When I was a UCLA student, I used to joke that I could never be friends with someone who didn’t like music. Then I met a young filmmaker in the Theater Arts department named Greg. He had movie-star looks with deep blue eyes, greased-back hair and a weathered leather jacket. We’d have coffee and discuss our favorite movies. I told him how much I loved Stanley Kubrick.
“Kubrick has the greatest soundtracks,” I said. “My favorite is Clockwork Orange.”
“I can’t stand it,” Greg said.
“Why?”
“I don’t like music.”
“What do you mean?”
“Music makes me nauseous.”
I figured he was talking about classical music since Clockwork Orange had pieces by Beethoven and Rossini. (The Malcom McDowell character hates Beethoven.)
“You mean symphonic music, right?”
“I’m talking about anything with a melody or a tune.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It makes me dizzy. All my muscles contract like I’m going to have a seizure.”
“But you’re a film buff. How can you watch movies without listening to music?”
“That’s why I carry these.”
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a package of earplugs.
“My best friends,” he said.
“You just jam those in your ears when music comes on?”
“Yup.”
“What if there’s dialogue? How do you follow the story?”
“I read lips. When I watch movies at home I use the closed caption button.”
“You’re messing with me, right?”
“I’m serious. It’s a medical condition. It affects three percent of the population. It has something to do with the development of the auditory cortex in the temporal lobe.”
“Are you saying you have brain damage?”
He laughed. “My girlfriend might agree, but no, I don’t think so.”
“Does your girlfriend like music?”
“She loves it. I took her to see Sting at the Greek Theater. I put cotton in my ears and I was fine. I even danced with her in the aisles.”
Greg and I became fast friends. We went to see Return of the Jedi in Westwood. As we stood in line for popcorn, I watched him stuff earplugs in his ears. I asked if he could hear me. He said he could read my lips but all he could hear was his own breathing. We grabbed seats and waited for the film to start. When the opening strains of John Williams’ Star Wars theme came on, Greg gave me a thumbs-up sign. He kept his earplugs in the entire film. Afterwards, I asked how he liked the movie.
“Awesome,” he said.
“How could you tell what Darth Vader was saying?”
“I just imagined him saying, ‘Beware the dark side of the force’ or something like that.”
Greg took me to his dorm and showed me Super 8 films he’d made in high school. His pride and joy was a shot-by-shot re-creation of action scenes from Raiders of the Lost Ark. He played Indiana Jones and mimicked the rolling boulder, the Nazi chase where he pulls himself under a truck, the plane fight with the bloody rotor blades and the snake pit scene. The action included dialogue (grunts mainly) and looped ADR sound effects. Instead of music, there was a low droning sound like the guttural emanations of a Tuvan throat singer.
“What do you think,” he asked.
“Amazing except for that humming sound in the background.”
“You didn’t like that,” he asked as if shocked.
“It’s kind of creepy and ominous, like something bad is about to happen.”
“I think it’s beautiful,” he said.
During winter break, Greg invited me to his parents’ home for Thanksgiving. My own family was out of town so I accepted. I drove up Beverly Drive to a massive estate in Holmby Hills. I pressed the outdoor intercom and the security gates opened. I parked my dirty Toyota between a Rolls Royce and a Lamborghini. Greg greeted me at the front door.
“You didn’t tell me you were a Rockefeller,” I said.
“I’m not. My parents are.”
I entered a massive foyer with marble tiles, a crystal chandelier and butterfly stairs to the second floor. We walked into an adjoining room with a large bar. Greg introduced me to his girlfriend Shelly, a UCLA grad student majoring in psychology. I liked her immediately. She said she was doing her residency at the VA Hospital.
“That must be challenging.”
“Dating Greg is like working in a psych ward so I’m ready for anything.”
Greg offered a dim smile then poured champagne. We took our drinks to an outdoor patio with a large gathering of people. The backyard was massive with an elegant pool, tennis court and large lawn. I met Greg’s mother June. She wore a bright yellow sundress and sandals as if it were summer. She gave me a welcoming hug then called across the patio for her husband who was regaling two teen girls with a story.
Greg’s father walked over. He wore a black Armani suit and was tall and tan with wavy white hair and an abundance of gold jewelry. He flashed a bright smile with perfect white teeth. He had an air of prominence about him.
“Honey, this is Greg’s friend Loren. Loren, this is my husband Alarico.”
“You can call me Rick.”
He grabbed my outthrust hand and pulled me forward, knocking me off balance.
“Nice to meet you, sir.”
“I didn’t know Greg had any friends,” he said with a Spanish accent.
Greg rolled his eyes at the barb.
“Stop it, dear,” June said. “This is a happy day, no insults.”
“I’m happy,” Rick said. “Aren’t you happy?” He smiled at his wife. “Loren, are you happy?” I shrugged. “How about you Greg, are you happy?”
“Ecstatic,” Greg said. He guzzled his champagne then walked back inside. Shelly followed. I stood alone with Greg’s parents wallowing in the awkwardness.
“I think I’ll replenish my drink,” I said. I rejoined Greg and Shelly at the indoor bar. Greg poured himself a shot of whiskey.
“Don’t let him get to you,” Shelley said. “That’s what he wants.”
Greg downed the whiskey and poured another. I felt out of place.
“Guys, maybe I should leave.”
“You’re staying,” Shelley insisted.
“Don’t worry,” Greg said, putting an arm around my shoulder. “You know how families are.”
“His father is a narcissist,” Shelly said. “He’s accustomed to conducting 100-piece orchestras and tries to do the same thing with family.”
