Jonathan Dee - A Thousand Pardons

“No, Katie, that’s fine.” The bartender was walking toward him. “What time does it start?”

“It actually was scheduled for an hour ago? But we can work around whatever you want to do.”

“I’m sorry about that, Katie,” Hamilton said. The bartender stopped in front of him. “Just have the guy call me any time.”

“Well, we don’t do it that way, because we try hard not to give out your cell number. So we left it that you would call him. Do you have a pen?”

“Do you have a pen?” Hamilton asked the scowling bartender, who handed him a pencil. He wrote down the New York phone number on his shirtsleeve, hung up, and smiled apologetically as he handed the pencil back.

“We don’t allow those conversations in here,” the bartender said, pointing to Hamilton’s phone. The man’s ring finger was bent at a bizarre angle; Hamilton had seen an injury like that on a football player once. His skin was cracked like leather. Beautiful, Hamilton thought. To wear your life like that.

“I’m very sorry,” he said. “I didn’t see the sign.”

“Ain’t no sign,” said the bartender.

So Hamilton decided he’d better do the interview itself in the truck. Two more shots first: just to show there were no hard feelings, he shared a third one with the bartender, who drank it solemnly and did not so much as touch his hat. Hamilton could feel himself imitating the man’s slow gait as he squinted against the brutal sunlight in the parking lot. He got the truck up to speed, looked down at his sleeve, and dialed the number.

“Hamilton!” the nasal East Coast voice said. “So glad to catch you. Thank you so much for taking the time. First of all, I loved the film, I thought you were amazing in it. Where are you right now?”

Hamilton looked out the window. He didn’t really know. He’d never driven this far north of the ranch; also, that last drink with the bartender had opened a door, and he felt his mood shifting. Suddenly he had an idea. “I’m in upstate New York,” he said. “Visiting family.”

“Really? That’s cool. Are you — can I ask you — are you in a car right now? Because I’m having a little trouble hearing you.”

“Oh, right,” Hamilton said. “Hold on a second.” He rolled up the driver’s-side window, then leaned across the cab to roll up the other one, which didn’t quite necessitate letting go of the wheel but did mean that there were a few seconds when he was stretched too low across the seat to see over the dashboard. He felt and then heard the tires drift off the macadam, but he straightened up and steered back onto the road. Nothing out here but scrub anyway. No other cars. You might drift off the road and go for half a mile before you hit anything tall enough to break your axle. “Better?” Hamilton said. His voice sounded way too loud, now that the cab was quiet.

“Much,” said the voice. “So I don’t actually need to take up a lot of your time — I just wanted to ask a question or two about what it was like working with Kevin Ortiz. It’s his first film, he’s a good deal younger than you. Did you ever sense any—”

“Kevin is a fucking genius,” Hamilton said.

The voice laughed. “No doubt,” it said. “But in the beginning, were there maybe—”

“Why did you laugh, man?” Hamilton said.

“Sorry?”

“When I said he was a genius. Why did you laugh at that?”

Sometimes Hamilton hated who he was to other people, but other times there was a kind of mercenary advantage in it; and he could tell that the change in the tone of his own voice had put the fear into this pasty, smug fuck from The New York Times , who had never taken a risk, who had never put himself on the line to try to birth something true into this world. “I apologize,” the voice said quietly. “I — well, truth be told, I laughed because I guess I thought you were kidding. I misunderstood.”

“Why would I kid about something like that? About genius. About art. Do you think these things are a joke to me?” The sun was just singeing the top of the range; light pooled all along the uneven horizon. In another few minutes it would start to get dark and the temperature would fall faster than a stranger to this landscape might think possible.

“No, Hamilton, I don’t. That’s certainly not your reputation. Again, I apologize. It was nervous laughter, really, because I was nervous about getting to talk to you at all. What do you say we just hit reset, so to speak, and start over?”

“Maybe these things are a joke to you,” Hamilton said. There were no lights out here, no cars coming in either direction. On some level he’d known all along — ever since that meeting with the ranch foreman, anyway — that today would end like this; still, he was bathed in shame, so much so that he heard a little catch in his own voice. “Kevin is a rare soul, man. An old soul. Still, he’s just a kid, and it kills me to think of what’s going to happen to him, people like you, all the pressure on him, pressure if the movie is a flop but even more pressure if it’s a hit, you know? He is totally faithful to the moment, to the process, he gave me everything, every single thing I needed to be who I needed to be when I was in that particular space. You follow what I’m saying?”

“Not all of it,” the voice said, “but you know what? Really all I needed was one usable quote, and I’m sure I’ve got that, so—”

“Nobody understands a guy like Kevin. Nobody understands what’s required. You are so vulnerable when you put yourself in the hands of a director. You never know what you’re buying into. You have this place you need to get to, like I was talking about, a place that’s both inside yourself and somewhere far away from yourself, and you need his help to do it, but he could be anybody, you know? You hold hands and jump off this cliff together, and only after you’ve jumped, only when you’re plummeting through the air, do you get to turn and look at this guy you’re holding hands with and say, ‘Hey, not for nothing, but who the fuck are you?’ ”

The truck had slowed way down, so much so that he thought maybe he was out of gas, but no, there was still a quarter of a tank. He had to close one eye to read the gauge. That last shot with the bartender — he thought it was one; he remembered one — that was the Eticket shot, the one there was no coming back from until probably tomorrow. That bartender hated him. It was right there on his face. Maybe Hamilton should have punched him in that face instead of buying him a drink, even if it meant getting his ass kicked. Sometimes it was worth it to get your ass kicked. Ain’t no sign . Didn’t that hayseed, Marlboro Man — looking motherfucker even know who he was?

He drifted to a stop on the side of the road. His foot just wasn’t applying any pressure anymore. He cut the engine but left the headlights on; he couldn’t see one foot past them. He lowered his window and listened to the dark desert. It sounded like a riot.

“Hamilton?” the voice was saying. “Hamilton? You still there?”

And just then — it was as perfect as if he’d scripted it — a coyote split the darkness wide open with a long, soulful howl.

“Jesus Christ!” said the voice. “Are you okay? I thought you said you were in upstate New York!”

Hamilton smiled and snapped the phone shut. His consciousness was separating like the stages of a rocket, and he saw that he was probably not going to remember any of this tomorrow, not how lucid and how reborn he felt right now, not even how he got here; he often blacked out when he drank like this. What a shame. Not being able to recall it meant he would only have to go off in search of it again. He lay down across the front seat; it was cold now, but the air was so amazing there was no question of rolling up the windows. Besides, somebody would come looking for him. They were probably out looking for him already.