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Let’s just say I was born gifted. I think that’s the best way to put it. Not in a mathematical, revolutionize the way we think about the world gifted. The schools I went to in Idaho weren’t really that big on “numbers” or “science” or even “reading” but in the end, I was still gifted. I left home at eighteen, turning down a football scholarship to Boise State and set my sights on Los Angeles. I didn’t really see much use in college. I was never the straight A student that usually goes. I was bottom of my high school class actually. The only thing that ever really caught my attention was football and girls. The scholarship was a great honor, but I didn’t want to have to slog through classes just to play a game. So I headed West to concentrate on the girls.
I had a friend who lived out here, Marty Sobowitz, so I crashed on his couch for a few months while I got on my feet. Marty is a snotty little Jewish guy, complete with thick curly hair and a pair of glasses that any scientist would be proud to put slides under. He’s a good friend, and an even better agent. My first week out here Marty had me doing two films a week and I made my way up the ranks pretty quickly. I was and still am well built, and I keep myself in shape due to habit, so finding a job isn’t too difficult for Marty. Being gifted always helps, too. It’s been fourteen years since I’ve moved to Los Angeles, and I’m living in a beautiful condo with a view of the metro sprawl. I get to see the sun set everyday behind the jagged skyline, casting long shadows wreathed with purples and reds my way. I get to enjoy this view with a beautiful brunette, my girlfriend Jeanette. She’s five-foot-ten with amazing curves and lips fuller than the moon. I have a fully stocked bar and a wardrobe filled with modest yet classic suits. I drive a Beemer, nice and black, down Sunset Boulevard in between sets, looking at skirts and heels and wondering where I could take them. I never have to cook my own food, wandering in and out of restaurants smelling of kimchi or fresh pulled pork hot off the grill. Back home, the local pastor always said that sinners will find a heavy burden on their shoulders for them to carry through the struggles of life. Every time I step off of a set I feel lighter than fresh snow, like the wind could carry me off. Regular sinners might have a problem getting by but I’m gifted and it shows. Becoming a pornstar was the best decision I ever made.
****
I step off the curb, the creases in my slacks slide along the contour of my thighs smoothly. The tailor had just done some work on my charcoal jacket and it fit like a dream. I flip my sunglasses onto my face and start the long stroll across. I’ve got a film to shoot this afternoon and I have an appointment with my masseuse in twenty minutes. Life sure is rough. I hear horns sounding off like hundreds of tiny air raid sirens and the smell and sound of rubber hit me. Almost immediately, so does the car. My mind is pretty clear as I fly through the air. Shit, my shades! I reach my hand out towards where they are sitting in the air but my body begins to drift away, spinning up and over. I don’t feel myself hit the ground. I hear it though, a sickening crunch like a pack of saltines being run over by, well, a car.
My vision starts to get a little hazy as I try to stand. I only succeed in pushing my stomach off the ground. I can feel the warm trickle of blood start to run down my face. There’s a sharp pain shooting up my back down and I scream. I fall back to the hot pavement, the burning of the sun soaked blacktop has nothing on the waves of pain radiating from my back. I look around helplessly, and see people climbing out of their cars, cellphones in hand. This damn city. I hear the “woop woop” of sirens and see the cherry red Lamborghini with a distinctly human shaped dent on the hood. At least it was classy. Some kid climbs out of the driver’s seat, probably eighteen. Just skipped school and took daddy’s new ride out for a test drive. Fucking kids. I can hear the ambulance coming, but my eyes can’t see anything more than a few feet in front of me now. Everything’s tunneling in on me. I can see the pool of blood below my face. Sitting on the edge of the crimson lake are my sunglasses. I picked them up weakly and slide them over my eyes. Barely scratched. This is why I buy Italian. I close my eyes and watch as the blackness at the edge of my vision draped over me completely.
****
“Danny Longbow?” a voice asks.
“Daniel Faraday,” I answer.
“Yes, but you’re also Longbow, aren’t you?” The voice almost sounds hopeful.
I struggle to open my eyes. I’m greeted by the sterile blues and whites and fluorescent lights of a hospital room.
