Dana Spiotta - Innocents and Others

Meadow’s proposition to Deke (but she wasn’t really proposing, she was telling) was simple. She would set her camera on the tripod and film him all night long. She had read about Shirley Clarke’s Portrait of Jason although she had never seen it. Clarke made the film in one twelve-hour block, letting Jason talk with occasional questions thrown at him. She later edited it down to 102 minutes. Meadow wanted to make a film that allowed enough continuous time for the subject — no matter how comfortable — to come undone. Then they would keep going and see what happened next. Clarke used continuous sound but the visuals of the film went black periodically when she had to change rolls of film. Meadow decided she would go to the city and borrow Carrie’s Betacam video camera so she would have two. She would film on video so she could shoot thirty minutes without having to change the tape. She would set up two tripods next to each other. When one was almost done, she would press record on the other. This way, she could shoot continuously all night long. All she would do was edit the pieces together, and every thirty minutes there would be a slight jump, a few seconds lost, a marginally different angle as she went from one camera’s tape to the other’s. She would go all night and show it as an eight-hour video. She would not direct Deke, but she wouldn’t pretend she wasn’t there either. She would hand him a drink or even sit with her back to the camera in the foreground. She wanted it to be a long night with Deke. And she wanted to see what it would do to Deke. And to her.

“Yes,” said Deke. “Let’s do it.”

480 minutes, Betacam video

TIME STAMP: 00:00

A young man sits on a couch. He is smiling. He wears a sharkskin mustard yellow suit jacket with skinny lapels over a white t-shirt. His chin-length black hair is combed neatly behind his ears.

DEKE

Is it on? Good.

He pours from a bottle of whiskey into a highball glass filled with ice. The rings he wears on his middle fingers clink against the glass. He lifts the glass and sips. He lifts a cigarette with his other hand, takes a drag, and leans back against the couch.

DEKE

Where should I begin? Wouldn’t it be funny if I just ran out of things to say the minute you pressed record. Ha, ha. No chance.

MEADOW

Maybe you should say who you are.

DEKE

You know who I am. I am Deke Wicket. Let’s start at the start. I was born in Johnstown, New York, in 1969, which makes me seventeen. I was born at home with a midwife, with, whatever, hot water and sheets, my parents moved up here to be natural people and go back to the land and get away from all the materialism and bullshit of the cities and the suburbs, so no hospitals or antiseptics for them! I was raised a dirty hippie kid in the middle of redneck country, like that was a great fucking plan, right? (Takes another sip of whiskey, lights another cigarette.) Want to know how I was potty trained? Yes? (The back of Meadow’s head nods. Deke laughs.) Oh, for fuck’s sake, you are nodding and not speaking? Okay, I can see how this is going to go. I am on my own. But it has always been that way. I used to sit in the tub and make up monologues. I liked the sound of my voice bouncing off the tub and the tiles. That’s what this feels like. I just feel comfortable talking, it calms me down. Like opening a faucet and pouring all the me out. I talked to myself my whole life, and it doesn’t matter who is listening or if anyone is listening. I can listen to myself. Like Deke, wow, I hear you, man.

MEADOW

You are your own echo chamber. That must make you feel very self-sufficient. Or self-contained.

DEKE

She speaks! It sounds crazy when you say it like that. That I talk to myself or to anyone who will listen. That I need to spew and spew. But I always think that if I talk enough, people will see me finally. Like I want you to see me. (He stops and looks at Meadow in the foreground. The camera only shows the back of her head.)

MEADOW

Of course I see you. And filming you is how I see. An outpouring of self. I find it touching that you trust the world so much. But I should let you finish your story. Your life story, right? We were at potty training?

DEKE

So potty training was just me naked. No diapers involved. I walked around with nothing on. When I started to get into a crouch to shit, they would pull me over and sit me on the toilet. Needless to say, this resulted in some accidents. And it involved various people looking at my naked ass all the time. But it finally worked. I am proud to say that I am fully toilet trained. (Grins, puts an arm across his waist, and bows his head.)

TIME STAMP: 01:37

Deke is now leaning back on the couch with his arms crossed in front of his chest. The whiskey bottle on the side table is a quarter empty. His hair is in his face.

DEKE

So I stopped taking the bus. I walked on a back street, I found an out-of-the-way long cut, I snuck between houses, whatever. But still the fucker found me. Mitchell Hammond, that prick. Actually, you know that shit shack off of Winston Street near the library, the gray house with the falling-down porch and roof covered in moss and the decrepit-looking dog chained to it who barks like a madman all the time? Just like a postcard of freakin’ backwater architecture, a testament to the prosperity and opportunity of this town, this fucking place?

MEADOW

Yeah.

DEKE

He lives there with his mom. Mitchell. He would push me, rather than punch me. Just pushing. He would push me until I fell on the ground. And then he would hold me down, pin my shoulders with his knees. And then let fly a long dangle of spit in my face. Or rub dirt on my face. It was always my face. He would call me faggot or girl and then put a hand on my chin and push me until I couldn’t breathe. But I never fucking cried. And by this time, by fourteen or so, my dad was long gone, back to the city. Ned came into my life. (Deke raised his eyebrows and gave a blurry grin.) My evil stepfather, except not actual “step.” He hates me.

TIME STAMP: 2:47

Deke has removed his jacket and now wears only the t-shirt and black jeans. His legs are open; he leans forward, elbows on his knees as he speaks.

DEKE

I do fuck all the girls I can. It is (he gestures with his hand picking fruit off a tree and laughs) super easy, always has been. It sounds so conceited but it is just I think that I am a certain kind of pretty and not scary. So skinny and feminine, the girls always want to play with me. Plus I am not picky — I just wanted to fuck everyone. I want to fuck everyone. I don’t care. Ugly girls, fat girls, stupid girls. A couple of moms. One teacher. Anyone. I will screw anyone. No offense. (He winks.)

MEADOW

I’m not sure I buy it.

Deke shrugs. He picks up a cigarette and slumps back holding it. He is so thin that his stomach looks almost concave.

DEKE

I feel shitty about it. It got worse, like a kind of obsession. The worst was tenth grade. I don’t know why I did it. I went to my neighbor’s house once. Oh yeah, it is usually only once, you know? So it feels pretty gross after. I went to Mrs. Lamford’s house because I was sick of school and sick of my stepfather. I knew she was home, and I knew Mr. Lamford was at work. But this was not erotic or a fantasy I had had. She was just a messy forty-year-old woman. She watched TV in sweats and had frizzy bleached hair hanging in her face. She didn’t smell great or taste great. But I looked at her and felt this hot surge of need. You know I just invited myself in, and when she got me a glass of water I took her hand and held it. Then I put it on my cock. What can I say.