#2001 Eminem | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

thewestern · 1 month

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Chapter 29

The moment the Mick stood up from the desk where Billy had written his last words, he heard a faint sound.

Wait, do you hear that?

What.

I don’t know. I hear a sound, but it’s faint.

The Mick was showing off his good ear. It was true he heard a sound. albeit barely perceptible. More precisely it was a sustained double low C note. A dog whistle of sorts for film bros. Soon it gave way to a much bigger sound. This they all heard.

Duh. Duhh. Duhhhh. Duh-duh!

I heard that.

They all knew it too, but only the Mick from where.

Oh, damn. 2001. Very tight.

He was referring of course to 2001: A Space Odyssey, the nineteen sixty-eight Stanley Kubrick masterwork. The Mick, however, was using a short-hand for Phish’s cover of the nineteenth-century tone poem that Kubrick uses to open the film, and to great effect. Although, for a fact, their rendition more closely hues to a seventies discotheque remix, that was likewise featured in a landmark film of the twentieth century, Being There, by Hal Ashby.

The song’s familiar crescendo synched perfectly with the yurt lights going off, all at once, enveloping them in darkness.

Hey, turn on the lights! I’m not fucking kidding.

For as tough as she was, and she was, Grace was deathly afraid of the dark, as well as, apparently, death.

Then a second song queued. Likewise an instrumental, albeit one with which they were not familiar. Like the previous piece, it was brass-forward and accented with symbols, but that is where the similarities ended. Whereas the beginning song had marked a triumphant dawning of a bright future, here came an acid rain cloud, rinsing away the scum on the city streets, leaving them slick to reflect the neon signs of sex shoppes and the peep shows. And yet, sinister though it certainly is, the melody alludes to a post-modern, muzak mundanity. As if it were elevator music, playing along on your freefall descent to Hell.

This is the main theme to Taxi Driver, Scorcece’s masterwork, wherein Marty largely eschews his propensity for setting his movies to popular music, rather to do the honor of collabing with the great film composer Bernard Herrmann, whose IMDB page is slaps only. His first feature — his fucking debut — was a little movie called Citizen Kane. Ever heard of it? Thereafter scoring what many consider to be the greatest film of all time, on his first fucking try, every director in town wanted a piece of him. But Hermann only wanted to work with one — Hitchcock. You see Psycho? That lady getting murked in the shower. The repeated stabbings set to shrieking violins. That was your boy. Hitchcock didn’t even want music for that scene. But Bernard insisted. Good call.

Bernie was Marty’s first and only choice. Initially, he turned him down. Why would I want to do a movie about a taxi driver, he told him, hilariously. However, after being appealed to by Brian de Palma of all people — Hollywood! — to please reconsider and at least read Paul Schrader’s now iconic screenplay, he was all in. He completed the score in two days, left the studio, had dinner, went back to his hotel and died in his sleep. It was Christmas Eve.

And that was what was playing in the yurt that day. Perhaps this mystery DJ was a cinephile, because something of a DIY short film was now being projected onto the yurts canvas roof. It was a mosaic of aural ephemera. Things like:

A sped-up time-lapse of a flower blooming and wilting. Elvis shaking his hips on the Ed Sullivan Show. Another time-lapse, this time of traffic at night on a bend in the freeway. A rocket taking off. A woman in a fifties-era kitchen taking a casserole out of the oven. The Zapruder film. A massive industrial canning line. A mushroom cloud. Richard Nixon giving the double deuces. A hot air balloon taking off. Bill Clinton playing saxophone on the Arsenio Hall show. Lightning striking. A column of North Korean soldiers goose-stepping. Doves scattering. Nightly news footage of Rodney King getting beat on. A wave crashing. Osama Bin Laden talking in a cave. George W. Bush hitting a golf ball. A one shot of a horse running, as if in place.

Etcetera.

Then after a couple of minutes of that the music changed again. At last, this track had lyrics, recited in vocal staccato over an illegally-sampled piano riff by a seventies French new wave jazz composer, punctuated by a women’s scream.

When I was just a little baby boy my momma used to

Tell me these crazy things

Dude, this playlist sucks.

Like Garcia, Grace hated rap.

