Postponing the Myth

By Jason Brown

Randy Lawrence had no idea that celebrating his 28th birthday in an East Hollywood bar would eventually start his life on a wild ride of a 2-year countdown to find fame or else. Suddenly each day counts and common worries melt away as Randy tries to find out what it means to become famous.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jason Brown
• Release date: Dec 8, 2013
• ISBN: 9781310454318

Jason Brown

Jason Brown is a rising young star in Hollywood who has studied dramatic and comedic acting at the University of California, Los Angeles. He often draws on his own life to entertain and inspire, including his experience connecting with his father, Karamo Brown, at the age of ten. Jason lives in Los Angeles, California.

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Postponing the Myth

A novel by Jason Brown

Copyright 2003 JasonBrown

Smashwords Edition

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Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

CHAPTER ONE

Marjorie Wilson hated the subway but she had no choice. It was especially bad that day too, one of the dog days of summer where the City was stacked like dead cows and reeked of exhaust. And the subway car was packed. They were all going somewhere or from something and because of the heat and discomfort they all looked like Marjorie, who was in a rush. Someone’s life was at stake but she couldn’t tell that to the people squashed around her; they wouldn’t care. She bit a nail and small flecks of understated pink nail polish floated for a brief, hopeful second before landing casually on the gray suit of an unsuspecting man, at least for the moment saved from the filthy ground of a New York subway car.

She was sweating. She could feel under her arms and in her hand where it was moist and warm. Clutched in her fingers was a folder that held the secrets to a man’s salvation. Marjorie shifted her weight to her left leg as the subway screeched and lurched to another stop. She couldn’t get there fast enough. She looked at her watch.

In a seat that nearly faced her, Marjorie realized a young punk was wearing a shirt that said ‘Somebody’s gonna die today’. She knew what was on the back of the shirt and it made her ill.

Hurry, hurry, hurry, she whispered under her breath. 42nd Street was next. Marjorie was exhilarated. This was the most important thing that she had ever done. It involved money and fame and death, three things that Marjorie didn’t know anything about. A plain life with happy, hard-working parents in Connecticut doesn’t give you the real gritty life that the City slaps in your face. She pushed up her glasses and wondered what it would be like at Times Square.

It was like a New Year’s celebration in July. All that was missing was the corpse of Dick Clark and the snow. There was confetti flying around and, flitting though the building sky at the very top, was a thin stream of blue. People and cheers and cops directing the stationary traffic. Marjorie clutched the folder to her chest. She couldn’t move. It had taken some effort to even get out of the subway stop. The area was full of people and the screaming was a deafening drone. She caught a glimpse of police restraining a religious group across the street and above them even the office windows were jammed with faces and neck ties, all craning upward to near the blue ribbon sky.

Marjorie made an effort towards the Marriot Marquee but this part of the street the news later that day would say was the most densely packed place on earth for three hours. She pulled off her glasses and, without their special case, could only put them into a pocket on her blouse. She turned around. Marjorie thought of getting back on the subway for a couple more stops. From the other side perhaps she could maneuver through the crowd better but she scratched that idea once she got another whiff of the hot death down below. She pushed away from the Marriot and Times Square and up 42nd Street.

It was less crowded there but packed like the fresh remnants of Mardi Gras still. Cars were honking but not moving and many stores had closed their doors for fear of the rioting. It was unsettling and Marjorie would have never come to this part of town on a day like today except that it was her company’s fault that someone was going to die today. She looked at her watch.

Shit, she said and took private satisfaction that her mother would have been disappointed that she had used profanity and because she knew it was the word to say. Marjorie promised herself that she would tell her mother the whole story if she got to him in time.

Marjorie ran to 48th street. She remembers pushing people and muttering apologies but she was on a mission and she couldn’t let some nobody get in her way. That was something she had learned from him but she’d been too shy to tell him. You can’t let anybody get in your way. Anybody. Marjorie caught sight of Broadway and she wasn’t looking forward to negotiating the crowds again. She could feel glimpses of it, wild sunlight with raised hands and confetti and a mixture of cheers and screams and protests. 48th Street filtered right into the heart of it all. She decided to reason with the police instead.