“Yeah…yeah…that’s me,” I say. I can feel how raspy my voice is. I raise a hand to my forehead and find thick layers of gauze wrapped around the entire circumference.
“Hot damn,” says the fuzzy silhouette, “the wife and I are big fans!”
“That’s nice.” I blink heavily, my vision clears a little more with every swipe of my eyelids. I can smell the peroxide and iodine in the air. My mother always cleaned my scrapes and cuts with peroxide. I hated the hiss and bubbling, but she always just shook her head and took care of me the best she knew how. “Where am I?” I ask.
“St. Vincents. Lucky they got you here in time. You’ve been out for about a day. We were starting to get a little worried.”
“You think you were worried?” I say, trying to push myself up.
“Whoah whoah Mr. Longbow,” the fuzzy image says, putting a hand on my shoulder and easing me back down onto the bed, “You’ve had a lot of surgery in the past 24 hours, we don’t want you tearing out any of that stitching. Just make yourself comfortable. You’re going to be here for a bit. I’ll send a nurse in to check your sutures.”
Fucking great. I blink more rapidly as the doctor exits. I catch the glimmer of a squat, bald man in an oversized white coat exiting through the door. I try to think about what all I’ve missed in the past day but a haze of what I can only assume is leftover anesthesia keeps my brain from functioning properly. Or, you know, that huge fucking crash. A nurse comes in, young and fresh and smelling of absolutely nothing. She helps me over onto my side. She’s pretty strong for being so small. I feel her fingers prod my back slowly and grunt as she reaches my lower back. Then the touch of her fingers disappears.
“Are we done?” I ask.
“Not yet, I have to check the stitching on your legs,” she replies.
“Ah, don’t have to prod around down there?”
“No…I am…” I feel her move away. There’s a moment of silence. “Can you feel this?”
“Feel what?”
“My hand on your foot.”
“Put it on there and we’ll see.”
“Mr. Faraday…” she says. I manage to twist my head around and see the whites of her eyes. I follow the line of her shoulder, down her arm, all the way to her hand, resting there on my left foot. I feel many things at this point; anger, fear, disbelief, abject terror, and the need to puke. I feel my eyes widen and a breath passes my lips, carrying with it a resounding “Fuck!”
****
They release me from the hospital a week later. The prognosis is not good. My lower back is destroyed and now I’ve got at least four pounds of steel and titanium holding my lower body together. They asked me if I wanted to replace my hips or just have them fused. I asked them why the fuck I would need new hips if I couldn’t fucking use them. They said it was just an option. I told them to suck it. Marty wheeled me out to his convertible, helped me into the passenger seat, and struggled to get the folded wheelchair into the back seat. I sat there in silence, staring up at the hospital. I had severed my lower spinal column as soon as I hit the ground. Turns out the kid who hit me had been running high on Adderall for a couple of days and had beaten the shit out of his girlfriend ten minutes before sending my ass flying through the air like a trapeze artist. He’ll get probation, rehab, a little community service. Son of Hollywood royalty evidently.
“You all set to go?” Marty asks, climbing in behind the wheel.
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I say.
He fires up the car and we pull out into the mid-day traffic, running north along the strip towards my apartment. We’ve got a nice long car ride ahead of us. Most of it’s in silence. Marty speaks up now and then, asking how things have played out in the last week.
“How’s Jeanette?” he asks.
“You’d know better than I would. She visited me twice, but I think she’s moved her shit out already,” I say.
“There’s plenty of fish out there man. Besides, she was kinda needy.”
“Yeah, I’m sure there’s plenty of women out there just beating down the door to get their chance with a broken pornstar. I can see the classified ad already; single white male looking for single woman, must enjoy long rolls along the beach, colostomy bags, and useless dicks.”
“Oy vey, there’s the tragedy. I knew ever since I saw you in the showers back in JV that you could make some money with that thing.”
“Shuttup, you gay Jew bastard.” I shook my head and couldn’t help but grin.
“That’s more like it. What are you going to do for work? We can always go back and get your legs amputated, pump your dick full of saline, get you up like a flagpole and you could do some of that fringe shit,” Marty says, that shit eating grin on his face.
