Seventeen Again

“Even for you, James, that was pretty out of character. I didn’t know what to say.”

Ms. Belle rebounds me back into a semblance of reality late on Sunday evening. Where had I been for the past week?
___________________________________________________________________

The phone back in my hand, I check my messages for the first time in weeks. What I get for not being technologically savvy is message after message after—

“James? It’s Faith. I want to see you.”

Times have changed, but we certainly haven’t. At least, not enough to change this little corner of the world. Holding her in my arms is like turning the whole world back in on itself. I’m fifteen and the world is mine. I’m sixteen and my heart is broken. I’m seventeen and the city is on fire—

“You know me better than anyone. You have to.”

She says that her car is getting California tags. It’s funny that’s how I know we’ve come so far. I used to dream that I’d wake up in Manhattan, back in my old bed only to find that none of this had ever happened. I thought sometimes that if I wished hard enough that we could erase all the mistakes and do it all right this time. I’m sure everyone wants to at one point or another. Now I know I can’t.

“I love you, Faith. More than you’ll ever know.”
“I love you too, James. I think I have some idea.”

For a few minutes after, everything feels right again.
___________________________________________________________________

“We want this film to happen. Figure it out, and we’ll do the rest.”

It’s a go! Thanks to the interference of some very interested parties, my film now has backing and a solid base on which to begin production. The crew will hopefully begin forming more rapidly over the next few weeks, but I feel quite confident since I’ve got Hildy Johnson as my second-in-command—

“You’re looking for a lead actress that can speak Gaelic? Doesn’t that seem just a bit quixotic?”

She’s right, you know; that’s why she’s going to be my assistant director. That facet, along with several others, has contributed to my decision to completely gut the second and third acts of the script. I will finish a complete rewrite by Saturday. No, it isn’t unreasonable; there’s just no time to stretch it out. So here we go, running headlong into the biggest project I’ve ever undertaken in my life. Let’s see how it goes.
___________________________________________________________________

Lord Shale’s party was a rousing success by any measure, and it was good to see that many people again. I could start to tell that something was wrong, though, when my ears started to buzz like I’d just been hit with a shot from a mortar. Then I started to feel sick, and I eventually had to vacate. The weekend had hardly begun, and I was already a wreck.

Maybe, then, it wasn’t the best idea to stay up until mid-Sunday working on a film. Yes, the Annual 24-Hour Film Festival hit the SCULA campus this weekend, and I was once again pitted in mortal kombat [with a Kapital K] against my friends and compatriots to see who could make the best, or at least the most ridiculous, short film. The films screen on campus this Saturday, and I will be sure to keep all you faithful readers abreast of whether Hildy, Shale, King Max or I win the competition. Of course, we could all lose . . . but that’s probably not going to happen.

I wake up in the middle of the day to check my voice-mail messages. I’ve missed the Rhino going-out-of-business sale, my lawyer wants to start talking permits for filming in Manhattan, and oh here’s the message from the irate Puerto Rican Ex-Army man who now thinks I’m a bastard. Fuck.

Somewhere in between my room and the kitchen, something snaps. I guess it might have been whiplash from the conversations I had with my doctors earlier in the week, which at once confirmed my old fears and generated totally new ones. Whatever it was, it didn’t feel right; it was alien, totally removed from wherever I’ve been—

“You’re coming home, James. That’s it.”

My own self from five years ago comes roaring back. I hate him. No matter how infuriating the people around me get, not matter what they do to piss me off, I have never hated any of them outright. I loathe myself.
___________________________________________________________________

“Even for you, James, that was pretty out of character. I didn’t know what to say.”

I knew I was lost when Memphis stopped our conversation dead. I didn’t actually have any conception of what had happened until I mentally backtracked and realized that he said it, not me. What had caused it? Pressure and fear, dear reader. Several professionals had been quite confident over the past six months that I was not going to live to see next Christmas, and I was beginning to agree.

“You have to learn how to use that heart again, even after so many have broken it.”

I thought that I had reached the end of the line. I was dead certain that every move I was making would be among my last, and it was causing me to lose all perspective. Not much has changed; I’m still sick, and there’s still the chance that, well, this may be it. Who knows? Whatever happens, it’s important that I keep control, and that I live life in a manner with which I’m comfortable. I’m worlds away from where I started, so it’s important to remember what brought me this far in the first place. When you’re born dead, sometimes you have to remind yourself what made you lucky in the first place.

“If you need me, you call. If I don’t answer, you make damn sure to tell me I should call back. I don’t want things going all egg-shaped on us.

. . .Besides, we’ve lived through worse.”