She passed her way into 46th street towards Broadway. About 50 yards before the melee the street was roped off with yellow police tape and four officers who looked ready but unsure of what they were doing there. Past them Marjorie could see more than 20 cops at the end of the street dealing with the heat of the action.

A short policeman with a thick brown mustache and sweat beads all over his face raised his hand in a halting motion as Marjorie neared. It was a practiced move. He’d been doing it for hours already and he was ready to go home. Marjorie could see his patience was gone.

Officer, Marjorie exclaimed once she reached the tape, officer, I’ve got to get up there.

Sure, lady, no problem. Just get in line with these other 10 broads who want to get up there.

She looked to her left where groupie-looking girls waiting in a faux-patient, gum-chewing line in the shade of the only building that mattered. They must have known they probably weren’t getting up there but wanted to be able to tell their friends later that at least they tried. The officer turned his back as if he had other things to tend to.

Officer, this is serious, Marjorie declared, thrusting the folder in the policeman’s direction once he turned around again.

What’s this? Officer Radke said without looking in the Manila folder, your resume? An officer standing next to him gave a perfunctory, exhausted chuckle.

No, she said but wasn’t sure where to start. Would he care that she worked for the publisher? Probably not, she decided. But still, she had no other legs to stand on.

A man is about to be murdered, she said and even to her it sounded ridiculous. Asinine is a better word, an old professor at Tulane would say with his early morning drawl.

This is New York, lady, somebody is probably being murdered right now. Officer Radke took off his cap and wiped his forehead with his arm. It glistened with sweat.

Officer, please, she said more desperately. Something very evil is happening here. She glanced at her watch. She probably had just enough time to get up there and explain everything. She grabbed Officer Radke’s arm and before he could protest, she told him sternly, Listen. I am from the publishing company that is putting this crazy party on. They’re the reason you’re working right now. They have done something they shouldn’t have and if I don’t get up there an innocent man is going to die.

But isn’t someone supposed to die today?

Not like this, she replied, holding the folder up as her bible-thumping testimony.

Officer Radke wasn’t thinking clearly. He was exhausted. He was tired and thirsty for a Michelob while watching the Mets game and all that probably clouded his judgment. He looked over at the other officer next to him, closed his eyes and licked his lips. Then he lifted the tape and Marjorie scrambled underneath it hurriedly.

Thank you, thank you, she cried as she ran past them and towards the madness of Times Square. She could see the sun as Moses’ arms reaching the uneducated masses and they bathed in confetti and death. Police officers at Broadway saw her and stopped her from proceeding. She was afraid she would have to go through the whole spiel again but behind her she saw Officer Radke wave, letting them know that she was all right to pass. They were reluctant, but with thousands of crazed onlookers behind them trying to push towards the building, they had bigger fish to fry. They were 30 minutes from using tear gas but no one knew that yet. It would be a natural progression from a naturally forced death in the heat of a Manhattan summer. A riot was brewing in the streets but it wouldn’t start until what they came for had happened. Marjorie was hoping to disappoint them all but she knew time was running out.

At the front of the Marriot Marquee, in a pocket of stability amidst thousands of a hot and delirious mob, Marjorie looked up at the top of the building. There’s no telling what the hell is going on up there, she thought. What is he thinking, right now, all alone atop a building in Times Square? She wished she was already there with him.

She reasoned with more policemen at the entrance before she was finally let through the front door, scrambling on the clean tile floor for an elevator while the screams outside squeaked quiet as the door closed.

Button, push, push, push. She breathed heavily. A rush, exhilaration, come on, come on, she screamed inside. There would never again be a day she took for granted. She didn’t want a contract for her life. Having a little less was worth having your own life. She pushed the up button furiously.

The elevator was turned off, she was told by a passing cop. She would be forced to use the stairs. Cursing, she could feel the sweat spots under her arms in the cool air conditioning. Marjorie took a deep breath and prepared herself to walk up 50 flights of stairs.

This is where time froze. She was halfway across the lobby towards the door for the stairs when the crowd began chanting. It only had a chance to repeat a few times and then there was a hush. She turned and took a step towards the front doors which were covered in a sea of police.

A sickening thud and a hush followed by a horrifying manic reaction from the crowd. Marjorie pushed through the front door and past the cops she saw mayhem.