Oh, I like this song.

Kitty, on the other hand, loved it.

Yet another thing she and Billy had in common. Although, he was never an Eminem fan, per se. This on account of ICP had beef with him, dating back to Shady’s days as an aspiring emcee in Detroit, from where Violent J and Shaggy 2 Dope also hailed. Things escalated to the extent of Em including a skit on his masterwork sophomore album depicting the duo performing oral sex on Ken Kaniff, a recurring character in the Marshall Mathers Extended Universe. One who exists exclusively as a device for engaging in homosexual acts with Eminem’s rap rivals, thus implying that they are, in fact, gay.

The track playing currently in the yurt, Kill You, was cited specifically by Lynn Cheney, she the wife of Dick, in a Senate committee hearing on violence in youth popular culture. The Second Lady invoked the killings at Columbine High School, calling on Seagrams, the spirits conglomerate that also distributes music, including titles by Eminem and shock rocker Marylin Manson, who was reputedly a favourite of the Columbine shooters, to take responsibility for the irreparable harm their product inflicts upon young minds. I fully understand your duty to shareholders, she said, but can that duty be defined in purely economic terms? Aren't many of your shareholders women, who are demeaned by some of the music you distribute? Aren't many of them parents, who shudder at the debased and violent culture that Seagram is helping create?

The visual narrative changed along with the soundtrack. Now it was grainy home video, shot on a handheld camcorder in all likelihood. Or at least, the colors were undersaturated in just such a way. It was footage of a young Hildy, cradling a baby, presumably Billy. A lesser woman would’ve been embarrassed to be caught like this in memorex amber, what in all her awkward nineties-ness. Not Hildy. She had Princess Diana’s style with Jennifer Aniston’s hair. And how she doted over this tiny angel. Pinching his cheeks, bopping his nose, blowing a raspberry on his cute little tummy. All the while laughing like a banshee. Sure she was showing off, but in a sweet, subtle way. Probably for the cameraman, presumably Billy’s proud papa.

She used to tell me my daddy was an evil man

She used to tell me he hated me

The film of Hildy and her baby was then interspersed with her other — much more successful — baby, Dr. Lupustein. First from his breakthrough commercial, breaking his Hippocratic oath by eating the woodland creatures who sought his care. But also clips from his whirlwind New York City publicity tour. Presiding as an honorary judge at the Nathan’s Hot Dog Eating Contest. Throwing out the first pitch at Yankee Stadium.

Back to Hildy now. This time she’s decidedly less flirty with the man behind the camera. You can tell she doesn’t want to be filmed right now by the way she holds her hand to the lens and mouths, please, I really don’t want to be filmed right now. Billy, before angelic, is now crying. There’s no sound but you can see how loud he is wailing.

Back to Lupustein, now joining the Late Show with David Letterman to list the Top 10 Signs You May Need A New Doctor.

Number Ten: The waiting room has a hostess.

Number Nine: The intake form asks for your height, weight and which part of your body you think would taste the best.

Number Eight: Some of the other patients seem to be marinating.

Number Seven: The nurse reads your body temperature off as medium rare.

Number Six: Instead of an examination table, you’re sitting on a cutting board.

Number Five: Is it just me or is it hot in here?

Number Four: The doctor orders some additional testing and a side salad.

Number Three: His white coat says Kiss the Cook.

Number Two: According to the diploma on his wall, your doctor went to medical school at Johns Hopkins & Wales. Number One: He tells you to drop your pants but, hey, he’s not even wearing any.

Hildy has had it now. Distractedly cradling in one arm Billy, still crying, and in t’other a glass of red wine with quite a generous pour. Not even bothering to acknowledge the camera in her face. Why is he even filming anyway? Perhaps for evidence in the inevitable custody dispute.

Dr. Lupenstein on Total Request Live with Carson Daly and Christina Aguilera, who’s making bedroom eyes at him.

But then I got a little bit older

And I realized she was the crazy one

The camera is sitting low now, possibly on a coffee table. There’s no one in the room except for Billy, who’s on the floor playing with a Tiffany rattle and a Phillips head screwdriver. At least he’s not crying anymore. Hildy, however, is. She enters from stage left, backing up toward the door, shouting at someone just out of frame. Whoever this poor bastard is, she’s reading him the riot act. Just really letting him have it.

