Week Twelve

Well, it’s my final week in the Complex. You might be confused. The title says, “My year in a community of adolescent thespians” and if you’re like me, 1) you’re gorgeous and 2) you know that 12 weeks is not the same as one year. 12 weeks is three months. BUT, if you’re one of the faithful few, or a family member whose only gateway to understanding my lofty inner workings is by reading this blog, then you know that despite the headings of each “week” I have been writing this puppy for a year now. I read somewhere that consistency in these matters is key, and if I’m not going to consistently post each week, I figured calling each post a “week” was a close second to real consistency. I make my own rules.

Anyway. After today’s post, only one remains. In the same way I began with an Introduction to give you the lay of the land, next “week” you can expect a conclusion with a host of where-are-they-now’s and the-clinic-has-called-back-with-my-test-results-and-I-may-have-contracted-something-gnarly-from-the-jacuzzi’s. We’re all really in for a treat. (If treat here means an acute viral infection of the inner thigh).

Before approaching this near ending, I thought long and hard (cue: PTSD flashbacks of Bachelor #3) about how to organize the stories I’ve collected to point toward my impending extraction from the Complex. This story seemed to do just that. You’ll see.

For now, enjoy this, the final issue…before the final final issue…

The Artist

I think you’ll remember that a while back, my younger brother came to visit me in California. I looked forward to his visit because he’s from Colorado and I was excited to show him how fun it is to be a young, single man living in the fast lane, in the big city, sin city, Los Angeles. We soaked in all the unique LA offerings like staying indoors, bingeing a Netflix show and eating leftover pizza. I think he returned to Palmer Lake, Colorado, a changed man.

I know what you’re thinking. My brother visited weeks (months) ago. The last time he appeared in a post was here. I’ve held off on this story, initially, because of its negativity.

Typically, the people I meet at the complex, however strange, are positive, optimistic, or at least adequately sauced. I think the best way to understand it is to compare it to ordering a steak at Chili’s. It won’t be the best steak you’ve ever had. It won’t even be close to the best steak you’ve ever had. But that’s not why you went to Chili’s. You knew what you were getting into when the hostess asked if you’d like a ‘Triple Dipper’ before your ‘Fun-a-ritas’. You don’t leave a Chili’s and say, “We’re never going back there. That was the worst steak I’ve ever had.” You knew what you were getting into. And you’ll be back.

I suppose that in matters of the Hot Tub, despite the strange occupants (including myself), I know what I’m getting into. And I’ll always be back. But this interaction was different; something deeply unlikeable about its subject…so I waited until I could relay the whole thing with a point of view containing a richer perspective than just, “can you believe this guy?” Let’s see if we get there.

My brother and I took a break from watching “Making a Murderer”, a show that tells us if you’re a white man from Middle America that’s been unjustly treated by the police, they give you a Netflix series. Before finishing out the series and our weekend together, we decided to take a trip down to the hot tub. You may remember my brother’s brief brush with Bridgette and Rick and their cute fireball shots. Given that had just occurred the night before, my brother and I decided to check on the North side of the Complex and its own jacuzzi, in hopes of avoiding any cinnamon-spiced spirits.

At the North jacuzzi, the internal lights were out and the patio was empty. With the darkness and silence as our cue, we assumed the area was vacant. “Let me turn the lights on,” I suggested as I leaned across the fence and reached into the electrical reset box situated in the hedges.

“Do you mind if we leave those off?” the voice came from behind me.

I don’t know if you’ve ever heard a voice come from something it’s not supposed to, but, I’ve seen enough episodes of Pee-wee’s Playhouse to know fear is the natural response. My brother and I reeled our heads around and now, with the change of angle and the deep necessity to explain the voice, we could see the bulbous silhouette of someone’s large round head, bobbing in the dark steamy water. He lit a cigarette, the glowing ember a pimple on the face of the dark night. Ooo, that was good. I’ll save that sentence for sometime when I do some serious writing.

“Just leave them off?” repeated I, to be clear that what sounded like a man’s voice did not want to be seen.

“It’s more relaxed. You don’t mind if I’m in here, right?”

Yes. Yes we mind. Of course we mind. You’ve taken what could be tolerably awkward small talk into the dark bowels of “please do not turn on lights to reveal my visage, I don’t like to be seen”. WHO ARE YOU?

“No, of course we don’t mind,” we lied.

“Well, I don’t want to cockblock you.”

Alright. I have hardly spoken to this guy…how is it he’s already jumped onto the “He’s probably gay” bandwagon. He can’t even see me! At this point, I’m beginning to think the only requisite for the assumption is being clean shaven and able to use pronouns.

I should clarify here, it doesn’t offend me that people assume I’m gay. It’s not in any way offensive. To be fully honest, it’s often endearing. Women trust you to give them jeans advice, and if you’re at the Fat Burger in WeHo you might get free fries. But if you’re a goose and all your life people just keep assuming you’re a duck or asking if you’re a duck or a duck comes up to you and tries to get with you by convincing you that despite knowing you’re a goose that you may be secretly wanting to be a duck or at least duck-curious, you might get a little fatigued. At the very least, you might be asking yourself, what about me makes everyone think I’m a duck. Maybe I shouldn’t quack so loudly when I’m making jokes.

