Page 56 - The Myth and the Moment

Afternoon

“What? Now look, I had a job to do with that play. My disposition
was certainly not helped by Phil’s sabotage and butchery of my
dialogue. If you’re trying to tell me that I—”
“I’m just exorcising a personal devil, Nate. That’s the price for a
ticket to Phil’s house. If I’m trying to tell you anything, it’s that you
shouldn’t get hung up on one point of view. Reality is a mosaic of
subjective impressions. We co-exist without polarity. Don’t see your
problem purely in your own terms. The rest of us have different
ideas.”
“You know, I’d love to argue philosophy and psychology with you,
but our common ground might not be big enough for both of us.
I’ve been down the road to solipsism, and I came back. Most people
do. The ones who don’t: well, they seem to be unaware of where
they’re going. The situation—my problem, as you put it—is
compounded of facts and opinions. The facts are founded upon
observation, confirmed by the L.A.P.D.: I was robbed. The opinions
are based on guess-work: cui bono among them. If you think you
would have arrived at different conclusions, then I cannot accept
your logic. Period.”
“Okay. I’ve said my piece, Nate. You’re on your own, as always.”
“Sorry if I was rude.”
God, what a prickly-pear! But she sees me the same way. I’m in no
mood to convince her otherwise. Where are we? The Strip. She looks
right at home here. People on the make, intensely private but
definitely on display. The more you have, the less you are. The truly
wealthy can create a glittering shell and disappear within, none of
their human foibles exposed to view. What is more fascinating than
some wealthy eccentric, who lets it all hang out? A crack in the shell,
letting the masses in on all the terrible secrets: the drugs, the bizarre
habits of grooming and nutrition, the impossible relationships, the
hoards of bottle-caps and old underwear. The rest of us? Nowhere to
run, baby, nowhere to hide. I couldn’t maintain my anonymity
without being totally colorless. Two bugs the birds don’t mess with:
those they can’t see, and those gaudily painted with fluorescent skulls
and crossbones. But I made the mistake of wandering into a magpie’s
nest. Whoa! Hang on! Whip around that corner! She must be fairly
steamed at me. Tough. Manic Mocker, indeed! Well, she’s right about
one thing. I didn’t give a damn what the actors thought about my

55