AD: Indie Film Makers wanted to work on documentary. Lots of loose women. Free goat cheese and all profits to be shared equally. Serious inquiries only.
Larry was the first fish bite. Larry was the only fish to bite. By email. Larry said he felt compelled to reply just to see what the deal was with someone giving away free goat cheese. Larry said he didn’t like goat cheese but he had nothing against loose women. I invited him to call me if he was serious about the gig. I lied and told him that I was so busy processing the overwhelming number of responses to the ad that he would have to phone at a pre-arranged time; later that evening at 10:00 pm. right after South Park.
The phone rang at ten. I was about to type ‘on the nose’ but didn’t. I was about to type ‘sharp’ but I’m glad that I didn’t. My wife asked who the hell would be calling so late. She was rabid, brushing her teeth with a mouth full of foamy paste.
“Must be some nocturnal freak,” says I, lumbering around in my pajamas hunting for the cordless phone. I found the handset from on top of the fridge, and headed downstairs, stepping over the dog laid out on the third step. Indeed, it was Larry, except he introduced himself as ‘Mississippi Larry’.
“Are you from Mississippi?”
“No.”
I didn't ask if he was any relation to Bangus Fact Checker Mississippi Gary. We spent a few minutes feeling each other out, telephonetically. I didn’t want him to know he was the only one who had replied to my ad.
“Do you have a crew?” I asked.
“Yeah. I have a sound guy and another guy who does some of my camera work. We come as a trio,” he said.
“Listen, what are some of your favourite movies?”
“Gummo.”
“Cool. Okay. So, okay, here’s the deal: I’m in the process of writing the Greatest Book Ever Written, Ever. See?”
“You mean the Bible?”
“No.”
“More DaVinci Code bullshit?”
“Hardly, my man. What I need you for is to document this whole odyssey; the angst and torture that I’ve been going through. No one sees the drama behind the scenes of a writer.”
“Gotcha.”
“It would have plenty of elements that I know would make for good cinema verité.”
“Kind of like a Gonzo thing?”
“Exactly.”
“Cool.”
“So how long have you been into movie making?”
“A couple of years. My last film won the Big Nickel award for Best Short Film at the Sudbury Indie Film Festival.”
“Really. That’s impressive. What was it about?”
“Nothing really. I just had some guy sitting on a couch in the bush while people shot at him with high-powered rifles.”
“Wow. That’s brilliant!” I was impressed.
“Yeah, but obviously the marksmen were all blindfolded so there was no danger for the guy on the couch.”
“Obviously. So, what was the name of the film?”
“Sofa #12.”
“Outstanding.”
“Yeah, we shot it last November. It was freezing rain.”
“Okay, well I’m getting a good vibe here, Larry.”
“Mississippi Larry,” he corrected.
“Right, sorry. Anyway, it looks like we’d get along fine. Are you sure you know what I’m after?”
“Uh, kind of like an American Movie kind of thing, right?”
“Yeah, but I’m not as desperate as Borchardt.”
“Sure, cool.”
“I’m really not.”
“Okay.”
The documentary was a terrible idea. I had to can Mississippi Larry and his band of no-goods - the whole operation was just getting out of hand. I was spending more time jerking around with these guys than writing. They were just too much of a distraction, following me everywhere; to the post office, to Wal-Mart to buy half-ply toilet paper. They followed me while I tried to help my neighbour change the tire on his crappy old Corolla. They filmed me showering. They filmed me getting refills on all my prescriptions. They sat in the back of the Jeep and filmed me driving to the grocery store to return an opened bag of flour which had been recalled for something. They filmed me cursing at CNN’s heavily biased coverage of something not quite newsworthy. They filmed me doing everything but actually writing; primarily due to the fact that all the while they were filming me, I was not writing. When I was actually working out some nebulous plot, they just stood around getting into mischief while annoying my family. I felt like I should be doing something more entertaining, like juggling chainsaws or flaming kittens. After a few days they lost their passion for the whole affair, and just stopped filming. Sure, they’d still come out to the house, but had stopped unpacking their stolen gear. They just left everything in Mississippi Larry’s mini-van. Actually, he told me it was his mother’s mini-van. These cats were sucking the soul out of me, daddio. I couldn’t write a word with these guys loitering around. They spent the days playing pool, smoking outside, and playing some video game with Snoop Dogg in it. I scrapped the whole thing. After they left I couldn’t find my Donnie Darko DVD and my Lenny Bruce bio. I think Mississippi Larry stole them, but I can’t prove it, so I’ve decided to let it go. I think one of them may have stolen some change from Shannon, my son – nothing serious, mind you – less than sixteen bucks in quarters. Shannon demanded that I call the cops on them and let Canada’s legal system have its way with them. Or at the very least, Judge Judy. He referred to Mississippi Larry as a “dim-witted bottom feeder.” I had to agree with him. I gave Shannon twenty bucks to help him regain his faith in mankind. Faith no longer comes cheap, unless you buy it in bulk at Costco.
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