs. "Not that kind. I stock groceries. At night. I stock groceries."

She laughs. They share a laugh together. Until a surge of pain rushed over Boyle. He's "close". And he knows it.

"God, it was nice to meet you." Struggling with his words.

"I know it was. But it's not over. You're not going anywhere. Ok? Besides, you never asked me out? You waited that whole time for me to finish and never asked me."

His eyes widen a bit. A slight smile. "You knew?"

"Of course. A girl always knows."

Boyle smiles.

"The answer is 'yes', in case you're wondering. "

A tear runs down the side of Boyle's cheek. He's never been as happy. Another surge.

He's going. And she sees that he is.

"Boyle, what...what can I do? What can I do to help?"

He struggles with his breath. His lungs filling with fluid. With blood. "Just talk please. Anything. Anything is fine."

Emma doesn't know what to say. This may be the last words that he ever hears, and she doesn't-know-what-to-say.

When it hits her --

"I've got it!" She smiles. "When I was a freshman at Yale, I studied poetry for a semester. It wasn't really my thing, but there was one poem that I never could shake. Every time I would sit in stillness it would come to me. It's the only poem I know."

Boyle just nods slightly. He can't speak.

Emma runs her hand over his forehead. "I've known rivers: I've known rivers ancient as the world and older than the flow of human blood in human veins."

Boyle smiles. He knows this one.

"My soul has grown deep like the rivers. I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young. I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep. I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it. I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln went down to New Orleans, and I've seen its muddy bosom turn all golden in the sunset."

Boyle's head slowly drifts to the side. Emma still runs her hand softly over his face. Caressing him.

"I've known rivers: Ancient, dusky rivers. My soul has grown deep like the rivers."

Boyle closes his eyes. And rests in her arms.

Unseen Short Film...

Every Halloween, one of my besties throws a party called "The Halloween Happening". This party is not a normal Halloween party. There are no costumes. Very little, if any, candy. Not Jack-O-Lanterns. This is a party of art. A month or so before the party, my friend sends out a topic. This topic sets the theme for the party and everyone that attends, everyone, must create art based off of this topic. It can be a film, a song, a painting, a book report, a poem, a performance, anything! But you MUST do something and it can't be longer than five minutes.

Each year I usually shoot a film. It's fun and it inspires me, to shoot something so quickly and then screen it days later. That said, over the years I've become more and more of a perfectionist and have started forgetting what it was all about -- just enjoying yourself and enjoying what you made.

On the Halloween of '08, the topic was "Revenge" and I came up with a blues-inspired short titled, "Ma'Blues Run Red". It hasn't been seen, except for that night of the party, and I was holding it for all this time trying to think of a way to "fix" the technical flaws of the film. When, in fact, those flaws are some of the things that make it what it is -- Just a simple short that we shot for fun over the course of one Fall day.

THE ACTORS really did a wonderful job and they each give a truly nuanced performance. CHRIS MASTERSON as the lead is cold, detached, and frightening. KATE TOWNE is both funny and heart-breaking in this. She makes you laugh at her and then hate her the next minute. And KEVIN DANIELS, though only in it for a few moments, truly takes advantage of his time on screen. Their performances alone make this worth watching.

Sorry for the delay in putting this out there and enjoy the film! - JOSH

Cry Baby Cry

One man kneels on the ground. He's got a burlap sack over his head. Hands tied behind his back. Legs tied at his knees and ankles. He's wearing a worn USC hoodie and boxers. No shoes. His knees are scraped. Bloody from the dried lake bed below him.

The other man circles him. He's wearing jeans, sneakers, a black t-shirt. This is STEVEN.

In the background a Suburu Outback is parked, it's hatchback still open.

Steven walks over and takes the sack off the guy's head. Revealing SETH.

Steven throws the sack on the ground. Seth squints, his eyes adjusting to the blinding morning Sun.

SETH - What time is it?

Steven checks his watch.

STEVEN - 6:47.

SETH - Fuck, that's early. Can't remember the last time I was up this early.

STEVEN - Yeah. It's -- early.

SETH - So -- what are we doin' out here, Stevey?

