Disaster Productions Read online

  There’s no internet access at the house, and cell phone coverage is hit or miss. I could call Duals on the land line, of course, but I really don’t want to talk to him just yet. Monday will be soon enough for that. I don’t even go into town to use the library computers. I don’t want to be connected.

  ***

  Come Friday, Grandpa Alpin says: “Want to go out fishing in the boat, Matt?”

  “Sure, Grandpa,” I say.

  Actually, I dislike everything about fishing – except the going out in the boat part. I feel sorry for the fish struggling on the line, I hate cleaning them, and I don’t like eating fish, either. You could add being a lousy fisherman to my list of in-capabilities.

  We climb in the little blue and white runabout and take off from the dock.

  We work the weed banks close to shore at first. I know there are plenty of fish here from my snorkeling expeditions, but they must sense my queasiness vibrating down my line because I don’t get a single bite. Grandpa snags a couple, though.

  “We’ll be having fish for supper tonight!” he says.

  “Yeah,” I say, trying to look enthusiastic.

  Then Grandpa gets all philosophical. He sits back, lights a cigar, and gazes out across the huge lake.

  “I wonder what it was like out here a few centuries ago,” he says. “Before the settlers and the loggers moved in.”

  “Probably not too many power boats back the.,”

  Grandpa laughs. “What say we have an adventure, huh Matt?”

  “Sure.”

  “There’s a shallows in the middle of the lake,” Grandpa says, “kind of a submerged island. Good fishing out there.”

  “Let’s go!” I say.

  We pull in our lines. Grandpa fires up the motor and we head out. I see Grandma on the shore calling out and waving to us. Grandpa kind of looks the other way, so I figure it isn’t my place to draw his attention to her. I think we’re both happy to escape the dull life on shore.

  Things are turning out okay. I’m actually having fun, and Grandpa isn’t nearly so depressing without Grandma or other adults around.

  Why can’t he be like this all the time? The front end of the boat raises up as we gain speed, and little splashes of cold water smack my face. Grandpa lets me handle the wheel.

  “Woo Hee!” I shout.

  Grandpa laughs and throttles up the motor.

  But my excitement starts to fade as we get farther out. The water, which looked so calm from the distance, becomes increasingly choppy. Our little boat begins to rock and bounce; Grandpa takes over the wheel again.

  Soon afterwards a big wave hits us at an unexpected angle. I’m afraid we’re going over, but Grandpa gets us through all right. I’m glad that I’ve eaten only a very light breakfast.

  “Seems a bit rough today,” Grandpa says. “What do you think, Matt?”

  “Yeah ... it is rough.”

  “Maybe we should head back, huh?” Grandpa says.

  I look toward the shore. It seems a long way off – all misty and strange, even though this started out to be a sunny day.

  “Sure,” I say.

  Grandpa begins to ease the boat around, but just then the motor jerks to a halt.

  “What the ...!” Grandpa cries.

  Then he lets fly with a string of words that I’m certain Grandma would not have liked.

  “Something’s stuck in the propeller,” he says.

  He goes to the stern and pulls the motor up. A sheet of thick plastic is tangled in the propeller.

  “Dang tourists!” he says. “You never know what they’ll toss off their boats.”

  Our boat rocks and bucks as Grandpa struggles with the plastic. He has to reach far outside to access the prop. The maneuver doesn’t look at all safe, even if the water wasn’t so rough.

  Every bit of fun has gone out of the day. I wish I was back in the comfortable shallows facing down that snapping turtle. Then another rogue wave hits us and Grandpa starts tumbling overboard.

  “Grandpa!”

  I dive toward the stern and grab him by the belt. He flops back inside like a huge fish.

  He looks really scared for a moment, then this little smile comes over his face – as if he is actually enjoying the situation.

  “Thank you, Matt. I wasn’t looking forward to a swim just yet.”

  “S-sure, Grandpa.”

  Finally, he gets the prop cleared and we head back toward shore. As we get closer, the surface calms down again and we are able to increase speed.

  “Want to drive Matt?”

