Memphis Movie (9 page)

Ever since he had moved back to Memphis in 2004 his house had become a haven for runaways, musicians, artists of every stripe, political outlaws and what passed for bohemian culture in Bush's America. He was the kindly grandfather figure to many young neo-hippies, when he was not the lover to many young neo-hippie chicks who wanted an authentic “beatnik” experience.

Camel's lifelong love, the willowy artist Allen, she of the boy-chest and drop-dead hips, she of the sculptures that defied both gravity and grace, had died in 2002 after a protracted battle with cancer. It damn near broke Camel's heart and, back in Memphis, he was both woeful and tranquil. He had danced with Death. He now saw the downhill of life and it pleased him, though without Allen he was also sad as a neutered dog.

It was a rainy morning that found Eric and Sandy on Camel's front doorstep. They had called ahead but were unsure whether
their message had gotten through. The answering machine said: “Commander Cody's Air Force and Rehabilitation Union. Please drop your name and maybe someone will pick it up. Then again, there's the other thing.”

Eric said, “Camel, Sandy and I are coming by this morning. Hope that's ok.”

The machine cut him off between
o
and
k
.

Now, they stood under one umbrella, ringing the doorbell. Faintly, they could hear a vaguely familiar tune.

“What's that?” Sandy said. “It sounds—”

“Camel calls it ‘Tubular Doorbells.'”

“Ah.”

Nothing happened.

They rang the tune again.

Still nothing.

They turned toward the street and looked around. Between them and the street was the overgrown front yard: Camel's garden.

There was a rustle amid the cabbages. What looked like a gargantuan toadstool turned out to be Camel's back in an ecru Macintosh bent to the task of plucking small worms from his Mary Jane plants.

“Camel,” Eric said into the drizzle.

The becoated figure turned.

“I'll be damned. Craig Brewer!” Camel exclaimed.

“It's Eric, Camel. Eric Warberg.”

“Of course you are,” Camel said.

Camel Eros looked much older than Eric was prepared for. The death of Allen had taken a great toll on him; his weathered hippie face looked like a map running in the rain. He still favored shoulder-length hair and a vest of many pockets and pants patched with symbols of peace and communion. His mustache hung loose and morose, dripping.

“Come in, come in,” Camel said now. “If I'd known you were coming—”

“We left a message on your machine,” Eric said.

“What machine?” Camel asked, seeming genuinely perplexed.

“Your answering—”

“Got rid of that years ago,” Camel said, ushering them inside.

An enthusiastic border collie met the group at the door. He seemed to engage his whole body in his tail wagging. It was a dance unlike any Eric had ever seen.

“That's Fido,” Camel said. “Smartest dog on the planet. So smart when I leave the house I leave him written instructions.”

“It's a border collie, right?” Eric said.

“Yes. They're shepherds. I haven't lost a sheep since I got him.”

Camel seemed to mean it, to value the dog's innate abilities and his intact flock.

Stepping into Camel's house was like stepping through a door into a Lost World. It looked as if it had been decorated in 1969 by Abbie Hoffman and Wavy Gravy and had never been dusted since. The posters, rugs, ojos, lamps, macramé, albums, all seemed foxed with age, scattered, scrambled and stacked, yet timeless. Sleeping on a sprung sofa was a near-naked teenage girl. She was short, blonde, Slavic in her features. She was perhaps Hungarian; her people were perhaps Hungarian. Her breasts were round cups of pleasure and her little curved belly softly inviting. Someone had drawn a peace symbol around her navel, a pouting outie. She was sound asleep, sucking her thumb.

“That's Lorax,” Camel said. “At least I think that's what she said her name was.”

“She a friend?” Sandy asked with a worldly smirk.

“Don't know, don't know,” Camel said. “Showed up last night. Said she just got to town from Louisiana. Boyfriend in Memphis
somewhere, hence my couch. I think she's on the way to California, or maybe that was someone else.”

“Uh-huh,” Eric said.

“So, whatcha doing here, my man?” Camel asked. He gestured as if they should all sit but there were no empty chairs.

“I thought someone had contacted you. We are looking for a writer to punch up our script. To, you know, add some Memphis Mojo.”

“A writer, eh?” Camel seemed to go into a fugue of thoughtfulness. He was genuinely pondering the question.

“I don't know,” he said after a time. “I used to write.”

“Yes,” Eric said. “We're here to ask if you would be that writer.”

“Oh, oh, I see.”

Sandy found a beanbag that might be a chair and dropped onto it.

“You remember Sandy, right?” Eric said. “She's my—my scriptwriter. She's—well, we're here to make a movie.”

“Yes, yes, I'm getting it now,” Camel said.

“What do you think?”

“I, that is, I don't know. Can I throw the I Ching and get back to you?”

“Camel, sure, whatever. We know you can do this.”

“A movie. I haven't seen a movie since—since
Porky's
. That's a hilarious film. Have you seen
Porky's
, Sandy?”

Sandy didn't even look up. She was doing something with her BlackBerry.

“
Porky's
. Yeah. But, Camel, you don't have to technically know movies. We're looking for local color. Someone to add poetry to Sandy's strong storyline.”

“Hm-mm. Poetry, mm. What
is
the story?”

Eric looked for someplace to sit. Finally he sat yoga-style on
the carpet. Under his ass was the Monkees'
Headquarters
LP. It crackled.

He laid out the bare bones of the story for Camel, who paced during the telling.