Steven walks over to the Suburu. Grabs a can of gasoline out of the back. A USC duffel bag. Full. He doesn't answer.

SETH - You grab me in the middle of the night, Brandy's asleep next to me, drag me out to fuckin'...

He looks around.

SETH - Fuckin' wherever the hell we are, the least you could do is tell me why?

Steven still doesn't respond. He just sets down the can of fuel and duffel bag in front of Seth. Stares at him. A deep sorrow in his eyes. That, and a hint of madness.

SETH - So that's it? No explanations, no fuckin' excuses. Nothin'?

Silence.

SETH - Wow. Wow. That's -- bullshit.

STEVEN - Is it? Is it "bullshit"?

SETH - Yeah. It is.

STEVEN - And what constitutes "bullshit", Seth? Huh? Who makes up those rules? Those guidelines? You? You make that shit up?

SETH - Look, bro, you need to calm down. Just cut me loose and let's go back to the city.

STEVEN - Fuck you, "calm down". You're not calling the shots now! Not anymore!

SETH - You're goddamned right, I am! I could be tied up to the fucking Titanic and if you're with me, I'm calling the shots! You never have, Stevey. Not now, not ever. You just always been the weak one.

This "hits" Steven. Hard. His eyes are welling up. Seth notices.

SETH - See? Look, I hate to say these things but it's true, bro. You don't have the stomach for it.

STEVEN - Please, stop calling me that.

SETH - What?

Steven runs up to his face.

STEVEN - Brother!!!!

Seth is silenced. Steven walks over to the duffel bag. He unzips it. Pulls out a sheet of glass. A bag of gravel. A baseball bat. Some leather work gloves. Seth sees this -- trying to piece together what the hell is going on.

STEVEN - I was 23 when I first saw her. I couldn't take my eyes off of her. She was walking to work, I think.

A tear runs down his cheek.

STEVEN - I didn't really know what to say to her, so I thought honesty might be the best tactic. I mean, what the hell do I know about tactics. I ran over, maybe a bit too fast, cuz I scared her. Made her jump. "Sorry about that." I said. "That's ok. If you weren't so cute, I might be pissed." I smiled and basically said what I was feeling at the time. "You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." I remember her eyes. They were so blue. Like some lake in the sierras. Like they were made from snowmelt. She didn't know what to say. So she kissed my cheek. It was the happiest moment of my life.

Seth listens. Shakes his head.

SETH - Dude, is this all about Michelle?

Steven just slowly looks at Seth. Something "switched" in his brain.

STEVEN - When I got the call to come identify her body, I collapsed on the ground. My legs lost all feeling. I couldn't get up. I was just sitting there in the entry way, paralyzed. Shaking. -- I remember grabbing the phone and hitting my legs with it. Trying to get some feeling back. Cracking it against my kneecaps. My shins. Every time I'd hit them, a little bit would come back. Little by little, I eventually made my way to the car and drove down to the coroners. They uncovered her body.

Steven picks up the baseball bat.

STEVEN - I could barely recognize her. The CHP was waiting there and he explained what had happened. How she was thrown through the windshield doing about 60. But before she went through it, her legs buckled and hit the dashboard. That's what broke both shins. Snapped her tibia like it was nothin'.

His grip tightens on the bat. He glares at Seth. Seth finally sees that he can't talk his way out of this. He rolls onto his back and then rocks to stand up. He gets to his feet.

SETH - Look, Steven, I know you're upset but this is not the way to deal with this. She's gone, man.

STEVEN - Seth, sit down.

Seth slowly backing away. Inching away.

SETH - I'm serious, brother. Just relax and --

STEVEN - SIT THE FUCK DOWN! NOW!

Seth sits down.

STEVEN - I now see that taking that sack off your head was a bad idea.

Steven drops the bat, grabs the sack. Seth struggles as he's fit with the sack again.

STEVEN - Don't worry. You're only going to have to wear it for a couple seconds.

Steven backs up a good ten paces. Methodically. Leans over and grabs the bat.

Through Seth's veiled sight --

SETH - Steven, what the fuck are you gonna do? Don't do anything stupid.

STEVEN - I won't, Seth. I just think you deserve, at the very least, a good scare.

SETH - A "what"?