  “No thanks, Grandpa, I think I’ve had enough.”

  Now that we’re running smooth again, the knot in my stomach relaxes. The day is turning back to cheery mode. And then it hits me – the new and definitive Big Idea.

  “Oh, wow!” I smack my forehead.

  “What’s wrong?” Grandpa says. “You’re not having one of them post traumatic experiences, are you?”

  “Nothing’s wrong, Grandpa. In fact, everything is right!”

  16: Cheery Time

  I’m in an excellent mood when we get back to the house, scarcely bothered by Smokey’s barking or by the little war that breaks out between Grandma and Grandpa. I go up to my room and flick on the little television, but I can still hear them arguing downstairs.

  “That was foolish, Ben,” Grandma is saying. “You know it’s dangerous out there for that little boat, and with the weather acting up, too!”

  Grandpa says something I can’t make out. He doesn’t sound too happy.

  “I’ll bet you forgot to take your medication,” Grandma says, “and didn’t the doctor tell you to stop smoking those cigars?”

  It seems like, no matter how old you might be, you’re going to have trouble with women. One of them will always be chewing you out about something – mom, sister, girlfriend, wife. What if I have a daughter, I wonder. Will she be pushing me around, too, when I’m old?

  I turn up the TV volume. Reality shows seem to be on every channel – people yelling at each other, hurling accusations, making threats. In one show these guys start swinging at each other; bouncers have to separate them.

  And I want to be part of this negative crap? Not any more; I have better ideas now. Later today, after things have calmed a bit, I’ll put them down on paper where they will take on the force of law.

  One thing I already know for certain was that I have to click into my own left brain and start thinking in practical terms about what I am going to do. I can’t let Duals, or anybody else, call my shots. And that ‘Director of the World’ fantasy has to get the boot. I must concentrate on directing my own future course, the world can take care of itself.

  This whole movie studio thing may have dropped into my lap unexpected, but that doesn’t mean I can’t make the most of it. Life is like a baseball game – just because you strike out in the first inning doesn’t mean that you have to keep repeating your mistakes. Fame and fortune won’t just come waltzing up, I’ll have to work hard for them.

  I switch to the weather station. The report speaks of a cold front moving in and bringing some unpleasant effects with it. I try to nap a little, but can’t. I’ve always been bad with naps, even when people aren’t yelling and slamming things around downstairs.

  Things have pretty much blown over by dinner time. Grandma and Grandpa aren’t talking much to each other, so at least I don’t have to hear about any depressing topics. There isn’t enough fish to go around, so I generously volunteer to settle for hamburgers, fresh caught from the freezer.

  The TV was right about the weather. Cold air is blowing in across the lake, and the comfortable temperature inside the house begins to nose dive. Grandma hauls out some heavier blankets, and Grandpa lights the woodstove in the fireplace. You’d have to admit that it throws a lot of heat, despite its ghastly appearance. And it’s supposed to keep burning long after a regular fire would go out.

  As Grandma and Grandpa get ready to turn in, I park myself
on the sofa in front of the woodstove with my notebook and a cup of hot chocolate. Grandpa comes downstairs a final time to check the fire. He still looks saggy and beat from the argument with Grandma.

  “Fire’s going real good,” I say.

  Grandpa nods and shoves in a final log. Then he closes the horrible little door.

  “Well, goodnight,” he says.

  “Goodnight, Grandpa, and thanks for taking me on the fishing trip.”

  “Sure thing, Matt.”

  “I really enjoyed going out toward the middle,” I say, “even though we couldn’t make it all the way.”

  Grandpa’s face brightens. “We’ll try it again sometime.”

  He goes back upstairs and enters their bedroom, leaving the door open so as to catch any heat wafting up the stairs. I settle down with my notebook to develop my new ideas.

  It’s quite simple, really; all great ideas are. Notice I said “great” and not “big” ideas.

  From now on, we will not film anything negative – no embarrassing personal disasters. We will record only positive things, such as my ‘rescue’ of Grandpa on the lake. We’ll be into constructive subjects only, not into hurting people or making them look foolish. Studio Duals will seek out projects that add to the world’s good side.

