The Trickster Diaries/Chapter 53
So far, Karen’s hypothesis was frighteningly accurate, and as simple as predicting that if you hammer a nail into a board, then pull the nail out, the board will have a hole in it the approximate diameter of the nail. “Just remember one thing,” she warned, “there can never really be an end to their hurtful game other than the complete dissolution of one’s relationship with the known sociopath.”
So I was less than surprised when the next day I received an email from Mike inSISting he fund my film. He wanted to keep the game going.
He’d seen a painting I was working on and offered to buy it for $2500. After that, he and his brother, Lee, would alternately deposit $500 per month into my bank account for a period of six months.
I refused, (Karen’s recommended tactic), then countered.
Greg and I delivered the canvas to his home in L.A. a week later.
Filming continued into early 2005. There were lots of loose ends, add-on scenes with and without actors.
One crucial scene with Jones and Allison and the otherworldly landscape from atop that massive boulder at Belle campground had to be re-shot due to a cam malfunction. And soon. In a couple weeks the location of the setting sun would change so drastically that the effect I was after would be lost for six months.
Wasn’t going to happen.
Allison was pregnant. She’d filmed her last scene. Somehow, I’d need to come up with a different way of saying the same thing. It was a devastating loss. The equivalent of extracting the Empire State Building scene from King Kong.
Or so it seemed at the time.
Spring arrived. Other things were going on. Eva, a Norwegian woman I’d met through Jan, had invited me on an all-expenses-paid, three month European excursion over the summer. First order of business on my end: passport. They got back 60 days after I’d applied, requesting further proof of my identity. Security protocols had radically tightened after 911.
Many nights were spent in Bruce’s percussion studio, or in front of his TV watching old films from the drive-in movie era. All those nights included indulging in what seemed an endless supply of Pabst Blue Ribbon from the beer bar he’d installed. Some nights we’d pass out without getting any soundtrack work done at all. Other nights I was the only person in the audience, opening night at the Village Vanguard, circa 1961, except Coltrane and Tyner and Garrison were silent ghost shapes wandering the stage as Elvin Jones soloed. Only this cat, Bruce, was even more expressive and soulful and schooled so if I told him I wanted a Tony Williams high hat, a Joe Morello pillow stuffed bass drum and Krupa doing that tom tom hollow bounce thing he knew precisely the sound I was after.
So in the long run it was worth almost becoming the drunk I’d been during some of those homeless stretches a decade earlier.
And I had the motherfucker on tape.
My day job was sitting in front of a digital video editing program as intimidating as the cockpit and control panel of a B-52 bomber.
My passport arrived late summer. Too late for that Euro adventure with Eva.
Then, in early November, my male cat, Hank, was attacked by a coyote.