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June 6, 2008

Chance Meeting

Last night, I got trashed. For some reason, I felt like total shit this morning. I guess after what happened at Mildew, I couldn’t help feeling like the end was near. Nobody will book us thanks to our last tour, we can’t get a new album off the ground… How can I survive if nobody wants to hear me express myself through music? For so long, I’ve identified myself as the musician/poet/novelist/actor/laxative pitchman—how can I change gears now?

I wanted to turn to Margo for help and guidance, but as soon as we finished the pitch, she packed her bags for a modeling session in Vancouver. I can’t help feeling we may be drifting apart. With her gone, I helped myself in the only way I knew how. This morning, after spending a few hours in Vendome replenishing the liquor supply, I made a stop at the Peet’s Coffee on Ventura for a nice americano pick-me-up.

As I waited in the line contemplating adding a snickerdoodle cookie or two to my order, a familiar voice called, “Girth?”

I turned and saw Perdida Cheyenne backlit in the hazy, sun-dappled glow streaming through the windows. She had her typewriter perched precariously on an uneven table. For some reason, she’d pulled her hair into a bun, from which a long pencil protruded from either end. She wore thick but stylish glasses that complemented the shape of her face. An example, I believe, of nerd chic.

“Hey!” I called over the chug and roar of the milk steamers. I nodded at the typewriter. “Whatcha working on?”

She laughed, sighing. “Crocodemon rewrites. I had what I thought would be a shooting draft, but obviously Sloane and Corman have their ideas about everything. Whatever, I just want to get it done so they’ll keep paying me.”

“That’s the spirit,” I said.

I turned my attention back to the line, expecting to hear her start clacking away. When she didn’t, I rotated back in her direction. She sat there, smiling.

“I’m just getting a cup of coffee,” I said awkwardly.

She kept smiling. “Have a seat when you’re ready.”

I felt an odd stirring down south. What sort of effect did this woman have over me? Looking at her—certainly she’s attractive, but she isn’t that attractive, especially compared to my sweet Margo. Her personality leaves loads to be desired, her screenplays are pathetic, and yet…these days, nobody—not even Margo—makes me feel the way she does without the aid of pharmaceuticals.

I got my americano and took a seat across from her. She kept smiling. By this point, it unsettled me.

“How’d things go with Mildew?” she asked.

“Who told you about that?” I didn’t mind people knowing we’re with Mildew, but the groveling embarrassed me, and this town is nothing but a gaggle of gossips. If she knew we had any involvement with Mildew, she knew damn well how it went.

“People don’t just show up to the Poz Gala uninvited,” she chuckled.

“Why not? I mean, it’s a chairty—”

“Let’s cut the crap,” Perdida suddenly snapped, then caught herself and forced a laugh. “You’re having trouble with ideas to pitch to those bastards, right?”

I frowned and tried to sip the americano, which was way too hot. I yanked the lid off and set it down next to the cup and said, “Yeah.”

“I’ve got it,” Perdida said.

“What?”

Her eyes had a sudden, conspiratorial glaze. “The perfect idea.”

“Jesus God,” I breathed, “not Aries: The Musical.”

“Of course not,” she chuckled. “I already have Wurlitzer Tales working on that.”

“Who?”

“Fuck Machines.”

“I beg your pardon?”

She shook her head, grinning like the sick-wolf grin of an extortionist just about to reveal her payoff-worthy information. “Oricon Style, week of May 11th, 2002. Ring a bell?”

“Not…really…”

“That was the week Backseat Delightlah! hit #1 in Japan.”

“So?”

“So you gave a brief interview in the magazine where you mentioned if The Hedge had the same success, your next concept album idea was a little gem called Girth McDürchstein’s ‘Fuck Machines.’”

“Holy shit!” I gasped. I’d completely forgotten the idea, which I hastily abandoned when I couldn’t figure out a narrative throughline.

“In the future,” Perdida ranted, “robots have enslaved humanity and force them to work in a bleak, sexless environment, procreating in laboratories instead of in bed. One woman is…different. She questions the system and is exiled because of it. When she finds an ancient fuck machine and makes it operational, this woman learns the joy of sex and brings it back to the city.”

“I know the story,” I said. “I made it up.”

“Goddammit, Girth. Go with it!”

I sighed. “I would, but what’s the story? I mean, that’s a great setup, but what happens when she gets back to the city?”

“She meets a robot,” Perdida continued. “Assigned to guard the fuck machine. He’s spend a thousand years staring at the city in the distance, waiting for someone to show him the beauty of love. He shows her how to reassemble the fuck machine, and together they return the city and spread the word, the absolute glory of sex. The world begins to change, and the robotic overlords are not pleased—productivity goes down, emotions stir in the loins and the hearts and the brains of these depressed sad-sacks, but here’s the thing: all they know is masturbation. Once they understand these feelings, men and women understand that they make each other feel these things, but how to experience it…together? Once again, our heroine is the one to put the pieces together—but the robot sees her and, feeling betrayed, turns her in to the robot government. She’s hunted, arrested, but this time exile isn’t good enough—they wipe her mind, and the minds of everyone else who knows a thing about sex, and at the end, it’s our heroine’s job to dismantle the unloved robot.”

I sat for a moment, contemplative. Mostly, I was just shocked that the story was…so fucking good.

Girth McDürchstein’s ‘Fuck Machines’, I thought. I can work with this.

“What do you expect out of this?” I asked.

She shrugged. “Thanks in the liner notes? Some respect? I dunno… It’s just an idea you had, and I expanded on it. It’s what writers do. You did it for me.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Thank you.”

I sipped my americano. The temperature was perfect.

Written by Girth McDürchstein on June 6, 2008 3:51 PM
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