  It’s definitely time to revisit and expand the Matt Manifesto. I write a title at the top of the notebook page in heavy ink:

  The Matt Manifesto – Phase II

  I like the Roman numeral, it makes things look more solemn and official. I start numbering the sheet so as to develop the sub-points of my new, upbeat philosophy.

  But I’m extremely tired, my brain isn’t working at maximum power. The events on the lake exhausted me, and I was too excited to take a nap.

  Outside, the weather is turning nasty with the sounds of wind and restless leaves. A cold draft is blowing right on me through the gap in the sliding glass door frame, so I wrap a quilted comforter about myself. I take a swig of hot chocolate.

  In front of me, the wood stove hisses and crackles like some metallic dragon. Flames flicker behind a tiny window in the door. Smokey crouches in the corner shadows watching me with his mean little eyes. He always looks so angry. Maybe he’d be happier if he could rip somebody’s leg off. Mine, for instance. I drift into sleep and instant nightmare land ...

  A pair of hands appears holding an open slate. The words Send-off for a Nobody are written on it in bold red letters.

  An off-camera voice announces, “Scene one, take one, marker!”

  The slate bangs closed and is withdrawn. Camera focuses on a corpse lying on a wheeled stretcher. Someone pulls the shroud back from the face. It’s me lying there!

  Two high school aged kids approach the corpse, a boy and a girl.

  “Well, it’s time to give Dad the old send-off,” the boy says.

  “Let’s get this over with,” the girl says. “I’m so into not wasting more time here.”

  “Too bad he never amounted to anything,” the boy says.

  “Yeah, whatever,” the girl says.

  The gurney starts rolling toward a cremation oven, the door has a little window glowing orange. The door pops open to reveal roaring flames. The corpse starts sliding in, flames lick the toes.

  Then I’m not watching events from outside any more, I’m there on the gurney, my feet are in the flames. I try to sit up, but can’t.

  “No! No!” I try to yell, but nothing comes out.

  The flames rush over me with a deafening roar.

  I jerk back awake.

  “Oh, man!”

  I’m lying on the couch wrapped tightly in the comforter. The thing is smothering me – I’m burning up! I fling off the heavy quilt and rub my eyes.

  Smokey glowers at me from his corner, totally unconcerned with my misery. I want to get up, but just don’t have the energy. The nightmares don’t want to let go of my yet. I drifted back to sleep.

  A pair of hands is holding a slate. The Gnarly Beast is written on it with drippy red letters.

  “Scene one ... etc.”

  Clack!

  I’m walking alone through a forested area. It’s like the metro park outside town but with subtle differences – the shrunken heads hanging from the trees, for instance.

  “Hello,” one of them says, and I pick up my pace.

  Wind hisses through the dead leaves, cold wind strikes my back. I look across the scum-covered pond and see cars parked in the lot, so I’m not too worried yet. Then a rushing sound comes from the woods.

  I spin around. The underbrush is being shoved aside by the approach of some fearsome beast. I can’t see it yet, but its growls are getting louder. I look back toward the parking lot, the cars there are actually part of a funeral procession – a huge black hearse leads the way out.

  I begin running but can hardly move. The beast gains on me, I hear it leap into the air ...

  I jerk awake again. I’m lying on my side, draped over the sofa edge. Smokey’s mean little face is staring right into mine. I feel his clammy nose.

  “Ah!”

  I fling myself into a sitting position.

  “Something wrong, Matt?” Grandpa calls from upstairs.

  “Uh ... no, I’m fine.”

  I stagger into the bathroom and splash cold water over my face and neck. Then I go to the kitchen for a bottle of water. What I wouldn’t give for a Bomb Cola!

  I return to the living room couch, fully awake now, and begin to work on my Manifesto.

  17: The Matt Manifesto Revisited

  I move my pen quickly, so as to get everything down before I drop off to sleep again. First, I write out the main points of my Manifesto – they total four.

  From this point on:

  1 – Only positive things are filmed.

