A Night at the Oscars - page 4
II.
They let me out of the hospital early for good behavior.
My wife had promised to pick me up, although over the phone I could hear the strain in her voice.
My disappearing act hadn't made things easy on her.
It took some coaxing, but she finally agreed.
Since I’d arrived completely naked, the checkout process was a breeze. There was no inventory of items to go over before my release like there often is with other patients.
After the orderly authorized my release papers using a rubber stamp the size of a gavel that read NOT CRAZY AT TIME OF RELEASE, I exited into the lobby.
As soon as she saw me, my daughter looked down at the ground to avoid eye contact.
My wife stood nearby in the waiting room, gazing at the TV.
She turned and let out a sigh.
How do you feel? she asked.
Like a million bucks!
I went in for a hug. She hesitated at first, then relented and hugged me back.
My daughter continued to ignore me.
So be it.
As my wife and I embraced I glanced at the television.
She must have noticed me doing so because she motioned towards the TV with her thumb and said, Academy Awards nominations, sarcastically.
Ah, I replied, What am I up for this year?
Best supporting role in Raising a Daughter in the Age of Idiocy, she said, or leading actor in In and Out of Life: A Drama in Three Acts.
OK, I said, Listen I'm sorry—
We can talk about that later, she said, Let's just get going.
Before leaving I looked up at the screen in time to see Cage’s familiar face.
He was nominated as best actor for his role as Bipo, a rat in a maze being studied by scientists that through a series flashbacks becomes aware it’s actually Cage himself, trapped in the body of a rodent.
The film, Despite All My Rage, was lauded for its clever, unconventional scriptwriting and meta-cinematic aspects.
I grumbled then turned back to my wife, thinking it was possible I was having some sort of new episode. Was I being haunted by the ghost of an actor who wasn't yet dead?
By the way, my wife said, reaching into her back pocket, I've got a bit of a surprise for you.
She pulled out three tickets and handed them to me.
It took me a moment to realize what they were.
They're Oscar tickets, she said.
Get out, I screamed, causing several orderlies behind the check-in desk in the waiting room to glance in our direction.
Shhh, my wife cautioned, Watch it or they’ll throw you back in here.
I gave the tickets a closer look.
There are no seat numbers, I said.
We’re seat fillers, she said.
What?
Eastwood felt bad about what happened the other night and came over to apologize, but you'd already gone. He gave us these.
We passed out into the doorway.
My daughter left the corner she was sulking in and followed us outside, several paces behind, still refusing to acknowledge my presence.
*
It was a full moon—Oscar night—and as Hollywood’s rich and famous scampered up and down the red carpet, my family and I were led to the back entrance of Dolby Theatre, then down a series of darkened hallways, emerging into a large auditorium.
In front of us sat several rows of people—fellow seat fillers—listening intently to a man standing behind a podium.
When the door closed, everyone turned around and stared.
You’re late, the man behind the podium exclaimed in a high-pitched voice. Without waiting for us to offer up an excuse, he pointed to a few empty seats and continued explaining the responsibilities of an Academy Awards Ceremony seat filler.
We sat quietly and listened to his spiel.
It was basically what you’d imagine: each attendant was assigned to specific seating zones, of which there were eight.
Each of the tickets Eastwood had given to my wife corresponded to different zones; this was to minimize the chances of people obtaining pairs of tickets for the same zone and trying to sit together rather than attend to their seat-filling duties.
Once he’d finished explaining what we were to do—inconspicuously filling empty seats and never approaching celebrities—we were ushered to our respective zones.
My wife and daughter were on the ground floor of the theater while I was stationed in the balcony, stage left, with all the bit actors and extras.
By the time I reached my zone the lights had already dimmed.
In an instant the crowded theater became so silent that if you strained hard enough, you could hear Johnny Depp backstage practicing his lines.
A spotlight illuminated a podium onstage and Depp emerged from the right as the crowd erupted in applause.
Depp slipped comfortably into his role as host and soon began rattling off sub-par one-liners in his characteristically monotone voice, stopping infrequently to adjust his monocle and diamond-studded tie bar.
The lesser awards came first, which I didn’t pay much attention to, busy as I was surfing back and forth between the seats. Many were for production teams and cameramen, crew members and special-effects artists.
Every so often I gazed down below, trying to pick out my wife or daughter in the crowd.
After a brief intermission, Depp dove into the moneymakers: everyone from Scorsese to Spielberg; the Streeps and Stallonses, even a Sandler; they were all on the list, either as nominations for supporting roles or as presenters.
The award for Best Actor approached and I began to sweat in nervous anticipation. My skin tightened, raising into little goose pimples. Chills ran down my spine.
Suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was Clint Howard, sitting next to me.
Say, you alright buddy? You look a little green around the gills.
I nodded and forced a smile, then returned my attention to the stage.
Was I ill?
I thought about it for a moment.
Something I ate?
Perhaps I'd rubbed shoulders with an infirm patient while in the hospital.
But no, I’d felt fine all day.
In fact I still felt fine.