Dr. Lupustein on the Today Show, making beer-butt chicken with Matt Lauer and Al Roker. Katie Couric is off-camera, asking the producer for his pager number.

A man enters the picture. His profile is obscured by the buffalo head, which he carries over his shoulder. In his left hand is a likeness of Dr. Lupustein in neon effigy. The man walks past Hildy. He turns to tell her this is the last time.

Who’s that? Grace asked.

I don’t know, replied Zeke. Ben Affleck?

I fucking knew it!

The Mick couldn’t resist.

The man, of course, was Hank.

Kitty had also known. By now wasn’t it kind of obvious? Although, whereas Mick had just assumed — albeit with some basis — that if something was going wrong, Hank was somehow to blame, Kitty had known since the moment she had laid eyes on Billy in Baby. They didn’t look at all alike — even Hildy’s genes were dominant — except that they were of a similar countenance. Which is to say they had an air of mischief about them. Call it what you like — a twinkle in their fucking eye. But Kitty recognized the quality for its absence in Mick. He used to possess it in droves, but the bastards had driven it out of him.

But there was nothing I could do or say to try to change it

'Cause that's just the way she was

When Hank left, the screen went blue. Likewise the music stopped. In its place clapped thunder and rang a church bell. A wolf howled.

Suddenly the smoke started billowing again. The Mick could see it was coming from under a computer desk. It was obviously a fog machine, but the fog was marijuana scented. Looking back up, he saw awe struck on Kitty’s face. Following her gaze around he found the body of Billy, now convulsing, in the throws of seizure. As if it he had been possessed. It shook and shook, slackening the hangman’s rope like an out-of-control garden hose. However, the limbs remained stiff, indicating the onset of rigor mortis.

What the fuck, dude!

Grace said it best.

Without warning, the canvas walls of the yurt fell around them. Like they were being revealed in a magic show. The roof remained in place, but at once, Billy stopped shaking. Now his body twisted, like a disco ball. On either side of them were two riders on a dirt bike and an ATV, but smaller. Both their faces were obscured by those cool helmets with the face guards and goggles with sick-ass, fire-mirrored lenses. They even had jerseys and body armor that matched Wolffenbeir-branded mounts.

They commenced circling the yurt, menacingly. The one on the bike popped a couple of wheelies. The Newfy four for their part weren’t necessarily scared. More disturbed. Or maybe just bummed out. Still they stayed put. If only for the fear of being errantly run over by one of these lunatics.

Perhaps picking up on that they weren’t getting much of a rise out of their audience, the junior biker gang stopped their engines. The one on the two-wheeler took off his helmet. Bet you five bucks it was Billy.

Hey, where’s my mom?

She bailed.

Grace again. She was emerging as the unofficial spokesperson for the group.

Already? For real?

Yup.

Well, how long was she here?

Probably like, what, five minutes? Long enough to give a weird speech.

Yeah, she do be doing that shit. Well did she at least seem sad?

Yeah, sure. Maybe more disappointed.

Word. Huh.

That’s some pretty sick shit, faking your suicide for your mother.

Right though? Thanks, yo.

Wasn’t a compliment. So who you got hanging up there anyway?

Oh, that’s my just uncle’s sex doll. It vibrates. My homie Yayo-L here helped me string her up.

They turned to look at the one on the ATV, who had removed his helmet and was waving at them in sheepish acknowledgment.

Ay Yay, help me get her down right quick. Shit’s Japanese. Mad expensive. Ernie will flip his shit if we break her.

So what then, is Hank your dad?

Who’s ass is Hank?

Confusingly, Billy said Hank in a voice that approximated a black person’s crude impression of a white person.

The guy in the video?

Oh him? I guess so. Hildy never told me his name. She been saying for the longest I was a test tube baby. But I seen these movies. I was looking through Ernie’s old-school porno collection one time and that tape was mixed in there with them. So I wanted to show Hildy to be like, I know I got a dad. That’s why I wrote that rhyme and produced that fire music video. Props to Yayo for doing all the editing and directing. He storyboards the sexual harassment training videos for Wolffenbeir, so you already know he’s got mad skills. All that montage shit? Bombs and all different animals. Psht. Stop playing. Spike Lee, holler atchya boy.