It was too late.

CHAPTER TWO

Day 1

I can’t believe how fast the last two years have gone by. Today is the last full day I will ever live and I am proud to say that I was a relatively happy person and I could pinpoint when my life changed. It was two years and four days ago that I decided this was a good idea. It was worth it, I think.

I hope you find this someday, everything that you’ve ever said or thought seems meaningless next to this. Should I be proud of myself? I accomplished my goal though there are other goals for all of us.

There are people calling and saying hello as if we’d been friends forever. They know me; they know my face and so they think they know me better than they really do. They have read my words and seen my face on television. That doesn’t mean shit. I still have a private life and you are it. I have been holding back from my journal installments because there were some things that I didn’t want you to know but by the time you find this I’ll be dead and famous. Some might say that’s not a good combination but that’s why my decision isn’t for them. It isn’t for anybody else and that’s why you’re reading this. You want to try and understand why in the hell I’ve done what I’ve done. It doesn’t make sense for an outsider but if there’s one thing I learned about being famous: you’re either somebody or there’s no point. If you understand that then you understand me.

When I was eleven years old I took money from my mom’s purse and I bought a copy of Rolling Stone magazine. I’ll remember forever, it had Run DMC on the cover and I sat in the backyard behind the shed and looked at every picture. It was their eyes that got me. You could tell that all those people in there knew they were being photographed. They were glassy and distant, looking past you. I couldn’t imagine having a picture taken of me and I was looking past them. I wanted that. I ate Slim Jim’s all afternoon until I puked on the Rolling Stone and tried to avoid my mom as I went upstairs and lay on my bed. Jesus Christ, what happened to those days?

I remember around day 473 when I met that chick in Chicago. She thought I was some great person because of what I was doing. I still didn’t know what she was talking about then. That was when things were taking off and they were going too good for me to stop and notice. Goddamn, I’ve been on top of the world for over a year now.

I’m glad I started keeping this journal. For awhile, everything I wrote was given to those magazines and to the publisher but I needed my own life. They squeezed so much out of me and it made me try harder to dig inside and give them what they wanted, but finally I got this journal and this has been what the journey has been about. This has been for me. It’s the things that they never knew which are the most precious to me. Unfortunately you’re reading this now which means they did know everything about me. I’ve been thinking lately that they’ve known all along I had this journal and now they’ve got everything. There isn’t a private written thought I’ve had in 450 days that they don’t know. Those sons of bitches, I’ll give them something they’ll never forget.

Marcus said he wasn’t going to come today. He said that it was stupid and he tried to tell me that I didn’t have to go through with it. He wouldn’t listen though. I think he just didn’t want to be in that kind of spotlight and so I can forgive that but I wish he was here. Kyle said he’d make it and I should see him tomorrow. He said he had a gig here in town but I don’t believe him. I’m just glad he’s gonna be here. But Marcus, he’s been such a large part of this journey for me that it would be great to have a beer with him and talk about the Dodgers as if none of this was real. And Marjorie. I could tell that she wanted to say something to me yesterday when we were at lunch but she didn’t. I’ve gotten used to that the last few months. People look at me like I’ve got food on my face but they can’t tell me. They open their mouths, and then look away, changing the subject to, of all things, the weather. I haven’t cared about the weather in a long time but it’s those momentary connections that have meant the most because I know they’ll remember me after I’m gone. That has been the most soothing thought the last months. People will remember me. Having that out in my conscious actions have made me give better handshakes, look people in the eye longer. I love looking people in the eye. They stare at me as I walk by as I know the secrets of the world but I don’t speak. I haven’t learned anything that I could tell them that would make sense to them.

That’s one of the ironies of this whole thing. I would love to sit down with one or two people and try and explain to them what has happened the last two years but they just want to read the book. They want to stare at me and then read the book. I see it in their eyes. They want to commit my face to their memory so they can sit in their homes across the river in New Jersey and read my story and know they saw me once.

