the seventh wall
a short story by patrick michaelsen
whenever you do a line of coke, it makes sense to smoke a little weed to take the edge off
of course, weed makes you paranoid, so you should take a glass of whiskey to dull the senses
a bit of coffee to pick you up and relax you. don't want to blow through all the coke in one sitting. spread it out. ride the waves of energy. conceal the lows with other substances
a perfected process
i spent all day doing coke and coffee and none of it actually working
so much for productivity. i wasn't productive, but on the bright side, i felt i was on the constant verge of it the entire time
a knock at the door
"hello???" he bellows without leaving his desk
"hi" a faint voice on the other side
he approaches the door and opens it
on the other side of the security screen stands a small young man holding a clipboard next to his chest
in his open bathrobe and yellow-tinted sunglasses, the man gives his visitor an empty stare
"hello sir--"
"what do you want?"
"well, sir--"
"do you need me to sign anything? what's your pitch?"
"well we're just going around the neighborhood--"
"are you a solicitor? get lost. i'm busy"
he walks back from his door, towards his post. his writing station
the young man, a lost cause pitched against a lost cause, keeps on with the smarmery
what is it that you do?
i'm a writer
what do you write?
he approaches rapidly
what do you do?
... what do i?... do?
yeah, outside of work.
passions, hobbies?
school
what do you study?
accounting
well, everyone's passionate about something
the poet walks away as the salesman continues his pitch
"can't you see i'm busy?" he barks
halfway back to his post, he abouts face. he faces the man still silhouetted in his security screen door
"hey! you're trespassing!"
"sir i just--"
"i want you off my property!" he raises a finger and steps forward
they stand about 30' away from each other but it's close enough
this was just a bit too unhinged for the young man
this was not worth $12.50/hr
// the line above is narrated, not spoken
the salesman turns away from the security door and heads across the porch
"$12.50 an hour? is that what they make these days?" says the writer to himself, out loud
he watches through the blinds as the man walks down the driveway
he enters a nondescript van
(beat)
"cia?" he asks himself
he clambers back to his computer
on his machine, he types:
the cia knock at his door
he stops. he types again
"this is it. this is the moment" he thinks
he pauses again. he gets up. we hear the toilet flush. he returns to his post.
he gets up again
"this establishes the uncertain and startling nature of this characters life and mentality. he is on constant alert. his mind must fire on all cylinders. he must embrace his madness. but soon, madness follows him"
"good, that's good"
he weaves back to his desk. his legs bent too low, his arms splicing the air like a... like a... jagged desert tree..
// or plant, or palo verde, or lightning bolt of energy, or
his hands spiral and his fingers twirl
he arrives at his destination
"you're editing", he tells himself "don't edit"
// or maybe he doesn't
he types
of course, it wasn't the cia that came, it was simply a man selling solar
another knock
he checks his phone security camera
its ok, he's expecting him
"hello" he says, with a reverent sheepishness yet resolute in his message. "hello" he said. it was firm, respectable, but not aggressive. they were equals. but he knew he had one leg to stand on, and josh had two.
he had to show submission, show his regret. but dominant, affirmed in his actions.
CUT TO
INT. TABLE - DAY
// a tea kettle is boiling in the background. the writer prepares a french press. he pours coffee beans into the grinder. grinds them. fills the press with grounds. walks over with two empty cups. he places one in front of josh, and sits down
the two sit across from each other
the writer starts
"how are you doing?"
well and yourself
keeping busy, as you know. i wish we could have met under better circumstances
yeah, yeah, but it is what is is
we see the men rummaging around in a back house
well, we can't see them, only hear them and the clamoring of furniture and objects
// envision a scene from a wes anderson film. fantastic mr. fox meets fear and loathing in las vegas
the trunk of a car is slammed shut
two hands shake
"thank you"
"hey, no worries, i just want to keep the peace"
"i wish it were under better circumstances"
"right. sure."
the car drives away. the writer is left standing in the middle of street, watching him drive away.
the writer is at his post
the car drives away,
he typed
suddenly, a knock
this time. there's no one there.
not that he can see.
he sits down
he types
the writer is left standing...
he pauses. he looks from one side to another, without moving his head. right to left. he enters stealth mode. he enters high alert. his senses were primed.
someone. was in the house.
