Santa Monica,
California
September 14, 1936
Dusk surrenders to the creeping black of night. His bedside lamp is now lit. When did that happen? It casts hazy shadows across the walls.
A whisper of gold catches his eye. Norma’s Academy award? Or his? Didn’t he win one, too? He can’t be sure. Of anything.
Fatigue grinds him down. His eyelids, heavy as marble, close once more.
A sound erupts in his head. Is it rain? In September? Is it still September?
He strains to listen.
Applause?
That can’t be right. There’s nobody here but me.
Is there? Is he alone? Where did that gold come from?
He glimpses a hill. It disintegrates.
Am I having a fever dream? Is there really no gold? No rain? No applause?
The hill appears again, covered with—flowers? No! People. Dozens of them in fantastical costumes. Greens! Oranges! Reds!
He licks his lips and forces himself to voice the couplet that comes to him:
“O, I am out of breath in this fond chase!
The more my prayer, the lesser is my grace.”
Max’s Midsummer Night’s Dream. What a spectacular night it had been. The staging. The performances. Korngold’s music.
Is it any wonder I was inspired?
Mad. They thought me utterly mad. Mayer. Schenck. Cukor. Norma. But you have to be proud of what you leave behind. Your work. Your children. Your words. Your deeds. If you can’t look back on them with pride, then what’s it all for?
I am out of breath in this fond chase.
Dream must have thousands of couplets, but this one sticks with me.
Yes, the chase has been fond.
This everyman is running out of breath. He can hear his own wheezing amid the silence. Deathly silence. Oppressive and suffocating.
Why did I insist on soundproofing this house? What I wouldn’t give to hear the Pacific crash onto the shore. Why doesn’t somebody open a window?
He swallows, wincing.
Damned sore throat. Feels like it’s been drenched in battery acid. But aren’t I on the mend? I felt better than this yesterday. Wasn’t it yesterday? Or was it? What day is it today?
Week.
Day.
Hour.
Words have lost their meaning. He can no longer measure the passage of time.
His joints ache. He tries to raise his shoulders off the mattress but gives up. He’s not sure where his fingers end and the sheets begin. He can’t tell his skin from the air around him. Everything feels so fluid.
Familiar faces are starting to dim.
Norma. Jack. Katherine. Junior. Mother. Lawrence. David.
Why can’t I picture them? Focus! FOCUS!
Vague images swim past him. Winking eyes . . . a lock of hair . . . camera lens . . . microphone. But he can’t hold on to any of them. Norma’s giggle . . . Harlow’s gasp . . . the snap of a clapboard . . . the shrill of a filming bell . . . Garbo calling his name . . . L.B. rubbing his hands together.
Or is L.B. calling his name and Garbo rubbing her hands together?
They’re all wisps floating by.
A wave of nausea swells up, drenching him in sweat. He breathes lightly as it washes away, leaving him listless.
A vision rises before him. Wide. Tall. But it won’t show its face. It stays out of focus.
Slowly, it sharpens.
Not one face, but dozens.
No, not dozens but hundreds. Hundreds and hundreds. They’re all looking up at him. They’re smiling. And applauding. Yes! He can hear the thunder of their ovation.
It’s the audience at the Hollywood Bowl. But they’re clapping like they did that night. Their applause is undiluted. Unrestrained. Unfettered.
His lips curve up slightly as comprehension wraps its arms around him. He licks his parched lips. He struggles to articulate three words. At long last, he can say them now:
I.
Am.
Everyman.
THE END
(Scroll down for Author Note)