First, I’m sorry this is so babbling but this is the last thing I’ll ever write. I have to get it off my chest. I want to explain to them that they’ve missed the whole point but what good would that do? Take this Karen for example. I had a publicity thing near outdoor mall yesterday and this girl was there. She was so hot with a warm and fun face. I was having trouble concentrating on the people there and she soaked it up. She stood near the signing, just close enough that I would notice her but without her being in the way. It wasn’t her first time as a groupie.

She waited until the signing was over and as I was being escorted away she came up to talk to me. Normally Jimmy and Bull stop people from getting too close to me now but with a girl like that, everyone’s defenses go down. She touched my arm and leaned and whispered a sentence that had the word ‘privacy’ in it. I took her back to the hotel.

I wish you could have seen Jimmy and Bull’s faces when Karen got into the limo with us. They tried not to notice.

The chick wanted to do it on the balcony of my penthouse suite. I wasn’t about to say no. Jesus, what a way to go out, and in a way, I think that’s what she wanted. I had her hanging off that fucking balcony and her eyes were looking past me as if she was the famous one.

Afterwards, I thought she wanted to know me, and she did, but not in the way that I thought. She wore the white hotel bathrobe with her feet up on the table and she ate red grapes as carefree as possible. She wanted to know about places I’d been and famous people I’d met. She didn’t want to know who I was; she wanted to know who I knew. It made her boring. I had Jimmy and Bull get her out of the room and they were happy to escort her out of the penthouse while still wearing the robe. She had her clothes in her arms and was yelling obscenities. I didn’t give a shit. I had gotten what I wanted from her and in a way, with me writing this, I guess she got what she wanted too. That’s how it works, it turns out.

I had the most disturbing dream last night. It was after Karen had gone and I had spent the end of the night drinking this obscure Belgian beer that I fell in love with when I was there a few months ago. I’ve been tempted to drop one of the empty bottles off the balcony to hear how long it takes to crash from 40 floors up but I decided against it. I’m glad too, because I would have never slept last night if I had known how distant that sound was. Instead, I dreamt about growing up with everything and dying a rich man with no past. I wore a red velour robe at 11 years old and I had one nurse to turn the pages of a Rolling Stone and another to feed me Slim Jim’s. It was a perfect dream, at first. Then I was older and nothing satisfied me. The nurses were naked now and I had a fancy car outside but it hurt to walk. I watched the stars glide across the sky and one day one of them fell from the sky and it wasn’t a star at all. It was me.

I was up at four this morning. I watched ‘I Love Lucy’ and old game shows that succeeded in reminding me of my childhood.

Do you realize that this is the last thing you will ever hear from me? There won’t be some big ‘secret documents and setters’ book published two years after they’re discovered in a drawer in Carmel, California. This is it. I hope you got it somehow. I know it’s all ridiculous but it is what it is.

Well, time is running short so I’ll just take a minute and talk to you specifically. You. What brought you to this book? Did you really want to know what it was like to be famous? Is that what this was all about? It shouldn’t be. I know that now. Maybe it started with me wanting to be famous but now it has become about what’s between life and death. The girls, the places and the things I’ve seen, the conversations I’ve had and the beers I’ve drunk. Are they aspects or ingredients? There haven’t been many low points and maybe that’s why this isn’t that difficult for me to do. I’ve signed a contract and they’ve held up their end of the bargain so it’s time for me to do mine, right?

I am thirty years old and I’m going to die today. It seems as if life is cheating me but if you know me then you know that it’s the other way around. I stole from this world the fruits of all of our desires and I only had to give my life in return. You probably scoffed at that sentence but it was easy. Just ask Karen. That chick was humiliated with how she was thrown out of here but I bet if you asked her she’d say it was worth it. She’d act like it wasn’t and she’d be offended by how she was disrespected but if you ever found her personal journal like this, there’d be squeals of delight with how little she had to give to get the thrill of a lifetime. Hell, that’s been my life for well over a year now.

I’m sure some of this will be edited before it makes it to print but know that I died a happy man. I accomplished more than most people do in their entire lives. I get to be one of those people who others wonder what might have come from my life if it hadn’t been taken from me so suddenly. Suddenly? Ha! I’ve known about this for 730 days. It was enough time, trust me.