I was just sweating a little, nerves and nothing more.
But the feeling was getting worse.
If I had to describe it, I'd say it felt as if all of my pores were opening up simultaneously to either let something in or pour something out.
I stood up quickly, then sat back down as someone from behind protested.
Isn't there some type of disease where one feels like their skin has grown too small, where the skeleton wants to jump out of the body?
This is all so idiotic; seat fillers at the Oscars.
Eastwood has better access than this.
It must have been his idea of a sick joke.
I stood up again and began making my way toward the aisle.
Another usher, standing in the aisle where I was headed, gave me an angry look and waved me back into the direction where I'd been sitting.
I continued, so he rushed up and ushered me back to the empty seat I was supposed to be filling amidst the sharp whispers and protests of those behind me.
He threw me back into the seat and stormed off.
I needed to catch my breath.
The balcony where I was seated seemed to be getting smaller by the minute.
Was I getting larger?
No, that’s absurd.
My skin continued growing taut, as if at any moment my bones might rip through, leaving a puddled mass of flesh in their wake.
I inhaled deeply and exhaled loudly.
One of the audience members shushed me.
I was drowning.
What did they teach me in the hospital when I needed to relax? Think about your happy places?
I thought about Face Off; about the time I'd snuck out of work early to see Adaptation and was so taken with it I saw it again, and again.
Depp began to read the nominations for Best Actor, but all I could hear was Cage’s name repeated over and over in my head.
My whole body tingled.
I looked down at my hands and the hair on my knuckles began growing right before my eyes.
My god what's happening?
I looked around at the other audience members sitting next to me.
They didn’t seem to notice.
I stared at my hands, which became more monstrous every second.
My neck itched.
I reached back to scratch, surprised to find that it too had grown a thick coat of fur.
My feet burst through my shoes; I brought one up to scratch behind my ear.
Is it all in my head?
No.
The people around me had finally begun to stare.
A moment later Depp called his name.
Nicholas Cage.
It came from somewhere deep inside myself.
As the audience waited for him to take the stage, my muscles painfully swelled and throbbed.
I looked down at my arms, my hands.
It was excruciating.
Cage had yet to appear and Depp was growing noticeably restless, making small talk in an effort to hide his discomfort.
Meanwhile my muscles appeared to be reshaping themselves.
I glanced down into the lower levels frantically for my wife.
Perhaps she could help; take me away from here. Take me somewhere safe.
But there's nowhere safe.
Cage should’ve been onstage by now.
I looked down again and watched my forearms swell and my shirt seams burst to reveal a hairy, undulating mass.
It's another dream I'm certain of it.
I'm still locked away in the hospital.
But as the skin on my fingertips split, I knew it was real.
I screamed in pain.
People around me screamed as well.
My fingernails extended into long, razor sharp claws.
I tore at my remaining clothes until nothing remained.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw a black blur rush the stage, toppling Depp in a fraction of a second.
Those in the orchestra pit stirred, confused, then shouted as the giant monster pulled Depp away from behind the podium to an empty spot on the stage.
The spotlight followed, illuminating the horrid creature as it tore frantically at Depp’s throat.
It was Cage—no doubt about that.
Audience members flooded the aisles.
I felt the bones of my face crack and reshape themselves.
My snout extended.
I opened my mouth to scream but was greeted by a deep, resonant howl, driving the audience into an even greater panic.
Cage turned in my direction and sniffed the air, then continued disemboweling Depp. Clint Howard stared at me in confusion.
I grabbed him by the throat and sunk my teeth into his head, crushing his skull like an eggshell.
The audience, in their frenzy, failed to notice the pack of bloodthirsty wolves that poured in from stage left.
In a few short seconds, we were loose upon the crowd, tearing them from limb to limb, shredding their designer outfits to pieces.
I searched for my wife and daughter.
I wanted to eat them too.
I watched as the others tore the audience to pieces and laughed to myself.
I chewed up Woody Allen then spit him out in disgust.
Cage and I, and the rest ate every last member of the audience, then the cameramen, the seat fillers, the ushers, the sound grips.
We ate them all and when we were done, spent the rest of the evening snorting cocaine and howling at the moon.
Daniel Beauregard lives in Buenos Aires, Argentina. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in a number of places including the Action Book Blog, Propagule, ergot, Self Fuck, New South, Burning House Press, Alwayscrashing, and elsewhere. He's the author of numerous chapbooks of poetry, most recently Total Darkness Means No Notifications (Anstruther Press) and Anatomizing Uncanny Alley (Self Fuck). His full-length collection of poetry, You Alive Home Yet? is available from Schism Neuronics and his splatterpunk novel Blood Pudding from World Castle Publishing. His post-apocalyptic novella The Mother of Flowers is forthcoming from The Wild Rose Press, and his first collection of short stories, Funeralopolis (Orbis Tertius Press) and existential horror novel Lord of Chaos (Erratum Press) will be published in 2023. Daniel is also co-founder of OOMPH!, a small press devoted to the publication of poetry and prose in translation. He can be reached @666ICECREAM.