I was only in the bar for a quick drink. It was hot outside and I figured a cold beer might knock off the oppressive stillness of it all.
As promised, the Shiner hit the back of my throat like an alpine breeze. I clutched the bottle to my brow, letting the cool condensation roll over my eyebrows. Luckily, the bar had no windows, so the dark inside was a fine respite from the tenacious sun outside. No windows allowed that surly teen of a star force his rays inside.
And then I saw him.
He was sitting in a corner, holding his gin and tonic with both hands. For a moment, he raised his hand to his mouth, maybe questioning something? Then, as swiftly as it happened, the thought escaped him and he waved away the lingering memory.
I recognized it immediately. I had to talk to him. He was one of the few who had slogged through the same terrible adventure as I. Maybe, by speaking with him, I could alleviate his pain.
He didn't even look at me as I approached his well-padded booth.
"If you had heard I were killed," I asked him. "Would you still be afraid?"
"That's when I would be afraid the most," he muttered to his drink.
There it was, a shared connection. I had been correct in my assumption about this broken man. He was just like me and had seen the same horrors.
He had seen "The Yin and Yang of Mr. Go."
We sat in silence, each nursing our own drinks, our own chance at forgetting.
He shook his head. "Did you know that lesbian rape scene is the opening credits?"
I had to admit I didn't. The scene in question had been so shocking, so unexpected when it happened. The opening credits, I had blissfully ejected from memory.
"I didn't catch it the first time," he confessed.
"You watched it a second time?" I asked. "Why?"
He closed his eyes and lowered his head. With his chin resting on his chest, he whispered, "I don't know... I don't know...."
A deep, ragged breath and sigh. He looked at me, a fellow victim. "If tomorrow is in question..." he started.
"And your meditation is interpreted by what lies ahead," I answered.
Yes, his pain was deep. Seeing it brought back my own pain: the stilted dialog, the terrible soundtrack, the gratuitous breasts that made us both (I am sure) feel skeevy because they looked they they belonged to a 14-year-old. I shuddered and reached for my cigarettes.
Not missing a beat, my companion lit a match and held it out. "Puff the magic dragon," he sighed.
I was afraid to accept, but only did so to oblige him. We sat in the still of the room, smoke and nightmares swirling around us.
And when he cried, I only held out my arm to comfort him. Like our connection in the bar, it was brief and disturbing. We had both seen the horror. It was not something we could share with others.
We both knew our warning would fall on deaf ears. "But Jeff Bridges is in it!" our companions would say. "What about that narration by Christopher Lee?"
Oh, what of it? Of all the things that should have made it right, there was only so much wrong a man could bear. James Mason is a fine actor, yes, but playing a half-Chinese\half-Mexican crime lord is too great a burden. And the script, written by Burgess Meredith? No finer form of torture has been devised, even if directed by the man himself. No. It was too great a passion that burned in that idea and all involved were singed by its efforts.
"You know that Peter Lind Hayes played Mr. Zabladowski in "The 5000 Fingers of Dr. T?" I asked. I hoped to lift the mood.
"Very atomic," my companion said, and then laughed. "I guess he got to lay some pipe!"
We both laughed until tears covered our faces. Then we cried and held each other. We had been there. We had seen it. We had both been through "The Yin and Yang of Mr. Go".
As promised, the Shiner hit the back of my throat like an alpine breeze. I clutched the bottle to my brow, letting the cool condensation roll over my eyebrows. Luckily, the bar had no windows, so the dark inside was a fine respite from the tenacious sun outside. No windows allowed that surly teen of a star force his rays inside.
And then I saw him.
He was sitting in a corner, holding his gin and tonic with both hands. For a moment, he raised his hand to his mouth, maybe questioning something? Then, as swiftly as it happened, the thought escaped him and he waved away the lingering memory.
I recognized it immediately. I had to talk to him. He was one of the few who had slogged through the same terrible adventure as I. Maybe, by speaking with him, I could alleviate his pain.
He didn't even look at me as I approached his well-padded booth.
"If you had heard I were killed," I asked him. "Would you still be afraid?"
"That's when I would be afraid the most," he muttered to his drink.
There it was, a shared connection. I had been correct in my assumption about this broken man. He was just like me and had seen the same horrors.
He had seen "The Yin and Yang of Mr. Go."
We sat in silence, each nursing our own drinks, our own chance at forgetting.
He shook his head. "Did you know that lesbian rape scene is the opening credits?"
I had to admit I didn't. The scene in question had been so shocking, so unexpected when it happened. The opening credits, I had blissfully ejected from memory.
"I didn't catch it the first time," he confessed.
"You watched it a second time?" I asked. "Why?"
He closed his eyes and lowered his head. With his chin resting on his chest, he whispered, "I don't know... I don't know...."
A deep, ragged breath and sigh. He looked at me, a fellow victim. "If tomorrow is in question..." he started.
"And your meditation is interpreted by what lies ahead," I answered.
Yes, his pain was deep. Seeing it brought back my own pain: the stilted dialog, the terrible soundtrack, the gratuitous breasts that made us both (I am sure) feel skeevy because they looked they they belonged to a 14-year-old. I shuddered and reached for my cigarettes.
Not missing a beat, my companion lit a match and held it out. "Puff the magic dragon," he sighed.
I was afraid to accept, but only did so to oblige him. We sat in the still of the room, smoke and nightmares swirling around us.
And when he cried, I only held out my arm to comfort him. Like our connection in the bar, it was brief and disturbing. We had both seen the horror. It was not something we could share with others.
We both knew our warning would fall on deaf ears. "But Jeff Bridges is in it!" our companions would say. "What about that narration by Christopher Lee?"
Oh, what of it? Of all the things that should have made it right, there was only so much wrong a man could bear. James Mason is a fine actor, yes, but playing a half-Chinese\half-Mexican crime lord is too great a burden. And the script, written by Burgess Meredith? No finer form of torture has been devised, even if directed by the man himself. No. It was too great a passion that burned in that idea and all involved were singed by its efforts.
"You know that Peter Lind Hayes played Mr. Zabladowski in "The 5000 Fingers of Dr. T?" I asked. I hoped to lift the mood.
"Very atomic," my companion said, and then laughed. "I guess he got to lay some pipe!"
We both laughed until tears covered our faces. Then we cried and held each other. We had been there. We had seen it. We had both been through "The Yin and Yang of Mr. Go".