Hey. Come here, come closer. You don’t have to be who they think you should be. Make a stand about something you feel strongly about and watch how the rest of life falls into place. I just went outside for ten minutes to watch the sun rise. It will be the last, forever. If nothing else, death makes you melodramatic. I’ve started speaking in simple sentences as if all of life can be captured in just a few words.

Now that daylight is here I can admit that it’s hard for me to say goodbye. I’m going to miss the attention. Being famous is so fucking cool, don’t let anyone tell you differently.

I’m back from a breakfast of hard-boiled eggs and some bread with jelly. I feel like smoking a cigar and getting a blow job. I guess some things will never change.

There was a knock on the door just now but I told them I needed a few minutes. I am, after all, the star attraction.

Goodbye guys and girls. Make your lives count. It doesn’t have to be like mine, but make sure you give them something to talk about after you’re gone.

This all came about over a bet. That’s how fickle life is. If my life has meant anything, then this book will start with…

CHAPTER THREE

It’s hard to believe that it all started at the Good Luck Bar. Drinking and dark red lighting, an Asian bar for wannabes and up-and-comers, and there were three men in their late twenties who fit their respective molds.

Marcus, the actor. He had short black curly hair against his summer Greek face that let his blue eyes pierce the sky. His smile had gotten him a gum commercial after small theater groups had proven his talent. He was removed and aloof but it was his sense of humor that rose above those things.

Kyle, the musician. His long greasy hair would have been out of date but some people can use fashion a decade after it had crumbled for most others. It was the kind of hair that had been accompanied with white Levis years earlier but the guy could sing. And he thought he was crazy, a common trait to any rock singer who listened to the Doors too much. Still though, it had developed into an easy charm for him and he capitalized on it with the ladies whenever possible. But the guy never worked. He’d been staying at Marcus’ house, crashing in a large closet for over a year and he never had any money. It was something that was often the cause of jokes between the three of them, the third being Randy. Randy worked at a TV show but sat in his spare time writing some novel that no one would ever read. He held it too tightly and Marcus and Kyle loved to razz him about it. Randy always wore a thrift store shirt that went with his handmade haircut and it was clear it wasn’t his biggest concern – he was a pre-hipster.

The lighting in the bar was bordello red and they were standing at the bar with an unknown Jimi Hendrix song blaring overhead as the Chinese bartender whipped up froufrou drinks for girlfriends of guys just like Randy, Marcus and Kyle.

I think we’re getting a gig at the Whiskey next month, Kyle said in defense of how long it had been since he’d bought a round of beers.

That’s a long time to go without a drink, Marcus said. He looked across the bar at a pair of girls he wanted to think might recognize him. He smiled at them.

Well, we’re moving on up, Kyle sang, another of his infamous Curtis Mayfield lines that was supposed to speak for him.

Fuck it, I’ll buy this round, Randy said, motioning for the bartender to come to their end of the bar. A new song, funky and mysterious began beating up and bouncing down.

Man, doesn’t it get old going to work everyday?

Is that your way of saying thanks, Kyle?

Randy, looking casually at the two women Marcus had been working on, turned and said, Well, we all can’t get famous without paying bills in the meantime.

Shit, Randall, Kyle said, emphasizing Randy’s birth name, you’re never gonna be famous.

Sure, I will.

How? From that fucking book of yours you don’t let anyone read? he scoffed.

The drinks arrived and Randy handed them out while avoiding the slow stream of people trying to get by.

I’ll be famous one day, he muttered.

How? Kyle demanded. He was being especially saucy that night.

I will be. In two years, by the time I’m thirty, that’s my plan.

Finally, Marcus said, Randy is confident about something. And in celebration, he said, handing the other two shots of liquor, dark in the lighting, here’s some tequila. To being famous.

Shots down, Randy wiped his mouth. Something had stirred in him, and it was just the agave. Fuck you guys. I’ll make it. I don’t care what it takes. He finished the beer he had and started the new one. I’ll tell you how serious I am, too, he said, pointing his new beer at Kyle. I’ll be famous in two years by the time I’m thirty or I’d rather be dead. And I don’t just mean playing the Whiskey on a weekend or doing a fucking gum commercial."

Ooh, Kyle mocked.

I’m serious. I’d rather be dead in 2 years. I’m sick of this bullshit, he said and motioned to all of the people around him.

