The men were half-melted in the shadows of the nothing bedroom. They slouched and looked at the floor like forgotten echoes of what children looked forward to when they heard the word "future".
Jeff looked up toward the ceiling (where cracks and spider tracings made an almost interesting pattern). There was on overhead light, with its two burned-out bulbs dirty and exposed.
More shadows.
Dembro was focused on the floor, near his numb feet (in their once-shiny work shoes) -- staring THROUGH the floor at a memory he could almost see.
Jeff looked at the window. Out the window. "That's really a stupid prop," he muttered.
Dembro didn't move, but Jeff felt the creepy man radiate an ounce of annoyance.
"No, face it," Jeff said. "It ain't working."
He looked at the cameras in their corners, and the white stage lights which tanned his flesh as he sat in their pointless heat.
"I see ... this is some sort of artsy thing, right? A moooood piece?" He teased Dembro, but the man was lost in the past, his eyes glassy and strange.
"But." Jeff let the syllable sit there in the dead silence. "Neat sentence," he joked. He had a sudden urge to rap his companion in the arm.
"Doesn't the average film have a director? Budget problems? What am I DOING here? Hey, is this a silent film? People would watch us and see my mouth flapping (add some piano music here!) and think I was telling you my life story or something. Wait, let me look distressed ..."
JEFF (looking distressed): So, there was this girl once ... no, she was my WIFE. That's better. She always hated me. Married me for my lack of money. Yeah, that's it. Left me for someone with even less money. (His eyes become wet with tears, just remembering. He wrings his hands.) And you know what? She DESERVED it!
"So, we're just wasting film, is that it? You always were boring, you know."
His companion didn't even react.
"Watch this." Jeff put his fingers in the corners of his mouth, stretched his face and stuck out his tongue at the camera. Nobody scolded him. Dembro was still focused on his damned shoes, as if there was a blemish there that he would never be able to shine away.
Jeff found a pile of cardboard laying next to him on the bed. "Ooh, something to play with."
He held up the first placard, which said "ONE YEAR LATER." He had to laugh.
Jeff and Dembro, half past eleven, the bed the walls, no color anywhere. Shadows without substance.
The next placard said "THREE YEARS LATER."
Jeff and Dembro, half past eleven, the walls the bed, no color anywhere. Substance with shadows.
He quickly scribbled something on the third placard and held it up. "SHORTLY AFTER TIME ITSELF COMES TO A CRASHING HALT." The cameras whirred on.
Two guys in a room with no color. A caricature of life, and the aspirations which die when reality slaps you around. A drama of what is and what will never be. How the strings which animate us are cut by the rattling hand of fate ...
Jeff grinned. "Sorry, I was narrating again."
The cameras whirred on. But how could a seven-minute reel of film last all night? Why wasn't Dembro completely pissed off at him by now?
"What ARE you? A method actor? Let's wrap this up already. Hit the town, shoot some pool. We can do the big domestic scene tomorrow night after nine."
Jeff punched Dembro in the arm. The tan man's body creaked, then tumbled to the floor, dead. Jeff was shocked. It was too much for him: this broken room, the dreadful shadows, and now the death of his friend like a slap in the face. His joking mood was shattered. He sucked a deep breath he could never release. There was nothing left to look forward to. One day, his own time would come.
He held his shocked pose for a few seconds longer, then clapped his hands together. "Perfect!"
He bounced to his feet and shut off the cameras. He gave the dead body a big thumbs-up. "You're MUCH better than that stiff I had in here last night. Haha. Ha?"
He reeled the film, whistling a merry tune. "And the guys at school said my stuff wasn't realistic enough ... well, I won't be needing YOUR services anymore. Should I roll you down the stairs or drive you down to the lake?"
He pretended to listen to his companion. "The lake? Good choice. I can stop and get some Chinese Food on the way back."
JEFF (hands on hip, framed in the dark mouth of the doorway): Are you coming or do I have to strangle you again? Haha? You're a pain in the ass, you know.
He hugged his film as if it might win an award. As if someone else might actually see it some day. Then he put it back in its case and added it to his deranged shelf of broken names.
© s.c. virtes 1995