So this was all just a put on. First you faked your own kidnapping. And when that didn’t work you faked your own death.

I really don’t know, yo. But I do been wanting to fake my death for the longest. It’s such a power move. On some Tupac, Elvis-ass shit.

What’s your next move then, Machavelli?

Ah. Was curiosity getting the best of the Mick after all?

I. Don’t. Know. How many times I got to tell y’all. What’s up with all these wack questions anyway? Isn’t that the whole point of making everybody think you’re dead? It puts the ball in their court.

Billy exaggeratedly pointed his index finger to his temple, as if to indicate that he was thinking on some other level, which indeed he was, albeit not a higher one by any means.

He’s freestyling, as Yayo-L explained. You just got to let him go.

Do I?

Yeah, you kind of do.

Yayo-L said that in the least smart-ass, and most matter-of-fact manner possible. As if to say, it really do be like that. Because in his experience, it do.

Sorry, who are you?

Hey, nice to meet you. I’m Raj.

All his homies call him Yayo-L.

Billy calls me that. You can just call me Raj.

By now Raj and Billy had gotten the Japanese sex doll down from the gallows. They removed Bertha and the bespoke tracksuit to reveal an eerily lifeless-like form. She was arranged like a period-accurate, Wild West prostitute, with her auburn hair done in a messy bun and red dirt smeared in with her caked-on makeup. Billy was putting back on her frilly dress, distressed just so, back on over her long john britches.

Shit’s crazy, right. He’s got a bunch of them but this one’s his bottom bitch, he says. Don’t fuck Prudence, Billy, he always be telling me, all serious. Any of the others, but not her. Psht. You already know I tapped that ass. Haha, nah, I’m just playing.

Did you know your mom tried to buy our brewery today?

Nah … For real though?

Yes.

Whoa — wait — she did? For how much?

Billy and the Mick were both taken aback by Kitty’s news.

I don’t know I didn’t look.

Look at what?

She did the thing where you write the offer on a piece of paper and slide it across the table. I Just put it in my pocket.

Damn … that’s kind of tight. Props to Hildy on that one. I know we got our differences but sometimes she does some baller ass shit.

Hey, Kitty, what the hell? Why didn’t you tell me?

I don’t know. I was going to. I was worried you’d accept.

Well, obviously.

Mike, don’t say that.

What do you mean? This is it! This is our exit!

What do you mean, exit? Do you even know?

Kitty, you know what I mean.

No, I guess I don’t. I don’t want to exit. I want to stay. I’m happy here.

Zeke and Grace, who had never once seen Kitty and Mick argue like this, looked on in mild astonishment. Of course, like any lovers they had their occasional quarrels, but they weren’t the type to air it out in mixed company.

Kitty, just show me the offer. Come on, please.

She removed it from her back pocket and held it out to him, still folded.

Aye let me see real quick first. Maybe I can match that shit.

Billy jumped between them and intercepted the hand-off. The Mick rolled his eyes as Billy looked down at the number. Then he looked back at Mick, then Kitty. Then back down. Then he stuck the piece of paper in his mouth and began to chew, vigorously.

Oh you gotta be kidding me.

Deals off, bitch, Billy mumbled back to the Mick with a mouth full of paper.

Whatever, it’s not like that’s a contract. We can just ask your mom. K, did she leave you a card or something to call her back?

Wait, wait. Hold up, wait.

Billy coughed as he choked down the last bits of cardstock, which actually had been Hildy’s business card, hat she’d written the offer on the back of.

Aight, aight, aight. Let’s negotiate this shit. Just please don’t call my mom.

No. We’re not negotiating.

Well, hold on, let’s hear him out.

Goddamnit, Kitty! What the hell’s gotten into you? Why do you want to keep pulling on this yarn?

I don’t know Mick! Maybe because I’m fucking pregnant.

Mick took a moment to let this marinade.

By that, did you mean, you May Be pregnant? Or, maybe I’m acting irrationally because I am, in fact, Pregnant?