Boy, tequila makes you pleasant.

And what will you do if you aren’t? Marcus asked. Two years can go by pretty fast.

Randy shook his head and then said, I’ll kill myself. Thought builds steam. I’ll fucking kill myself if I’m not famous in two years.

Bullshit!

Shut up, Randy, Marcus condemned.

He nodded his head, unsure but sticking to it. No, I will.

Bullshit! You don’t have the balls.

We’ll see. A large swallow of beer, and then in a formal booming voice overheard by people around them at the bar, I declare that I will kill myself in two years if I’m not famous.

Cat calls, laughter but it egged him on even more. Drunk and now fully determined the stage had been set.

~~:::~~

It wasn’t every day that Randy woke up with his clothes and shoes on. The sun was annoying and slid right through the blinds in an attempt to test his sense of humor at 7:43 am on a Saturday. No work. A free day where he wasn’t responsible to anyone except the pain in his head. And it hurt. He moved to the couch where he slept for a couple more hours, just barely getting his shoes off and some Advil in before he dozed and dreamt of the Good Luck Bar.

He was a prostitute working outside the bar and he watched people come and go all night. They were faceless attitudes in fur coats and on a chilly LA night he shivered and was glad he was above that. Then he got his first customer of the night and it was Kyle but he wanted to trade Randy’s valuable services for a serenade. It made Randy angry, even in his sleep and he got really pissed when Marcus came out later in the night and want to do his best Hamlet impression for a blowjob.

Randy awoke. He was over the fact he was a male prostitute in his dream but it was his two friends’ abuse of him that he couldn’t take. TV on. Baseball on Fox. Good. Three hours of his day taken up. Some days there was too much time in one day. Thirst, socks off, blinds down, he didn’t want to know what time it was, ever. Time wasn’t on his side; it was one big countdown before being laid to rest in a grave no one went to visit. This is what a hurt head did to a man.

Lunch in Randy’s apartment consisted of answering the door and eating pizza from the box while watching a Dodgers-Mariners interleague game. What happened to baseball, he wondered. Those two teams aren’t meant to see each other unless it’s spring training or the World Series. Everyone has sold out, he decided.

Randy wasn’t always hungover. There was a time, in college of all places, where he didn’t drink and indulge. He worked at the school newspaper and spent countless hours editing articles on the basketball team’s loss at New Mexico State and writing reviews of new college radio albums like Mathew Sweet and Ben Harper. He lived at the small office in the psychology building that was the headquarters for the school paper. He loved it and he always considered it the time in his life when he was happiest.

One night, he left the paper about midnight, driving the sleepy dreamy streets of a small college town, on his way to the best bakery in town. His girlfriend, a quiet and meek girl who was ambivalent about all the things that pissed people off, worked the night shift making bagels and loaves of bread that would be bought the next morning while she slept. She wasn’t as boring as she might sound, but she once told Randy that she liked her life much better when everyone else was sleeping. It gave her time to make sense of everything that confuses a girl of 19 years. Her roommate had joined a sorority and Julie the baker had done just the opposite.

Randy and Julie spent many late nights having sex while bagels baked and dough rose and the world was on pause for a few hours. The flour usually got everywhere and Randy would clean it up while Julie put a new batch in the oven. Randy wrote articles that no one read and Julie baked bread. This was their life one Fall.

The one night in question was cold. It was purple and quiet and driving in a town like that in the mountains made roads leaving the small downtown area seem like wonderful little rides in a forgotten amusement park. The world was frozen as violet trees on a mountain horizon and the road Randy drove on swung right in a wide gesture of gravity. He sped up because some moments were worth hurrying for.

He had planned on working on an article on some new school legislation that was going to increase school tuition by ten percent. Nobody knew about it and it was about to be passed but Randy had one night to work on the article if it was to make the Monday edition. He felt like a muckraker, the kind of position that feels good when you’re still wet behind the ears. It’s not as vindicating to point out the wrongs of the world when your skeleton closet is teeming.

The bakery was dark and shadowed from the moon and there was a light on in the back. That was Julie. She was the only one who worked at night and all she needed was one light. That’s what kind of girl she was.

Flour floated like dust particles in the light and Julie’s