  2 – Nobody is made to look foolish, ever.

  3 – Matt rules.

  4 – Duals is ...

  Duals is what? I can’t figure it just yet. Let me work on the other three points first.

  Point 1 – Only positive things will be documented: No more negative stuff, no more looking on the downside of human nature. Our work will seek to ennoble people, look at their best side, see the heroic in them. Leave all that negative stuff for the losers on the reality shows.

  There! A suitably noble tone for my guiding principles.

  Point 2 – Nobody is made to look foolish, ever:

  Okay, I admit, I was one of those who thought it was funny to see somebody else take a fall. But now that I’ve been on the receiving end of dork fame myself, I don’t think it’s such a wonderful thing anymore. Besides, hadn’t I felt guilty about ‘using’ Dylan? Maybe it’s poetic justice that I got used myself. Well, it’s all water under the dam now. First inning stuff.

  Point 3 – Matt rules:

  This is the key point. Up until now, Duals has controlled everything. He’s practiced with the equipment, taken the on-line tutorials, experimented, bluffed, brought in girls. I know nothing, I’ve done nothing. I’ve been too busy running errands, cramming for finals, and destroying my reputation at the skating rink. I’ve let ‘Studio Duals’ slip right through my fingers.

  Wouldn’t I rather be directing things, operating the camera and taking admiring questions from people, instead of carrying the boom pole? Things are going to change radically when I get back. I’ll be the guy in charge.

  Now, back to the tricky fourth point.

  Point 4 – Duals is ...

  I’ll be first to admit that I haven’t been very pro-Duals in my thinking lately. But am I being too harsh on him? After all, he’s smart, talented, and very social. I’m much more of an inner-directed guy. Never in a million years could I have gotten up the nerve to approach three strange girls and ask them to be in my video.

  I also have to admit that Duals is crucial to my future creative efforts. He has so much energy and drive that I simply can’t do without him. We’re talking a movie studio, after all, and that’s way more than an one-m
an operation.

  Maybe I should ease up on him a bit, but things are still going to be done my way. Duals won’t like being second banana, though ...

  I’ll have to handle the situation tactfully so he won’t get his feathers ruffled too much. For starters, we’ll keep the name Studio Duals. I’ll be the big shot, however, and my name will come first on the letterhead: ‘Matthew Alpin, CEO,’ or some such title. Duals will come next, also with a fancy title, of course. And I’ll always refer to him as my “partner,” never an “assistant.”

  I’m starting to nod off again. No way am I going to set myself up for another couch nightmare. The Duals issue is very complex, and I’m certainly not going to figure it all out tonight.

  I close my notebook and go up to bed.

  18: Devil’s Island

  I wake up totally refreshed – no more nightmares have bothered me. It’s dark and rainy outside, but I feel great. Dad will be arriving this afternoon, and tomorrow we’ll be heading for home. We can even do the father-son bonding routine on the way back.

  Then an ugly phone call changes everything. It’s Mom:

  “Dad can’t pick you up,” she says.

  “Why not?”

  “He’s got the flu,” Mom says, “he came home from work early yesterday.”

  So, iron man Dad picks this precise time to get sick! Why couldn’t he do this during the school year when I didn’t have to depend on him so much?

  Wait, there’s more exciting news:

  “Uncle Archie and his family are going up North for the week,” Mom says. “You can ride back with them next Sunday.”

  The whole world seems to be crashing in. Not only will I be stuck here for another week, but I’ll have to put up with Uncle Archie and his crew. And all this time, Studio Duals will be grinding along without me, leaving me farther behind in the dust.

  I hang up the phone, then pick it up again and call Duals.

  “Help! I’m trapped up here!” I want to shout, but Grandma is in the kitchen nearby. It doesn’t seem wise to let out my true feelings.

  Instead, I say: “Look Duals, I’ll be up here for another week.”

  “Okay man, that’s fine,” Duals says.

  He sounds pretty subdued, like he’s upset about something. Could it be that he’s missing me?

  “So, I’ll see you next Monday, okay?” I say.