And there it was. We blocked the commercial quickly, posting a fierce little storyboard in a night, pacing out the images. Me rearranging the frames to form a tiny, ten-second arc ending with the tagline in voiceover, hovering over it for a couple of hours before calling it good. Mel started inbetweening the next morning and I joined in, letting the sketches pile and multiply.
Later that week, Mel called a bunch of people over to record sound, Surly Cathie directing, me feeding them cues and beer. Making the sound of a shitstorm is no big deal with equipment as bad as ours; for the purposes of a fight, with feedback slicing in and out, working with crap really paid off. For some of the scenes, we piled into our closet to yell and punch against our winter coats. Surly Cathie and Fart and the interns got loaded and made war cries at each other. The night ended with Fart putting his nutsack through an uncooked pizza crust, flashing the interns, and almost breaking our lightboard by flicking the button on and off and screaming, “It’s a disco inferno!” All in all, one of the quickest, cleanest projects we’ve ever completed.
And now the commercial is airing late-night on Cartoon Network. Mel flaps around, an unlit cigarette tucked behind her ear, and gathers some nurses together to watch: It’s a girl-on-girl gang fight in squiggling, exciting neon, loud and short and sharp. Lots of big hollering, vermilion yelling mouths, magenta tongues. It’s good. Short but precise, clean, alive. Kotex: As Tough as You Are. Everyone claps.
It hits me how badly I want to get back to work, how much I’ve been missing it. The anticipation before a new project. Envisioning it in the confines of your own head, intangible, a whiff of itself, two steps from a daydream. Then, through work and love and sheer fucking will, it becomes real. If you’re lucky, what you’ve made will be better than anything your flimsy imagination could have put together.
I want to see Mel work again. The way she looks at a sketch when it’s done—raking her hands through her hair, cracking her knuckles, muttering, “All right. Next.” I live for that moment. Live for the way seeing her work makes me want to work, and work more, work better, work more deeply.
I suddenly miss it so fiercely my stomach cramps. My eyes start to water.
Mel leans in. “What is it?”
I shake my head.
“Are you on your cycle? Wanna fight?” She crumples her empty soda can in her fist, wings it gently at me. Says low, “Seriously. You okay?”
The nurses file out, patting me on the shoulder, agreeing that it was unlike any other Kotex commercial they’ve ever seen.
Mel waits until we’re alone. Looks hard at me, says, “You sure you’re all right?”
I nod. She takes a deep breath, and for a moment I’m positive she’s going to ask about the List, request that I tell her just what the hell she found, exactly, and what it means. What I’ve been doing.
But she doesn’t. She gives me a soft noogie instead and, closing the blinds, leaves to let me go to sleep.
THE BOYFRIEND PARADE
I become a ward favorite because I’m getting better. Docs poke their heads in to say hi. I have regular nurses who are cheerful, ginger with the needle when they take blood. Two of them, Agatha and Jessica, teach me how to roll over by demonstrating in the room’s other, empty bed, folding their hands over their chests and saying, “Come on, honey, just shift that weight from one side to the other. Use your arm and use your butt.”
We are in discovery mode—testing the waters, trying to gauge how damaged I might be. We won’t really know the full extent for years, I’m warned. Not really. Jessica is on one side, Agatha on the other, telling me come on, just one more push, and I swing and roll, almost falling off the bed and pissing myself. They clap.
The first day I get up to pee on my own is an event. Passing a bowel movement, and then passing a movement without requiring help wiping, is a double event. I watch reruns of The Simpsons while using my hand clench, squeezing, breathing. I try to stretch. Grit my teeth through muscle spasms. Food still spilling from my mouth. Bad back, precarious pelvic floor. I have never been more aware of my body than in this period of weakness. I look out the window onto the parking lot, the salt air seeping in.
The nurses station me in a chair, blanket thrown around my legs. One of the orderlies, Carl, takes the screws off the bedside table and props it against the wall to form a makeshift drafting board. In thanks, I draw, at his request, a naked Homer and Marge performing a sweaty, strenuous doggy-style. “Make that ass tight, you know what I’m saying?” Carl says. “I mean, get them titties to swaying.”
I try to zero in on the lines, the sense of flow. The end product is not great, would be discouraging were it not for the clean, sweet feeling of completion. My fingers are weak, my wrists tremble, but after a week or so I know where the line is going when I start to trace. Some part of me is relearning how to anticipate.