ACT II
the thing about searching a house for a person is
there's a lot more places for a person to hide than you realize
and you have to search it fast because they could move from room to room
that means if you're searching your own home, by yourself
you have to check under every bed, in every closet, in every row of coats in your closet (because just a quick glance won't do, one has to be scrupulous), every sofa, every corner behind the door, every shower curtain, the garage, the cupboards, hell, even the ceiling.
in a matter of minutes!
they could be in the hvac closet. they could be here to kill you, right now!
simply open this door and bam!
they're not behind this door, but perhaps the one by the water heater?
there's a moment where you realize you have enough enemies
to ever leave the door unlocked
you're relaxing in the evening
time to unwind with a nice bath
you slip into the tub
hot water streaming down from above
when suddenly you remember
you didn't lock the front door
that would be fine. except this was a day your enemy's had already paid you a visit. had an opportunity to scope you out. play it nice. play it "no hard feelings"
and then you receive ominously threatening messages afterwards
of all the days, this would be the day to play it safe
but then again, this had become so normal to you, that you might as well leave it open
and see how it plays out
they might be here to beat you
it doesn't worry you
until you remember leon
suddenly you leap up
no fucking way am i letting that happen
half naked in a towel waist wrap, you slowly get up and wait patiently for sounds outside the bathroom door
hearing nothing of suspicion, you grab your glasses from the counter
you don't put them on yet; too much steam
you brace yourself to arm them the moment you open the door and the fog dissipates
not a moment in the battle of war could be without sight
you can't leave a door unlocked when you have as many enemies as i have
you take a shower but you can hardly enjoy it
you re-enter the bathroom
content, more or less, you had fulfilled your obligated effort required to absolve yourself from regret, you sleek gently back into your shower
safe, at last
you realize, you didn't lock the door
but you're being paranoid
// the watch on the counter shows 2:31am
not narrated: suddenly someone bust through the door with a bat and the character wakes up. he had fell asleep in the bath.
i don't ever lose sleep on the things i did to other people
but i lose sleep over what they might do back
you can't leave a door unlocked when you have as many enemies as i have
ACT III
"that's good" he nods
as we see on his screen the words that were just narrated.
// he begins typing the final monologue, as we hear it narrated to us. actions below will be seen simultaneously
CUT TO
INT. BATHROOM - NIGHT
a hand turns on a bathtub spout
he undresses
he throws his watch onto the counter
2:05am
as the bath draws, he prepares a few lines
just a night-cap
if you don't manage your drug habit effectively, it can go unmanaged for a long time
an unmanaged drub habit becomes unmanageable
an unmanageable drug habit only ends one way
// we see him getting ready for bed. but we also see him typing. the two moments unfold, interleaved, as he writes the following monologue:
it's almost like we choose our own destiny
he dons a robe. the bath water is still drawing. we see him cleaning up, putting away the untouched coffee cups. dumping the unused boiled water. he continues chores until he prepares a bath. even better, he should finish making the coffee but never actually serve it. that way we can have a long awkward silence as he prepares the coffee
// these moments are interleaved this with moments from earlier in the story
we write our own story
not necessarily the characters
but the outcome, we do write
certainly, the outcome is one of your design
one of your machinations
the fate you chose.
your pen is your actions
your story is yours
what are you writing?
what ending will you choose?
and if you had to pick one book
only one book to read
for the rest of your life
would you pick the one you wrote?
or someone else's
he throws his watch on the counter
2:30 am
he drops his towel. he places one leg into the bath
// typing:
the fourth wall is when the fiction acknowledges it was written
he slips into the bath.
the fifth wall is when the fiction acknowledges it was written by you
and closes his eyes.
the sixth wall is acknowledging you are the fiction
and breaths out
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK
CUT FROM BLACK
he wakes up. his eyes move right to left. high alert. slow motion.
the seventh
the water moves slowly.
the sound of the water is slowed
we can hear his breathing.
is meeting your writer
we see him type:
CUT TO BLACK.