“Your dad’s a conductor?”
“And a composer,” Greg said.
“Of music?”
“I know what you’re thinking. I hate music, my dad makes music, that must mean I hate my dad. I’m working on it, okay?”
“I told you Greg is a great test patient,” Shelly said. She smiled and kissed Greg all over his face. He tried smiling but it was clear he was upset.
“You know, just because it’s Thanksgiving doesn’t mean we have to stay here,” Shelly said.
“She’s right,” I interjected. “Marie Callender’s has awesome turkey pot pie.”
We ended up at Denny’s for turkey sandwiches. Greg devoured his meal then went looking for a pay phone to call his mom. Shelly and I remained in the booth.
“Is he okay,” I asked.
“His dad’s Castilian. Spanish men are all about being macho and powerful. I’m sure he thinks he’s doing Greg a favor, you know, molding him into a real man. It’s not easy being his son.”
“Does Greg have siblings?”
“No. That makes it worse. He takes all the heat.”
Greg returned to the table, sullen.
“How’s your mom,” Shelly asked.
“Upset.”
“You did the right thing. You showed your dad you’re not going to put up with his crap.”
“Maybe,” Greg said. “Or maybe he just thinks I’m a wimp.”
“Who cares,” Shelly said. “It’s not about what he thinks.”
“That’s enough psychobabble, doctor,” Greg said. “Let’s get some pie.”
Greg and I ordered pecan while Shelly chose blackberry. Afterwards, we drove to Westwood to catch a movie. We opted for Shelly’s choice, Cat People.
I didn’t hear from Greg for several weeks. He and Shelly took a ski trip to Aspen and then he hunkered down on his 16mm film thesis project. I offered my services as a crewmember but he didn’t want the help. I suspected he was ashamed or embarrassed about my witnessing his holiday encounter with his father.
A few months later, I received an invitation to his film premiere at UCLA’s Melnitz Hall. The auditorium was packed with nervous students screening their work for the first time. Greg greeted me in the lobby then excused himself to get ready. His film was shown first. The lights dimmed and the opening titles appeared.
The film was called Anhedonia. Greg played the lead. The story was about a man who enters a beautiful mansion only to find it abandoned and dilapidated. The man searches the house for signs of life but merely finds clues of those who once lived there: dishes in the sink, old toys, faded photos, dirty water in the bathtub. He enters the master bedroom and the film shifts from color to black and white.
Greg sees two sets of clothing lying on the unmade bed. On the right is a beautiful sundress. On the left is a black Armani suit. Greg kisses the pillow above the dress. He walks to the other side of the bed, reveals a gun and points it at the Armani jacket. He pulls the trigger and there’s a loud bang. The film fades to black and Greg’s name appears as “Starring, Written, Produced and Directed by…”
The film was arty and pretentious like student films tend to be. The crowd gave a smattering of applause. I looked over to where Greg was seated and saw Shelly beside him. Her face was ebullient. She later told me how proud she was of Greg. “He’s finally facing his demons,” she said. “It takes a lot of courage.” Greg was more pragmatic. “They hated it,” he said.
After the screening, Greg began cutting me out of his life. He wouldn’t sit with me in film noir class and didn’t return my calls. When I ran into him on campus he said he was in a rush and promised to call. He never did.
After graduation, I kept tabs on Greg from mutual friends. We remained apart, both focused on jump-starting our careers. I became a script analyst and wrote several spec screenplays. Greg wrote and directed an indie horror film about bugs attacking a small town. The film became a B-movie rental at Blockbuster. I watched a VHS copy through gritted teeth. It was formulaic and derivative with cheesy special effects. The musical soundtrack was awful with high-pitched synthesizer notes like nails down a chalkboard.
I saw Greg years later at a cafe on Olympic Boulevard in West LA. He was losing his hair and sported a fancy Italian coat instead of a leather jacket. He sat with a gorgeous blonde wearing shades and bright red lipstick. I sat a few tables away with my wife contemplating whether to say hello. She encouraged me so I walked over. Greg’s face brightened upon seeing me.
“Holy crap,” he said.
He gave me a big hug and introduced his friend.
“This is Sloane. She’s starring in my next movie.”
She offered a cursory glance without removing her sunglasses.
“It’s been what, like 20 years,” he said.
“Something like that.”
“You still in the movie business?”
“No,” I said. “I’m a woodcut artist now.”
“Cool. Whatever the fuck that is,” he said.
“I’ve read you’re doing pretty well.”
“I’m the horror bug king. I keep making movies about insects taking over the world.”
“Somebody’s gotta to do it. You still talk to Shelly?”
“She lives in Walnut Creek now. She’s married with three kids. I think she’s happy.”
“How about your mom?”
“Still living in the same house. She’s 91, spends her time gardening.”
“And your dad. Is he still composing?”
“Actually, he’s decomposing.” He paused for dramatic effect. “He died six years ago. Cancer.”
“I’m sorry.”
“What are you going to do?”
“You guys ever work things out.”
“Of course. You gotta love your dad, right?”
“Right,” I said.
We stood in silence, the boundaries of propriety violated. He smiled and sat back down.
“Well, it was good seeing you, man.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Good luck on your next bug movie.”
“This one’s not about bugs. It’s a murder mystery about a man who thinks God is telling him to kill his son. Sloane plays the man’s wife.”
“Wow,” I said. “That sounds intense.”
“Wait till you hear the soundtrack. You’ll be blown away.”