Will Self - Walking to Hollywood

But if they’re the children of Xenu they aren’t letting on; without speaking they begin sticking the Velcro balls on to my bodysuit, one each at all of my joints: ankle, knee, hip and so on. It’s done in a matter of seconds, then they retreat back through the moaning portal. I’m equally pleased with my new bobble suit, which resembles one of Leigh Bowery’s rather more restrained costumes. I start doing knee bends and humming Divine’s ‘You Think You’re a Man’ until meany-voice rasps: ‘Stop that!’, then begins ordering me about:

‘Now, do exactly what I tell you: walk towards the stop light, then wait for the green man. No! That’s too fast, begin again… Better. Now wait… OK, cross.’

I don’t snap back, ‘Cross what, exactly?’ I understand what’s wanted of me — you don’t get anywhere in life without being able to take direction. Besides, I enjoy strutting about in my bobble suit, while crossing intersections is something I’ve been doing for days now — it may be typecasting, but at least it’s my casting.

After we’ve done crossing for a while, the voice commands me to amble around the periphery of the room, then to assume various conversational postures, then pretend to take notes, then photographs. Next the V masks reappear, pushing before them a platform on wheels and a swivel chair, while two more bring up the rear carrying a table. With these new props the voice’s directions become more complex: it wants me to pretend to sit at the table and eat, to write, and then to make a phone call. After which I’m urged to lie down on the platform and feign sleep — in a foetal position, and also thrashing about in the flicker of REM. Next I’m to roll over and fake masturbation, before rising, sitting backwards on the swivel chair and straining my way through a realistically effortful shit.

All in all, over the course of an hour or so, a Marcel Marceau on crystal meth, I recapitulate the entire gamut of physical actions I might expect to perform in the average day. It’s an exhilarating workout, but, even as I prance and dance and stop and swing, something’s nagging at me — eventually I ignore the next direction and instead stand with my face petulantly downcast.

‘Bend over,’ orders the voice. ‘I said bend over,’ it reiterates. ‘Bend over or we will MAKE YOU bend over!’ it barks.

‘I truly want to do my best for you guys,’ I pout, ‘but what I want to know is what’s my motivation here?’

‘OK, OK,’ the voice fizzes, ‘you gotta point. Just bend over for us this last time and then we’ll get to your motivation, OK?’

I bend over.

The Vs come bustling back in; some spirit away the platform and the table, others remove the Velcro balls from my suit and depart with them. ‘Sit on the chair,’ orders the voice. A pair of Vs return with a basket of tiny plastic balls and begin expertly attaching these all over my face using some kind of clear adhesive. They stick balls to my lips, top and bottom, to my frown lines and to still more of my frown lines, all along my brows and on my eyelids, they near beard my chin with these nurdles. When they’re done there must be over a hundred of the things hanging off me, while presumably I look like a sufferer from some hideous alien skin condition.

‘Face the wall,’ the voice spits, then it coos, ‘Ree-lax.’

If the body workout was exhausting, the psychic one is both more demanding and more satisfying. The voice begins simply enough, getting me to frown, smile, scowl, laugh, mime soliloquizing, dialoguing, arguing and shouting. Soon enough, however, the directions become more complex: I’m to adopt an expression of weary pity, existential angst, frozen pride, justified hauteur. Then I’m asked by the voice to appear as if I’m listening intently to the recursive eddies of flute and woodwind that flow into the oceanic melodies of the Andante to Mahler’s Sixth—

‘Whoa,’ I cry, ‘that’s a hell of a subtle mien!’

‘You can do it,’ the voice urges — and so I unstitch my brows, flutter my eyelids and suck in my already hollow cheeks, because I’m beginning to warm to the voice — love it a little even. I can imagine that if we were penned up together for long enough in this rehearsal room we might have an affair — hadn’t I already pretended to masturbate for it?

‘Great!’ the voice cries. ‘I believed that one. ‘Next try conveying the countenance a character in a narrative might adopt, were he to realize not only that he was a character, but that the narrative itself was—’

‘What? Unstable — deconstructed altogether?’

‘Let’s just say… decentred.’

‘Interesting,’ the voice sighs. ‘Although perhaps just a tad forced.’

‘All right, d’you want me to go again at that one?’

‘No, let’s move on, we don’t have all day — how about this: a kind of “whither the Left” wistfulness, incorporating an acknowledgement of the bitter-sweetness of the fall of the Berlin Wall, and a harder-edged perception of the fissiparous effects of post-9/11 conflict?’

‘That? — That !’ I guffaw. ‘C’mon, that’s first-grade stuff: watch me.’

When I’m done, the voice seems gratifyingly transported. ‘Beautiful,’ it groans, ‘just too, too beautiful, darling…’ Then it pulls itself together and crackles. ‘A still easier one: give me man-having-tiny-plastic-balls-torn-from-his-face, followed by a mickey finn.’

And that one is easy, because the V masks come barrelling back in and I have someone to do the scene with. I’m still frantically mugging when the pearlescent drop appears at the bevelled end of the hypodermic and the house lights go down, and the spot focuses in tighter… tighter on my face… and… blanks… out.

I came to being thrown from the back of a Lincoln Town Car that was taking the bend in Mulholland Drive immediately to the north of Runyon Canyon Park at twice the limit — or so I estimated as I windmilled into a ditch right at the feet of a family of joggers in full nylon kit.

‘Oh my God!’ the mommy ejaculated.

‘Oh my god,’ the daddy rather more agnostically echoed her.

‘OMG,’ their tweenage daughter cried.

‘Oh!’ said a toddler in an all-terrain buggy.

‘Wuff!’ said their Airedale, nuzzling between my thighs with his square-haired head.

‘Frodo!’ the mommy called it, reeling the poor unfortunate in by its extendable lead. Once the dog was landed the daddy approached:

‘Are you, like, OK?’

‘Kind sir,’ I said, clambering to my feet and straightening my torn clothes, ‘there is no question of similitude at all; thanks to Laura Harring’s breasts I have been spared any serious injury.’

He didn’t recoil, nor did the rest of the FoJ — once they’d floated off on their air soles, paws and tyres I realized why: it may’ve felt as if shells full of silicone gel had broken my fall, but for the second time that day my fingers crept up my T-shirt and discovered only the same old skimpy pectorals. Ho-hum, I sighed, picking bitumen from my knees, snuffling up the bouquet garni of the mesquite and looking out over the Los Angeles Basin. I may’ve lost the breasts, but I stood at last on those exposed ribs and gullies of the Sierra, stacked with hundreds of thousands of dollars of firewood and the palm froth of kindling. In the distance the skyscrapers of Downtown rose up straight as ruled lines, the Y-axis for Huxley’s graph of civilization’s boom and bust.

From the angle of the sun I estimated it was a couple of hours until dusk. A more timorous hiker would’ve probably given up at this point, slumped back down the hillside to his bungalow at the Marmont, eaten far too many cashews and nutted-out in front of the TV, but I was made of more suicidal stuff: I would follow the great silicone migration along the escarpment. True, my circumambulation had been ruptured by the van and the car rides, and I had also been kidnapped, possibly even abused, although this was debatable: was an actor like a child, passively acquiescing to perverted direction because she knew no other authority?