Grey

Black Thor Rides Again

“I’ll never forget the day my sister ran away from home. It was the kind of day that made you think nothing bad could ever happen. Flowers opening to the sun, not a cloud in the sky--the kind of day that makes you want to believe in God. And then--“ a pause to choke back a sob-- “and then something happens to take that all away from you. Something that could have been avoided had you just seen the signs. Had you just listened, just once--“ I try for the tears. I think of Scooter getting hit by the car. I think of Diane saying goodbye. Nothing. Out of the corner of my eye I can see Ken getting fidgety. Nicole’s finger taps impatiently on my hand. Everybody’s already thinking about the next take, about how they’ll be going home late again tonight. This is TV. There’s no time to screw around.

Ken’s about to call cut, but then it comes to me: Black Thor. And I cry like a baby.

****

“The sands of the Desert of Red Tears stretch beyond your ken, Earth-son. You will surely go insane ere you reach the borders of the Eyeless King’s land. Your vaunted ‘brain,’ as ye call it, would be naught but a plaything for the King’s horrible children, something for them to pick apart and defile until they grow tired of their sport.”

“But I must try, Black Thor. And with you by my side--“

“Aye, Earth-son? Dost thou now desire the assistance of Black Thor, which ye so readily dismissed mere days ago? What didst thou call me? A ‘crazy motherfucker?’ Didst thou not imply that Black Thor was but a vagrant, more apt to lie in the thoroughfare and soil himself than to carry the great hammer Mjolnir and his equally fearsome sister, the Gauntlet of Infinite Pain?”

“I...I’m sorry, Black Thor. I was wrong. Now I know that I am the Chosen One. And with your help, I want to complete my training.”

“Then take up Mjolnir, Dave Earth-son! He is heavy, is he not? But not so heavy that ye shall not bring it against the Eyeless King’s skull ere we reach Valhalla together! Forward, Dave Earth-son! The Megaverse depends on us!”

The clip just keeps on going. It’s not so much a clip as it is half the damn movie. Everybody’s quiet and attentive like they’re supposed to be, but at the next table I see at least three people fucking with their Blackberries or PSPs or whatever the fuck. Up on the screen me and that little shit Tyler are going charging off into the desert. Looking back on it, I should have realized that playing the mentor meant you were on the way down, even if the movie was named after you. The first one’s Black Thor, but they called the sequel BT2: The Return of David Earth-son. By the third one, I was down to a “special appearance by” credit. Should’ve seen it coming.

When the clip finally ends, everybody claps and Steven comes out to the podium to present the award, and I swear he gets more applause than I do once they bring me up. “Lifetime Achievement” either means you’re dead or your career is--that’s the joke I used to make watching the Oscars. I’m too drunk to appreciate the irony, but how fucking ironic can it be when you knew it was going to end up like this all along?

The statue’s lighter than I thought it would be. I called Kathryn yesterday to tell her to watch the awards if she wanted a good laugh; she told me to be gracious. Be self-deprecating, she said, but be sincere about your gratitude. The right thank-you could turn your career right around, she said. Do I need to remind you, I said, that I’m a recurring guest star on Body Bags: Atlanta? I’m a grizzled retired coroner! I’ve got a subplot about my poor runaway sister and everything. I have it on good authority that Susan Sarandon’s gonna play her when she comes back in May sweeps. Just what the fuck have you been doing since you turned forty?

Steven and the presenter, a huge smile as fake as her breasts, step back a few feet to let me have my time at the mike. I worked out what I was going to say last night, even rehearsed it a few times in the mirror, just like I used to when I was still bugging ADs for vouchers. A glass of Wild Turkey and I was cursing Kathryn, ready to burn whatever bridges were still standing behind me. Half a bottle and I was finally seeing the sense she was making. Self-deprecating, but grateful. It was a good speech. Made me think I should dust off that script I gave up on when I got my first role as the buddy in a buddy movie. This speech was going to launch my comeback. But right now, with the statue in my hand and the half of Hollywood whose publicists tricked them into coming to this third-rate awards show sitting out there waiting for me to melt down or get all teary or something, all I can think about is whether I can get the presenter to come back to the hotel with me. She’s maybe twenty-five, but what does that matter? All these aspiring-actress types have daddy issues anyway. She’s seen Black Thor, at least. She knows who I am. Maybe she even saw Sanctuary, actually saw me acting for a change. Maybe she’s a big fan.

I become aware of a silence in the room. They’re still waiting for me to speak. How long have I been up here? The daydreaming--it’s happening more and more lately. Losing time. At least nothing’s happening downstairs. That’s all I need.

I clear my throat, but I can’t remember my speech. Didn’t write it down, either--I never wanted to hear that barely audible groan when the old Lifetime Achiever pulled out his notecards to thank everybody he fucked over to get to the top. I never wanted to be here. All I ever wanted was to get paid to ride a horse in front of a camera. All I ever wanted was to fuck some failed model in a suite at the Four Seasons and have a fleet of agents to clean up my mess. All I ever wanted was to pretend to be somebody else.

I’m up there for at least thirty seconds before I say anything. They probably think I’ve had a stroke. I can feel Steven inching closer behind me, ready to save the day. The presenter’s still smiling, but now it’s not just fake but nervous, maybe even a little pitying. Not just daddy issue--grandpa issues. The conductor in the pit is pressing on his headset, waiting for the word from the director to start up the Black Thor theme and get me the hell off the stage. I’m already seeing the headlines tomorrow--fuck it, who am I kidding? I’m seeing the three column inches on page E9, the snarky sidebar in Entertainment Weekly, maybe if I’m lucky a retrospective filmography whose most recent entry is fifteen years old. “We still hold out hope that a hungry, visionary filmmaker has a script that will revitalize Paul Casey’s career and reignite the spark that illuminated one of Hollywood’s golden eras.” That kind of crap.

Steven’s definitely creeping up behind me now. The conductor’s raised his baton. Still all I can think about is the presenter and exactly how fake fake breasts feel. There’s a hand on my shoulder. The first scrapings of bows on violin strings. I have to at least say “thanks.” I have to at least do that much. My retired coroner is going to be the next victim on Body Bags, I know it. A sweeps stunt. Sarandon’ll have to wait.

Steven’s reaching for the mike. I can’t let him. I have to do something. Are they hard, like softballs? That’s what I imagine. The prospect of leakage kind of terrifies me. The woodwinds are all sucking in air. Steven clears his throat.

That’s when I hear the voice. Not Steven’s. The voice I used to hear. Like my voice, but realer, in a way. The voice I haven’t heard in so long. Steven’s speaking now, the orchestra is playing, but all I hear is the voice, all I see is a bridge made of rainbows. Steven has commandeered the mike, muscled me out of the way. The voice speaks to me, the voice speaks through me. I tell myself what to do. I grip the statue tightly; it feels heavier now. The base is sturdy and solid. It will suffice.

I give the presenter the full strength of my gaze. She is properly awed. I raise Mjolnir for what I’m sure will prove to be the last time.