A Night at the Oscars - page 3
My cellphone startled me out of sleep.
I opened my eyes and had just enough time to read HOME on the display screen before it vibrated out of reach and shattered onto the ground below.
The sun must have just risen, but already I could feel the heat emanating from the roofing tiles, though what roof and where I couldn’t say.
The air was heavy and humid; a vegetative smell invaded my nostrils and the more I came to my senses, the more I found them dulled by the stifling heat.
I peered over the edge to the street below.
It was just beginning to exhibit a few signs of life, car doors slamming, the occasional shout of a passerby; a city waking up.
I stood and stretched, then quickly flattened myself upon the roof again.
I was nude save for the remains of a dress shirt that hung about my upper body in shreds. All that remained was the collar and a few torn strips of fabric where the shirtsleeves had been.
There was a horrid taste in my mouth reminiscent of cheap scotch and raw meat and for several minutes I heaved uncontrollably.
What had happened? This taste. Where am I?
Once I’d regained my senses, I inched my way toward the edge of the roof, shielding the sun from my eyes with one hand.
I was in a unique area with all sorts of different buildings.
Double-gallery houses with ornate balconies lined the streets, similar to what one might find in San Francisco’s more historic neighborhoods, that Victorian-era style of two and three-story homes boasting excruciatingly detailed woodwork.
But there were no hills.
It wasn’t Frisco.
This was certainly a new one for me, waking up on the roof of a building that could quite possibly be hundreds—if not thousands—of miles from home.
On the other side of the roof was a small door.
I made my way inside.
The door opened onto a narrow stairway leading into a darkened hallway.
I let my eyes adjust, then made my way down the staircase using the wall for support. The hallway was empty.
I peered into several bare rooms, all devoid of furnishings.
At the end of the hallway a more ornate staircase led to the second floor.
A canvas tarp sat draped upon the banister and, remembering I was still quite nude, I grabbed it and threw it over my shoulders.
The second floor was much like the first: hardly any signs of life save for a few empty Coke bottles and sandwich bags.
The ground floor was also empty, but it looked more alive, like it had been used not so long ago.
I walked through a ballroom with an elegant chandelier and large mahogany bar, which lined the wall on the far side of the room.
The shiny marble black and white tiling felt cool beneath my feet
After walking into several closets first, I found a bathroom at the end of the hallway.
I gazed at myself in the mirror
Things didn’t look good.
I had a fat lip and my face was covered in scratches. A deep gash ran from the bottom of my chin to my earlobe. I let the canvas drop to have a look at the rest of my body. No open wounds at least. But my hands were filthy, dried blood beneath my fingernails.
Jesus, have I killed somebody?
Thankfully the taps worked and I washed my hands several times, then threw the tarp around my shoulders again and searched the ground floor for an exit.
First I tried the front door, which was locked, naturally.
Eventually I managed to find an open window in one of the empty rooms and slip out into the street unseen.
There wasn’t anyone around, so I ran across the street, stubbing my toe on the curb before retreating in the shade of a sprawling oak that lined the avenue.
I was staring across the street at the building I’d just left when an old man approached. He walked incredibly slow, using a cane to support his weight.
No one else was around, and I saw this as my only opportunity to gain some insight as to where I was or what I was doing there.
Rather than run up to him—I was aware of my appearance and didn’t want to cause alarm—I decided to wait for him to pass and when he was within earshot, I spoke.
Pardon me sir, I said, Would you be so kind as to tell me where I am?
He paused and leaned on his cane, then shouted, Heh?
Where am I? I shouted back, desperately.
He looked me up and down, as if only then realizing he might be dealing with some sort of madman. For a moment it seemed he thought my question a joke. I had begun crying at this point.
Nawlins, he spat.
Something clicked.
I knew the building had seemed familiar. I’d seen it before. I'd never been there but now I knew I was standing on Royal Street in the French Quarter. Across from me stood the LaLaurie Mansion, from which I’d just emerged; the same famously haunted house Cage owned from 2000-2009.
In a five-page spread in Vanity Fair, Cage explained he bought the $3.45 million-dollar mansion with the intention of writing the great American horror novel there. Two years later it fell into foreclosure and was eventually purchased by the bank for a fraction of the price.
Cage.
Again.
The insurmountable gaping maw
The maverick that haunts my dreams.
The old man continued his slow migration down the sidewalk.
When he’d gone several feet, he turned around and shouted, Lay off the hooch son!
Indeed, I thought, staring vacantly at a poster wheat-pasted to the side of a vacant building advertising the new Teen Wolf remake.
Clearly I was suffering from some sort of schizoid delusion going well beyond simple celebrity worship.
Was I trying to take society’s collective guilt upon my shoulders? Our tendency to exploit then easily dismiss the rich and famous when a cry for help erupts, like Cage’s arrest the other day; or was it weeks ago?
It’s beginning to feel as if I’m skipping forward through time.
But society, we create these monsters, or personal train wrecks, what have you.
Amy Winehouse comes to mind.
Who else?
Brittany Murphy, perhaps.
Most certainly Brittany Spears.
What was happening to me was clearly a mania, a mixture of shame and guilt compounded by the stress at home, my failing relationship with my wife, my family.
I’m no psychiatrist, but my basic training as a grief counselor offered a little insight.
I made a mental note to research the theory further when I returned home.
It was all beginning to make sense now, I reassured myself as I stumbled barefoot through the French Quarter to I knew not where.