I turn to look at him and catch an odd glimmer of seriousness across his face. “Really? What the fuck man?”
“Hey, just offering options. There’s pretty much only one thing in this world that I know and it’s that people love some fucked up shit. You’re already a big enough name. And you’ve got to work.”
“Fuck you Marty. I’m sitting here with three useless stumps below my stomach and you’re telling me to fucking get chopped up like a fucking turkey dinner and put on a fucking circus act?”
“Hey man, always an option. Let me know if you want in. I know a guy.”
“I’m sure you do. Shuttup and drive.”
****
I’d moved out of the condo and into a shitty little studio on the east side. Much easier to get into with a wheelchair and a lot less draining on my dwindling expenses. Court costs, medical bills, and this brand new motorized wheelchair had took a toll on my savings. I still had enough to get by for a while, but it was clear I had to get some work in the near future. Suddenly Boise State didn’t seem like such a bad idea. I look out my window and I see the gray slab of a building across the street. No more beautiful sunsets for me. I turn my chair around, still feeling like I’m the pilot of a god damn aircraft. I knock into the edge of the kitchen counter and the jolt almost sends me sprawling out of the chair. I curse and readjust myself and head to the fridge. I look up and see all the strange cupboards that I’ll never get to look into. I shake my head and get ice from the fridge and pour myself a nice glass of scotch. Against the Doctor’s orders. Fuck’m. If they expect me to be sober, well, too God damn bad. My phone rings and I answer. Marty’s on the other end of the line.
“Hey Danny, wanna go out tonight?”
“Sure I wouldn’t be cramping your style?”
“Naw, it’s a gala for the Woodies. Get to see some of your old friends, maybe cheer your gimp ass up a bit.”
I look at the clock on the wall. 5:06 P.M.
“I…don’t know if that’d be a good thing Marty.”
“Quit farting around. Change that bag and throw on a suit. I’ll have the bus bring you out to the place. You’ve got an hour.”
I sigh and hang up the phone and go about cleaning and changing. I’ve gotten pretty adept at taking care of most things, but putting on shoes still gives me trouble. The one thing I don’t need and the most difficult part of the day. I wonder if they can tattoo shoes on. Surprisingly, when you’re missing the nerve connections to the lower part of your body, your flexibility is pretty astounding. I fold in half and begin to tie my shoes. Hey there, penis. We’d be the absolute best of friends right now if you still worked. I grimace at my thoughts. Really, Danny? I wheel my way down the hall and to the elevator. I go in after the doors open and hit the button to the first floor. The inside of the elevator is lined with mirrors and I take in the view. I’m sitting here in my charcoal suit, fully washed of the blood that I had slathered all over it, and the tears had been mended expertly. I’ve lost a lot of weight though, turned into an emaciated husk. The suit hangs on me as if I were a child playing dress up in daddy’s clothes. The elevator dings, and I roll out to the curb and wait for the bus.
****
It’s 8:30 and I’m moving towards the entrance of the mansion, navigating the cobblestone walkway like an F-16 pilot, chatting with Marty about the merits of anal bleaching.
“It burns like hell, but it’s appreciated, y’know?” I say.
“Shaving and hygiene is enough for me,” says Marty.
“Doesn’t leave you feeling as clean and beautiful, though.”
“If someone can’t appreciate how beautiful and clean my asshole is as God made it, then they need to find somewhere else to bury it.”
“Marty, you Jew bastard, you don’t even believe in God. You guys crucified him, if I remember it right.”
“What can I say? This damn Christian morality is rubbing off on me.”
We make it to the door and Marty flashes his invitations. The two bouncers take a look at me and nod to each other. One lifts me up and the other struggles to bring my wheelchair up the few steps to the doorway. He’s larger than I ever was, built like an ox. I was only going for the athletic build, not the bodybuilder. He’s way too thick around the waist anyways. That’s something I always prided myself on, having a flat stomach. There’s too many films nowadays with some paunchy, wheezy pervert slamming into a girl from behind, his stomach threatening to break the load bearing weight of her poor back. Disgusting comes to mind. At least I left a good impression in that area. I’m placed back into my chariot and given a nod.
