for
7/7/2001
Mr. Hopewood was more than dead. He was famously dead, the worst kind.
There was a room, a man, and a file of photocopies and newspaper clippings. "Dead," said Allens, "The best kind."
Silence in reply.
"Over and above the shrieking intersections of Palmer and Brighton Ave., Robert Hopewood cracks a steel-netted window and snaps the fire escape clean off the building. Someone starts filming. It crashes. Cars stop. Alarms go off. On the second shove, Hopewood manages to get through the broken window and plummet 5 stories to the shredding pavement."
"Shattering." The word was said without intonation. Harvey Christ sat in his chair, nursing a bottle of Jack Daniels. When you've known him as long as I have, it's just Joe, he was known to say.
"Crushing," said Allens. "Doesn't matter. Not writing this one. Continuing..." Allens had been pacing for well over half and hour. "So..." He changed directions. "Cops bust the lock open, enter his squalid appartment. Find: 12 portaits of Jesus. Two tins of Cuban cigars. Clothes. Pizza box. Half eaten cans of soup-"
"Crap."
"Exactly. The signs of a last, desperate few days of life. Magic marker writing on refrigerator. TV left on, remote control 'up' button broken, static on channel it was tuned to. Police also find--definitive--fortune. Fortune reads..." He went for the file.
Harvey's bottle never seemed to get below half full. Allens never seemed to stop pacing.
Thus did one of the greatest writing teams of 20th century America consort. TV was the ultimate goal for them.
"Fortune reads: 'Your life will become the subject of a movie starring Bob Sagget.'"
Harvey didn't smile. Allens was too deep in thought.
"I'm seeing Matrix blue."
"Can be done," said Harvey.
"Long track across empty appartment, clutter. Taking it apart piece by piece. This is our opening shot, here. Out to open window..." He had the manner of one finishing a geometric proof. "Bam. See the man splayed across the pavement. Siren lights. Suddenly, thud, camera swings, and we see the bewildred police breaking in the door, looking with confusion at all that we've just seen." He paused. "Too NYPD Blue?"
Harvey made wheeling motions that meant continue. Allens wasn't looking anyway.
"Cut to..." He sucked his tongue. "Something bright, cheerie..."
"Tracking shot," said Harvey.
"Ahh, good. Ironic. Meet the young Robert Hopewood...."
There's no doubt that Allens said much more, but the movie had already been planned, filmed, aired and repeated again at 1AM so many times that it wasn't exactly necissary. "About casting," interrupted Harvey, in his monotone.
"Right..." Allens paced faster. "We'll need... someone generic. That guy fron Strange Luck, maybe, or Brimstone." Was that the same guy? "Maybe Tim's brother, from Home Improvement."
"Right," Harvey said, but he was thinking. He was slowly cracking a particularly hard nut. Allens continued, on the plot or casting, or somesuch thing, but Harvey wasn't listening very hard. Slowly, Allens came to the same conundrum.
"If we have a sequence of his last days--this is what we're really trying to reconstruct, right?"
"The meat," Harvey agreed.
"The LIFE. The essence of why he killed himself. Obviously we've got him watching Bob Sagget on tv, later on--we can get some Funniest Home Videos, or Family Matters stuff cheap, right? So then we have him hating Bob, yeah?"
"Hating much," said Harvey. It was past lunchtime.
"And so finally he imagines seeing Bob playing him, right? Have to tell the story in pictures. But then, we wind up with him--as Bob, playing Robert, watching Bob, playing Robert on tv, and so on and so forth--intercutting with the static to show that it's just a mental thing--but...." He genuinely stopped pacing. A cel phone was in his hand.
It was past lunch, and Harvey was ready to go out and eat. He needed food. He used to say that it went to the bags under his eyes, but that was when the grandkids weren't too old to ask potentially insulting questions. He liked those questions. But the matter at hand needed resolving. At some point, the loop collapsed on itself. He had seen it some minutes ago, and agreed on the solution Allen was about to come up with. There was only one way to crack this nut. He just hoped the guy was working for the sniff of glue they could pay him nowadays.
Allens was briefly on hold, and chattered as he waited. "At some point it's futile. The loop crashes in on itself- Yes? Really? And he's...?" He talked for a few more minutes, before hanging up and rounding on Harvey.
"He's watching himself, as another, as another, as another--too many repititions."
"Hell, let's go get lunch," said Harvey.
"Bob heard about the tragedy. Saw the footage on the news. He wanted to help Hopewood be remembered. Only one way out of the repetitions problem, and we've got it solved. Bob Sagget's agreed to play Hopewood and himself."
Harvey agreed by putting on his hat, and letting the door close slowly enough for Allens to catch it and grab his coat on the way out.
Touch the Toast