#nathanfaudree

[film-book]

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Film Review: A WOUNDED FAWN: Modern Take on Classic Greek Tale Hits Close to the Mark [Tribeca 2022] https://film-book.com/film-review-a-wounded-fawn-modern-take-on-classic-greek-tale-hits-close-to-the-mark-tribeca-2022/?feed_id=83499&_unique_id=62ad7a434a5df

[dangeryak-blog]

The Evaporated Man

An excerpt from “An Evaporated World: The Fairport Incident

Sean Harvester is wondering when the Evaporated Man stopped being a fictional character.  The idea sticks in his head like something stuck in his eye.  As long as he doesn’t think about it, it doesn’t bother him.  But, not thinking about it, thinking about anything else, is not as easy as he had hoped.  So, he reaches for a beer and stares at his fries with gravy.  

 A spring from his seat in the booth is digging into his leg.  That’s probably good; something to distract himself.  He can feel the insistent pressure of the exposed wire digging into his thigh through the canvas of his cargo shorts.  The spot had been covered before with duct tape.  But, just like an idea, the point kept coming through.  Just like the Evaporated Man, it kept sticking into him.  

 He glances around the Sub Shop and Family Restaurant to distract himself.  It’s Tuesday afternoon, so things are relatively quiet. The mish mash décor of sailing knick knacks and generic prints of landscapes is almost comforting.  Jenny is back behind the counter, at the grill. Which can mean one of two things. If she is in a good mood, the food is an amazing twist on diner classics.  If she is hung over, then the food is a barely edible pile of grease that somewhat resembles something that you might call food in your nightmares. Looks, like she is hung over today he thinks as he watches the gravy congeal on top of the cold French fries. He reaches for one thinking that they can’t possibly be as bad as they look.  He is wrong.  The grease coats the roof of his mouth and makes sure that any taste from the gravy does not reach his tongue.  The carbonation from the beer removes a layer of the grease, but he thinks that he might need to use a butter knife to remove the rest.  As he picks up the knife and seriously contemplates it, he notices something move out of the corner of his eye.  He glances across the almost empty dining room and sees nothing but battered tables with napkin dispensers and old Tom, the local grease monkey having his mid afternoon coffee break.

 He realizes that he has a pen in his hand.  He’s not sure where it came from, but he notices the note on the napkin.

 You are dreamed.

 He throws the pen away as if he had been holding a dead thing.  His skin crawls and a wave of revulsion crashes over him drowning him in disgust.  He can almost feel a twitching aliveness coming from the pen, like feeling a cold damp breeze on a warm day.  It is a note from the Evaporated Man.

 It had started a week ago. He was working on his book.  His book, the great American Novel and the reason that he had come back home to Fairport, was a coming of age story about an awkward young writer living in the fictional town of Fair Haven.  A touching drama about self discovery and young love, except the apocalypse kept happening.  No matter what he wrote, people started dying, and not in a dramatic ways that furthered the plot.  The characters died in random and bizarre ways.  Madness kept creeping in to the book, always preceded and personified by the Evaporated Man, a ghostly haze in the shape of a man.  Every time he was glimpsed by one of the characters something awful was sure to happen.  He would raise his shimmering mist like hand and point, and utter the dread phrase, “You are dreamed”, and madness followed.  

 Try as he might, Sean could not stop him from showing up on the page.  He would finish writing, what he was sure was a touching story about a boy and his tree house, and he would go back and read it and the Evaporated Man would be there and a triple homicide.  A wonderful story about the innocence of youth would be interrupted with the madness and horror of life.  But, what kind of life?

 He grabs his coat and leaves the booth, but not before finishing his beer.  He leaves the fries behind like the road kill that they are. He steps up to the register to pay as Jenny walks  over from the grill.  

 “How you feelin’ today, Jenny.”

“Like I didn’t survive a terrorist attack.”, she grumbles.

Sean, makes a show of looking through his wallet so that he doesn’t have to look her in the blood shot eyes. Something moves in the corner of his eye.  He turns, nothing.

 “You, OK?”, she asks.

“Yeah.  I think so.”

“How’s the writing coming?”

He stares at her blankly, not really sure how to respond.  How does he tell her that his book has been hijacked by a fictional character?  How does he tell her that he might be afraid that he’s a fictional character?  How does he tell her that he’s afraid that he is being written by the Evaporated Man?  How does he tell her that he thinks they’re all going to die?

 “good.”, is what he says instead.

 She stares at him from her tired red eyes.  She nods, like she might understand.

 “$6.50”, is what she says.

 He pays.