Steven gets a running start, bat behind his shoulder. He stutter-steps the last few feet and heaves the bat into Seth's shins!

CRACK!!!

Both legs bend immediately. Like tin foil, they collapse.

SETH - AAAGHHHH!!!

Steven takes the sack off of Seth's head. Both his legs severely broken. He rolls back and forth on his back in agony. Steven walks over and drops the bat. Grabs the thick piece of glass.

STEVEN - The only good thing was that it all happened so fast, they said that her mind probably didn't have time to register the pain of the broken legs before she went through the windshield. Sorry that I can't speed this up at all for you. Unfortunately, I don't think it's humanly possible. Unless there were a couple others and it was well choreographed.

Through his coughing, his spit, his fear --

SETH - Br--broth...

STEVEN - Don't say it.

SETH - St-steven. I'm sorry, man. I'm so fucking sorry.

STEVEN - I know you are, Seth. For the first time, I see how "sorry" you really are -- And to think I envied you all these years, when it was you who envied me. Wanted what I had.

SETH - It was an accident. Honestly. It was an accident.

Something about the word "accident" connects with Steven. Snaps him back in to the moment. But everyone lives their moments differently. As where Seth's "moment" is in the desert, Steven's -- is in a wrecked Volvo off River Road and Creston Ave.

Steven walks over and grabs the piece of glass. The gloves. Looks back at Seth.

STEVEN - You know the average windshield isn't just a piece of glass. It's two. Two pieces.

Inches towards Seth.

STEVEN - They put them together like a sandwich, and put a layer of plastic in between them. Makes it stronger. Prevents the whole thing from going if one of them cracks. About a quarter of an inch, total thickness. Pretty thick shit.

As Steven stands above Seth, he looks at the glass. Through it, at Seth.

STEVEN - Do you know the amount of force you would have to possess to go through it.

Seth says nothing.

STEVEN - No, I'm asking. That wasn't rhetorical.

SETH - Please, Steven. Don't do th --

STEVEN - 60 miles per hour, I don't know what that is per inch. Pressure-wise.

Seth tries to roll onto his stomach but Steven stops him with his foot. Rolls him back over and steps on his shoulder. Pinning him to his back.

STEVEN - 60 miles per hour is pretty fast.

SETH - Nooo!!!!!

Steven raises the glass and slams it down onto Seth's face! It cracks. Smashes him over and over again. Seth's face becomes more and more bloody. Until finally the glass can't retain it's shape. Limp like a towel. Steven tosses it aside.

Seth is a mess. Not unconscious, but he should be. Steven breathes heavy, sits down on the ground. Next to Seth.

STEVEN - Why, Seth? That's all I want to know.

Seth stares up at the sky. The sun. A bird passes through it. A buzzard. Seth takes a breath.

SETH - Be...because.....I......could.

This stings Steven.

SETH - Yo...you are right....about me. I am not you. I wanted...what you had. I'm....not good. Never have been. I take.

Steven shakes his head. Catches his breath. Walks over and grabs the bag of gravel.

STEVEN - Upon flying over the hood she hit the gravel road, face first. Didn't have any time to react and put her arms out, but it wouldn't have mattered anyway. They would have broken on impact and just delayed the inevitable.

Back to Seth.

STEVEN - The figured, by the marks on the ground, that she slid about 35 feet before stopping. Mostly on the right side of her body, judging by the exposed ribs and exposed parts of her skull. You'd think, after all of that, that she'd of been unconscious.

Seth doesn't even have the strength to scream now. He's just waiting for it all to be over.

Steven raises the bag over his head -- then stops. Lost in a thought.

STEVEN - You take. You took.

SETH - I...know.

STEVEN - It wasn't enough that you fucked my wife, you had to kill her too.

SETH - I know.

Steven lets the bag of gravel fall to the ground. He collapses to the ground.

STEVEN - You took her from me. In every way you could.

Seth doesn't know what to say. But he sees his little brother. The torment on his face. There's really only one way to go.

SETH - D...don't stop.

Steven looks at him.

SETH - You brought me out here to kill me -- keep going. Kill me

STEVEN - I can't. I'm not like you.