“Huh,” he said when Eric was through.

“What, I ask again, do you think?”

“First, I'll need some reds.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I don't know, Craig. I guess I can give you some help.”

“Great, great,” Eric said. He looked to Sandy for encouragement. She was text-messaging someone. Eric only briefly considered that it might be her lover from their first night in Memphis.

“Hey, you guys want something to drink?” Camel said now, a smile creasing his soft leather face.

“Whatcha got?” Eric said.

“Oh. Nothing. There's nothing to drink here, Craig. I thought maybe you'd buy me a libation.”

Sandy finally spoke: “Yes, let's do that,” she said. “Let's please start drinking.”

17.

“That's a little too much gun for household use, but lemme—”

“I like it. I like the heft of it. I like the rubber grip,” Dan Yumont said.

“Yes, it's a beauty, the Raging Bull they call it. Too much gun, really. But, look, look at this honey. This little puppy will do the do. Feel it in your hand.”

“Hm, yeah, I like it. I do like the way my hand hides it.”

“That's our bestselling piece. That's all you need. The other, the Bull, will stop anything short of a rhinoceros.”

“I have some friends who are short of a rhinoceros so this'll be good.”

“Heh, yeah, look, Jack, let's put the other, let's put that cannon back.”

“I like them both. But I want the cannon.”

“Oh. Well, sure. I mean, I'm here to sell guns.”

“How much? How much for the Raging Bull and a box of shells?”

“Well, lemme tell you, that's gonna set you back. Now—”

“I'll give you 1,500 for everything, as long as there are no strings.”

“Well—heh—the strings, we can maybe let that slide a bit, but—”

“Seventeen-fifty.”

“Yeah, yep. That's a deal.”

“Good. Load 'er and I'm on my way.”

“Load it?”

“Problem? Load it and I am on my way.”

“Ah, cash, well. Lemme—you know—you look familiar. Something about the way you hold that piece. I can't place it.”

“You see many movies?”

“Movies, nah. I don't go out much. The wife, she's got phlebitis, she don't like to go out much.”

“Like this, if I hold the gun like this?”

“Wait. Wait. Oh. Oh, shit. Yeah,
Murder Among Friends
. Or, what was it?
Murder with a Vengeance
? You're—you're Harrison Ford.”

“Close enough.”

“Really? Shit. Wait till I tell the wife.”

“Nice to meet you—eh—”

“Tom.”

“Tom, nice to meet you.”

“You here to make a movie?”

“Nah. Nah, no movie. I'm here to make a hit for a friend. Don't tell anyone, ok?”

“Heh-heh, right. Listen, thanks, Mr. Ford.”

“Yes, Tom. Thank you.”

18.

The bartender, accustomed even to early morning drinkers, still seemed perplexed at his patrons. They seemed exotic, from some other place. Perhaps it was Camel's flop-brimmed hat.

“The story,” Eric was saying, “is about cynicism. It's about how irony only takes one so far and then you discover that you are tightrope walking without a net.”

Camel was nodding, sagely, into his beer.

“It's all but written,” Sandy added. “Though, typically, what we do is keep the script fluid, malleable, especially when we go on location and we're unfamiliar with the local zeitgeist. That's where you come in.”

“Local zeitgeist,” Camel said.

“Sure,” Eric reassured him.

“Will I, like, be on set?”

“No, not necessarily. We're hoping you can communicate with us by email as we go. We'll give you pages and—”

“Email,” Camel said.

“You don't have email,” Eric said. It wasn't a question.

“That entails a computer, am I right?” Camel suddenly sounded like a schoolboy.

“Sorry . . . um, we can work differently. What do you think, Sand?”

“Well, we can work . . . differently.”

“Yes,” Eric said.

“Ok, sure. Gimme some pages and I'll see what's what.”

“That's great, Buddy.” Eric was straining his effusiveness. He was about out of it.

“And you can get me drugs?”

“Sure.”

“Hollywood drugs.”

“Sure, Camel. Hollywood drugs.”

“Hey, did you see that special on Dylan last night?”

“No—I didn't—”

“He's gone electric,” Camel said.

19.

Sandy and Eric gave Camel a working copy of the script. First, all three of them had to go to Kinko's to print a copy from Sandy's laptop since giving Camel a zip drive of it would be inane.

“Memphis Movie,” Camel read, weighing the pages in his hand as if they were so many tomatoes.

“Working title,” Eric said.

“I like it,” Camel said. “It's kind of like ‘This is not a pipe,' except you're saying it is, it is a pipe. Or in this case, a movie.”

“R-right,” Eric said. “Take it home, live with it for a few days. But we need to get rolling, so, you know, ASAP (he pronounced it “ay-sap”), anything you think you can help us with.”

“Yep,” said Camel.

After they dropped him off on Rembert Street Eric had to take a call from Jimbo.

“Hey, what's up?” Eric asked.

“Have you been drinking?” Jimbo asked.

“A beer.”

“That's my dog.”

“Yes. What, I repeat, is up?”

“Since we're not shooting today I thought you'd want to see the grocery store I found, you know, the one Ike's character owns.”

“I'm sure it's right,” Eric said. “Use your best judgment.”

“Um, ok. When should we get together?”

“Later. I'll call you later this afternoon.”

“People to do, things to see, right?”

“Yes, later—”

“Ok, Buddy, I'll—”

Eric hung up.

“I have someplace to be,” Sandy said.