Somewhere out of the mind spinning ether, “Uuhhh no.  That’s my brother. So yeah, you can cockblock for sure,” managed out.

Despite literally every human urge to extricate my brother and myself from the clearly impending web of awkward coming our way, we dipped in. I’m not a smart man.

“If the lights are on, security will come and kick us out,” he informed us, “they can’t see us with them off.” Great. He’s gonna kill us and use our body parts as props in his performance art.

Grateful for a moment of silence in which the Stranger let my brother and I to ourselves, I collected a stock of visual clues from which to draw conclusions, also known as judging a book by its cover. It’s my specialty. The Stranger, whom we’ll call Beanie from here on out, was wearing an orange, tight-knit beanie. He had an unruly brown beard and dark, thick-rimmed glasses in front of dark, all-pupil eyes. Given the thickness of his beard and the beanie presence, I measured the man to be prone to head coldness. A pity.

“What brings you to the hot tub this evening?” he said, interrupting my measurement taking.

“We’re just taking a break from TV,” said the brother, ever the brave one. Small talk commenced.

Beanie is a “former” student from NYFA who had some complications with the other students. By “complications” I mean he was terrible to the other students. It would be like saying Adolf Hitler had “complications” on his rise to power. His own accounts of some of their interactions reveals that much. He’d openly dispute the other students’ intelligence, mock them publicly on set and intentionally sabotage their shoots. And that’s all his side of the story.

I suppose it’s not fair to liken him to Hitler; I only mean to illustrate his misuse of the word “complications” – “complications” are when you’re late to work because you tried parallel parking for the first time, or when you’ve made an appointment with a friend, but there happens to be a Room Raiders marathon on so you need to get out of it. He says he’s dropped out now, though something about the previous information leads me to believe he wasn’t autonomous in the decision.

Despite an explicit detestation for the Government (and I mean explicit; he used the worst racial slur referring to our friend Barry Obams), an injury in his military past allows him to cash disability and stay at the Complex. By day and, I emphasize, at his leisure, he searches the Craigslist ads for on-set filmmaking opportunities. He enjoys being on set, when he’s in charge, says he.

“When you’re made to direct, why would you pick up water bottles and wrap cords?” he asked. “Because there are water bottles to be picked up and cords to be wrapped,” was an answer I expected he wouldn’t appreciate, so I kept it to myself until just now. When I asked him the type of filmmaking in which he’s interested, he made explicitly clear he detests the studios. They make what he called “shit films with no taste or artfulness”.

“Every film I’ve ever made is better than any studio film I’ve seen.” He’s clearly never seen the Arthur remake. Russell Brand is a treasure.

Then, in a moment of uncharacteristic selflessness, Beanie asked what I do.

“I work at a big movie studio.”

Beanie rescinded his previous cynicism as quickly and awkwardly as possible. He didn’t splash water in my face and scream “sell out!” as I expected he would. He continued, filling us in –

He’s been kicked off of dozens of Craigslist film jobs he’s found. He cites a score of justifications, but fairly reports his peers say he’s “over-aggressive and immature”. He says he’s completely cut off his family; I don’t want to assume why based on a 10 minute conversation with him. Regardless, every layer peeled on Beanie revealed to me a collective existence of negativity. Beanie doesn’t have a nice or positive thing to say about anything. He doesn’t have interests, he has disinterests. He doesn’t have likes, he has dislikes. Beanie lives in a disruptive milieu of inconvenient “others” and obstacles he can’t be bothered with. Beanie doesn’t believe privilege exists. If it did, he’d be happier.

And that’s that. My brother and I left pretty quickly.

If you’re surprised by the lack of jokes in this post thus far, you’re not without company. My interaction with Beanie has stilted my ability to poke fun. Beanie wasn’t a funny pessimist. He’s just a pessimist. There’s not much to spin here, which is something I haven’t said since I took that “pottery for singles” class.

Despite how much I’m willing to criticize the ordinary occupants of this catalogue, I hope to, in the very least, uncover some redeemable characteristic that would yet lead me to wish my subjects the best on their journeys wherever. And I wouldn’t suggest for a minute that Beanie doesn’t have redeemable qualities. I only mean to say that I don’t wish to spend any more time with Beanie to uncover them. I haven’t felt this frustrated and disconnected since my last interaction with Time Warner Cable.

So as for that, “richer perspective”…let me think. Ultimately, Beanie did teach me something. Beanie told me each film he’s made is better than any studio film ever made. Yet, I’ve never heard of him and neither have you. So I guess, people don’t necessarily remember you for your unique achievements. I mean, sometimes they do. The management at a certain PizzaRev seem to clearly remember a specific individual that mistook the toppings counter as “self-serve”…

But, like Maya Angelou and every white girl with an Instagram account once said, people will always remember how you made them feel. Beanie is Beanie because of this. Maybe it’s good the lights were out.

I don’t have much else to say. Can you believe it?

So here we are…

the end.

Coming up on WhoPeed: The Very End.