Good one. I Am Pregnant. Presently.

Are You Sure?

Yes.

Well … I think that’s great.

Don’t get too excited. But, really?

Of course. We’ve talked about this. That we always wanted to have one-to-two kids someday. We’ll figure out how to afford it.

Oh, god. Don’t say it like that! And I know we talked about wanting one-to-two kids, one day down the line, but I thought maybe this was too soon to start? Or just not the right time. You’ve been so depressed lately. Since Hank left. Before, even. Like the life we had wasn’t enough. You even said it felt like the walls were closing in a bit. And we were already tight on space. Where are we gonna fit the nursery.

Ideally, for Mick and Kitty’s sake, this scene would have taken place in private. They were both, after all, intensely private people. However, some conversations are so overdue there’s no telling when, where or whom in front of they’re going to, erupt. It just so happened this particular one sparked up in the middle of a Wednesday on an out-of-work dude ranch with an audience of four not including the Japanese sex doll.

As for those bystanders, whose culpability varied, we’ve all been a party to that occasional awkward moment, and there are a range of available coping mechanisms. You can certainly lean in. Zeke, for his part, was rapt, hanging on their every word. Grace, for whose hunger took precedence, found a reprieve in the form of some beef jerky she forgot she had in her fanny pack. Yayo-L, or Raj as he’s now known, politely carried on with breaking down the staged suicide, coiling the rope and pushing aside the gallows, paying no undue attention to this intimate tête-à-tête. Billy, meanwhile, was filming it on his camera phone, not so subtly whispering, World Star.

The Mick didn’t have a good answer for Kitty. He had been a real stick in the ass lately. And a lousy partner as a result. There’s no denying it. But that didn’t explain Kitty dragging out this bull shit with Billy.

Okay, you’re right. I’ve been a real bummer lately. I have felt stuck, and maybe even a little trapped. But that’s not you. It’s not us. It’s the brewery. Fuck it, the entire industry. It’s a hobby, honey. Hank had a hobby, and somehow we all got sucked in. It killed Russ. It would’ve killed Hank, had he not got himself killed on account of some other hobby. And here we are, stuck holding the bag.

Don’t say that. About Hank.

Oh, give it up, Kit. He’s gone! He’s been gone. All the way gone.

I know that, Mick! But you don’t have to celebrate it! Fuck!

There goes Kitty swearing again.

You talk about him like he’s this deadbeat dad. Sorry, Billy.

All good.

But he’s not! Not to us! He gave us all this!

[Gestures around the yurt.]

Maybe those things were a little fucked up. But this is our life. Wouldn’t it be easier to try and like it than throw it away for something, we don’t even know what it is?

But we do know, Kitty! We do know! Because by some stroke of dumb luck, between Jaime and Billy’s mom, we’ve got people banging down our door to buy us out!

Buy us out to where! It’s a check, Mick. A few months on the mortgage, maybe! Then what? And don’t you fucking dare say grad school.

Fuck, I don’t know. Hey G, weren’t you saying your uncle was a fireman?

A fireman? What are you eight? We’re almost thirty years old, Mike.

Yeah, he’s just a volunteer anyway. County don’t pay for shit is what I hear.

You hear that? Grace says county don’t pay for shit. So stop playing daydreaming, David Michael. You’re a brewer. And you can self-deprecate about it all you want, but you make great beer. Maybe that’s a silly thing, but we don’t choose what we’re good at. Beside, you know I would’ve never married a lawyer. And even if it’s not art like Jaime says or big business like Billy here seems to think, who gives a shit? It’s fucking something!

Every once in a while, maybe only three or four in the six or seven years they’d been together, Kitty said something that would cut Mick right to his core. But she went in steady and sterile, like open heart surgery. So that nothing got knicked on the way in or infected with bitterness. Still, it knocked the wind clear out of him.

Mick?

Hold on I’m collecting myself.

Raj had sparked a J. Grace joined him.

Okay, fine. I’m a brewer. Then you’re a public school teacher. Admit it, K, you’ve been hurting too recently. That SciTech place is a fucking scam and you know it. And I know it, and Billy’s mom knows it. Everybody knows it except the kids and their poor fucking parents. So I show up to the Newfy in rubber boots every morning for the next thirty years, but you’ve got to go back to West.