SETH - I'm not happy. Do it for me.

Steven is about to "give in", when a realization hit him.

STEVEN - "For you"?

He stands.

STEVEN - You were right about me. I almost did it. Did what you wanted me to. Killed you -- Not today. Not ever.

Steven walks back towards the car. Grabs his "supplies" and tosses them all in the back of the car.

SETH -Where are you going?

STEVEN - The Sheriff's deputy patrols these dry lake beds every afternoon. One of them will spot you.

SETH - Steven, no. Come back here! I deserve to die!

Seth starts crawling towards the car. Weakly, but he's moving.

Steven just gets into his car. Shuts the door and just sits. He turns on the ignition and a song comes on. A CD. "Cry Baby Cry" by the Beatles. This song resonates with Steven. He becomes lost in a beautiful dream -- remembering when he met Michelle.

The music plays -- He runs up to her on the street. Scares her, but she laughs. The music plays --

While lost in his memory, Seth drags himself towards the car. Dragging his limp legs. Closer and closer.

Steven remembers their first kiss -- how soft and lovely it was. How perfect it was.

Seth inches closer. Finally reaches the back of the car. Sits himself up and leans against the bumper. He leans a bit, loops his tied wrists over the top of the trailer hitch. Sighs. Relaxes against the bumber, listens to the words of the song --

Steven, lost in his blissful memories of Michelle, listens to the words of the song --

"Cry Baby Cry, make your mother sigh, she's old enough to know better..."

Steven opens his eyes. Seth opens his eyes.

Steven puts the car into gear ---

Observations.

I'm sitting here on Easter Sunday and it's the first time I've ever been alone on the holiday. Not with family. Not with friends. Not because I wasn't invited, I'm just alone. And it's an interesting feeling. I'm not sad or unhappy. I'm just still.

It's quiet. The town. The streets. My apartment. And I'm reminded of the past week and things that I encountered during. Here are some of those observations:

- Last Sunday I was walking down a long stretch of road in Beverly Hills. Perfect street. Tall palms lined the sidewalks. There was a slight breeze. No cars were parked on the street. I had my earphones in, listening to classical music. As I approached a patch of grass I saw something black laying there. I got closer and realized it was a yamika. It must have flown off of someone's head in the wind and they failed to notice. It seemed lonely lying there. I found myself feeling sorry for it.

- I went out for a close friend's birthday on Tuesday. We laughed til we cried. Ate food. At one point I had a long conversation with an actor I've been trying to make contact with for years(literally). I also got drunk. Apparently, no one noticed, but I did. My mood changes when I've had too much. I can become snappy. Considered that maybe booze isn't the best mood enhancer for me.

- I was running the other day, around the time of dusk. Earphones were in. I had a good pace going and I was transfixed with the horizon and the sunset. And I thought to myself what a beautiful world it is. And how I take that for granted.

- I listened to a friend perform live the other night. He was on the piano with a string quintet backing him up. It was candle lit. I cried in rapture.

- I went to a coffee shop today and walked towards the restroom. There was an older gentleman who was leaning against the wall, he looked like he was waiting for a coffee. I walked past, to the restroom when he proclaimed "I'm in line for the bathroom." He glared at me with scornful eyes. "Sorry, I didn't know you were in line." I replied, almost defending myself. He looked at me. Stared. "Well..., now you know." I paused, not really sure how to react. I was so tempted to tell him off and give him a piece of my mind. I felt disrespected. He had pushed a button in me that usually remains untouched. But instead I said nothing. I watched him go to the bathroom and then walk out. He glared as he walked by me. I watched him sit down, alone. He was angry and it seemed like a deep anger. A sadness. I felt bad for him. And I was glad and proud of myself for not saying anything. I wished that I had the foresight to wish him a Happy Easter.

- People gravitated into my world this week. I saw and heard amazing things. I wondered at people. Met people that I could see being in my life for many years.

- My best friend directed his first day of shooting on his feature film. He excelled. He commanded with tact and grace. It was a thing of beauty and I was proud of him.


It was a good week and I'm going to leave it with a line a heard in an Audrey Hepburn/Peter O'Toole film, "Ok, you're the boss. Just do as I tell you."