We enter the grand house, looking up at the crystal chandelier in the greeting room. It’s hanging high above the floor, suspended from the vaulted ceiling and illuminating the mingling crowd. Silk suits, flashy purple and red dresses, clothes fresh off the strip in Paris flutter across the marble floor. I draw a few strange glances with barely any recognition. I’ve been inside half the people here and they don’t recognize me. It’s for the best I guess. I leave Marty to mingle with the male talent and make my way to the bar. I order a martini, extra olives, gin, and steer myself off to the corner to watch the action. I always loved these events. Being able to stick my chest out proudly and chat with the upcoming starlets, or talk about the upcoming conventions with the producers. Now I’m stuck here in the corner being actively ignored. I swallow the entirety of my drink and place the glass next to what looks to be an ancient Ming Dynasty vase. I used to be big. Now I’m just sitting here like an alcoholic Stephen Hawking, sans the awesome voice. A server comes by and bumps into me, sending a spray of tequila sunrise off his tray and right into my face.
“Oh! Oh! I’m so sorry!” he says, handing me a cloth napkin.
“No problem,” I say, blotting at my face and collar, hoping the grenadine hasn’t stained my shirt, “probably shouldn’t have been…” I look up and he’s already moved on.
I begin to mingle, or try to anyways. I feel like Moses, the sea of people opening up as I wade my way through the crowd. I roll around till I find the bathroom, and push open the door slowly. I see an old coworker bent over the counter with a rolled up $20 stuffed in his nose. He nods his head to me and finishes his line with a big sniff.
“Hey Danny boy, we heard about your accident. How you doing?”
“I’ve been better. How about you?”
“Not too bad, just did a reshooting of The Grinch’s Ten Inches the other day. Getting prepped for the holiday rush, y’know?”
“Glad you’re staying busy.”
“Me too. Speaking of the holiday’s, want some candy?”
“Gotta do something interesting, I guess.” I go inside and close the door.
****
Fifteen minutes later and I’m feeling fine, bright eyed and bushy tailed. I roll through the crowd again, striking up conversations with those willing and some who aren’t. I see a girl I’ve worked with chatting with a new guy. He’s still jittery and taking it all in. Fresh off the boat and ready for love. She walks away from their conversation, smiling over her shoulder and I bump into his leg.
“Be careful with that one,” I say, “she’s a bit violent.”
He looks at me, shaken by the frankness. “Uh, thanks?” he says.
I move on and stop for a second, spinning around in place and call out to him.
“Oh yeah, she does bleach her asshole though!”
I make my way to the veranda and spot Marty on the edge of the pool, his hand on some girl’s back, drink in hand, locked in deep conversation with her. I start to go towards them when I notice the silver stitching around them hem of the girl’s dress. I know without looking closer that it’s genuine filigree shaped into whales and sailing ships in small, intricate detail. I bought that dress for Jeanette after our third film together. We had such a great business relationship that it eventually carried over into something more personal. I look back up and see their heads are leaning together. In this business a lot of things are based on touch. Things touch quite often and feverishly. Rarely do you get a genuine expression of interest. I can see Marty’s lips softly touch her cheek. She always wondered if she could flip a guy. I guess she got her answer.
I feel a jolt run through me. Not having your bottom half do any work slows down your circulation a bit. Those lines must be really getting into my system now. I look at my hand on the throttle of my chair and smile. Full speed ahead! my mind cries out and I gun it. I slam into Marty and Jeanette, sending them sailing over and into the pool. They come up screaming and shouting, silk suit and designer dress soaked through.
“Fuck you, sinners!” I cry out. My eyes are wide and everything is clear. I spin around and speed through the crowd, rolling over toes and out the door. The two security guys turn around to see me rocketing towards them and hastily step to the side. Stairs! I veer off to the side and chew through the carefully landscaped flowerbed and make it out to the sidewalk leaving long muddy tracks on the concrete. I can feel the wind in my hair as I reach top speed. I laugh as I rampage through the streets on my electric chariot of destruction. Finally, I don’t feel so helpless.