Then the Mick remembered the kid.

Although, on second thought, let’s stay on that new school healthcare until the baby’s born. And then maybe we call it at one.

Kitty smiles. Mick sighs in deep relief. And they embrace. Grace coughs.

Billy, displaying his innate talent for ruining any moment no matter how tender, butted in here.

Hug all you want. This shit ain’t over.

What do you mean, we? So we’re not for sale. Tell your mom to find some other sucker.

Psht. You’re the sucker if you think Hildy’s just gonna take No Thank You for an answer. Haven’t you seen Godfather One? She’s Donna Corleone. Make you an offer you can’t pass on. I don’t know why she wants your dusty ass brewery, but she does. And if she wants something, she gets that shit? Ya feel me?

Sure, Billy. I feel you. But we’re a private company. We don’t have to answer to a board or shareholders. So even your mom and Big Bad Wolffenbeir can’t blow our little house down.

Hey, Billy. Did you see this all-company email that just came through?

At Raj’s prompting, Billy drew his device.

Nah, I didn’t get it.

Zeke also instinctively checked his email. Maybe it is contagious. He also didn’t receive the email in question, although there was a new correspondence awaiting him from Mayor Mockingbird, subject line: Ezekiel, I miss you

Here, come look. I can’t believe this. It says We’re the ones being acquired, by GloBev.

Fuck outta here. What’s a GloBev?

Chinese conglomerate. Duh.

Here Mick, Kitty and Zeke all looked at Grace, as if to say, how the fuck you know that?

What? So I do a little day trading. There stock’s en fuego.

Yep, she’s right. Says so right here. The Beijing-based multinational is set to acquire Wolffenbeir, Inc. and all its holdings, including our newly onboarded subsidiary in the craft space, The New Frontier Brewing Company.

Whoa. Now what the fuck? I thought you said you turned her down, Kitty?

I thought I did!

What’d I say? I done told yo asses. My mom is straight gangster.

It doesn’t make any sense. How can you buy something that’s not for sale?

Fuck if I know. Alls I do know is now we want the same thing. To squash this deal, so you can keep on doing your OG Belgian IPA-ass thing, and I can get up on some newer, cooler shit. No offense.

Believe me, none taken.

So what do we are we supposed to do?

It says here that the merger will be publicly announced tomorrow at Wolffenbeir HQ, during a ceremony presided over by CEO Hildegard Wolff, Mayor Lawrence Mockingbird and special guest, beloved Wolffenbeir mascot emeritus Dr. Lupustein.

That bitch ass. I should have kidnapped that goddamn dog from the jump.

Wait a second, Zeke thought.

I think I have an idea!

Seriously?

Seriously. Doubt him though the Mick may have — and at his peril — Zeke, of all people, had had an epiphany. Because while his career in the beer industry had gotten off to an admittedly slow start, on account of his general confusion regarding most matters pertaining to his job as well as the world at large, suddenly he understood something bigger, that no one else in this yurt could begin to fathom. Put simply, he understood that it wasn’t that it’s not about the beer. That was obvious. Even Billy knew as much. The Mick had been hung up on that for years.

But then what was it, all about?

Not real estate development like Larry thought. Not tech like Billy.

Not politics. Not money.

Not jam bands or rap beefs.

Not mothers and sons or fathers and uncles.

Not Jesus or Jah or Joseph Smith or the Jewish Guy.

Not the man on the moon or the wolf howling at him.

Not social media management or event coordination, although we’re getting warmer.

But certainly not war and peace or crime and punishment.

Not love nor hate.

And above all, it absolutely wasn’t at all about beer. Big or small.

What it was all about, insofar as it was about anything, was the gray matter, the binding alloy agent that soldered all those spinning tectonic plates. The words that gave them some semblance of lasting meaning. The stories we tell about ourselves. Myths and fables and franchises.

It was about Content.

Thus began the end of this saga …

The Intellectual Property Heist

or the Great Train of Thought Robbery.

#novls of tumblr #eminem #taxi driver #2001

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