Chuck Palahniuk - Tell All

Glenn says, “Mission control, do you readme?” He says, “I seem to be losing power.…”

In unison, every light on the control panelblinks out. The lights blink on for a moment, then off. Flickering, thelights go out altogether, leaving Glenn in only the faint glow of thestars. Seated in absolute silence, Glenn wraps both gloved hands aroundthe microphone, bringing his mouth almost to touch the wire mesh of itand shouting, “Please, Houston!”Screaming, “ Alan Shepard, you bastard, don’t let me die uphere!”

The shot pulls back to reveal an interiorpanel in the wall behind Glenn’s astronaut chair. A handle in the centerof the panel begins to slowly turn. Drawing focus because it’s the onlymovement in the shot, highlighted by a key light in the otherwise murkycompartment.

Glenn quietly sobs in the darkness.

Insert a close-up of the handle turning,intercutting with extreme close-ups of Glenn’s face, his sobs and tearsfogging the inside surface of his helmet face shield.

From offscreen, we hear a familiar voice say,“Pipe down.”

In a medium shot, we see the panel behindGlenn swing open, revealing a stowaway LillianHellmanas she steps free from what appears to be a storagelocker. In one continuous shot, she steps through a doorway, under astenciled sign reading, WARNING: AIR LOCK.Hellman says, “Wish me luck, you big baby.” She draws a deep breath,and her hand slaps a large, red button labeled, JETTISON.An inner door slides shut, sealing the air lock, and a burst of mistbelches Lilly from the side of the orbiting capsule. She wears nohelmet, no pressurized suit, only an elegant sports ensemble of slacksand sweater designed by Adrian.

Weightless and floating in the black void ofouter space, Lilly swims, holding her breath. Her arms stroke, and herlegs kick in an Australian crawl, inching her way along the side of theorbiting space capsule until she arrives beside a small tin-colored boxaffixed to the outer hull. The box is stenciled, SOLARMODULE, and it flashes with an occasional burst of brightsparks. Still holding her breath, her cheeks inflated and her browfurrowed in concentration, Lilly drags a ball-peen hammer from the hippocket of her slacks ensemble accessorized with Orry-Kelly high heels.Her chandelier earrings and turquoise squash-blossom pendant are stilltethered to Lilly, but float and drift in the absence of gravity.Gripping the hammer in her blue fingers, the veins swelling under theskin at her temples, Lilly swings the steel head to collide with themodule box. In the vacuum of space, we hear nothing, only silence andthe steady thump-thump of Lilly’s enormousheart beating faster and faster. The hammer strikes the module a secondtime. Sparks fly. The tin-colored metal dents, and flakes of gray paintfloat away from the point of impact.

More hammer blows fall; with each the soundrings louder, then louder as we dissolve to reveal the kitchen ofKatherine Kenton, where I sit at the kitchen table, reading a screenplaytitled Space Race Rescue penned by Lilly. Iwear the black maid’s uniform, over it the bib apron. On my head thestarched, lacy maid’s cap. The hammer blows continue, an audio bridge,now revealed to be an actual pounding sound coming from within the townhouse.

The blows ring more loud, more fast as we cutto a shot of the bed headboard in Miss Kathie’s boudoir, revealing thesounds as the headboard pounding the wall. The sexual coupling takesplace below the bottom of the frame, barely outside the shot, but we canhear the heavy breathing of a man and a woman as the tempo and volumeof the pounding increase. Each impact makes the framed paintings jump onthe walls. The curtain tassels dangle and dance. The bedside pile ofscreenplays slumps to the floor.

On the page, as Lilly’s astronaut heart beatsfaster and her hammer batters the box again and again, we hear theheadboard of Miss Kathie’s bed slamming the wall, faster, until with onefinal, heroic pounding, the lights of the space module flicker back tolife. The pounding ceases as all the various gauges and dials flare backto full power and, framed in the module’s little window, John Glenngives Lilly the thumbs-up. Tears ofhorror and relief stream down the face inside his astronaut helmet.

In the background of the kitchen, two hairyfeet appear at the top of the servants’ staircase, two hairy anklesdescend from the second floor, two hairy knees, then the hem of a whiteterry-cloth bathrobe. Another step down, and the cloth belt appears,tied around a narrow waist; two hairy hands hang on either side. A chestappears, the terry cloth embroidered with a monogram: O.D . The robe of the long-deceased fourth“was-band.” Another step reveals the face of WebsterCarlton Westward III. Those bright brown root-beer eyes. A smileparts his face, pulling at the corners of his mouth, spreading them likea stage curtain, and this American specimen says, “Good morning,Hazie.”

On the page, Lilly Hellman struggles in thecold, black void of space, dragging herself along the hull of the Friendship 7 , fightingher way back to the air lock.

The Webster specimen opens a kitchen cabinetand collects the percolator. He pulls out a drawer and retrieves thepower cord. He does each task on his first attempt, without hunting. Hereaches into the icebox without looking and removes the metal can ofcoffee grounds. From another cabinet, he takes the morning tray—not thesilver tea tray nor the dinner tray. It’s clear he knows what’s what inthis household and where each item is hidden.

This Webster C. WestwardIIIappears to be a quick study. One of those clever, smilingyoung men Terrence Terrywarned my Miss Kathieabout. Those jackals. A magpie.

Spooning coffee grounds into the percolatorbasket, the Webster specimen says, “If you’ll permit me to ask, Hazie,do you know whom you remind me of?”

Without looking up from the page, Lillysuffocating in the freezing stratosphere, I say, Thelma Ritter.

I was Thelma Ritterbefore Thelma Ritterwas ThelmaRitter.

To see how I walk, watch AnnDvorakwalk across the street in the film Housewife .You want to see me worried, watch how Miriam Hopkinspuckers her brow in Old Acquaintance . Everyhand gesture, every bit of physical business I ever perfected, somenobody came along and stole. Pier Angeli’slaugh started out as my laugh. The way Gilda Graydances the rumba, she swiped it from me. How MarilynMonroesings she got by hearing me.

The damned copycats. There’s worse thatpeople can steal from you than money. Someone steals your pearls and you can simplybuy another strand. But if they steal your hairstyle, or the signaturemanner in which you throw a kiss, it’s much more difficult to replace. Back a long time ago, I was in motionpictures. Back before I met up with my Miss Kathie. Nowadays, I don’t laugh. I don’t sing ordance. Or kiss. My hair styles itself.

It’s like Terrence Terrytried to warn Miss Kathie: the whole world consists of nothing butvultures and hyenas wanting to take a bite out of you. Your heart ortongue or violet eyes. To eat up just your best part for theirbreakfast.

You want to see TallulahBankhead, not just her playing Julie Marsdenin Jezebel , or being ReginaGiddensin The Little Foxes , but thereal Tallulah, you only need to watch Bette Davisin All About Eve . It was JosephL. Mankiewiczwho wrote Margo Channingbased on his poor mother, the actress JohannaBlumenau, but it was Davis who cozied up to Tallulah long enoughto learn her mannerisms. Tallulah’s delivery and how she walked. Howshe’d enter a room. The way Tallulah’s voice got screechy after onebourbon. How, after four of them, her eyelids hung, half closed assteamed clams.